't:bs famitg eirtit,
WOMAN'S WORK.
Darning little stockings
For restless little feet;
Washing little faces,
To keep them fresh Ind sweet
Hearing Bible-lessons,
Teaching catechism,
Praying for salvation
From heresy and schism,
Woman's work
Sewing on the buttons,
Overseeing rations,
Soothing with a kind word
Other's lamentations ;
Guiding clumsy Bridgets,
Coaxing sullen cooks,
Entertaining company
And reading recent books,
Woman's work I
Burying out of sight
Her own unhealing smarts;
Letting in the sunshine
On other clouded hearts ;
Binding up the wounded,
Healing of the sick,
Bravely marching onward
Through dqngers dark andthick;
Woman's work !
Leading little children,.
And blessing manhood's years;
Showing to the sinful
How God's forgiveness cheers;
Scattering sweet roses
Along another's path ;
Smiling by, the wayside,
Content with what she bath,
Woman's work!
Letting fall ber , own tears
Where only God can see ;
Wiping off another's
With tender sympathy ;
Learning by experience,
Teaching by example;
Yearning for the gateway,
'Golden, peg rl v, ample,
Woman's work!
At last cornett' silence—
A daysf deep repose ;
Her lock smoothly braided,
Upon her breast a rose;
Lashes resting gently
Upon the marble cheek ;
A look of blessed peace
Upon her forehead meek.
The hands softly folded,
The kindly pulses still; •
The cold lips know no smile,
The noble heart no thrill;
Her pillow needs no smoothing,
She craveth for no care—
Love's tenderest entreaty
Wakes no responses there.
A grave in the valley,
Tears, bitter sobs, regret ;
Another lesson taught,
That life may not forget;
A face forever hidden,
A rtce forever run`;
" Dust to dust,'.',the, preacher said;
And woman's work is done.
GRACE ROCHE'S LEGACY. CHAPTER VIII
AND LAST.
By the Author of Margaret and her Friends
The following morning, Andrew Roche
had a long and earnest conversation with
his nephew. Geoffrey felt thoroughly
wretched both in body and mind after
his dissipation of the previous day; and
readily listened to all his uncle said to
him. He called himself a fool, thanked his
uncle over and over again for his kind ad
vice, and promised to follow it for the
future. Andrew would have been better
pleased if his nephew had appeared less
confident;
he knew the, danger Geoffrey
was in of falling again, from the very fact
of his thinking he was quite safe ; and de
termined to watch over him to the best
of his power. lie invited him to pass a
quiet evening at the cottage, and contrived
that Milly should be there likewise. It is
so natural for us to believe what we hope, and
Geoffrey expressed so much sorrow for his
foolish conduct, and was so profuse in his
promises of amendment, that the old sunny
smile once more brightened Milly's face ;
and the dark shadow was, for the time,
forgotten. The next day was Sunday.
" Will you call for me to-morrow morn
ing, as you aro going to church, Geoffrey ?"
said Milly, as they were walking home
from the miller's cottage on Saturday even
ing.
Yes, Milly ; at least—now I remember,
I can't call to-morrow morning, for I am not
going to church ; but the evening will do
as well, won't. it ?"
" Not going to church, Geoffrey ?" said
Milly, in astonishm :nt.
" No; but I'm going somewhere as good.
I've promised Mr. Framank to go with him
to his ohurch. You can come with me,
Milly, if you like."
" Oh•no, Geoffrey ; I'd never forsake our
church ; and I do wish you would not go ;"
she added earnestly.
Milly, who talks of forsaking, our
church, I should like to know.? What a
silly little thing you are. Surely there is
no harm in going to hear what they have
to say at other churches. I like to hear
both sides."
" I'm not so sure there's no harm, Geof
frey. Our Lord tells us, Take heed what
ye hear,' as if there could be great harm in
hearing ; and if I went with you 1 should
run the risk of having my faith disturbed,
particularly if the preacher was an eloquent
man. Now I believe that our church teach
es the true doctrines of the Bible ; and I
feel that I should be very wrong in puzzling
myself with hearing other opinions."
" But the preacher offers up such beauti
ful prayers at their meeting„Hilly. Mrs.
