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in his childhood, and saw how the "Two Brothers" ascended along the heavens, and how the "Latin W" shone so brilliantly, they were all moved with deep and strong emotion. They felt that to the pious even this earth is already a kind of heaven. Especially did Hans Ehrlich feel from the depths of his honest heart, the great blessing which God had so kindly bestowed upon him. Then he said, smiling: "It is true Hans Ehrlich cannot now do without his Christian; but there was also a time when Christian could not get along without Hans Ehrlich." And as the young Pastor was about to break forth in words of gratitude toward his foster-father, the wealthy gentleman, his voice trembling with the emotions of his heart, said: "Only let every one stand in his place, and do the work to which he is called with faithfulness, then he can meet the future with comfort: his reward will come of itself. None of us all who are here together could have gotten along without the other; and, O that every member in our village church would ever so speak to other. We are members one of another."

The venerable Pastor, Wahrmuth, was more quiet this evening than at other times; for he believed, from many signs, that the time of his departure was near at hand! A tear stole over his mild cheek while he listened to his three friends speaking with one another of the past and the future. As one transfigured, he looked up to the glorious starry heavens, took off his black velvet cap, and with solemn reverence and devotion, as if he stood before the altar, said:

"To God alone be all the glory!"

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[SOURCES.-Hall. Nach. p. 82. no. 11, Nov., 1831. Minutes of Synod, 1817.]

Evan. Zeit. der Deutschen Ref. Kirche, vol. 1

BETWEEN 1746 and 1748, the congregation at Lancaster had been vacant. In this condition they applied to Rev. Mr. Slatter, requesting him to send a call for a minister to Holland, which was done.

In July, 1748, Mr. Slatter received information from Rev. De Bois of New York, that the synod of Holland was sending two ministers in answer to the call, and that they were already on their way to this country. As early as the 13th of August, Mr. Slatter had the pleasure of welcoming them to his house in Philadelphia. The one was Rev. John Jacob Hochreitner, and the other Rev. Dominicus Bartholomaus, who was intended for the congregation at Tulpehocken. We are incidentally informed in the Hallische Nachrichten, that Mr. Hochreitner was a Swiss, and that he was sent in from Switzerland, although, as already noticed, he came in under the auspices of the synod of Holland.

After these two newly arrived ministers had rested and refreshed themselves from their sea voyage, for a few days at the house of Mr. Slatter, he accompanied them to various parts of the country to visit vacant charges.

Mr. Hochreitner preached at Lancaster, and some other places with much acceptance, and was immediately called to become their stated pastor, to which he consented, and at the synod in September the call was approved and confirmed. In October, when all the arrangements for his removal had been made, an elder from Lancaster was sent to fetch him from the house of Mr. Slatter in Philadelphia, to his destined home and field of labor. The elder with a horse for him to ride was already at the door in readiness to take him away, but how mysterious are the ways of Providence! He never saw the place which had been assigned him as his field of labor. He had brought with him from Europe a gun, which he had loaded on board the ship under the impression, it seems, that he was about to enter a wild country where he must be prepared for his defense in sudden and dangerous emergencies. Having found from a short residence in the country, and especially from his late visit to Lancaster and other settlements in the country, that his fears were only imaginary, he attempted, before starting with the elder for Lancaster, to extract the load from his gun, when it exploded in his hands, and suddenly laid him low in death!

The written sermon which he intended to preach as his introductory in Lancaster, was found in his pocket, after his sad and sudden death, which, upon the solicitations of many friends, was afterwards printed. Though we have diligently searched and inquired we have not yet been

* From a work in course of preparation by the Editor on the "Lives of the Old Deceased Members of the German Reformed Church in America."

able to obtain a copy. Alas, has time buried the interesting relic; and has this, perhaps the only fruit of his mind and heart which seemed to receive permanent form, met the doom of his own mortal remains: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Mr. Hochreitner's pilgrimage in the New World was but short. The joy of the congregation which awaited him as their pastor was turned into mourning; and the messenger who was to bring him, only brought the sad intelligence that he had fallen asleep, and had "no more any portion forever in anything that is done under the sun!" Thus are the ways of God hidden. His footsteps are in the deep.

His ashes no doubt repose in Philadelphia, beneath the green sod of Franklin Square. Mr. Slatter speaks in high terms of his work and piety. Rest in peace until the resurrection morning shall dawn, and bring with it the eternal deliverance of the just from death and the grave.

Should any of our readers be in possession of farther information in regard to the subject of this notice, they will confer a favor by communicating it. The sermon referred to is no doubt still extant among the neglected papers of some old families. How interesting it would be to have it brought to light.



BLEST is the heart whose every beat

With Heaven's sweet lyre of Love accords;
Which marks its time with labors meet
For his rewards.

A blessing on that heart shall fall,

As sweetly falls the Summer rain;
Its hope, though darkness cover all,
Shall never wane.

And every morn an angel hand

Shall tune anew its thousand strings;
And it shall labor, soothed and fanned
By angel wings.

And blest are they, who, crushed by wrong,
Shall call unto that heart for aid;
Its love, as deathless as its song,
Cannot be stayed.

