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THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.

HE appeal to the country at large on behalf of the sufferers from the recent terrible Colliery calamities has not met with so general and liberal a response as the emergencies of the case de

mand.

That this is not to be attributed to lack of sympathy, we are well assured. But there appears to have been in the first instance, when the heart is most disposed to prompt to liberal deeds, a prevailing impression that a large fund was available for purposes of relief from the surplus of the subscriptions collected for the Hartley Colliery calamity; and this impression has materially affected the national response to the appeal.

Our readers are doubtless now aware that the impression was an erroneous one. The Hartley Fund amounted to £83,234. After properly providing for the sufferers, there remained a balance of £20,440. This was wisely divided among the coal mining districts of the whole country, twelve in number, in each case to form the nucleus of a relief fund. £2,034 was thus set apart for the Yorkshire district, and £1,106 for that of North Stafford, Shrop shire, and Cheshire. These sums have been added to the amount which has been raised; but the total receipts at present, we believe, will scarcely exceed £30,000.

It has been justly observed that if £55,000 was required for the suitable provision of the dependent relatives of the 204 men and boys who perished at Hartley, double the sum is now wanted to meet the necessities of those who have been bereaved by the sudden removal of more than 400 miners.*

We regret to be obliged to state that the appeal which we inserted in this magazine last month, doubtless for the reason already

* "There are 628 souls dependent upon the Relief Fund for support from the Barnsley calamity, a far greater number than was at first anticipated. To this number must be added the posthumous children who will become chargeable upon the fund for the next three-quarters of a year. These will require relief during the ensuing twelve years."—Extract from Mr. Peacock's Report.

"There are 40 widows, 8 orphans, 120 fatherless children, and 13 aged parents rendered destitute from the Hanley calamity."-Staffordshire paper.

"It is greatly feared that unless great efforts are made by every humane person, no adequate fund will be realized for the relief of the overwhelming distress occasioned by these terrible accidents; one of them is the greatest colliery accident ever known."-Liverpool Mail.

assigned, has also failed to enlist general interest. It has not been altogether fruitless. It will be seen that a few of our readers have forwarded about £20, and we daresay other amounts are being collected. But we venture, under the circumstances detailed above, to urge our appeal a second time, if possible with greater earnestness. Let each reader do a little, and a substantial sum will be raised. The Collecting Form will be found in our January number, and we trust a very large proportion of the forms will be returned before the 15th of February.

We feel that it cannot be necessary to excite or stimulate charity by dwelling upon the desolation of so many hearths and homes. The sympathizing heart of England's Queen is the heart of England too. "One touch of nature makes us all akin." As "members one of another," we cannot but long to pour the healing balm of consolation into the bosoms of the bereaved, and extend to them the ready, full, and open hand of temporal relief.

"A giant shadow,

And black as the tomb!
The news of the fire

In earth's dark womb!

The army toiling

In gloom and night,
In shaft and level,

Has lost a fight!

At morn they descended

In health glowing red;
By night they are vanquished—
They all lie dead!

Hundreds and hundreds

Dead, dead, dead!
Throughout the Black Land
One cry of dread!
And the widow weeps,

And the orphans cry,
And the mother wails
For her only boy.

For the Black Land, alas! No yule has been lit; Its Christmas fire

Was the blazing pit! At Our Own Fireside' Let love open the hand, To comfort to cheer

The Desolate Land!"

THE EDITOR.

G

R

INEFFICIENT PEOPLE;

OR, A NIGHT AT MUDDLETON HALL.

EADER, did you ever pay a visit to a whole family of inefficient people? Did you ever stay in the house with them-partake of their hospitality, and find yourself thrown entirely upon their plans, habits, and resources, for your daily comfort and nightly repose? If not, I will endeavour to explain to you how the thing works where a whole household partakes of the same tendency to incompleteness in whatever they attempt to do. And let this fact be borne in mind-wherever the mistress of a family is inefficient, children, servants, and dependants in general take the same tone, and think and act with the same misapplication of means to ends.

The family in question live in the country. Their circumstances are what is generally understood by the word easy, and there are no kinder people in the world. Anything and everything within the range of practicability they will undertake for you. The only disadvantage-and it must be granted it is a considerable one-is this, that the thing never is really done.

