errors, and yet well supplied with positive truth in its ethical and practical aspects. Dr. Prime's long experience made him an adept in every particular of editorial management, and his associates willingly accepted his as the presiding mind of the establishment. The Observer, as it stands to-day, and as it has stood for a generation, is his true and enduring monument, bearing, as it does, in every feature the impress of his rich and versatile genius. He made it what it is. He not only preserved the aim of its founders, but carried it out more largely and in more varied directions, so that its position, and what it stands for in metropolitan journalism, are known and read of all men. But besides the general character of the paper as an outspoken champion of evangelical truth, it had a peculiar and characteristic feature in the "Letters of Irenæus," one of which appeared every week. They treated of every imaginable subject, and were as natural and easy and graceful as the actual correspondence of a literary man with his personal friends. Unstudied and artless, written seemingly at the point of the pen, they yet produced the effect of the highest art. Their informal character allowed the writer to say anything he chose within the bounds of good sense and good taste-bounds which he never transgressed, and the familiar tone and skilful touch often allured the reader like one of Cowper's matchless epistles. The result was to establish a sort of relationship between the writer and his varied readers, so that each of the latter looked upon the letter as if it were addressed to himself. It was not regarded as a proper subject for criticism, like an ordinary editorial, but rather as a free outpouring of friendly feeling, an unstudied expression of sentiments, such as a man makes to his fellows under the seal of confidence. In this view they were eagerly welcomed and enjoyed. Outpourings of the heart go to the heart, and Dr. Prime was so constituted that he could reach exactly the average of his readers, going neither too high nor too low, and carrying useful suggestions in a simple and most attractive manner. Such writing seems very easy to the inexperienced, and yet in reality the ability to do it well is a very rare gift. Careless ease is the last attainment of a writer. Men who could prepare a very weighty paper for a Quarterly Review would stumble hopelessly in the effort to reproduce the tone of familiar and intelligent conversation in a readable letter of a column's length. To be natural without being obvious, and playful without becoming silly, to teach without being tedious, to be fresh and vivacious without extravagance, are qualities by no means common. Yet Dr. Prime had them all, and year after year he poured forth a continuous stream of such articles, never repeating himself, never falling far below his average, and often rising greatly above it. It remains for me to say a word respecting Dr. Prime's intercourse with his ministerial brethren. This was always pleasant and helpful. It was a great gratification to him when, cut off from the possibility of having a pulpit of his own, he was able to render service on occasion to those who required aid in fulfilling their office. In advanced years the state of his health prevented this from being often done. But it rarely hindered him from attending the weekly gatherings of a clerical association in this city, now more than half a century old. Here his presence was a conspicuous and most agreeable feature. He never seemed out of spirits. His good-humor was pervading and infectious. His recollections of men and things were so vivid and so ready, and his knowledge of affairs so complete and accurate, that no subject was ever started on which he could not throw some needed light and give some shining illustration. His wit coruscated, his playfulness was exuberant yet never excessive. In the greatest mirth or in reciting the most amusing incident he never forgot the dignity of a Christian minister. He was cheerful himself, and the cause of an untold amount of cheerfulness in others. There is no member of that circle who will not feel that the joy of its fellowship has been, at least for the time, eclipsed by the removal of our genial, kind and lively associate, whose years did not lessen his vivacity, and whose experience was so varied and entertaining. THE GRAVES OF MY ANCESTORS. "My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; It is not often the lot of any man to stand in the midst of the graves of six generations of his own family and name. Having just made a pious pilgrimage to these tombs, I may be pardoned for speaking of the reminiscences awakened by this very interesting and somewhat extraordinary visit to the resting-place of the dead. The old town of Huntington, on Long Island, in the State of New York, has a history that precedes the War of American Independence, and bears the scars of that conflict to this day. In the midst of the village rises a hill which was selected before the Revolution as the cemetery of the town. It was also the site of the encampment of a detachment of British and Tory soldiers, under the command of Colonel Thompson, afterwards Count Rumford. These soldiers took possession of the