It is said, that the Baron sometimes became exceedingly angry at the ignorance and stupidity of the new recruits, and, that he sometimes even indulged in the sin of profanity. We would be far indeed from seeking to palliate his crime. It is no excuse, even, that

"He had been bred i' the wars

Since he could draw a sword, and was ill school'd

In boulted language; meal and bran together
He threw without distinction."

It must, however, be said, to the honor of the Baron, that in later years he seems to have entirely conquered his besetting sin.

General Steuben did his full duty to the end of the war, commanding a division in several battles, and finally directing the trenches at the siege of Yorktown. His most unpleasant duty was serving as judge, at the trial of the unfortunate Major Andre. For the traitor Arnold, he entertained the most heartfelt contempt. On one occasion, he heard the name of Jonathan Arnold, at the calling of the roll. Summoning the individual from the ranks, he scanned the six-footer from head to foot, and was evidently pleased with his inspection. He then told him, he was too fine a fellow to bear so odious a name, and advised him to change it. What name shall I take?" inquired the soldier. Take any you please!" said the General, "Mine, if you can do no better" The advice was well received, and Jonathan Arnold was henceforth known as Jonathan Steuben. The change was afterwards legalized by act of Legislature. After the war Jonathan Steuben was married, and had a son whom he called "Baron." The Original baron was much amused at this appropriation of his title, and promised to give the child a farm, when he should arrive at the age of twentyBefore that time arrived, the Baron was no more, but his heir, Col. Walker, recognised the obligation, and gave the boy the deed for the promised land.

one.

A number of interesting anecdotes are related, which illustrate the kindliness and generosity, as well as the ready wit of this old military martinet. At Yorktown a shell fell near him. To avoid its effects, he leaped into a ditch, followed by Gen. Wayne, who fell upon him? The Baron, on perceiving that it was his Brigadier, said: "I always knew you were a brave general, but I did not know you were so perfect in every point of duty; you cover your general's retreat in the best manner possible."

At the house of the mother of Chancellor Livingston, the Baron was introduced to a Miss Sheaf. "I am very happy," he said, "in the honor of being presented to you, mademoiselle, though I see it is at an infinite risk; I have from my youth been cautioned to guard myself against mischief, but I had no idea that her attractions were so powerful." We have no doubt, that the old German pronounced "Miss Sheaf" and "mischief" exactly alike.

At the conclusion of the war, General Steuben found considerable difficulty in obtaining any compensation for his services, on account of the impoverished condition of the National Treasury. The States of New York, Penna., and New Jersey, however, presented him with tracts of wild land, and in 1790 the general government added an annuity of 2500 dollars.

The Baron survived the war of the Revolution eleven years, during which time he resided in the city of New York, generally, however, spend

He was

ing several of the summer months on his land in Oneida county. a Ruling Elder of the German Reformed church, which then worshipped on Nassau street, but afterwards removed to Forsyth St. He might, indeed, have been called the patriarch of the Reformed church, for both pastor and people honored him as a father. Nor was this feeling of reverence confined to the congregation of which he was a member. The very gamins at the street-corners took off their hats respectfully, when he took his morning walk, and, when he was accidentally injured in a riot, the angry crowd made way for him to pass, and gave, THREE CHEERS FOR BARON STEUBEN.

He died of a paralytic stroke at Steubenville, N. Y., Nov. 8th, 1795, and was buried by his desire, at a lonely spot on his estate.

General North, who had been one of his aids, caused a neat mural monument to be placed on the walls of the German Reformed church of New York city. This monument-which was unfortunately broken some years ago-bore the following inscription:

"Sacred to the memory of FREDERICK WILLIAM AUGUSTUS, BARON DE STEUBEN, a German; Knight of the Order of Fidelity; Aid-de-Camp of Frederick the Great, King of Prussia; Major-General and Inspector-General in the Revolutionary War; esteemed, respected and supported by Washington. He gave military skill and discipline to the Citizen soldiers who, fulfilling the decrees of Heaven, achieved the Independence of the United States. The highly polished manners of the Baron were graced by the most noble feelings of the heart. His hand open as day for melting charity, closed only in the strong grasp of death. This memorial is inscribed by an American, who had the honor to be his aid-de-camp, the happiness to be his friend. Ob. 1795 "

As Baron Steuben was never married, he bequeathed most of his property to his aid-de-camps, for whom he entertained a truly paternal affection. Whether he left a legacy to the church, we have not been able to learn. Though he had his faults, like other men, all our authorities unite in declaring him to have been as honorable and as brave a German as ever crossed the ocean; and certainly, there are but few names that occupy a brighter page in the History of America, than that of BARON STEUBEN, THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL OF THE REVOLUTION.

