the young and the beautiful. Here lie the founder of the place, baptized Indians, negroes, bishops, deacons and laymen, in perfect unity.

In the lapse of time the grave-stones become sunken and gray. Then, on a sunny summers' afternoon, all the matrons, sisters and maidens, go forth with soap, sand, and towels, and scour them to their pristine whiteness. The boys receive a holyday and bring water. The old men stand by, leaning on their staffs, and gladden the scene of affection. The work completed, they all retire to the arbors, sit down in a circle on the grass, and partake of their favorite "vesper," consisting of a cake peculiarly Moravian, and coffee in the preparation of which the good matrons are famous, for they keep the secret to themselves.

On occasions of funerals a band of musicians with trombones, precedes the bier to the grave-yard. The slow and solemn tone of the instruments, blending with the chant of the congregation and the hushed tramp of the procession, is peculiarly impressive. The bier is usually carried by the comrades-in-years of the deceased. Arrived at the grave the service is read, the men stand with uncovered heads, another hymn is sung and the coffin is lowered. The pathos of the scene is extraordinary. The measured cadense of the music over the grave, is at once mournful and consolitary. It seems the voice of the departed soul sighing with the pangs of separation, yet whispering of a blissful reunion.

When a musician dies the whole Church orchestra attend him to the grave with their instruments. Gently they bury him, and over his remains perform in full concordance some hymn or anthem he loved so well when living.

On Easter Sunday morning they perform a beautiful ceremony in the Church-yard. At five o'clock the congregation meet in Church and. after a short service repair to the Church-yard. Having formed a large square, enclosing the Church-orchestra in the center, with their faces. turned to the East, just as the sun is breaking over the distant hills, the whole concourse bursts forth into one triumphant liturgy, hailing the Saviour's glorious resurrection.

But hark! The bells are ringing half-past ten, and we repair to Church. On our way thither let us notice the corpse-house, a low brick building, with one window, entirely shrouded in weeping-willows. Here, generally, the corpse is placed in the interval between death and burial. This is, however, not insisted upon. Here, also, the coffin is opened for

the last time. In case a corpse remains there during the night, a lamp is always kept burning at the head of the coffin.

We enter the Church. It is usually of stone, extremely large and massive, with immense windows curtained with white linen. The hall at Bethlehem is almost twice as large as that of any Church in New Haven. You are struck with the simplicity of the interior. There are two small galleries, one on each side of the pulpit, containing the Clergy. There are no pews, but simple pine benches. Opposite the pulpit, under three arches spanning the entire breadth, sit the orchestra. Let us glance at the worshipers. You will notice the regularity with which the congregation are disposed. The sexes are separated. The whole society is divided into choirs-children, boys, girls, sisters, unmarried brethren, widows, widowers and married. The younger portion sit immediately under the eye of the Minister, the middle-aged in the center, the elder below the orchestra. Each choir has its distinguishing ribbon; although this custom is now seldom seen in America. One part of the Church is fluttering with light yellow, another, with dark blue, another, with crimson. But each choir knows its dead, also, by a different badge. An hour or two after a death has occurred, four or five trombone players ascend the Church-steeple, and in plaintive melody herald the news. According to the tune which is played, the Moravian tells of which choir a member has departed. "Departed," I say, for they rarely use the word "died," (gestorben,) but rather "sank to sleep," (entschlafen,) or (heimgegangen) "gone home."

Each of the choirs has its love-feast on one Sunday in the year, the members being allowed to invite as many of their friends or strangers as they please.

The exercises on this occasion consist of singing from a printed sheet hymns and odes in German and English. There is the Minister's Solo, alternating with the Sisters' gentle Alto, and the deep Bass of the men. Then, while the whole congregation are partaking of cake and coffee, the orchestra performs some sacred anthem commemorative of their mutual love. Everything then is festive. The altar is changed from black to white, vases are placed thereon filled with the choicest flowers, the officiating Clergyman appears in an unusually joyous garb, the rest of the Ministers join the congregation below, cake and coffee are handed about by matrons in trim white dresses and simple caps, the trombones blow a louder symphony, the organ's pipes roar more cheerily, joy beams from every face.

The Moravians in America are somewhat celebrated for their church

music, and are frequently called to Philadelphia to assist in the performance of difficult operas. Almost every Moravian is a musician, and a piano is heard in every house. The leaders of the church orchestra have generally been students at academies of music in Europe. On festive occasions the female singers, mostly young ladies, appear in diminutive lace caps, trimmed with their peculiar choir ribbon. On Christmas eve, when the orchestra puts forth all its powers, the country people for miles around, flock in to see the ceremonies, and hear the wondrous music. An ancient solo, entitled "Morgenstern," (Morning Star,) is then sung by a lady, alternating with the children, at the opposite end of the church, and orchestra, in chorus. The contrast between the breathless stillness of the audience during the clear ringing solo, and the tumultuous swelling of the chorus, heightened by the distance of the parties, the vastness of the hall, the illuminations, inscriptions and evergreen wreaths and arches, render it a spectacle truly magnificent. During the services each of the children is supplied with a burning wax-taper. The whole is sure to lift the soul to a sublimer conception of Christ's Nativity, and leave the conviction, that here is Christmas celebrated indeed.

