home, nursed them and cared for them, and, assisted by his family, went about among them, caring for their bodies, and seeking to save their souls. Sickness opens up even hard hearts, and the Greenlanders' were melted under it. One who had often mocked Hans, said to him, when he was dying, "Thou hast done for us what our countrymen would not have done: thou hast fed us when we had nothing to eat thou hast buried our dead, who would otherwise have been devoured by dogs, foxes, and ravens: thou hast instructed us in the knowledge of the true God, and told us of a better life to come."

Egede's

The Moravian Missionaries had now come. health was giving way; and God took from him his faithful wife. The stroke was heavy. One can picture Egede, now an old man, as he sat and looked at that lifeless body, soon after he fully realised the stroke which now had fallen on him. What a feeling of desolation would come over his spirit! Yet he would think of whither she now, as a glorified spirit, had gone. She had finished a noble warfare, and could he wish her back, because he missed her? Ah, no, I will soon go to her, he would say. And, yet, those hot tears will chase each other down those furrowed cheeks. "The Lord comfort thee," would those cold, still lips have said, had permission been given to them to speak.

The next step Hans takes is a very touching one. He leaves the land of his adoption, carrying with him the dead body of his wife. The dust of those we have loved is That is a cold heart which can pass by the grave of one with whom we very lately lived, and together shared this life—whose smile we have often

dear. very

met, while kind words passed between us-and see that grave covered with weeds, which make it look dreary and forlorn, and not put out a hand to pull them up, or feel a pang that it should be so. Whether it was that Egede's spirit was broken, and he was no more able for the work -for men will wear out-or that he saw the work would go on without him, we know not, but in the year 1735 he again made his home, for a season, on the waters, and returned to the country he had left.

Egede was ill, but he was not yet to die. He lived till 1758, and, before that, joyful news came over the waters, of not only tens, but hundreds of the once careless Greenlanders, having been converted and brought to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, that they might be saved. Among the first words he had learned of their language was, "Kina," "what is this?" And well might Egede say, Kina-"Lord, what is this?" when he heard of the fruit of his labours among that people. Egede's life speaks loudly to us. The violet has a sweet smell, though it is a modest, little, flower-so every Christian should carry about with him a fragrance of Jesus. This was an

obscure, quiet man, yet see his work. Many stifle in their own bosom's the desire to work for God, because of the "fear of man, which bringeth a snare.

"But grow in grace," and the desire will become too strong to be repressed. You will work—and, as with Hans Egede and his devoted wife, your works will follow you.

WOOL-WEAVING.

I LIVE in a Scottish vale of great beauty. It is skirted on one side by a series of low eminences, and on the other by a compact range of magnificent hills, which are green to their summit, and whose stair-like terraces and occasional basaltic crags betray their trappean origin. A lovely stream, celebrated in song, rapidly pursues its way through the valley. "Our village" is situated partly at the base of one of the hills, which here rise abruptly from the plain, and partly on a sloping outshoot of the adjoining one-the two hills being separated by a rocky defile or deep glen, down which passes a rapid current to join the larger stream in the valley. This mountain "burn," often swollen into a flood, has served to determine the staple trade of the locality. Although not so "hardworked" as the Irwell or the Mersey, its water has been laid hold of for the use of certain woollen mills that have sprung up beside it.

Will the reader allow me to introduce him to one of these? It belongs to a group of factories that occupy the crown of the knoll which I have described above as a sloping outshoot of the hill, and that lie directly facing the mouth of the glen. The contrast which this position affords is very interesting. In a few minutes you may transfer yourself from the bustle of the factory to the solitude of the craggy defile, where nought is heard but the rush of the brawling torrent, and the steep hills on either side shut out from view all but the overarching sky.

The transition is startling, but pleasant withal. A most exquisite bit of God's nature lying alongside the scene of man's laborious art. It is in such a case you feel the force of Cowper's oft quoted saying "God made the country, but man made the town.”

But let us return to the busy workshop, in which huge bundles of dirty wool are transformed into elegant plaids and cosy trouser stuffs. We enter by a light iron gate into an oblong court, surrounded on three sides by buildings. A carrier is delivering up sundry packages, which we suppose to contain the "raw material" for the peculiar product of the place, and we follow them into the wool store. The room is almost filled with closely packed bales. Casting a hasty glance around, we pass up stairs. Here are the sorters. They stand beside a board breast high, running the length of the room, and slit so as to allow the refuse of the wool, which is being picked and arranged, to pass through to the floor. All along the floor are sacks of wool of various growths and from various lands. is from Australia, that from Buenos Ayres, a third from "the Cape," a fourth from Saxony, while another longfibred sort, which has to us a very homely look, is grown on the "Cheviot mountains blue." The head sorter is a shrewd Englishman, whose eye and hand are more ready than his tongue. Perhaps much speaking would interfere with his work. He evidently knows what he is about, and is engaged in partitioning his bundle into four groups, according to fineness, softness, strength, cleanness, &c., for it would appear that the subdivision is regulated by a variety of qualities.

This

We now cross the court, and enter a small apartment

emitting an odour of soap-suds.

It is the scouring-room.

On each side is an oblong vat, one for wool, the other for yarn, and each provided with an apparatus for pressing the articles, after they have been subjected to the detergent process. Here the wool, which sometimes comes to the factory in a very dirty state, is rendered tolerably white, and the yarn gets a purifying dip before it passes into the hands of the weaver. One of these machines is in motion now. A workman, with arms bared to the shoulders, is lifting out from the vat bundles of yarn, to which he gives a hasty twist, that he may wring out some of the water. He then places them in succession on rollers, which, as they revolve, draw the yarn forward between two cylinders, where, under a pressure of nine tons, produced by jointed levers, it gets a most tremendous squeeze, and is taken out at the other side very nearly dry.

Next door, the washed wool, after it has been dried, undergoes a thorough dissection, in order to its being reduced to a workable state. The machine by which this is effected is termed a "teaser" or "devil." The wool is spread on a board, from which it is carried forward to a pair of cylinders armed with very ferocious-looking teeth. These, playing against each other, tear into fragments the unresisting wool, and then, having done their worst, convey it to their neighbours, who follow the example set them, and by and by the wool, thus torn to pieces, comes within the action of a rapidly revolving fan, which whirls it out in flocculent tufts upon the floor. A little fellow, ready to receive it, packs it as tightly as possible into large baskets, in which it is conveyed away to the