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RELIGIOUS & MISCELLANEOUS COMMUNICATIONS.

MEMORIALS OF A DECEASED BROTHER AND SISTER.
To the Editor of the Christian Observer.

SEND two papers which were given to me, at different times, by their respective writers. They are brief notices of the last days of a brother, written by his sister, and of that sister's latter days, written by another sister, who, within the past year, has followed her into eternity. These brief memorials possess an interest for me, beyond any that the ordinary reader can share, from my knowledge of the subjects and writers of them. Of these it is enough to say, that they were the children of truly pious parents, who lived by faith, and died in hope, summoned home, in the infancy of their children, by the same messenger that successively called them-consumption. The son I remember a weak and wayward boy, of the most unpromising condition for either world, but who, as I was informed, both by the writer of his memoir, and by others who were about him after he had undergone that great change which makes all things new, might be adduced in proof that true religion not only meliorates the affections, but expands the intellect. The sisters had been long piously disposed. The younger, who wrote his memoir, and first followed him, eminently pious; with a mind of considerable power, elevation, and refinement, coloured with a deep tinge of romance, which, under the tonic regimen of true religion, was daily more and more depurated from morbid sentiment, and braced to healthy practical tenderness. I met her, after an interval of several years, just when consumption had made a decisive lodgment in her constitution; but of the extent of which, neither she nor her friends were then aware. It was at this time she gave me the memoir of which I send you a literal transcript. She was then not many months from her own translation; and, though young in years, few, as it appeared to me, could have been more meet for the change, or more ripe for glory. Hers, indeed, was a gentle, loving, and lovely spirit. She blended, in an eminent degree, energy of character with that meek and quiet spirit which in the sight of God is of great price. She united-and it is no common union-great decision of mind with deep and unaffected humility; simplicity with a vigorous understanding; and a nicely sensitive holiness with strong natural affection. But I must curb my pen, nor suffer memory, however pleasant the excursion, to carry me back into the past, while it selects CHRIST. OBSERV. No. 18.

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materials to colour and shade, with graphic delineation, what, after all, could be to your readers but shadows of the departed and unknown. These brief memoirs must speak for their subjects and their writers. I give you them just as they were given to me, without omission, or other alteration. Of the closing days of the last surviving sister, I regret that I have no memorial, except that brightest and best, that she" died in the Lord," in the same faith and peace as her beloved relatives. J. M. H.

THE MEMOIR OF A BROTHER'S DEATH-BED. THOSE Who witnessed the death-bed of the subject of this memoir will not easily forget his simple expressions of faith, his calm foretasting of a near removal from all the things of earth and time; or, what was truly manifest to all who knew him in his previous life, the marked expansion of intellect, which seemed to ripen as he approached the eternal world. "What hath God wrought!" was the secret language of many who entered his sick chamber. And truly that scripture was exemplified, "not many wise men, not many mighty are called: but God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty." Blessed Spirit! who is a Teacher like unto thee?

George M. A—was the son of pious parents, and the subject of many prayers. His father and mother both departed in the triumph of Christian hope, leaving several children, without fear, to that God who is "the Father of the fatherless."

The early years of George did not give any promise of future excellence. When a child he was placed at a public school: he hated the confinement to which this necessarily subjected him, showed no inclination for learning, and appeared naturally dull in intelleet. As he grew into manhood, his riper age afforded no brighter hope. His habits were solitary, and occasionally dissipated: few of his own family knew how his time was spent, or in what society. But why are these blemishes recorded? Should not a sister's pen draw a shade over the past? God has long since forgiven: they are blotted out of His book.

The bow of mercy looks brightest in dark and threatening clouds ; and the calm sunshine of nature loveliest after the reckless storm. And is it not so too in the display of Jehovah's grace? When does it burst forth with such commanding beauty as in snatching the brand from the burning-launching the almost wrecked vessel from the quicksands and shoals of a tossed ocean, into a secure and peaceful harbour?

George married, and appeared a reformed character: his habits became social and domestic: he thought himself happy! A poet has said,

"The rush, where waters flow, may rise,

And flags, beside the stream;

But soon their verdure fades and dies,
Before the scorching beam.'

