As it has been deemed desirable by many of the friends of the move. ment to which these Addresses refer that they should receive the permanent prominence of publication, the request has been cheerfully acceded to; not because the Lectures contain in themselves anything which will bear the test of the crucible of the critic, but in order to diffuse them among a larger number of the working classes than are able or willing to come to hear them. In committing them to the press, I may just take occasion to say, that they are not intended as models of taste or composition, but merely as rugged appeals to the hearts of the masses. As such I trust they will be received: if not, I can't help it. There are many expressions and illustrations in them which I should deem, of course, utterly unfit for the pulpit, but which I think are admissible in a familiar address to working men. I ven.. ture to think, that there is something in them which, under God's blessing, may be useful to those who live by the sweat of their brow. I therefore affectionately dedicate this book to the Working Men of Manchester, confident that at least it cannot be hurtful, and humbly trusting that it may do them good.

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Manchester, January 18th, 1858.

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ARTHUR MURSELL.

WORKING MEN OF MANCHESTER,

As an explicit understanding is always satisfactory to all parties, I may as well open this course of Addresses by a few words of explanation.

There may be some present here this afternoon to whom it is not known that we have been in the habit, for the last three or four months, of spending an hour with working men on Sunday afternoons, in the People's Institute, Heyrod Street, Ancoats. That room, however, had at length become too small for our purpose, and numbers of the class whose interest we are most anxious to excite, viz., those who are not in the habit of attending places of worship, have frequently been obliged to go away unable to gain admission, Feeling sorry that any should be excluded who were willing to come and hear the truth, we sought to enlarge our borders, and after certain arrangements, we have managed to make our appearance here; and I cannot refrain from thanking you from my heart for having turned out in such great numbers, to prevent our looking foolish.

Though we have changed our place of meeting, and though this change will probably attract from time to time the attendance of others besides working men, it is not our intention to alter the style of these Addresses, or to attempt to adapt them any more to the taste of the fastidious, or to the maxims of the critic. They will remain essentially Lectures to Working Men. The same freedom and familiarity of illustration will be used, the same miscellaneous association of the sublime and the ridiculous-which has drawn down upon us already so much censure-will be observed; the strictures of the learned and profound will be received with the same deferential silence, and the social, moral, and religious elevation of working men will be aimed at in the same manner as before.

In the first address which it was my privilege to give before an audience of working men in Manchester, I bluntly told them what my ultimate object was. I did so, because I do, not believe in any system of secrecy towards those whose real interest you seek, because I believe honesty is always appreciated by honest men, and because I did not see any reason to be ashamed of that object.

Some of my friends said, it is bad policy to let the people know too plainly all at once what it is you are aiming at, state to them in general terms that you are anxious to do them good, but don't tell them in so many words what is the definite and specific object at which you aim, or they will take the alarm and run away from you, and call you a parson in disguise.

This, however, was too deep diplomacy for my unsophisticated notions, and so in the simplicity of my heart, I told them plainly what I now tell you, that the one great ultimate object by which I am actuated in giving these Addresses to working men is to induce those who are not in the habit of attending any place of worship to go to church or chapel, and hear the

Gospel; it is to prevail upon those who sneer at and despise the preachers of the truth to exercise a little more confidence in them, and show more justice to them, and not to condemn them without a hearing, and to beget, if possible, a more friendly understanding between the two generic races, starch and fustian. I do not know that the effect of this frank avowal or the simple end I had in view drew down upon me the distrust of any, or made them call me a parson in disguise. It is not a very terrible name, after all. I am a parson, and I glory in the name; but not a parson in disguise. I should sooner think of a king being anxious to conceal his crown, or a conqueror wishing to hide his laurels, than a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ being ashamed to proclaim his profession. And, now that I have stumbled upon this theme, let me tell you, working men, that ministers are not the sanctimonious, canting, mawkish maw-worms that your injustice would make them out to be, but are the truest and best friends of our fallen humanity, and, in proportion as they are faithful to their sacred trust, are the real philanthropists and the genuine benefactors of our race.

It is necessary to be a little egotistical in a first address, in order to effectuate a proper understanding between us, and though I recognise with much pleasure many old familiar faces before me, there are numbers whom I have never seen before, to whom I am anxious to introduce myself and my intentions. I am sure I don't do this from any conceited motive, for there is not a more modest, in fact, bashful, young man in Manchester, than your humble servant. I only do it so that I may get rid of myself all at once, and not have occasion to revert to such an unpleasant subject again.

