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But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mix'd up Dens with their The

ology ? Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo God at home

A papal Bull to be tied up till MondayOr Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

That there is such a dread of them on SundayBut 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“ Salley 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 thousand 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 be

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 MORNING MEDITATIONS.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flyingFor 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.

To me Dan Phæbus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about,-
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,

The first turn-out !

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ;
What then,-if I prefer my pillow-beer

To early pearl ?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
Wherefore should master rise before the hens

Have laid their eggs ?

Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,

Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
“ To meet the sun upon the upland lawn”-

Well—he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be

All up—all up!

So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon ;-
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,

Must be a spoon.

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