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And is it not thus with the happiness which rests on an earthly basis; and the religion whose foundation is not of God, but in a reformation of the mere outward man? The Lord, who searches the heart, saw

that nothing would awaken the sleeping, careless sinner, but the chastening rod. His mandate went forth; and in one short day George beheld all his earthly hopes blighted. His wife died; and, a few hours subsequently, the infant to whom she had given birth. The streams of worldly comfort were dried in a moment :-the bereavement was unexpected :-the afflicted man looked around, there was not one well-spring to refresh him :—he looked above, and, unacquainted with a Saviour's love, was angry with his Maker!

It was at this period I went to sympathize with my sorrowing brother, and, if permitted, to moor the wretched vessel in that haven which is above the reach of storms.

The day was one of nature's loveliest in the month of August. My path winded through rising meadows and smiling glens; and, at one side, the beautiful river Shannon flowed tranquilly along, reflecting in its transparent waters the beauties of an unruffled sky.

The way was secluded, and the scenery calculated to elevate the mind to holier and happier regions. My thoughts were pluming up. wards, when earth's sorrows arrested their flight. I heard a scream, and looking round, saw my dear brother leaning against a tree, with his hands covering his eyes: he had seen me approach, and, in the wildness of frenzied grief, cried aloud. I could administer no relief : his heart appeared broken; and rapidly his health sank under the pressure of unrestrained sorrow. It was but a few weeks after, that the physician pronounced him in consumption, beyond the hope of recovery. He heard the sentence of death with reckless feeling, refusing to send for a clergyman, which had been advised by his medical attendant and other friends.

I trembled for his immortal soul, but could only pray, as he refused to hearken to the counsel of affection. One day my concern was particularly awakened. It was the Sabbath, and my brother, uninterested in the holy solemnities of the day, was engaged with tenants. I mentioned the sacred nature of the Sabbath; when he became so impatient and irritable that I withdrew, determining to refrain my visits for one week, unless sent for, and to set apart the period for special prayer for him.

What a gracious, prayer-hearing God! The mercy throne is sprinkled by the blood of Jesus; while He intercedes at the right hand; and the Spirit makes intercession with groanings which cannot be uttered! If we are not always answered, it is because we do not always ask aright.

Before the expiration of a few days I was sent for by my brother. "Matilda," he said, as I entered his chamber," I am a dying man: send for Mr. F-" (a clergyman)," and do you stay with me, and speak to me of the Saviour. Do not leave me for a moment. Read for me.

Pray with me." I read the 12th chapter of Hebrews, and from it showed him how God's chastenings were sent in love: then spoke to him of the sufferings of the Blessed Jesus, and his willingness to save to the uttermost all who come unto God by Him. George heard attentively; his heart was touched, and he wept like a child. From that moment he appeared a new creature. He inquired, would Christ indeed have mercy on a sinner so vile as he was? and being assured that He came to seek and to save the lost, he rejoiced, and gladly laid hold of the salvation. His view of his own sinfulness was very great, and continued to affect him even to the day of his death; greatly en

hancing in value the preciousness of a Saviour. "Oh, if you knew," he used to say, "what a sinner I have been!" and in the ravings of his sleep he often cried out, "A sinner cast upon the blood of God." That hymn of Newton's afforded him much pleasure; he seldom heard it sung or repeated without shedding tears, saying it spoke his own experience. The words are very affecting.

"In evil long I took delight,
Unaw'd by shame or fear;
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopp'd my wild career.

I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agonies and blood;
Who fixed his languid eyes on me,
As near his cross I stood.

Sure never, till my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;

It seem'd to charge me with his death,
Though not a word he spoke.

My conscience felt, and own'd the guilt,
And plung'd me in despair;
I saw my sins his blood had spilt,
And helped to nail him there.

Alas! I knew not what I did.—

But now my tears are vain.
Where shall my trembling soul be hid,
For I the Lord have slain?

A second look he gave, which said,
'I freely all forgive;

This blood is for thy ransom paid,
I died that thou mayest live!'
Thus, while his death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue;
(Such is the mystery of grace)

It seals my pardon too.

With pleasing grief, and mournful joy,
My spirit now is filled,
That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by him I killed !"

(NEWTON.)