For instance, in paying them my first-and I am disposed to consider it my last visit-it was necessary that I should be met at the station, which is four miles distant from their house, or that I should have a conveyance engaged for me beforehand. I greatly preferred the latter plan; but no, they would not hear of it. On arriving at the station, therefore, I looked about for some face with a welcome in it, anxious to recognize me. I looked for some respectable servant even, but no such agreeable object could I find. I inquired if any one was there from Muddleton-"No." And my luggage was on the point of being carried away by the train, which stopped at that station scarcely two minutes, when I screamed out for it, and had then the satisfaction of seeing it torn out by an angry guard, and tossed upon the platform, where I stood waiting, and watching the train glide on. But still there was nobody from Muddleton, and the porters and different people connected with the station, whose business was over with that momentary bustle, were all returning to their different quarters, when I managed to overtake one of them, and asked him what he thought I ought

to do, or indeed could do. This man advised me to leave my trunks in the office, and walk on until I met with some conveyance. I had no alternative but to follow this advice, although I was not clad for such a walk. The roads were wet with recent rains, and heavy clouds were threatening to burst upon my head. I had a parasol, but no umbrella. And then another difficulty soon presented itself in the choice of paths-one a tolerably clean-looking walk along the fields, the other the highroad. If I took the former, I should lose all chance of meeting the carriage which I still supposed was on its way for me; if I took the latter, I was told by a labourer in the fields that I should have four miles to walk instead of three. My hopes still clinging to the carriage, I took the highroad, and there through mud and mire plunged on, with my thin shoes and light garments soon bespattered, for, I should think, the distance of at least two miles; when a carriage, which I knew to be that of the Muddleton family, appeared rapidly turning the brow of a hill, and then rattling towards me with a speed which seemed likely every moment to pitch the driver out of his seat.

The case was one which often happened in this family-there had been a mistake about the trains. The man looked extremely sorry, and assured me again and again that the fault was not his. But the great thing next to be considered was my luggage. I was wet and dirty, and longing to be relieved from the fatigue and uncomfortableness of walking on such a road; besides which, a heavy shower was just coming on. The man told me that early on the following morning a cart would be going that way, which could easily bring my trunks for me. This assurance, and impatience under the inconvenience I had already endured, added to a few large drops of rain, induced me to spring into the carriage, and desire the man to drive me back to the Hall as quickly as he could. And at a fine clattering pace we went, to be sure; for they are all most willing and energetic people, and would drive their horses to death, if that could do you any good. The man had an additional reason for driving as he did, for the rain soon fell in torrents. Of course neither cloak nor wrapper of any kind had been sent in the carriage, which

was an open one; so I was glad to envelop my head in my own shawl, which happened to be both heavy and thick.

Arriving in this plight at the door of the hospitable Hall, I found the whole family in a state of consternation in consequence of having discovered their mistake about the train; but still, notwithstanding my wretched condition, they seemed more intent upon exculpating themselves from all blame than upon anything connected with me. There seemed, in fact, to all the Muddletons, to be a curious and deeply interesting mystery about this mistake, as if they had never made a mistake in all their lives before; and until I actually asked them for a pair of slippers, they all stood talking and gazing at each other, and wondering how it could have been, as if nothing else in the world remained to be done. No sooner, however, had I managed to attract their attention to the condition of my feet, than a dozen shoes at least were instantly brought; but they were for the most part odd ones, and of those that were in pairs some were little more than half the size of my own foot. Not one of the whole family had looked to see whether my feet were large or small-had thought, even for a moment before they brought the shoes, whether, being a tall woman, I should be likely to have feet of corresponding size.

Here, too, I saw strongly developed the leading characteristic of all inefficient people; for although six or eight persons had run for shoes with the greatest alacrity, there was not one who thought of taking them away; so that on coming down stairs again, I found the very same shoes scattered all about, and even stumbled over one of them in my attempt to reach a chair. The bell was then rung violently for the servant to come and take them away. But the servants probably thought the bell was for dinner, and declined answering it until the dinner should be ready. Thus the younger children had to be told one by one to take the shoes away-a duty which they performed very unwillingly-while I looked on at their vexed faces and twitching movements, vexed myself at the great inconvenience I had occasioned, and wishing from my heart that I might be allowed to sweep away all the shoes myself, and run out of the room with them.

