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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
73
IV.
It
is
Sunday
morning,
and
above
earth's
beauty
shines
the
purest,
softest
sky
this
summer
has
yet
gladdened
us
withal.
My
window
is
thrown
open;
I
see
the
sunny
gleam
upon
garden
leaves
and
flowers;
I
hear
the
birds
whose
wont
it
is
to
sing
to
me;
ever
and
anon
the
martins
that
have
their
home
beneath
my
eaves
sweep
past
in
silence.
Church
bells
have
begun
to
chime;
I
know
the
music
of
their
voices,
near
and
far.
There
was
a
time
when
it
delighted
me
to
flash
my
satire
on
the
English
Sunday;
I
could
see
nothing
but
antiquated
foolishness
and
modern
hypocrisy
in
this
weekly
pause
from
labour
and
from
bustle.
Now
I
prize
it
as
an
inestimable
boon,
and
dread
every
encroachment
upon
its
restful
stillness.
Scoff
as
I
might
at
"Sabbatarianism,"
was
I
not
always
glad
when
Sunday
came?
The
bells
of
London
churches
and
chapels
are
not
soothing
to
the
ear,
but
when
I
remember
their
sound--even
that
of
the
most
aggressively
pharisaic
conventicle,
with
its
one
dire
clapper--I
find
it
associated
with
a
sense
of
repose,
of
liberty.
This
day
of
the
seven
I
granted
to
my
better
genius;
work
was
put
aside,
and,
when
Heaven
permitted,
trouble
forgotten.
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