Flamank says the - are quite moving; and
that : tthe'iXaake` Iw:stied SiArs.'',,
” That: may be ; but they are not the
prayers I am used to, Geoffrey. The ser
vice would be all atiAnge to me Try could
not pray with the , heart, as I can wlien I
follow the well-known wordri in my old seat
in the church."
—N. 0. Picayune
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1863.
"I didn't think you'd ever be turning
preacher, Alilly," said Geoffrey; and there
was a little vexation in his tone; "but I've
promised to go this once, and I don't mean
to break my word."
Milly turned away, and next day was not
only at church but at the Sunday-school.
There, with her class gathered about her,
she found a place where she forgot her
troubles in trying to do good to the young
souls she loved.
Andrew Roche's fears concerning his
nephew proved only too well founded. In
less than a month from the day when Grace
was taken ill, her unfortunate heir had be
come a constant visitor at the Half-Moon,
where he now generally spent' the whole of
his evenings. Andrew had spoken to him in
vain; for Geoffrey found it convenient to take
offence at what he termed his uncle's " in
terference ;" and thus a) coolness grow up
between them. Geoffrey's foolish' .mother
did much towards increasing this ill-feeling,
by suggesting to her weak,minded son that
it was jealousy and spite on the part of his
uncle, because he had been left out of
Grace's will. Geoffrey knew better; but .it•
suited him just now to pretendto believe it.
The old shop was no longer considered
good enough for his improved prospects;
and Geoffrey commenced re-building on an
extravagant scale. Eta had become very
intimate with the Flamanksovhose only
daughter he now generally accompanied to
church at least once on Sundays.
Mr. Flamank thought it would be a good
thing to secure Geoffrey and his expected
fortun: for his daughter, and left no means
unemployed for that end.
Old Grace Roche couldn't possibly last
much longer," said Mr. Flamank to his wife;
and then—"
Out Grace Roche did last, strange to say,
and seemed in better health than she had
been for years.
Mean while Geoffrey's business fell off day
by day; and no wonder, for he was scarcely
ever in his shop, and no one could depend
upon his punctuality in executing any order;
io that they went elsewhere. The fine new
house and shop were finished, and heavy
bills coming in and no money to pay them.
Geoffrey hadalready borrowed a 'consider
able sum of his uncle; and all poor Milly's
little savings into the bargain. He must
try his uncle once more, and, amidst the
heavy rain of an autumn everting, he bent
his steps towards the miller's cottage, and
found him in conversation with the clergy
man. He had become a comparative stran
ger there, but was always welcomed kindly.
There was now a greater contrast than
ever between the appearance of the two
cousins, for Geoffrey's naturally grave face
had become worn and haggard.
" I'm almost rained, uncle," he exclaimed.
" Will you lend me .two hundred dollars ?
I'll - promiee you =to _tarn over a. new leaf
from this very-hour if you will."
Bat Andrew was firm in his refusal to ad
vance anything. "I have already done an
injustice to my own children, Geoffrey, in
the money I have: given you; and Which I
shall never see,again ; and licando no more.
There is but one course open to you. Give
up all you have to your creditors ; and I
will undertake to ( furnish you with-funds to
emigrate to a diefant land, where your
knowledge of 'oar .busin s will - always
enable you to earn your living, and where
you will be removed from the temptation
you have-not been able to.withstancl.'
Geoffrey would not listen to his uncle's
proposal, and begged and entreated fer the
loan he required. Bat in vain ! and in a
violent passion, 'breathing hard and unjust
words towards his kind relative; Geoffrey
Roche left his uncle's house, vowing never
to cross the threshhold again. It is a fearful
thing to part in anger and hatred ; for in
this world of change and uncertainty, no
one can reckon upon having a future op
portunity of expressing regret, or asking
forgiveness.
Geoffrey Roche never reached his home;
and his dead body was found next day in
the mill-pond.
It was in time of heavy rains and the
" waters were out," that s, Were much
swollen and increased by the rain. There
was a short way across the meadow from
the miller's cottage to the village, and
many suppose& that Geoffrey had missed
his way in the dark—misled by the flooded
state of the country—and had fallen into
the - pond. • others took a darker 'view of
the matter, and said that the wretched
young man, a preytoremorse and despair had
added sin to sin by wilfully causing his 'own
death. In compassion to the feelings of
his surviving relatives, the coroner gave
the case the benefit of the doubt, and ver
dict was returned of accidental " death."
