enthusiast, who detests the cheerful amusements he can never enjoy,
and envies the healthy feelings he can never know, and who would
put down the one and suppress the other, until he made the minds of
his fellow-beings as besotted and distorted as his own;--neither of
these men can by possibility form an adequate notion of what Sunday
really is to those whose lives are spent in sedentary or laborious
occupations, and who are accustomed to look forward to it through
their whole existence, as their only day of rest from toil, and
innocent enjoyment.

The sun that rises over the quiet streets of London on a bright
Sunday morning, shines till his setting, on gay and happy faces.
Here and there, so early as six o'clock, a young man and woman in
their best attire, may be seen hurrying along on their way to the
house of some acquaintance, who is included in their scheme of
pleasure for the day; from whence, after stopping to take "a bit of
breakfast," they sally forth, accompanied by several old people,
and a whole crowd of young ones, bearing large hand-baskets full of
provisions, and Belcher handkerchiefs done up in bundles, with the
neck of a bottle sticking out at the top, and closely-packed apples
bulging out at the sides,--and away they hurry along the streets
leading to the steam-packet wharfs, which are already plentifully
sprinkled with parties bound for the same destination. Their good
humour and delight know no bounds--for it is a delightful morning,
all blue over head, and nothing like a cloud in the whole sky; and
even the air of the river at London Bridge is something to them,
shut up as they have been, all the week, in close streets and
heated rooms. There are dozens of steamers to all sorts of places-
-Gravesend, Greenwich, and Richmond; and such numbers of people,
that when you have once sat down on the deck, it is all but a moral