OUR BLESSINGS MORE THAN OUR CROSSES.-Consider, that our good days are generally more in number than our evil days, our days of prosperity (such, I mean, as are suitable to our condition and circumstances) than our days of adversity. This is most certain, though most of us are apt to cast up our accounts otherwise. How many days of (at least competent) health have we enjoyed for one day of grievous sickness! How many days of ease, for one of pain! How many blessings for a few curses! For one danger that hath surprised us, how many scores of dangers have we escaped, and some of them very narrowly! But, alas! we write our mercies in the dust, but our afflictions we engrave in marble; our memories serve us too well to remember the latter, but we are strangely forgetful of the former. And this is the greatest cause of our unthankfulness, discontent and murmuring.-Bishop Bull.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEPARTED,

BY THE EDITOR.

The Germans have a Church festival peculiar to their nation. They call it " Todtenfest." It is held in memory of those who have entered into rest during the year preceding and to comfort those who weep "because they are not." The mournful day happens toward the end of November-toward the end of the Church year. At this time the great trees around the village churches have laid aside their beautiful garments, the little feet of the dear children rustle through the dead leaves that strew the earth. Here and there a few stray ones remain on the limbs. They tremble and shake, as if they tried their best to break loose and follow their fellows, which the wind driveth away in flocks, like snow flakes in winter storms; reminding one of the many sad, bereaved hearts, who have a desire to depart and be with Christ, because some they love have gone thither.

Usually it is a sad and solemn festival. The season adds to its solemnity. The Church year has brought joy and sorrow to the congregationbirths and buria's. Some have been born during the year, others have been born again, born into the Church; some have been borne out into the quiet God's acre, and their souls have moved into the house not made with hands. This "Todtenfest" is a sort of roll-call around the graves of the departed. As Mary went unto the grave of Lazarus to weep there; as the early Christians once a year assembled around the graves of their sainted dead on the days they respectively died, and with singing and prayer observed the anniversary of their entrance into everlasting peace, so do German Christians meet, and hopefully mourn on this day.

In country villages the church and friedhof" are side by side. The living meet inside, the dead outside of the building. Both still forming one great flock. When Darius pursued the Scythians into the wilderness, he invited them to an interview. They told him that the only place which they could appoint for a meeting, was by the tombs of their fathers. In such a presence a thousand voices would incite them to deeds of justice and valor. So with worshippers on the "Todtenfest." Sad thoughts crowd the mind on such a mournful festival. The proudest feel rebuked in the presence of death; around the grave ambition blushes, and the lofty spirit is humbled. Here all meet on a common level-all exist in the same style.

"The tall, the wise, the reverend head,

Must lie as low as ours."

Pope Leo IX. in his younger years, had been an humble obscure monk. For his dwelling he had a small dreary cell, for his food the meagreest

fare. Toward the end of his life, when an old worn-out man. he ordered himself and his coffin to be currie i to St. Peter's, at Rome. His servants laid him on a couch by its side. After admonishing his priests to live a godly life, he partook of the Holy Sacrament. With difficulty he rose up, and sadly looking into his coffin, said: "Behold, my brethren, the mutability of human things. The cell which was my dwelling when a monk, expanded into yonder spacious palace; it shrinks again into this narrow coffin." The next morning he was dead, having died before the altar of St. Peter.

This commemoration of the dead revives sad memories-opens halfhealed sores, and makes many hearts bleed afresh. For though dead, these quiet sleepers in their narrow houses yet speak. Speak of kindness, sympathy, piety, life, and love. The friends of our childhood, the companions of our later years, have left us-and their leaving was to us like the setting of a star in a dreary night. There repose their mortal remains They have fought their last battle, and around their dust with folded hands, we praise Him who hath given them, and giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Victory and hope are the burden of praise on such occasions. For the living and the dead are Christians. They have hope in their death. The good shall meet again. But no matter how pious the living, only the dead in Christ can they hope to rejoin in the world above. The great gulf between Abraham and the rich man is forever fixed. Between the good and the evil the grave builds a wall of eternal separation. When wicked parents die, they must bid an everlasting farewell to their pious children, if such they have. When pious parents die, they go where their wayward uncovenanted children can never follow them.

