llowed day, and the great engines
ceased to bow their massive heads, with the exception of those that
worked the pumps. Even these, however, were required to do as little
work as was compatible with the due drainage of the mines, and as their
huge pulsations were intermittent--few and far between--they did not
succeed in disturbing the universal serenity of the morning.

If there are in this country men who, more than any other, need repose,
we should say they are the miners of Cornwall, for their week's work is
exhausting far beyond that of most other labourers in the kingdom.
Perhaps the herculean men employed in malleable-iron works toil as
severely, but, besides the cheering consciousness of being well paid for
their labour, these men exert their powers in the midst of sunlight and
fresh air, while the miners toil in bad air, and get little pay in hard
times. Sunday is indeed to them the Sabbath-day--it is literally what
that word signifies, a day of much-required rest for body, soul, and
spirit.

Pity that the good old word which God gave us is not more universally
used among Christians! Would it not have been better that the
translation Rest-day had been adopted, so that even ignorant men might
have understood its true signification, than that we should have saddled
it with a heathen name, to be an apple of discord in all generations?
However, Sunday it is, so Sunday it will stand, we suppose, as long as
the world lasts. After all, despite its faulty origin, that word is
invested with old and hallowed associations in the minds of many, so we
enter our protest against the folly of our forefathers very humbly,
beseeching those who are prone to become nettled on this subject to
excuse our audacity!

Well, as we have said, the Sunday morning to which we refer was
peaceful; so would have been Maggot's household had Maggot's youngest
baby never been born; but, having been born, that robust cherub asserted
his right to freedom of action more violently than ever did the most
rabid Radical or tyrannical Tory. He "swarmed" about the house, and
kicked and yelled his uttermost, to the great distress of poor little
Grace, whose anxiety to get him ready for chapel was gradually becoming
feverish. But baby Maggot had as much objection to go to chapel as his
wicked father, who was at that time enjoying a pipe on the cliffs, and
intended to leave his family to the escort of David Trevarrow.
Fortunately, baby gave in about