choly scene, we cannot forbear once more transferring our thoughts from the dead to the living. It was in no suspense that those women stood near to the pit mouth, as the tightened rope rolled slowly up, bearing its cold load to the bank; for they knew the result;-they knew that they were already widows, and all they waited to receive, was the stark and irresponsive clay of him they once called husband. There was not one who had one lingering hope that the lip could smile upon them, or the arm encircle them in love;-they waited to receive their dead. That must indeed be a cold heart which does not ache for these poor creatures laying out the little pallets in their cottages, to receive the corpses of their dearest relatives. With what an agony of expectation would their eyes be rivetted upon the shortening rope each time it was drawn up, and as it slackened in its speed as it neared the lip of the dark shaft, how each would hold her breath and strain her gaze to catch a glimpse, as the bright, broad light of day fell full upon the upturned face of the dead weight, as it was drawn up for recognition. There is a daughter waiting with a bursting heart for a father's corse, that she may bear it home:at length it comes, and the full sunshine beams straight upon the grey hairs as they stir in the fresh breeze for which the old man had panted in his hot prison-house beneath. Alas! he is only disentombed from one grave to be buried in another! The day wears on, and nightfall is approaching. The weary watchers drop off one by one, but not until they have drawn some promise from the workmen that when their husbands, or brothers, or sons are brought to bank, they shall be gently and decently enshrouded, and sent forward to the cottage where they lived. The moon looks smiling through, between the piled-up clouds, and midnight silence broods on all the scene. But still the clank of the busy gearing sounds monotonously through the darkness, as the rope dips down into the gulf, or comes slowly, slowly, slowly, with its draught of death to the surface. Cart

loads of simple coffins are now arriving at the spot, and each stark arrival is quietly laid down in the narrow casket-ere it is borne home. O sad, sad, sight! A little coffin, not hewn for any full grown man, but shaped for the stature of a mere child, is now brought to the heap at the shaft head! And as the chain comes clanking slowly up, and brings another load out of the disgorging grave, the pale moon-light strikes upon the flaxen ringlets of the sleeping boy, whose little arms are even yet entwined about his father's neck. God help the weeping mother, when that child is taken home? How often have her fingers proudly toyed with those long curls of hair! How many kisses has she pressed upon that white young brow! How long and lingering will the last kiss be! How sadly will she steal a

tress or two as a relic of her child!

the last adieu !

How will her heart bear

O, let us drop the curtain over this touching scene—but as it falls, let us write stern lessons of duty for ourselves upon it. Let us learn to think of death; and to prepare for it. And let us learn this practical lesson; to sympathise with the unfortunate and sorrowful; and to show that sympathy by deeds. Working men of Manchester, you are asked this afternoon to give a little token of your pity and fellow feeling for the poor widows and orphans who are bereft by this terrible catastrophe. I know these are hard times with many of you, and that it is no easy matter to find daily bread and raiment for yourselves and those whom God has spared to you; but I do not believe there is one of you who would not be glad to share his last crust with those who are thus suddenly plunged into sorrow and want. Let the widow's cry reach you--let the orphan's tear move you; and let it go forth to the world, that amidst all their straits and their trials in these hard times, the artizans of Manchester had still a heart to feel and a hand to help the troubled in their dreadful need; and, depend upon it, it shall not only be the gifts of royalty and of the nobles of the earth that shall be chronicled in

heaven, but your humblest donation, given from a kind heart, shall also be remembered, and you shall receive interest for the gift you offer now, when He, who notes the drop of cold water and the widows mite, shall say, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these my little ones-ye did it unto Me."

There is a class of people in existence, who always act upon a theory which underrates the sterling attributes of head and heart, amongst the laboring section of society. Without daring actually to avow a belief, that those who toil hard for daily bread are inferior in capacity of mind, or susceptibility of feeling, to those who form a higher stratum in the social scale, their every action seems to take this for granted, and their entire bearing towards the working class is based on the assumption of their being merely a sort of sentient machinery for the service of the genteeler part of the community. To this class belong that insipid tribe of sleek-handed and rough-faced gentry, whose life is a millenium of scented cambric, plum-coloured kid, and patent leather; and the ladies with whom they consort, whose entire stock of ideas is limited to modes and moustachios, lace and laziness, finery and flirtation. There are others who seem also to share in this idea; who have a kind of amateur manliness of their own. The inventors and admirers of that preposterous and

unmeaning phrase, "muscular Christianity," doubtless to a great extent imbibe this feeling of contempt for the capacities of the "lower orders." Muscular Christianity is simply an attempt to escape from the obligations of real morality, by trying to iden tify morality with gymnastics and field sports; so that, a man who has not principle or conscience enough to try to be religious, makes a god of a cricket ball, and a sanctuary of a shooting ground: a man who finds it hard to say a prayer, goes and stands upon his head, or flings a summersault, and calls that Christianity. A well developed muscle is the substitute for a generous soul; and a hardened frame is put in the place of a softened heart. The man who can shoot the straightest and hit the bull's eye the oftenest, is most meet for the kingdom of heaven; and the best boxer, or single-stick fencer, is most highly entitled to a place with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob. But there is another feature in this sort of Christianity-the successful competitors must be "gentlemen." If a poor man hits the bull's-eye, it is a liberty not to be encouraged, and the offender must be put down. Muscular Christianity does not believe in the admission of Lazarus to Paradise, but Dives is always welcome, provided he is "cunning at fence," or clever at long range. If Heaven were a great gymnasium, and "Bell's Life” its oracle, then muscular Christianity might be recognised as a sacred institution; but until we hear of regattas on the river of life, and find some new artist to out-Martin-Martin, by representing a cricket match "upon the plains of heaven," we shall persist, for our own part, in making a distinction between an athlete and a christian; and shall refrain from making a man's fighting condition, or hardness of muscle, the test of his admission into holy orders. We shall hear some day of some muscular christian clergyman refusing church membership to a candidate, until he can bring himself down to ten stone nine, or of some Catholic priest witholding an indulgence from some penitent, until he can manage to leap a five-barred gate.