town, tore out the seats of the church, converted the building into a military depot, carried off the bell and broke it, and when the war was substantially ended they tore the church building down and used the timber for blockhouses and barracks. These buildings were set up in the midst of the graveyard; many of the graves were levelled, and the tombstones used in making fireplaces and ovens Many persons of the last generation testified that they saw loaves of bread that had been baked in these ovens with the reversed inscriptions of the tombstones of their friends on the lower crusts. Some of the people anticipated the invasion of these barbarians, and taking up the gravestones of their relatives buried them on the spot, and dug them up and reset them when the enemy retired. The grave of my great-grandfather, of whom I shall have much to say, was honored by the colonel in command, who pitched his tent at the side of it, so, as he said, that "every time he went out or in he could tread on the old rebel." But this brutality did not disturb the sleep of the aged pastor, who after a long life of holy service in the ministry rested from his labors in the year of our Lord 1779. It is from his grave and those of succeeding generations that I have just returned. He was laid in this sepulchre one hundred and five years ago, and the record on his tombstone is easily legible to-day. The Rev. Ebenezer Prime, of whom I am writing, was born in Milford, Conn., in the year 1700, and was graduated at Yale College in 1718. Pursuing study for the pulpit, he was called to Huntington, across the Sound, where he began his ministry when nineteen years old, and was ordained in 1723. There he labored, through evil and good report, enduring a great fight of afflictions, in conflicts and successes, until his death. It is not becoming in me, his great-grandson, to speak in such terms of him as he deserves, and I will copy the words of another: “He was a man of sterling character, of powerful intellect, and possessed the reputation of an able and faithful divine. His library was unusually large and valuable for the times. Few clergymen had an influence more general, and few, it may be said, more entirely deserved it." Although the most of his manuscripts, as well as many of his valuable books, were mutilated or destroyed by the British, yet it appears from the register of texts, dates and places of preaching, which he kept with great care, that he wrote more than three thousand sermons, some of which were of great length. I have many of them; they are written neatly, but in a hand so fine as to make them difficult to read. I have taken up his diary and sought to make an extract, but there is something very sacred in the private thoughts of a saint who wrote them down more than a century and a half ago: here they lie almost as hidden as he lies in the grave I have just visited, and they ought not to be disturbed. It is awful to read the outgoings of such a soul: "February 14, 1745. O my God, forgive me for the sake of the blood and wounds and death of thy dear Son, and make me clean through his blood, Amen, for Jesus' sake, Amen." I have all his published sermons, with the exception of one that he preached in Jamaica, L. I., at the funeral of Mrs. Wilmot, wife of the pastor of that church. If any old family on Long Island, or not on it, will find a copy of that discourse and send it to me they will confer a favor which will be acknowledged with great thankfulness. The son of this good man whose grave is by his side, Benjamin Young Prime, M.D., was educated at the College of New Jersey. He entered while it was yet in its cradle at Newark in 1748, and was graduated at Princeton in 1751. He went to Europe for the study of medicine, and after attending lectures in London, Edinburgh and Paris, he took his medical degree at the University of Leyden. The essay in Latin which he pronounced on the occasion was published, and a copy of it elegantly bound in quarto form was picked up in a foreign book-store and sent to me. He became a very accomplished scholar, writing and speaking with fluency the modern European languages, and making very comfortable verse in the ancient tongues. Many examples of his success are around me now. At the outbreak of the Revolutionary War he fired the hearts of the people by popular, patriotic songs, which were read and sung over the country. In Duyckinck's Collections, and in Griswold's appendix to D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature" some of these poems are gathered. His patriotism made the family obnoxious to the Tory Thompson, who vented his spite in the insult to the grave of the father who died during the war. The son survived the war and died in 1791. Rev. Nathaniel Scudder Prime, D.D., a son of Dr. B. Y. Prime, was not buried here, and therefore I cannot speak of his grave as among the tombs of my ancestors, though he is nearer to me than any of the others. His grave is in the Cemetery of the Evergreens, on the west end of Long Island. But filial reverence and affection will justify me in copying from Dr. Sprague's "Annals of the American Pulpit" the portrait of my father. Dr. Sprague writes: 'He was born in Huntington, L. I., on the 21st of April, |