of the Christian religion,"* for 'he knew that with the mass of his readers forms were everything, and morality nothing; that he was addressing a nation, which "strained at gnats and swallowed camels; "which "cleansed the outside of the cup and platter, but within was full of extortion and excess; " which made its boast in the law, and yet through breaking the law was a dishonour to God.'† And, therefore, he gives them a test, that that man's outward devoutness is naught who gives loose rein to his tongue; that the fruit of true devoutness, the pure and uncorrupt service of God, is to visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep oneself undefiled from the world. 3. Into a somewhat similar state the Church at Colossæ seems to have fallen when St. Paul wrote his epistle to them. Some false teacher had urged them to the Jewish observances of meats and drinks, of feast-days, and new moons, and Sabbaths: had been inculcating self-humiliation and asceticism, joined with angelworship, and, perhaps, celibacy. 4. All which ceremonial and superstitious observances St. Paul designates as a 'self-invented, arbitrarily-contrived worship.'§ Brother and Sister. E. S. J. IN one of the large towns on the western coast of England there is a burial-ground for strangers. It stands on the higher part of the town, overlooked by a sweeping crescent, commanding a good view of every part of it. It is, indeed, quite surrounded by buildings, and stands like a city of the dead amidst the dwellings of the living. 'But why,' asks the reader, 'could not these strangers have found their last restingplace in the ordinary grave-yards of the place?' It happened that this town, or, at least, a neighbouring suburb of it, was a favourite resort for strangers at all seasons of the year, but particularly in the winter; and amongst the crowd of visitors, many were invalids, who came to catch the sea breezes that swept over the neighbouring elevations. As always happens in these places of resort, many and many a one came there to die. A few fresh breezes seemed to promise a health that never came, and a few sunbeams fell upon their path, Coleridge, as above. †A. P. Stanley's 'Sermons and Essays on the Apostolical Age,' p. 310. That is to say, the false teachers in the worshipping of angels strove after a humility, false in so far as they thought they durst not venture to approach the supreme God himself; in like manner as the adoration of angels and saints in the Romish Church is usually justified.'- Olshausen's 'Colossians,' p. 364. English Translation. § Or, a self-pleasing, hypocritical worship.'-Olshausen, p. 371. only as a promise of a brighter light above. So many were the sick sojourners at B——, and so great the number of the dead, that the ordinary burial-places were speedily filled; so this little spot of ground was set apart for dead strangers. There they rest! They came from many a distant place, perhaps many a distant land, only to meet in death. A few trees were scattered here and there on the ground, and the walls were thickly covered with ivy. In one corner the trees clustered more thickly, and even in winter time, when the leaves were off the trees, that corner looked darker and more concealed. The wind, as it moaned solemnly over the strangers' restingplace, seemed there to utter a deeper sound, as though a sadder story hung about it. It gathered up the leaves, and hurried them in wild processions to that darkened spot. They used to stay in broken, ever-restless heaps, upon a grave, and beat against a gravestone on which was inscribed, In memory of Arthur K-, from the Vale of the Taff, who died in this town on a visit to restore his health, May, 1846. Aged 24 years.' Very often, in walking on the terrace overhanging on a summer evening, I saw a lady in deep black standing at the grave of Arthur K-, as if in sad, and sometimes weeping, meditation. On a nearer view, she looked to be about twenty-two years of age. Her face had an habitually pensive, not to say melancholy, expression, while the white, well-turned features, and rich black hair, made the shadow darker that rested there. I often wondered, as I saw her come and go, whether she had many friends in the world, for she always came alone, and there was a look of solitude about her that seemed to mark her as a lonely pilgrim on life's highway. Some eighteen months after this I met this lady in company I could never have expected. I had taken my passage on board an American liner for the far West, in the hope of recruiting my then shattered health, and among the cabin passengers I instantly recognised the pale, lonely creature I had seen in the strangers' burial-ground. Ship passengers must be companions, and so by degrees I got into pretty free conversation with her. I did not, however, venture to mention the circumstances under which I had before seen her, or, indeed, that I had seen her at all, for my own experience told me that words about our deepest troubles must be the words of a well-known voice. Events, however, soon happened, which made our hearts all beat together. For four long days a terrible storm swept over the