XIV.

The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast!

The Sheep that own'd an Oriental ShepherdThat Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,

The horn'd Rhinoceros-the spotted Leopard

The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than Monday— The Elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

XV.

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,

Weary of frame, and worn and wan in feature, Seek once a-week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of " Animated Nature ?" Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure hour amongst the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on SundayBut what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

XVI.

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)
But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus
Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology?
Is Brahma's Bull-a Hindoo god at home—

A papal Bull to be tied up till Monday—

Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

XVII.

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

NOTE.

THERE is an anecdote of a Scotch Professor who happened during a Sunday walk to be hammering at a geological specimen which he had picked up, when a peasant gravely accosted him, and said, very seriously, "Eh! Sir, you think you are only breaking a stone, but you are breaking the Sabbath."

In a similar spirit, some of our over-righteous sectarians are fond of attributing all breakage to the same cause-from the smashing of a parish lamp, up to the fracture of a human skull ;-the "breaking into the bloody house of life,” or the breaking into a brick-built dwelling. They all originate in the breaking of the Sabbath. It is the source of every crime in the county-the parent of every illegitimate child in the parish. The picking of a pocket is ascribed to the picking of a daisy-the robbery on the highway to a stroll in the fields the incendiary fire to a hot dinner-on Sunday. All other causes-the want of education-the want of moral culture the want of bread itself, are totally repudiated. The criminal himself is made to confess at the gallows that he owes his appearance on the scaffold to a walk with "Sally in our alley" on the "day that comes between a Saturday and Monday."

Supposing this theory to be correct, and made like the law "for every degree," the wonder of Captain Macheath that we haven't "better company at Tyburn tree (now the New Drop) must be fully shared by every body who has visited the Ring in Hyde Park on the day in question. But how

much greater must be the wonder of any person who has happened to reside, like myself, for a year or two in a Continental city, inhabited, according to the strict construction of our Mawworms, by some fifteen or twenty thousands of habitual Sabbath-breakers, and yet, without hearing of murder and robbery as often as of blood-sausages and dollars! A city where the Burgomaster himself must have come to a bad end, if a dance upon Sunday led so inevitably to a dance upon nothing!

The "Saints" having set up this absolute dependence of crime on Sabbath-breaking, their relative proportions become a fair statistical question; and, as such, the inquiry is seriously recommended to the rigid Legislator, who acknowledges, indeed, that the Sabbath was "made for man," but, by a singular interpretation, conceives that the man for whom it was made is himself!

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying—
For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out—
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,

The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime

Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.