It was quite surprising how easily the young ladies sat, with their arms folded, while I was put to the torture of hearing the mother scold a sullen little boy for not doing, with more alacrity, what neither he nor the rest of the

children saw any reason why they should be made to do at all. Nor was it unnatural, under such circumstances, that they should take out their revenge by pelting one another with the shoes as soon as they had got into the halla fact which I even then suspected by certain sounds which reached my ear; but which I was afterwards made better acquainted with by again stumbling over a shoe as I crossed the hall to the dining-room, and again over another at the foot of the stairs as I went up to bed at night.

The dinner at Muddleton was always a plentiful and even a handsome set-out; but on this occasion, as well as on most others, it so happened that one dish, and it was a very important one, did not turn out well; and after a few little starts, and meaning looks at one another amongst the ladies of the family, had to be ordered off in a hurry, with certain apologies about its being "all the fault of the egg," or something to that effect: thus leaving behind it no very pleasant impression on the mind of the guest with regard to the remaining viands. I would not have it inferred, however, that anything positively disagreeable ever came to table; only that at the Muddleton dinners it was usual for the jelly to fall out of shape; the pudding to appear either too liquid or too firm; the beef to refuse to stand up ; the tongue to persist in lying on its side; to say nothing of those dishes which were discharged as being underdone. There was always a something not effective, and sometimes a great many things, and yet nobody ever was to blame: it would not do-that was all.

Wearied with my unaccustomed exercise, I was glad, when night came, to be allowed to retire at a very early hour; and then it was, more especially, that I found the want of my own wardrobe; for although to all appearance every imaginable wish had been supplied with the greatest kindness, one-half of the articles with which my room was strewed proved unavailing to me, through some flaw or other in their efficiency.

Throughout the whole evening I had been haunted with a suspicion that my trunks would be forgotten, or lost sight of, on the following morning; and I was confirmed in this fear by the extreme readiness in every one to whom I ventured to express my apprehensions, to exclaim immediately, "Oh dear, yes! of course. You will be sure to have everything in good time in the morning"-an assurance which by no means made me feel more sure,

in proportion to the frequency with which it was repeated. However, as I said before, I retired to rest early, and the most requiring of mortals could not have desired a greater display of articles of comfort, as well as use, than I found in my bedroom, where I was left with the kindest good-night, and with many carnest requests that I would not scruple to ring the bell for the least thing which I might happen to want.

It was all very well to ask me to ring, but when I applied myself to that purpose, in consequence of finding that I had no soap, I vainly attempted to find out where the bell was; and after a patient examination, I was compelled to conclude there was no such thing available in the whole room. Traces of there having been one at some former period I certainly did find; but I was afterwards led to believe the whole framework had been torn down by the frantic operations of some occupant even more distressed than myself.

Being a good sleeper, and not accustomed to the indulgence of many wants, I felt less apprehension about the bell than about the adjustment of my affairs, so as to throw a little more of the aspect of neatness and comfort around my apartment. This required time and patience too: so many articles had been brought which it was utterly impossible that I could require. Skill was also equally necessary, for my candle had been placed in the socket of a candlestick considerably too small, and it consequently fell out every time I attempted to move it. After one of these disasters, from which the light was with difficulty recovered, I looked about for lucifers, but failing to find any, I had nothing for it but to be more careful in future.

All my disasters, however, on this my first night at Muddleton Hall would be too numerous to record. Amongst these was the discovery, on unfolding it, that the night-dress so kindly

supplied me, belonged appropriately to the master of the house, that one of my towels was a table-cloth, and, finally, that I had no extinguisher! I had requested very particularly that I might be called an hour before the usual breakfast-time. But one of the family had supposed another would call me, that one another, and so on, through the whole household; so being unusually fatigued, I slept on until a late hour, and then mused and dreamed an hour longer; until, hearing the rumbling of a cart into the court-yard, of which one of my windows commanded a view, I sprung up in delight, thinking, Now at last I shall have the luxury of being dressed in my own gar ments.

