Year: 1869

A July Sunday I'm New YOrk-HOw


the City Looks what the People


do Where the Preachers go, and


How Time Ways ON without Them.


A July Sunday in town is like flower
bank or fragrant bower in the dusty road
of the week, where the wayfaring man
turns aside to refresh himself after his
six days scjourn. And such day as
yesterday renovated the spirits of the
weary and lightened the hours of the
tired. 1t was unlike usual July Sabbaths.
1t was cool, comparatively. The servant
girls, decked in their gsyest ribbons, the
children truant from their Sunday
schools--if there were any in session
packed off in the morning to visit friends
and relatives. The business of public
conveying was brisk worship was slight
ly regarded. Fountains of soda spirited
coeling draughts all day, and the owners
Of said fountains filled their tills with
countless dimes. The fountain of eternal
life was tHrned of, and the ministers who
we're accustomed to dole out this pota-
ton were away, careless of the wants of
the thirsty, and leaving ia their stead this
announcement: "Closed for the sum-
mer."


New York people never were severe
religionists. There is no clergyman in
our midst whom Tom Hood would call
"blious" or at least there was not be-
fore the shepherds left their focks and
went up into the green pastures of Sara
toga, or down by the still waters of Long
Branch. Summer heat seems to para
lyze piety. The clerical army becomes
demoralized in July, and the great en-
emy of souls has it all his own way.
The captains of the church militant
hang up their swords, many of the pri-
Yates stack arms and flee from the city.
A few, through necessity, stay about;
they rendzvous in little churches on the
east and west side of town. But the big
churches, where the dominies invested
in gorgeous canonicals and surrounded
with sacerdotal pomp are wont to hold
forth, are closed. Very few are bereaved
by this, for the members of these sane.
tuaries generally made dormitories of
them; and now, instead of taking pious
nap in q cushioned pew and under the
architraves of the temple, they drowsily





families at the summer resorts.


The great bulk of our citizens, how
ever, are home. Those men who make a
city-the manufacturers, the merchants,
the artizans-know no respite. The fire
in the forge is to be built through July as
we'll as in November. The hammer has
to ring through the factories all the year
round. The papers which fly with tidings
every morning to the gay watering places
employ men in uninterrupted labor
throughout the three hundred and sixty
five days The men who are the great
element in q great city, and who make
the summer resorts habitable by their
handiwork, never snuff the mountain air
or glimpse the verdant lea. The sun
may pelt its rays on the tin roofs of our
tin houses, until the heat would cause M.
Chament or any other sslamander to cry,
Hold, enoughp' But the wheels of the
factory whirl just as rapidly, the arms OF
the press move just as increasingly. To
the men who remain at home and govern,
control and help in all this ramification
of work, Sunday ia a day Of instsuration.


Those who have left town are they who
are known at home more for their con-
sumption than production. Fifth avenue
blinds are tightly closed and its houses
empty; but their owners are missed by
few. Let the business quarter of the city
be deserted, let the lights of the printing
room be extinguished, and then will a
great void be felt, and it truthfully may
be said, "All the people have left town"
To these sturdy laborers Sunday comes
on lazy pinion, the six days of toll
seeming more than six times as long as
the one of rest But when it does come
it comes to a people whom it makes glad
with quiet and a short cessation of work,
and never in the whole round year is the
day so delightful an interstice as in the
hot month of July.-Neto York World,
1911. nr