With this design (not the design of committing suicide, but only that of making away with myself), I shall just repeat one other remark which I have been in the habit of making, as explanatory of my notions as to the spirit in which we should ineet one another on these occasions. It is this. That I have no sympathy with the opinions of those who tell us that working men are not prepared to hear the Gospel, and that I will never be a party to fastening such a libellous insult upon their understandings and their hearts, as to suppose that, in order to secure their attention and conciliate their regard, it is necessary to insinuate with a studied dexterity the truths of the Gospel, rather than openly and directly to proclaim them. I believe this to be utterly and radically false, and shall therefore not hesitate, as occasion offers, undisguisedly, plainly, and without fear of mistake, to hurl broad-cast before the audiences which inay assemble here, the truth as it is in Jesus, whether men will hear or whether they will forbear. And now that I have done my best to help us to understand each other, let me, during the few minutes we remain together, hide myself behind my subject.

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

In making use of this topic this afternoon, I propose to apply it first as an alarm, and then as a re-assurance.

Fire is a first rate thing in its way. For example, on a winter's night, what is more cheering than to nestle round it, and see its ruddy glow reflected on the children's faces, and meeting their mirthful smiles with its warm greeting, and kindly honest breath! What sound more musical than the splitting and the crackling of the dry fagots, as the thousand sparks from the last yule log go spinning and dancing up the chimney like a domestic rocket! What handiwork more savoury than to mix the rich comestibles, and lay them on the genial bosom of the fire, so that the first fragrance of the deviled kidney, or the bubbling rasher, as it writhes upon the gridiron, may pull the pinched and eager nose of the good man, just as he comes home for the night, and smooth off all his little ill-humours, and help to give a zest to the kiss which he imprints upon his daughter's rosy cheek, and a tenderness to the way in which he strokes little Harry's hair all over his eyes! Even to the poor solitary bachelor, what luxury can he enjoy more refreshing than to poke the fire in his little room into a brighter flame—to light his cutty pipe-and then put one foot at one end of the mantel-piece, and the other at the other, and sitting plump before the roaring blaze, to absorb its gusts of friendly heat, and bask amidst its kindly fomentations!

Fire is useful for a thousand little purposes as well as great ones. It is by the fire that the muddled asthmatic warms his gruel-by the fire that the lover seals his billet doux-by the fire that the old dowager boils her kettle and browns her toast. In short, whenever we want to be comfortable we must raise the alarm of fire. And yet when this alarm is raised, in the startling terms of our title, it has rather a portentous sound. Many have no doubt heard the little story that is told of old Rowland Hill, at the hotel. It is related of that eccentric divine, that, during his travels in the west of England, the people at the hotel where ne was staying caused him to be put into a very damp bed. He lay still for an hour or so, hoping to be able to get to sleep, notwithstanding the inconvenience and discomfort. Finding,

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however, that the attempt was vain, and sleep was out of the question, the reverend gentleman sprang from his damp bed, in the dead of the night, and rushing wildly from his room, up and down the passages and corridors, he commenced shouting, "Fire! Fire! Fire!" with all his might. First one night-capped head and then another is bobbed out of various bed-room doors. "Fire! where?" cries one. "Send for the engines," shouts another. "Ring the alarm bell," roars a third. "Fire! Fire! Fire!" bellows old Rowland, still tearing up and down the house. Down comes the portly landlord, in his braces; and the landlady and chambermaids, in hysterics and no end of capborder, all shrieking, "Where is it? Oh, we shall all be burnt to death!" and so on. Still the reverend alarmist keeps up his warning shout of "Fire! Fire! Fire!" until every lodger, and every one connected with the place, from the landlord to the ostler, are all congregated in a motley group, undressed, about the stairs, crying, "Where? where is the fire?" "Come this way," says Rowland, dragging the frightened landlord to his chamber door, followed by the terrified household. "There," says he, pointing to his damp, uncomfortable bed, "No. 14, to air the sheets!"

I have sometimes thought that this little story was not very inapplicable to the religion of some people, which seems to resemble Rowland Hill's bed, and to stand sorely in need of an airing. We ought to be able to repose comfortably on our religion, but we should get a sort of evangelical lumbago if we were to make the attempt. It wants testing or airing by the fires of a rong and consistent experience, before it is fit to lie down upon composedly, and with benefit.

Fire is often used as an emblem of spiritual incidents. I have often been reminded, in looking out upon some lurid glaring furnace, as it casts its bleared reflection on the midnight sky, of those intimations which the Bible gives us of a coming day, when the earth, and sea, and all things in them, shall be burned up, and when the waters of the deepest ocean shall be lapped into the fiery throat of the fierce element, like a bubble, and be scen no more. It seems, indeed, comparing great things with small; but still there is a sort of a parallel in such scenes, was but a few weeks ago I was travelling by a night train, through that district, on the borders of Staffordshire and Warwickshire, known in the neighbourhood as the "Black Country;" and black enough it is. If you go through it by day, your eye wanders over a vast expanse of grimy country, unrelieved by the blushing of the upspringing flower. and scarcely by the gleaming

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