But no; there was no trunk that I could discover. A servant went out evidently to ask for it, and I could distinctly hear the man say in his own defence that he had never been told anything about any trunk. After this I heard tones of anger, or at least of very warm re monstrance, from different quarters of the house, and I concluded the family were engaged in their usual manner, one blaming another, and all wondering how in the world so strange and unaccountable a blunder could have happened! In justice to their genuine kindness,

I may as well state that they all agreed to say nothing to me about the matter, but to send off a messenger expressly for the trunks without loss of time. This was, no doubt, the only kind and suitable thing which they could do; but, unhappily, nobody thought of sending a written order with the name of the owner of the luggage; and the station-master, knowing nothing of the messenger, refused to let him have it!

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LIGHT ON CHURCH MATTERS.

HE revival of the ante-Reformation doctrines as to the priesthood, the bodily presence of our Lord, and the true sacrifice offered in the eucharistic feast, and as to the power of personal abso

lution and remission of sins, is one of the most remarkable facts of the day.

By a large and growing section of the Church of England, doctrines are held for refusing to hold which our marty red Re

formers laid down their lives. If words have meaning, these doctrines, as we should expect, cannot be reconciled with the authorized formularies which these Reformers framed; and in order to vindicate the Protestantism of the Church of England, it is only necessary that her formularies should be prominently pressed upon the

attention of her members.

But the questions now at issue are not simply to be regarded as affecting the Protestantism of the Church of England. The peril at the present juncture is not alone the peril of the Church of England, but the peril of the Reformation in England; and it is because we "hold "-to quote the energetic and forceful words of the Earl of Shaftesbury-" that the Church of England is, in this country, the grand and only effective bulwark for the maintenance of the Reformation against the unceasing efforts, the indissoluble combinations, and methodical encroachments of the Papal See," that we regard it as a cause of unspeakable thankfulness that we possess in our national Book of Common Prayer an armoury of defence alike against the Rationalistic and Ritualistic errors of the day. "Deeply as we value the Established Church, we value the Reformation a vast deal more."

Let it then be understood that, in endeavouring to throw some "Light on Church Matters" in these columns, our assertion of the Protestantism of the Church of England is tantamount to our assertion of allegiance to Reformation principlesthose principles which, in a word, distinguish

the Church Catholic from the anti-Catholic communion of Rome.

We do not propose to occupy space by the insertion of lengthy papers on the particular topics of the controversy. We think we shall better-at-least at present-secure the object we have in view by placing

before our readers a series of extracts gathered from various sources, presenting brief but conclusive refutations of Romish and Ritualistic error, in contradistinction to Bible Protestant truth.

Our present extracts, it will be noted,

bear upon a vital and fundamental pointa point which, in fact, must decide the whole Ritualistic controversy. Once let it be settled that there is no sacrificing priest, no altar, no sacrifice, no supernatural combination with the elements, and, as Archdeacon Hone forcibly observes, "there will be no need of reference to the innovations in dress, in the furniture of the Communion Table, and in other things of like nature which have engaged public attention through the last few months." Around the great central falsehood all exaggerations of Ritual are but as satellites. The greater necessarily involves the less; and the folly of these Ritualistic ornaments of church or minister is best displayed by disproving the assumed title of those who adopt them to the name or functions of sacrificing priests, which alone can give them any significancy whatever.

I.

THE ONE PRIESTHOOD, AND THE ONE SACRIFICE.

The

The word Priest, in the English language, represents two distinct Greek words which have their separate meanings. The one (ispeùs) signifies a sacred person who offers sacrifices; the other (poßurepos) is the word which is usually translated "elder" in our English Bibles, and is represented in many books by a word derived from it, the word "presbyter." sacrificing priests existed under the Mosaic law; they daily offered sacrifices, with the shedding of blood, in the Temple at Jerusalem. Priests, in the same sense of offerers of sacrifices, also belonged to most of the religions of heathen nations in ancient times, and do so to the present day.

The same word is used, as well it might be, in the Epistle to the Hebrews, to distinguish and describe our great High Priest, who offered His own body once for all, offering thereby one sacrifice for sin, and perfecting for ever them that are sanctified, so that sacrifices

should ever after cease to be offered.

A cognate word (ispáтevua) is employed, in 1 Peter ii. 5 and 9, but evidently in a figurative sense. The sacrifices there are spiritual, not material; and the priests who offer them are not an order apart, but the whole body of the faithful. The word itself occurs again in the Revelation i. 6, v. 10, xx. 6, but it is not appro

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