seas, and our bark danced like a toy upon the white and foaming breast of the Atlantic. We were too heavily laden for the terrible strain, and we sprung a leak, which proved so large and unmanageable, that the captain informed me that the ship must founder. We were eight hundred miles from land, and had no boats to save us. It was in the speedy prospect of a grave in the Atlantic, and before a friendly sail appeared in the far distance, like an angel of mercy, with its wings spread to the favouring gale, that my new friend communicated to me the story of her life. It was at the grave of her brother that she used to weep, and she gave me Arthur's history and her own, so full of touching BROTHER AND SISTER. incident and tender recollection, that I am about to give it, as well as I can remember, in her own words. 'Arthur and I,' she said, 'were two only children, and both orphans. My father died before I was born, and my mother when we were both I remember with how quite young; but still I have a vivid recollection of her gentle, earnest manner, and motherly care of us. tender a grace she used to teach us lessons from the Holy Book. I never used to think that religion was gloomy or dull, but that it must be a bright and happy thing, for mother was always so cheerful and kind. Yes!' said my companion, her face brightening with an shall not soon forget, she first taught me lessons of beauty expression by the music of her song, and of holiness by the fervour of her prayer! Before I was seven years of age she died, and then I made my first acquaintance with death. All I felt of it then was, that it took her away from me; and when they told me I should never see her more I sobbed bitterly. I have a dim recollection of strange faces about the house, and one day of our being taken into the churchyard to see our mother's grave. It was so solemn a mystery that I dared ask no questions; but Arthur and I kept very near together, and some time after, when a winter storm fell heavily, and left great drifts of snow upon the ground, we shuddered as we thought how cold mother's home must be in the churchyard. Not long afterwards, we were removed by our uncle and aunt. They had received my mother's dying commission to take charge of us, and most faithfully and kindly they fulfilled her wishes. Our new home was near the Garth mountain, at the entrance to the beautiful Vale of the Taff, and happy How well do I remember going were the years we spent there. together to the top of the mountain upon a clear, fine day, and looking at the Bristol Channel, stretching through the land like a line of light, and bearing on its glowing breast a hundred ships, speeding their slow way to far-off lands! Near our house, and at the bottom of the mountain, was a large foundry, to which many a day we used to resort to watch the white and burning glow that filled the valley with its gleam, and the streams of molten metal that, like burning lava, poured from the furnace mouth. My aunt was a quiet, motherly woman, and always very kind to us. My uncle was a farmer, rough in voice, but kind at heart, and often cheered our little circle with many a funny story and many a merry laugh, ringing up the open chimney with a We had both of us a little property left in the clear, fresh sound. care of my uncle, which was to be employed in our education until we were of age. My brother had always a great wish for the medical profession; and after he had received a good training at a neighbouring school, when he was about eighteen, it was resolved to send him to London to enter on his medical studies. I was to remain at home to be a help and companion to my uncle and aunt. Arthur had grown up a handsome fellow, and I was really proud of him, but I saw that his qualities would expose him to much danger in his new life. He was manly, generous, and free-hearted, full of power in mind and movement, with free, graceful manners, making me certain that what ever road he took in life he would leave his footmark on it. There was, however, a certain recklessness mingled with all this, that made me feel as if it were uncertain which it would be. He loved me very tenderly, and was full of kindness, and that seemed to bind me to the brighter side. I had another cause of anxiety besides this. His face was fresh and fair, although his hair was dark, and often a vivid flush would overspread it, and immediately afterwards he would look pale and deathly. I was not much skilled in the symptoms of disease, but I remember that his blooming look, so soon succeeded by a deathly palor, made me think of those flowers bright in the light of a spring morning, that wither in the evening cold. At last the time of parting came, and with many counsels from my aunt, and how many caresses and tears from me! he set out for London. I accompanied him as far as Cardiff, where he took boat for Bristol. I saw the steamer hurry him away through the narrow channel, with the mud banks on either side, and gazed on it long, until it became a black and shapeless speck, nearing the other shore. I cannot give you his history in London as a medical student, for I do not