And the good old pastor preached a funeral
sermon, which was remembered in Wood
thorpe long after the lips that spake it were
silent in the grave.
The heavy autumnal rains.
,had given
place to a winter of more than ordinary
severity. The streams were all bound, up
and the cold was intense.
Mrs.. Burton, at the farm, bad been. sit
ting up watching by the bed-side of .a sick
child, and on going to the window to look
out on the clear frosty night, she saw with,
alarm a thick cloud of smoke rising . in the
direction of Grace Roche's cottage. She
aroused her husband and some of the men,
' and Mn Burton was on the spot in a few
minutes after his wife had given the. alarm.
There was no chance whatever of saving
the cottage, for it was old and thatched, and
there was no water to be had from the
frozen pond;but he shuddered at the
thought of te wretched old woman being
burned to death. He was a powerful man,
and a brave one too : and, although when
he reached the cottage
. the flames were al
ready beginning to burst forth, hp drove
in the door with one blow from his strong
arm, and, at the risliof.his life made his way
through the burning co,t4ge, caught.up the
already, insensible form' pf Gracie Roche,
and carried her in Safety into the farm.
They laid her on a bed; gave her some wine;
and in a few moments she came to herself.
No sooner did she do so, than, with a pierc
ing shriek, she exclaimed, " The thatch !
the thatch !" By this time the cottage had
become a heap of ruins. But Mrs. Burton
tried to quiet the old woman by telling her
the men were doing all they could, but that
her life had been spared, and she ought to
feel grateful that it was, for she had been
in great peril.
`• What's my life without it ?" shrieked
Grace.
" Without what ?" asked Mrs. Burton,--
thinking that the fright had upset the old
woman's senses.
" The money, the notes, all! all! in the
thatch," screamed the miserable woman, go
ing off into a violent fit of hysterics.
It was quite true. Her ill-gotten wealth
had been converted into bank notes and
hidden in the thatch of the old cottage,—
and had perished in the fire,—and Grace
Roche was a penniless beggar There was
not much sympathy felt for her in Wood
thorpe. " She must go to the workhouse,
and serve her right too."
But Andrew Roche did not say so.
Early in the morning he was at the farm
in his comfortable chaise-cart, with an offer
from himself andwife , to give Grace a room
in their cottage, and tt,.seat. by their fireside.
" Let bygonesheliyglsl2o3, Grace,"—said
Andrew, you ,may by hap
pier with us in yoUr old age, than you were
in your lonely cottage! ) • •
The old woman was moved at last : this
real kindness melted her hard stony heart.
" I have not deserved this of you, An
drew," she said in a broken voice, "you
once told me.l might live to' want the kind
ly feelings I then despised. Ido want them,
for I am very wretched, but I don't deserve
them; and from you least of all."
" Don't talk of deserts, Grace; few of us
deserve much, I reckon, if it came to that.
But come home with me, and Bessie will
do all she can to make you comfortable.
Grace Roche did not live very long to
enjoy the home now provided' for her by
her brother's kindness, but she lived long
enough to think very differently of what
she had done,—and to encourage the clergy
man to hope that she had had grace given
to her to repent of the sins of her past life ;
—and to trust in her Saviour's blood.
And when she died, her last breath called
down blessings on her brother and bis•family,
who had so nobly returned good for evil.
The miller and his family prospered; and
Andrew and his wife had the happiness of
seeing all their children comfortably settled
in life.
And Maggie did have to turn out of the
mill,—for Frank brought home his wife,—
who was no other than Milly Northway
herself. . , _
" Those Roches at the mill seem to get on
ai,ely in the world'," said Jom Price to the
old " oracle" in the farm.house kitchen.
" Get on ! To be sure they do," was the
reply ; " and for a good reason too ;' they put
their'trust in' God—try to do their duty—
work 'hard and i4dustriously to get their
own living, and' not one of them:has ever
troubled himself about Grace Roches. Le
gacy."
THE UNEXPECTED SON.