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Mrs. T―, an eminently pious woman, called to see him. quested that she would sing this hymn: she did, and he wept abundantly. He spoke to her of the love of Jesus, deprecating sin as the worst of evils, and expressing strong desire to be rid of his body of sin. Mrs. T—, after she left him, expressed much pleasure at the state of his mind: this was repeated to him injudiciously by a clergyman who came to visit. My dear brother looked displeased when he heard praise given to him—a creature. "Sir," he said, " I am a poor sinner, but I trust in my Saviour." The work of the Spirit on his mind was every day becoming more manifest. His temper became very gentle under suffering; and to all who offered any little service in his sick chamber he expressed much gratitude. The only conversation he desired was on the subject of religion; and even when a worldly friend came to visit, in an affectionate manner he directed his attention to the grand concern of the soul. One day a young man called, and, perhaps in mistaken kindness, began to speak on matters which he thought might amuse or divert my brother's mind. George immediately gave a check to such discourse. "You are a young man,' he said, "so am I, and God is calling me away in my youth; set your affections on things above, and not on things on the earth.'

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His mind was often much engaged in secret meditation; and, from an occasional ejaculation, it was evident that those thoughts were directed heavenwards. One evening my sister was sitting with him. Only the grey twilight and shining of a small fire gave a gleaming of light to the room. He was silent for a long time. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Oh, the joy! the glory! the brightness! of that world." But his spirit was not always on the mount: he had intervals of darkness; they were however few. One night he called me anxiously. I saw him much agitated. "Matilda," he said, " the tempter flew at me; pray a strong prayer to the Redeemer." I was going to kneel down. "Stand," he said, " quick, quick." quick, quick." I prayed for a moment. There," he said, " all again is peace."

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A writer (Gurnall) has remarked, with regard to the temptations of Satan," At the hour of death, when the saint is down, and his bodily strength low, this coward falls upon him. They say of the natural serpent that he never is seen at his full length till dying: so this mystical serpent never strains his wits and wiles more than when his time is thus short."

My dear brother's mind was happily preserved from any further attack of the enemy, so far as I could perceive, until within a day of his death; when, at night, he spoke in a most strange incoherent manner. I knew that there was one name which he loved, and which had before quieted his fears. I approached, and simply said, "Jesus is strong." The word Jesus acted like some soothing charm. "Yes," he replied, " Jesus is strong," and in a few minutes after he fell into a tranquil sleep.

"Jesus, the name that charms our fears,

That bids our sorrows cease,

'Tis music in a sinner's ears,

'Tis life, 'tis heav'n, 'tis peace."

The history of God's dealings with my brother, he gave in a concise manner to a clergyman who visited him. The cursory retrospect was to this effect:-When a child, he was often the subject of religious feelings. These impressions gradually wore off as he mixed with boys at school, and, as he said, "learned their evil practices." When he grew to manhood he lived in sin, but had continual stings of conscience, which he silenced with the promise of reformation at some future day. He married, and from that period his life was correct; but, as he lamented, he knew nothing of an inward change until brought through the furnace of affliction, and laid upon a bed of sickness. It was then he was taught by the Spirit of God that an outward reformation was of no avail-that his own righteousness was "filthy rags"—and that all his resolutions had been formed in his own strength, which he now felt to be perfect weakness.

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His mind had at this time been brought into a very spiritual state. The Rev. Mr. T had been conversing on that beautiful verse in the 46th Psalm, "There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God; the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High." When he withdrew, my brother said, What a beautiful verse, Matilda. The world cannot understand its spiritual meaning, but now I can." Thus was he taught, in a few weeks, the experience which Christians are sometimes years in learning. His soul had been refreshed by that river whose streams gladden, and, if I may use the expression, fertilize the glorious world above. He had washed in the fountain flowing from Emmanuel's side, and the Spirit sealed upon his heart the assurance of that pardon.

He was now rapidly approaching the portals of the eternal world, and his hope became brighter, as the vail which separated the realities of that scene grew thinner. He spoke of his death with composure, and requested that I would read for him the burial service. I attempted compliance, but tears choked my utterance. He gently rebuked my grief, and, taking the book, read aloud himself, in a calm, distinct voice, the whole of that beautiful and affecting service. Afterwards he took up a volume of Newton's hymns, and read his favourite hymn, " In evil long I took delight," for the first time without tears. He then repeated from memory that hymn by Wesley, which speaks

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