know it. My only means of judging were by his letters, and these I keenly scrutinized, not with the cold eye of a critic, but with the loving, yet anxious glance of an only sister. For a while his letters were all I could wish, full of brotherly affection, and contained a straightforward account of himself; while their free and dashing criticisms, and broad humour, made me feel I had not mistaken his powers. Here is a copy of a very short one :— "MY DEAR SISTER NELL, ""You cannot think what a change in my life town seems to have made already. How different my street walks to our quiet rambles on the Garth side and in the Taff Vale. As to noise, I used to think nothing could equal the ring of the forge hammers up the vale and round the mountains, but Cheapside beats even that. I have some pleasant fellows for companions, and we spend pleasant evenings. Sometimes, perhaps, I wish we had a little more of the real ether, but everything is artificial here, and we must make the best of it. Í do often long for a stroll up the rocks at South-point, and, above all, for sister Nelly at my side. "I am, your ever affectionate Brother, 'Months rolled on, and there was no change in the brotherly affection of his letters, and I was looking anxiously for Christmas, for then he was to pay us a visit. Before that time, however, there came a letter which distressed me beyond measure. It altogether lacked his usual vigour and freshness; both the hand-writing and style were loose and faltering, and the news it contained was unsatisfactory and evasive. The agony it caused me I cannot describe. I knew that if my brother once gave way to dissolute habits, he was ruined, for, as I said before, I was sure that on whatever path in life he trod, he would leave his footmark. His means were not large, and once over the bounds I feared he would grow reckless. What could I do? He never came. to us. BROTHER AND SISTER. was the only being in the world for whom I cared to live. My mother's gentle way had bound me so closely to him at first, and at I wrote to him a long letter, in her grave, that tie became a fetter. which I gave full expression to my anxieties as well as to my tender love. I employed all the arts I could devise to make him feel how our lives were wrapped up together. I told him how we had received together our mother's fond and earnest teaching, and how it had been consecrated by her parting blessing; how, too, we had gone together in the wild snows of winter, and the fresh light of spring, to look at her grave. I knew he loved mother tenderly, and I hoped to make With much the remembrance of her freshen his love to me, for whatever else in Arthur was wrong, I always felt I could trust his heart. anxiety I awaited an answer to this letter; but, alas! an answer Week after week I waited, until anxiety changed into despair. What could have happened? He never failed to write at least once a fortnight, and now nearly two months had elapsed without a letter. At length we wrote to the person at whose house he lodged, and you may imagine the distress which the answer brought It informed us that he had left there about a month since, and had gone they knew not whither. They understood he had got into difficulties, and must leave both his present home and his profession. We were informed, further, that many of his friends had inquired anxiously after him, and some were apparently seeking him further. We had relatives in London, whom And now, what was to be done? we knew Arthur occasionally visited, and to these we wrote, but could get no information, for he had long ceased to visit them. They, however, kindly undertook to make every effort to find him, but the hope of their doing so seemed too slender to lean on. conjecturing and planning, I resolved to go to London myself, to seek my only brother. I stated my resolution to my uncle and aunt, and though they said what they could to dissuade me from it, yet they did not eventually withhold their consent, for they saw that hopeless pursuit could not be more wearing than the grief which was hourly wasting me, and so I started for London, all alone, in search of my poor, lost Arthur. Oh, what a journey it was! The ships that I had so often seen from the Garth top, gliding so gladly in the sunlight, bound for some stormless shore, now, as I crossed the channel, seemed to my gloomy soul as if beating heavily away, never more to return. I took the train at Bristol for Paddington, and towards evening I will not stay to describe my feelings as I arrived in London. passed through the streets on the way to my brother's lodgings. One thought was uppermost--how is it possible to find him? The maze of streets, and throng of passers by, seemed completely to crush the little hope I had dared to cherish. In picturing my search to my mind, I had sometimes thought of Arthur as calling to me for help, but how, thought I, could I hear his voice in the midst of this everI arrived at my brother's lodgings, where I had lasting roar! I was kindly welcomed, but heard no announced myself by letter. more news of Arthur. I have said before, that I had friends in After much |