One summer afternoon Mr. Malcom An
derson arrived with his family at his native
town. Putting up at the little inn, he 'pro
ceeded to dress himself in a suit of sailor
clothes, and then walked out alone. By a
by path ho well knew, and then through a
shady lane, dear to his young, hazie-nutting
days, all strangely unchanged, he approach
ed: his mother's cottage. He stopped for a
few moments on the lawn outside,
to curb
down the heart that was bounding to meet
that mother, and to clear his eyes of a sud
den' mist of happy tears. Through the
open window he caught a glimpse of her,
sitting alone at her spinning -wheel, as in the
old time. But alas, how changed! Bowed
was the dear form once so erect, and silver
ed the locks once so brown, and dimmed
the eyes once' so full of tendcr brightness,
like dew-stain'ed violets. But the voice,
with which she was crooning softly to her
self, was still sweet, and there was on her
cheek the same lovely peach-bloom of twenty
years ago.
At length he knocked, and the dear, re
.membered voice called to him in the simple,
old-fashioned way—" Coom hen I" (Come in.)
The widow rose at sight of a • stranger, and
courteously offered him. a chair. Thanking
'her in an assumed voice, somewhat gruff, he
sank down, as though wearied, saying that
he was a way-farer,,strange to the country,
and asking the way to the next town. The
twilight favored him in his little ruse; he
saw that she•did not recognize him, even as
one she had ever seen. But after, giving
him the information he desired, she asked
him if he was. a Scotchman by birth. "Yes
madam," he replied ; " but I have been away
in foreign parts many years. • I doubt if my
own mother would - know me now, though
she was very fond of me before I went to
sea."
"All, mon l it's little ye kin- about mith
ers, gin ye think sae. I can tell ye there is
na mortal memory like theirs," the, widow
somewhat warmly replied; then added—
" And where hae ye been for sae long a time,
that ye hae lost a' the Scotch Ira your
speech ?"
" In India--in Calcutta madam."
" Ah, then, it's, likely ye. ken ,something
'o' my son, Mr. Malcom Anderson."
" Andersen?" repeated the visitor, as
though striving to 'remeinber. " There be
many,of that name in Calcutta,, but is your
son a rich Merchant, and a man about' my
age and size, with something such a figure
head ?"
" My win is a rich merchant;" replied the
widow, proudly, " but he is younger than
you by mony along year, and begging your
pardon? iir r Sar fichnief , .11e. ifsi tall and
straight,VfArhandaAad, 4et t yke a lassie's;
he bad broWn, curling tair, - sai thick and
glossy ! and cheeks like the rose, and a brow
like the snaw, and the blue een, wi' a glint
in them, like the light of the evening star.
Na, na, ye are no like my Malcom, though
ye are a guid enough body, I dinna doubt,
and a decent woman's son."
Here the masquerading merchant consid
erably taken down, made a movement as
though to leave; but the hospitable dame
stayed him, saying, " Grin ye hae travelled
a' the way fra India, ye mann be tired and
hungry. Bide a bit, and eat and drink wi'
us. Margery ! come down, and let zs set
on the supper !"
The two women soon provided quite a
tempting repast, and they all three sat
down to it, Mrs. Anderson reverently ask
ing a blessing. But the merchant could not
eat. He was only hungry for his mother's
kisses—only thirsty for her joyful recogni
tion; yet he could not bring himself to say
to her—" lam your son." He asked him
self, half grieved, half amused—" Where are
the unerring natural instincts I have read
about in poetry and novels? '
His hostess, seeing he did not eat, kindly
asked if he could suggest anything he would
be likely to relish. "I thank you, madam,"
he answered ; "it does seem to me that I
should like some oatmeal porridge, such as
my mother used to make, if so be you have
any."
"Porridge?" repeated the widow. "Ab
ye mean parritch. Yes, we hae a little left
frae our dinner. Gie it to him, Margery.
But, mon, it is cauld."
" Never mind; I know I shall like it," he
rejoined taking the bowl and beginning to
stir the porridge with the spoon. As he did
so, Mrs. Anderson gave' -. a slight start and
bent eagerly toward him. Then she sank
back in her chair with a sigh, saying, in an
swer to his questioning look—
" Ye minded me o' my Malcom, then—
just in that'way he used to stir hie parritch,
gieing it a whirl and a flirt. Ah ! gin' ye
were thy Maloom, my poor laddie !"
