trenched battery poured around him, but he refused to dodge them, as others did. He was soon left on the road, with his command of eleven men, the volunteers having retreated from the exposed position, but he stood his ground till he silenced all their guns but one. For two hours he kept up his fire, and when the enemy made a sortie, drove them back with a shower of grape. The officers near

him begged him to dodge or retreat. He replied, "I never dodge; and when I hear the notes of the bugle calling a retreat, I shall retreat, and not before." Five of his men now alone remained; and as it was evident that no command existed on the field, he ordered Corporal Peoples to limber up the gun, and take it away. and take it away. At that moment a shot struck him on the right temple, and he fell, exclaiming, "O my God!"

Thus, in an ill-managed expedition, the country lost Lieutenant Greble. As an officer, he bore the highest character. He was every inch a thorough-bred American soldier,-skilled, brave, active, and efficient. In private life, a gifted and accomplished gentleman, a Christian by profession, and still more by practice, living up to the truth he saw, and the duties it inculcated, thus affording a beautiful example to young officers, who are too often deluded by the mistaken idea that there is something incompatible between honest manly piety and religion, and the character of a soldier. Greble was a type of cool bravery, of exact discipline, of mild and gentle manners, and of practical religion.

In his pocket was found a paper scrawled evidently on the field, and bearing these words, addressed to his wife, the daughter of his senior professor at West Point, the Rev. John W. French:

"May God bless you, my darling, and grant you a happy and peace

ful life. May the good Father protect you and me, and grant that we may live happily together long lives. God give me strength, wisdom, and courage. If I die, let me die as a brave and honorable man; let no stain of dishonor hang over me or you. Devotedly, and with my whole heart, your husband.'

His body was borne from the field by Duryea's Zouaves, and conveyed to his native city, with every military honor. In Philadelphia, his body lay in state in Independence Hall, and on the 14th of June, after being visited by thousands, was borne through Chestnut, Seventh, and Walnut Streets, to his father's residence, escorted by Captain Starr's company, of militia, and followed by officers of the army and navy, the city authorities, the pupils of the High School, and a large body of military. His body was conveyed to Woodland Cemetery, where his father-in-law, Rev. J. W. French, read the final service, and amid the rattle of musketry, his remains were committed to their repose.

The city of Philadelphia is justly proud of her gallant son; and a portrait, painted by Marchant, has been presented to the city authorities, that his memory may be a stimulus and a guide to the rising young of the city and State.

At his funeral, the Rev. Dr. Brainard, who had known him from childhood, thus summed up his character:

"Few have passed to the grave whose whole life could better bear inspection, or who presented fewer defects over which we have need to throw the mantle of charity. In his family circle, in the Sabbathschool, in the High-school where he graduated, as a cadet at West Point, and as an officer in the service of his country, up to the very hour when he bravely fell, he has exhibited a life marked by the purest

principles, and the most guarded and exemplary deportment. In his nature he was modest, retiring, gentle, of almost feminine delicacy, careful to avoid wounding the feelings of any, and considerate of every obligation to all around him. Indeed, such was his amiability, modesty, and delicacy of temperament, that we might almost have questioned the existence in him of the sterner virtues, had not his true and unshrinking courage in the hour of danger stamped him with an heroic manliness. In this view of qualities, seemingly antithetical, we discover that beautiful symmetry in his character which marks him as a model mar of his class."

MAJOR THEODORE WINTHROP, U. S. A.

KILLED AT GREAT BETHEL, JUNE 10, 1861.

THEODORE WINTHROP's life, like a fire long smouldering, suddenly blazed up into a clear, bright flame, and vanished. Those of us who were his friends and neighbors, by whose firesides he sat familiarly, and of whose life upon the pleasant Staten Island, where he lived, he was so important a part, were so impressed by his intense vitality, that his death strikes us with peculiar strangeness, like sudden wintersilence falling upon these humming fields of June.

As I look along the wooded brook-side by which he used to come, I should not be surprised, if I saw that knit, wiry, light figure moving with quick, firm, leopard tread over the grass, -the keen gray eye, the clustering fair hair, the kind, serious smile, the mien of undaunted patience. If you did not know him, you would have found his greeting a little constrained, not from shyness, but from genuine modesty and the habit of society. You would have remarked that he was silent and observant rather than talkative; and whatever he said, however gay or grave, would have had the reserve of sadness upon which his whole character was drawn. If it were a woman who saw him for the first time, she would inevitably see him through a slight cloud

of misapprehension; for the man and his manner were a little at vari ance. The chance is, that at the end of five minutes she would have thought him conceited. At the end of five months she would have known him as one of the simplest and most truly modest of men.

And he had the heroic sincerity which belongs to such modesty. Of a noble ambition, and sensitive to applause, as every delicate nature veined with genius always is, he would not provoke the applause by doing any thing which, although it lay easily within his power, was yet not wholly approved by him as worthy. Many men are ambitious and full of talent, and when the prize does not fairly come they snatch at it unfairly. This was precisely what he could not do. He would strive and deserve; but if the crown were not laid upon his head in the clear light of day and by confession of absolute merit, he could ride to his place again and wait, looking with no envy, but in patient wonder and with critical curiosity upon the victors. It is this which he expresses in the paper in the July number of the Atlantic Monthly Magazine "Washington as a Camp," when he says,"I have heretofore been proud of my individuality, and resisted, so far as one may, all the world's attempts to merge me in the mass.

It was this which made many who knew him much, but not truly, feel that he was purposeless and restless. They knew his talent, his opportunities. Why does he not concentrate? Why does he not bring himself to bear? He did not plead his ill-health; nor would they have allowed the plea. The difficulty was deeper. He felt that he had shown his credentials, and they were not accepted. "I can wait, I can wait," was the answer his life made to the impatience of his friends.

We are all fond of saying that a man of real gifts will fit himself