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devoted to thirty or forty lines of " preaching . " We wish the gifted author every success in his endeavour to do good in a legitimate way . The December number of The Burlington Magazine , edited by Miss Helen B . Mathers , the popular authoress of " Comin' thro' the Rye , " and numerous other novels in great demand " at all the libraries , " contains one or two items

of special excellence . " The Story of a Sin , " a fascinating serial from the pen of the editor , is brought to a conclusion , and we may remark , en passant , that the novel may now be had in its entirety from Chapman and Hall , the publishers of The Burlington . " The Wrong Man " is a clever and entertaining little romance , signed " S . S . " The author , whoever he or she may be , need not be ashamed of signing his or her productionsif they are all as meritorious

, as the present one ; and initials , we think , are ever out of place in a magazine of any pretentions , for they smack strongly of the amateur . " One Winter ' s Night , " by Horace Weir , is a most excellent story , full of power and deep human interest . It is founded mainly upon an appalling colliery explosion , which a few months back moved all England to the heart . The writer takes the facts , and weaves about them in a most masterly manner a

thread of love narrative , which is carried on skilfully and consistently to the end . Many of the character sketches are finely and firmly drawn . Mr . Weir holds up a brief for the rough , manly-hearted , and brave collier , and defends him eloquently from the abuse which he has had to endure in the pages of the satirical press . This vindication of the miner as a man is very fine , and we willwith the reader ' s permissionrecapitulate it . Here is the

frag-, , ment from the story in which it occurs : He does not get many yards before his foot strikes something that emits a metallic clang . It is a miner ' s tin tea-bottle . He holds it to the light of his lamp . There is writing upon it , evidently scratched with a nail . He reads the message—a message , doubtless from the dead .

Men and women—my readers—you may have read this message in the newspapers of the day . It is a sermon that many of us might fitly take to heart . The religion of the man who scratched the pathetic words may not have been Orthodox , but it was religious nevertheless . Think that in this man you see the typical miner . Let this rudely-written letter dispel ths unreasoning prejudice which some of you entertain against those who toil by day and by night in the dark depths of the coal mine . Dispel from your minds at once , and for ever , the caricature that does duty for the miner in the pages of the satirical press , that impossible creature who regales his bull-dog with beefsteakstoasts his friends in

, pint pewters of St . Julien or Veuve Cliquot , and—starvss his wife and children . Think of ths msn and lads in the dark mine , praying and singing hymns in the hearing of poor Michael Jones , husband and father , whose thoughts turned from things heavenly to the watching wife and sick child at home . Think of that scene where love and faith triumphed over and defied death and all its terrors . "Take physic pomp ; expose thyself to feel what wretches feel : So shalt thou shake the superflux of them ; and show the heavens more just . " Hear poor Michael Jones ' s dying words to his wife , and never more consider the miner less than " a man and a brother . "

Dear Margaret—There was Uoenty of lis altogether at 11 p . m . ; some teas singing hymns , lui my thoughts was on my little Michael . I thought that him and I would meet in Heaven at the same time . Oh , dear wife , Qod save you and the children , and pray for myself . Dear wife , farewell ! My last thoughts are about -you aruJ the children . Be sure and teach the children to pray for me . Oh , what a terrible position we are in !—Michael Jones . On this very night , the night ot the disaster , little Michael took eternal leave of his galloping horse , his small bird that sang with a loud voice , " Home , sweet home , " his battalion of wooden soldiers armed to the teeth , and his weeping mother , and was encircled in the loving arms of Him who suffers the little children to come unto Him , " for of such is the kingdom of Heaven . "

There are passages in " One Winter ' s Night , " which , for depth of pathos , are not surpassed by anything to be found in Bret Harte ' s " Luck of Roarinc Camp . " ° . The license indulged in by certain metropolitan so-called " society " journals is finding its counterpart in the provinces . Lewd papers of the baser sort are springing into existence iu many large towns ; their leading features being the retailing of coarse personalities and scurrilous chatter . Spiced with