Radbod, a pagan chief of more than 1000 years ago, was prevailed on to become a Christian. In the act of stepping into the baptismal font, having already one of his royal legs in, to receive the holy sacrament, a thought struck him. His forefathers had been pagans. Turning suddenly upon Bishop Wolfram, he asked, "Where are my dead forefathers at present?" In hell, with all other unbelievers," was the answer. "Mighty well," said Radbod, removing his foot," then will I rather feast with my ancestors in the halls of Woden, than dwell with your starveling band of Christians in heaven." The Bishop entreated and threatened without avail. His unyielding convert positively declined a rite, which would forever separate him from his buried kindred. Radbod died as he had lived, a heathen.

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A sad decision did he make. A very foolish one. Much as we revere our ancestors, surely no one in his right mind would rather suffer torment with them in hell, than enjoy eternal blessedness away from them, with Christ, in heaven.

In the earlier ages of the Church, Christians had a keen sense of their vital union with the pious dead. Their most joyous festivals were the anniversaries of the death-days of their friends, which they called their birth-days for eternal life. Cyprian said to his church: "You must not mourn for those who are released from the world by the call of the Lord, when you know they are not lost, but sent before, that they may go before those who are left behind, as travellers or voyagers; we must indeed long after them, but not bewail them. We ought not, for their sakes, to put on black garments, since they are already clothed in white. We must not

give the heathen an opportunity justly to blame Christians, by sorrowing for those whom they speak of as living with God, as if they were lost and perished men, and thus not acknowledging as true by the witness of the heart, what they confess outwardly in words.

"Christians have a consciousness of constant invisible communion with

those from whom they are outwardly separated. In prayer, by which the Christian feels himself connected with the whole holy assembly of blessed spirits to which he belongs, he thinks especially of those dear friends who have joined it before him. These feelings, in the primitive age, were especially indulged in on the anniversary of their death, or rather their birthday for eternal life. On this day they partook of the Lord's body (the holy communion) with the lively consciousness that they were joined in communion with the Lord, and with their dear friends, his members. At the celebration of the holy supper, they made particular mention in the Church prayers, of those who had died in communion with the Lord. The church assembled at the graves of the martyrs, and partook of the holy supper, in the living consciousness of indissoluble communion with the Lord and his people."

The burial of the dead is a sad office to the Christian Shepherd. Some he must bury, who died as they had lived, impenitent and wicked. With their death all chances of spiritual change and escape from the wrath to come, forever end. He must comfort mourning friends. Alas! the comfort they demand he has not to give. "Is the dead one saved or lost?" is the agonizing query. "Out of Christ, forever lost," must be the answer. What earnest minister of Christ can stand at the grave of such a one, unmoved and unsorrowing?

When the good die, he praises God, who giveth them the victory. And yet he feels sad. He is their friend and brother no less than their pastor. They have been kind and true to him in his earnest work. He has watched their beautiful lives. Their influence and prayers nerved him for his great work. And now they have gone "beyond the river." The pastor has a feeling heart, as well as some other people. Is it a wonder that with a trembling voice and tearful eyes, he pronounces with uncovered head the last solemn words of "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," over the Aarons and Hurs of his fold?

A large flock has many deaths to record during the year. From mine there has been a large migration to the spirit world. A few of the many come to mind. Their lives were beautiful, their deaths were calm. One died in bleak winter, a young lady of eighteen summers. The year before, she had been confirmed. From her first communion, on Easter, she commenced the stirring untiring life of an active Christian. She gathered poor ragged children from the street, and organized them into a class in one of our mission Sunday Schools She went with them to the hovels of their parents, and spoke words of kindness to them. Every Sunday, during the stormy winter, she sat among her grateful class, telling them Bible stories, teaching them little hymns and prayers. Not as a laborious task was it done, but as her chief joy. Nobly she clung to it, till her health failed. When her life was fast ebbing to its finish, she sat pillowed on her sick-chair, and sewed garments for her poor children. They were often with her, eagerly listening to the whisperings of her undying love. On the day of her death, they sobbed around her chamber door,