inquires, whether the translation of Psalm cxxvii. 2. adopted by Mr. Trench has the sanction of any version but that of Luther. I beg leave to inform him that the passage was translated in the same manner by Coverdale: "For look, to whom it pleaseth Him He giveth it in sleep." De Wette also, in modern times, has "Giebt er seinen Geliebten im Schlafe."

Vatablus, in his Annotations, approves of such a rendering: "Dabit in somno dilectis suis." It has also been suggested in the notes of several modern critics.

Not one of the ancient versions sanctions this translation.

The sense of the passage will be much the same whichever of these translations be adopted. But the common rendering appears to me to harmonise best with the preceding portion of it.

S. D.

MAJOR ANDRÉ.

(Vol. viii., pp. 174. 604.)

The following extracts and cuttings from newspapers, relative to the unfortunate Major André, may interest your correspondent Serviens. I believe I have some others, which I will send when I can lay my hand upon them. I inclose a pencil copy of the scarce print of a sketch from a pen-and-ink drawing, made by André himself on Oct. 1, 1780, of his crossing the river when he was taken:

"Visit to the Grave of André.—We stopped at Piermont, on the widest part of Tappan Bay, where the Hudson extends itself to the width of three miles. On the opposite side, in full view from the hotel, is Tarrytown, where poor André was captured. Tradition says that a very large white-wood tree, under which he was taken, was struck by lightning on the very day that news of André's death was received at Tarrytown. As I sat gazing on the opposite woods, dark in the shadows of moonlight, I thought upon how very slight a circumstance often depends the fate of individuals and the destiny of nations. In the autumn of 1780, a farmer chanced to be making cider at a mill on the east bank of the Hudson, near that part of Haverstraw Bay called 'Mother's Lap.' Two young men, carrying muskets, as usual in those troubled times, stopped for a draught of sweet cider, and seated themselves on a log to wait for it. The farmer found them looking very intently on some distant object, and inquired what they saw. 'Hush, hush!' they replied; 'the red coats are yonder, just within the Lap,' pointing to an English gun-boat, with twenty-four men, lying on their oars. Behind the shelter of a rock, they fired into the boat, and killed two persons. The British returned a random shot; but ignorant of the number of their opponents, and seeing that it was useless to waste ammunition on a hidden foe, they returned whence they came with all possible speed. This boat had been sent to convey Major André to the British sloop-of-war Vulture, then lying at anchor off Teller's Point. Shortly after André arrived, and finding the boat gone, he, in attempting to pass through the interior, was captured. Had not those men stopped to drink sweet cider, it is probable that André would not have been hung; the American revolution might have terminated in quite a different fashion; men now deified as heroes might have been handed down to posterity as traitors; our citizens might be proud of claiming descent from Tories, and slavery have been abolished eight years ago, by virtue of our being British Colonies. So much may depend on a draught of cider! But would England herself have abolished slavery had it not been for the impulse given to free principles by the American revolution? Probably not. It is not easy to calculate the consequences involved even in a draught of cider, for no fact stands alone; each has infinite relations. A very pleasant ride at sunset brought us to Orange Town, to the lone field where Major André was executed. It is planted with potatoes, but the plough spares the spot on which was once his gallows and his grave. A rude heap of stones, with the remains of a dead fir tree in the midst, are all that mark it; but tree and stones are covered with names. It is on an eminence commanding a view of the country for miles. I gazed on the surrounding woods, and remembered that on this selfsame spot, the beautiful and accomplished young man walked back and forth, a few minutes preceding his execution, taking an earnest farewell look of earth and sky. My heart was sad within me. Our guide pointed to a house in full view, at half a mile's distance, which he told us was at that time the head-quarters of General Washington. I turned my back suddenly upon it. The last place on earth where I would wish to think of Washington is at the grave of André. I know that military men not only sanction but applaud the deed; and, reasoning according to the maxims of war, I am well aware how much can be said in his defence. That Washington considered it a duty, the discharge of which was most painful to him, I doubt not. But, thank God, the instincts of any childhood are unvitiated by any such maxims. From the first hour I read of the deed, until the present day, I never did, and never could, look upon it as otherwise than cool, deliberate murder. That the theory and practice of war commends the transaction, only serves to prove the infernal nature of war itself.... A few years ago, the Duke of York requested the British Consul to send the remains of Major André to England. At that time two thriving firs were found near the grave, and a peach-tree; which a lady in the neighbourhood had planted there, in the kindness of her heart. The farmers who came to witness the interesting ceremony generally evinced the most respectful tenderness for the memory of the unfortunate dead, and many of the children wept. A few idlers, educated by militia trainings and Fourth of July declaration, began to murmur that the memory of General Washington was insulted by any respect shown to the remains of André; but the offer of a treat lured them to the tavern, where they soon became too drunk to guard the character of Washington. It was a beautiful day, and these disturbing spirits being removed, the impressive ceremony proceeded in solemn silence.

The coffin was in good preservation, and contained all the bones, with a small quantity of dust. The roots of the peach-tree had entirely interwoven the skull with their fine network. His hair, so much praised for its uncommon beauty, was tied, on the day of his execution, according to the fashion of the times. When his grave was opened, half a century afterwards, the riband was found in perfect preservation, and sent to his sister in England. When it was known that the sarcophagus containing his remains had arrived in New York, for London, many ladies sent garlands and emblematic devices, to be wreathed around it, in memory of the 'beloved and lamented André.' In their compassionate hearts, the teachings of nature were unperverted by maxims of war, or that selfish jealousy which dignifies itself with the name of patriotism. Blessed be God, that custom forbids women to electioneer or fight. May the sentiment remain till war and politics have passed away! Had not women and children been kept free from their polluting influence, the medium of communication between earth and heaven would have been completely cut off. At the foot of the eminence where the gallows had been erected, we found an old Dutch farm-house, occupied by a man who witnessed the execution, and whose father often sold peaches to the unhappy prisoner. He confirmed the account of André's uncommon personal beauty, and had a vivid remembrance of the pale but calm heroism with which he met his untimely death."—From Miss Child's Letters from New York.

"André.—At the little town of Tappan, the unfortunate Major André, condemned by the council of war as a spy, was executed and buried. His remains were disinterred a few years ago, by order of the English Government, carried to England, and, if I mistake not, deposited in Westminster Abbey;