In summer the children have their love-feast. In the evening there is a grand illumination of many-colored spermaceti lamps in the rear of the church. The children are arranged under the lamps, and sing simple beautiful hymns, responsive to the whole congregation and orchestra immediately opposite.

The dark cedar boughs overhead, partially lighted up by the lamps above, the faces of the carroling children beneath, the swelling of the noble German from the crowd, the slow and solemn music of stringed instruments, render the custom as beautiful as impressive. I have said that crowds flock to the Moravian town in order to hear the music. But there is another attraction also. It is the "putz," or decorations within the houses. This is not, however, as in England and parts of Germany, a simple Christmas tree, but a whole room is often devoted to the arrangement of miniature scenery.

The birth of Christ and adoration of the Magi generally form the central figures, but the accessories leave abundant scope for fancy. In the background are generally Alpine glaciers, mountain-torrents, pyramids, cottages, rural bridges, ruins in the East, mills and forges with water wheels in full operation; in the foreground, fountains, villas on Comos, tripping maidens, hunters pursuing their game, green slopes with sheep and shepherds. The only material required is Zinc rocks,

moss, dead branches of trees, and silver sand. The whole is surrounded by wreaths and great arches of spruce and broad-leaved laurel.

The Moravians without preventing marriage do not advise it. The sects are kept separate. The unmarried women live, work, and sleep together in one huge stone dwelling called the "sisters-house." Four or five live together in one room, where they formerly spent their time in weaving and embroidery. By one of those parties was broidered the famous banner of Pulaski. Prayers are held in the morning and evening. Each room has its presiding sister, and the whole is under the direction of an ancient dame called the "Oberpflegerin." There are corresponding houses for the single brethren and widows. The ministers (married) also formerly lived together in one house called the "Gemeinhaus." Their mode of courtship is also peculiar. Should a single brother feel himself yearning for the possession of a single sister, it is his duty to go to the minister and give him the name of the chosen one. This done, the single sister hears the state of the case from the “Oberpflegerin." Should both parties be willing, the affair is decided by the apostolic custom of drawing lots. Should the brother draw the name desired, she is his; if not he is at liberty to transfer his affections.

I have thus drawn a dim outline picture of Moravians in the olden time. Many more customs might be enumerated, but want of space forbids. Whoever would see all in full operation must visit Herrnhut in Saxony. Many of these customs have disappeared in this country before the tide of American enterprise; still, the greater number remain in full force. Whatever remains untold respecting their missionary work, division of labor, founding the first female boarding school in America, etc. etc., will be gladly unfolded to any curious Yalensian who may chance to visit Bethlehem, fifty miles north of Philadelphia and eighty east of New York, where he is assured by the writer of a jolly time, and an old-fashioned Moravian welcome.

W. E. D.

Memorabilia Valensia.

MEETING OF THE CLASS OF 1858.

THE Junior Class met on Wednesday, Feb. 18, at the President's Lecture room, for the election of Editors of the Yale Literary Magazine. C. S. Kellogg was called to the chair and D. M. Bean, M. Chalmers, H. A. Pratt, and G. Wells were appointed tellers.

The balloting resulted in the choice of the following Board of Editors for the class of 1858, viz

On the eve of our last issue a new constellation appeared in our literary firmament under the title of "The Yale Review." Its advent, though heralded a few hours beforehand by the usual signals, took the College World quite by surprise, falling among us (if we may mix the metaphors) like a bomb from a masked battery. In mechanical execution and general appearance the "Review" is highly creditable to its projectors, and its page (for we bought the number and read it at a single sitting) evince a vigor of thought and talent for graceful writing which no one need be ashamed to own. The principal object and design of the "Review" is in its own words "Criticism of the pretentious and conceited literature of College." The "Lit." of course received its heaviest and (in the main) well directed fire, but, as our readers see-we are still afloat. Many of the "Review's" Criticisms are just and judicious, but we were sorry to notice a few passages savoring of rancor and personality. Nothing is easier than to say sharp things, if one makes no account of truth, or of a classmate's feelings, or if he can talk through a board fence without fear of detection.

NOTICE. TWO "Exchanges" addressed to "The Yale Review," and put by the Postmaster into the “Lit's" box, are now in our possession, and will be cheerfully surrendered upon requisition from the proper authority.

JUDGE BACON is dead. He was almost the last representative of his generation among us. We shall no more hear his kindly voice at Alumni meetings, nor at "the Brothers'" annual gathering. Never again shall we see his tall, venerable form pausing on the Green to watch our game of wicket and to think of the time when he played on the same spot, with our Grandfathers. He passed away in the same month that saw those two Lights of science go out, Redfield and Kane-and, like them, left a legacy to Science, and to posterity an honored name.