" Weel, then, gin I were your Malc,9m,"
said the merchant, speaking for the first
time in the Scottish dialect and in his own
voice; "or gin your braw young Malcom
were as brown, and bald, and gray, and
bent, and old as I am, could you welcome
him to your arms, and love him as in the
dear auld lang syne? Could you, wither ?"
All through this touching little speech the
widow's eyes had been glistening, and her
breath came fast ; but at the word " mither,"
she sprang up with a glad cry, and totter
ing to her son, fell almost fainting on his
breast. He kissed her again and again;
kissed her brow, and her lips, and her hands,
while the big tears slid down his bronzed
cheeks ; while she clung about his neck and
called him by all the dear, old, pet Aviles,
and tried to see in him all the dear, old,
young looks. By-and-by they camp baCk.
The 'form in 'her• embrace, grew comelier;
love and joy gave to it a second youth,
stately and gracious ; the first she then and
there buried deep in, her heart; a sweet,
beautiful, peculiar memory. It was a mo
ment of solemn renunciation, in which she
gave up the fond maternal illusion she 'had
cherished so long. Then looking up stead
ily into the face of the middle-aged man
who had taken its place, she asked, " nere
hae ye belt the wife and bairns`?"
"At the inn, mother. Have you room for
us all at the cottage ?"
"Indeed .I have—twa good spare-rooms,
wi' large closets, weel stocked wi' linen I
hae been spinning or weaving a' these lang
years for ye baith, and the weans."
" Well, mother dear, now you must rest,'
rejoined the merchant, tenderly.
" Na, na, I dinna care to rest till ye lay
me down`to tale my lang rest. There'll be
time enough between that day and the res
urrection to fauld my lands in idleness.
Now 'twould be nnco irksone. But go, my
son, and bring , me the wife; I hope I shall
like her ; and the bairns, I hope they will
like me."
I have only to say that both the good wo
man's hopes were realized. A very happy
family knelt, down in prayer that night, and
many nights after, in the widow's cottage,
whose climbing roses and woodbines were
but outward signs and types of the sweet
ness and blessedness of the love and peace
within.—Little Pilgrim.
GERMAN FAMILY LIFE.
Rev. Dr. Stevens contributes to The Meth
thodist the following interesting article on
life in Germany:
A good German home is the best in the
world. I say this peremptorily. German
mothers are thoroughly maternal and ex
tremely affectionate; German fathers are
generally forbearing and moderate, and sin
gularly inclined to "domestication;" German
children generally grow up, as by instinct,
with an admirable mixture of filial rever
ence and affection. The Germans low.. large
families; the more children, the 'better, ac
cording to their philosopy of life; and they
generally have abandance of thm. They
despise the French and American misan
thropy in this respect, and justly point to
it as a proof of demoralization, unknown in
their own better land. In their home-life
they seem continually but unconsciously to
be contriving agreeable surprises for each
other, and this good feeling overflows the
boundaries of home, and reaches all the in
timacies of their lives—their kindred, their
neighbors, their pastors, and their school
master& No people make more pleasure
out of fete-days, birth-days, wedding anni
versaries, etc.
None know better how to make "presents"
or to . invent souvenirs. For a German not
to know the birth-days and wedding anni
versaries of all his intimate friends, and not
to commemorate them by some token of af
fection, however slight (for the value is noth
ing compared-to the sentiment) is a barbar
ism, a sacrilege. In large families, these
:commemorations, reaching from the grand
parent to the yearling baby, and extending.
out to all dear friends, keep up, of course,
an almost continuous exercise of kindly at
tentions and forethought; and the Germans
have quite universally a peculiar tact of clos
ing.these beautiful little things with dra
matic surprise, so as to render the "manner"
infinitely more precious than the "matter."
The lowliest village school-master's birthday
is known to all his rustic flock, and his cot
tage on that day is a shrine of pilgrimage to
all the little feet of the hamlet; flowers,
books, cheeses, loaves of bread, embroidered
slippers, chickens, geese, even young pigs,
are showered upon him. He is decked with
bouquets, and his humble home garlanded
within and without; he is addressed in origi
nal doggerel, and serenaded with music and
dancing. And thus, also, fares the village
pastor and all these things are done so
heartily, so joyously, as to be evidently spon
taneous, never ceremonious, as much a joy
to the donors as to the recipients. • Add to
these domestic occasiont the public festive
days of the Church and the State, and you
can imagine that German life is holy days
enough. Christmas, and similar days, are
occasions . of incredible festivities throughout
Germany. Santa Claus has no better do
minion.