That heart shall never reckon life

By weary days, and months, and years:
Nor shall it waste in constant strife
With doubts and fears.

No cloud its star of faith shall dim;
For when its mission here began,
Its strings were tuned to praising Him,
Through good to Man.



On the sunny banks of the Potomac, nine miles above Washington city, stands Mount Vernon; and there in the side of a little hill is the tomb of Washington. A small arched excavation with a brick breastwork, overhung with the wild vine and careless shrubbery and an irongrated door in front, represents the exterior appearance of the old hero's resting-place. In front of it, towards the south, lies a deep woody dell. To the left, along the slope of the hill, is a thicket where the grape-vine and greenbrier, creeping upon the wild-wood make many a shady summer bower. To the north, and round the hill, is the house in which the hero resided. To the east, and far below, the deep blue Potomac murmers by in tranquil glory; fit scenes are these to embosom the hallowed spot where the father of his country slumbers.

But these scenes, though lovely in themselves, do not long attract the attention of the visitor to Mount Vernon. He looks at the little vault in the side of the hill and feels that there is more than magic there. The marble pannel above the door is probably the first that attracts his attention. No doubt he expects the writing upon it to be some pompous eulogy on his heroic deeds; but is no doubt agreeably disappointed when, instead of it, he reads these impressive lines: "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth on me though he were dead yet shall he live." While France wrote upon her graveyard gates, "Death is an eternal sleep," Americans are bold in publishing to men and nations from the gates of this tomb that they believe Washington lives.

Next the visitor looks through the iron grate into the silent vault. Here the ground begins to be still more sacred. A deep silence reigns within the charnel; nothing stirs save when the mellowed light of a sunbeam falls through the grate upon the emblems of death within and is chased again by the shadow of the spectator. Even at noon-day there is a gray twilight within which hangs its semi-transparent drapery on every object. After looking, however, for a few moments into the dusky vault, the objects begin to stand out more distinctly. Then appears the sarcophagus or marble coffin from its deep retirement, in which are deposited the remains of Washington. On its lid are sculptured the United States arms and insigna, with a shield and flag of thirteen stripes upon which is perched the American eagle, with open wings, clutching the arrows and olive branch with her talons. Near it, on the lid, towards the foot of the coffin, in bold and deep-sculptured letters is the simple name-WASHINGTON. The spectator feels that there is a world of meaning in that single, modest name, Washington, and yet it seems naked. He asks himself, Why is it not written General Washington? why did they not write the hero of Yorktown?-why not First President of the United States?—and more than all, why not write "Father of his Country?" He looks again, and concludes that

the one word means all, and more than all the rest. To one who has been taught to prattle long titles before kings and emperors, it may seem naked and unmeaning; but we know what it means. It has been music to us in childhood; we learned its meaning upon a parent's knee, or from some old revolutionary grandfather, who told us with tears in his eyes, of the victories he saw achieved by the good old general. And as we gaze upon that single name upon the lid of his coffin we wish nothing added. It is encircled by a halo of joyful remembrances that can never die. And though that tomb should be despoiled by the hands of tyrants, and the marble slab be left to moulder in loneliness away, yet will the shades of Mount Vernon be a shrine for the pilgrim patriot. There will he sit, though a tyrant should reign over the land where his fathers bled, and feed his grief on that remembered name. To him the winds would have a voice. The zephyrs of evening, though they sighed over ruins, as well as the murmurs of the quiet-rolling Potomac, would whisper-Washington!

"So sleeps the brave who sinks to rest
By all his country's wishes blest!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck his hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.


By fairy hands his knell is rung,

By forms unseen his dirge is sung;
His honor comes a pilgrim gray
To bless the turf that wraps his clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there."

Some may have thought this is a rustic cemetery indeed. No pyramid, no obelisk, no monumental column, no sculptured mausoleum from Italy, no exotic shrubbery, no flowers from the climes of the sun to bloom on his grave. True-neither were his notions on government sculptured and polished by a foreign hand: neither did he learn the means of war from Hannibal and Cæsar, who "whelmed nations in blood and wrapt cities in fire." His sword was not made in the East, and dipped in the poisonous ire of tyrants, nor was it baptized, like that of Alexander: "Conquest and Power." It was made in the land which it guarded, and baptized: "Our Country and our Homes." The rural and rustic bushes, then, that hang over the hoary vault at Mount Vernon, are its proper ornament-enough that they grow in Freedom's soil. The only proper tower that can be raised to the memory of Washington must be built of grateful hearts. Such an one has long since been reared, broad as this empire, and high as our thoughts soar when they visit him in bliss. Every one must ornament his own grave or it will not be ornamented. Every action he performs in his life will be either a flower or a thorn for his tomb. Every one must plant his own laurels and cypresses, and the tears of postereity will water them; and if, when he dies, he has not planted them they cannot be planted by another. Think you that pyramids high as those of the Ptolemies, overhung with ivy, in groves of cypress and willow could ever hallow, the names of Arnold and Burr? No. Traitors and tyrants, though dead, are in the hearts of the people

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