THE BEGINNING OF METHODISM.
From the " Historical Sketches of the .Reign of
George ll.' •
But it is curious enough to'find that the
first step towards making those companions,
to whose society Wesley had thus been
directed, was taken' by his younger brother
Charles, then an undergraduate at Christ
Church, who had himself Seen' awakened
into deep religious earnestness, and had
obeyed the prompting:a of his warmer social
nature by drawing together a few fellow
students in the same circumstances as him
self. These young men Moved by the first
thrill of that tide of feeling which was soon
to sweep all over England, had the 'courage
to separate themselves from the mass of
young bucks and bloods, the roystering
" men" of their day, and to forM themselves
into an almost momastic brotherhood to the
amazement of the University. Times have
changed wonderfully since then : we are not
unaccustomed' now to the severe youthful
virtue of the tender Ritualist, or to that
curious pagan pietism which distinguishes
the sect of young philosophers; but even
at the present time such a brotherhood
could scarcely originate without some ridi
cule from the surrounding crowd. It was
the object of ceaseless darts of wit and a
storm of merrymaking in that irreligious
age. " They were called in derision the
Sacramentarians, Bible-bigots, Bible-moths,
the Holy or the Godly Club." One of their
critics, less virulent than the rest, applied
to them an old name fallen into disuse, which,
indeed, is far from describing the character
of the unregulated enthusiasm and emo
tional excess which was then and after at
tributed to the young Pietists. This name
was that of Methodists—a title lightly
given, with little perception of the import
ance it was to assume. To take it according
to its etymology, it might as well have been
applied to the followers of Benedict or
Francis as to those of John Wesley; and, in
fact, this movement, of which no one fore
aw the importance,, was at its beginning
'much more like the foundation of a monas
tic order than anything else, Had Wesley
(we repeat) been a Roman Catholic, from
his hermitage he would have come forth
like Benedict to the formation of a great
community. His country, his race, and
birth, were, however, too many for him. There
are few notable lives in which one can trace
so clearly :the modifying influence of cir
cumstances. A body more opposed to Rome
could scarcely be than the religious society
which acknowledges Wesley as its founder,
and yet no society could be more evidently
established on the very principles of Rome.
When the yonng Reformer [John] returned
to Ozford'to his uniVersity duties in 1728,
he was received at once as the spiritual
director of the little brotherhood, an office
hitherto unknown among Protestants. Un
der his guidance the brethren fasted and
prayed and devoted themselves to alnis and
charity; "they regulafly visited the pri
soners and the sick; communicated once a
week; and fasted on Wednesdays and Fri
days, the stationary days of the ancient
Church which were thus set apart because
on these days our Saviour had been betray
ed and crucified. They also drew up a
scheme of self-examination, to assist them
selves by means of prayer and meditation,
in attaining simplicity and the love of God."
Their principle was to "live by rule, and to
pick up .the very fragments of time that
not a moment might be lost." The Scheme
of Self examination, which unfortunately
we have not room to quote, was divided in
to two tables like the Decalogne itself—a
searching self-inquisition into every passing
thought and movement of both mind and
body. Its rules are most identical with
those of the mystic codes: f monastic piety,
as indeed they are with the expression of
all intense religious feeling, when driven,
if we may say so to a desperate stand
against the world. It is.impossible to doubt
that the mind must be injured, and its grace
and spontaneity destroyed, by such perpe
tual and minute self-inspection ; but it must
always be remembered that such rules
must originate in times of desperation,
when the standard which has to be set up
before the enemy must be painted in the
boldest colors, and,when human nature can
not refuse itself a certain exaggeration.
Moderation and good sense are well in their
way, and so is the ['aural iavoluntary grace
of those sweet souls who sometimes seem
from their cradles to share the tenderness
and indulgence as wellas the purity of their
Divine Master. But such are not the fiery
captains, the forlorn hope, of Christianity;
and at this moment John,' Wesley's little
hand of young, extravagant, ascetic knights
errant Was Begland's•forlorn hope.—Black
woog fot4':Oct.