Page images
PDF
EPUB

Editor's Table.

OBITUARY.

It is with a pained and saddened heart that we sit down to our accustomed task the present month. A great shadow has fallen on the REPOSITORY since its last issue. He who has so long been identified with this Periodical, who has watched over its interests, and rejoiced in its growing prosperity and usefulness, is now no more! He heard a voice bidding him, Come up higher, and leaving the fields of his earthly toils and cares, his interests and affections, he has entered upon the scenes of another and better life.

It seems so strange that we cannot yet bring ourselves to feel that the hand which was wont to break the envelope of our communications is now cold in the grave, and the eye that was accustomed to run over their contents, is now dim forever. It is all to us a troubled dream. We can not real-❘ ize that we are to see that noble countenance or feel the cordial grasp of that friendly hand no more!

Familiar as we all are with death, it is still the profoundest mystery of the world. We can not comprehend it, or can not by searching find out its secrets. All we know is that we live, and that we die; and yet who can tell us what death is? As a flower of the field we spring up and flourish for a season, and then the wind passes over us and we are gone, and the places that know us, shall know us no more.

When our friends and those we love have been called away from the earth, it requires time to break up the currents of habit in thought and action, and accommodate our selves to the new phase of life upon which

we have to enter. Old associations are gradually to be forgotten, or at least are to hold a less controlling force over us, and new ones are to be formed. We can never be again precisely what we have been. The change that has passed over the face of others, has made its impression upon us. Henceforth some of the lights by which we have walked, some of the influences which gathered around us are absent, and our pathway must be more solitary, if not more dark

We can not now speak of Mr. TOMPKINS as we ought. Indeed we must leave to oth'ers the history of his life and the delinea tion of his character. We knew him only as the genial associate, the warm-hearted and generous friend, the lover of the religion we also love, and the earnest laborer for its promotion by means less used and little appreciated before his day, and yet full of promise and power. His name will ever be associated with the history of our growing literature. To him we personally owe a debt of gratitude which his death makes it a duty to acknowledge. Nor do we stand alone under this obligation. There is scarcely a family, in our wide and ever widening denomination, that has not to thank his devotion and enterprise for some of the best sources of their religious instruction and improvement. From his active press have gone out books of almost every kind, from the unpretending story, or Sunday School Manual or Class-Book, to the faithful Biography and the learned Commentary. Without disparaging others, laboring in the same field, we may in simple truth say, that to Mr. Tompkins is the de

nomination indebted for the larger part of our best publications in the various departments of religious literature during the past quarter of a century. The Universalist Quarterly, the Ladies Repository, and the Rose of Sharon, for years and years enriched and gladdened us, and though the latter ceased sometime ago, the two former still continue to contribute to the pleasure and profit of the denomination, and are destined we trust, not only to survive him, but to gain new lustre, and wield a wider and more potent influence as the years pass away.

But our thoughts turn from his public labors to his private life. We think of a home made bright by his presence, and a family blessed by his love. We call to mind a large circle of friends whom his cheerful face always made glad, a religious Society of which he was at once a support and an ornament, and the Sunday School which shared his kindly influence. All these will miss him, as we, so far away, can not. Our heart bleeds at the thought of his wife now left to mourn in widowhood, and of his chiidren whose youug spirits will be shadowed by his loss. God bless them all; and may His divine Spirit teach them whither to turn for support and consolation. May they remember Him who has promised to be the husband of the widow, and the father of the fatherless.

Our fathers and friends are falling around us. The year or two past has made sad in

roads

upon the leading and active spirits of our denomination. In the death of such men as Dr. Whittemore, Dr. Ballou, and Mr. Tompkins, we are taught to recognize the hand of God, and while our prayer is that we may bow with filial obedience and trust to the behests of Heaven, we can not avoid asking our own heart, who are to rise up to fill the places made vacant by

their loss.

"A friendship based upon real worth is an immortal thing. It will add as much to the glory and blessedness of heaven as it does to the happiness of earth. It is the radiance that shineth unto the perfect day. It is the bead that sparkles on the cup of immortality. It is the golden fruit that hangs on the tree of eternal life."

MAY-DAY.

May-day, the Princess-Royal of the Spring,

the dainty harbinger of summer, the joyous herald of sunshine, flowers and sweet odors; of verdant grasses and kine-dotted meadows, is here at last. April with her vaunted smiles and tears; and, sooth to say, her frosty noses and sudden snow-squalls, has left us to the tenderer companionship of her gentler and less capricions sister. We fondly try to persuade ourselves that we may at length lay aside our fur mufflers and heavy mantles, and, donning the light garments of milder seasons; hunt the woods and fields for early flowers, sure of discovering in the sheltered nooks and sunny hollows, the gay sisterhood that ought at least to be already there. But, alas! for the promises of spring! Here in the North, we find them too often fallacious, and it is even now difficult to realize that this is the gallant May-day so bepraised by poets and so loved by the children day assemble on the village-green, and, choosof Old England. Do they there really on this ing their Queen of the May, dance merrily about the May-pole, crowned and wreathed with those gay and varied flowers of which the sea-girt Isle is said to be so especially prolific on this day? We religiously believe it, and remember how in childhood, we, with our companions, always made it a gala-day, consecratrural pic-nics. Drizzingly, bleak, comfortless ing it to forest-rambles, flower-gatherings and and unprofitable affairs they generally turned out- poverty-stricken in flowers, but none the less determinately delighted in, for all that.

[ocr errors]

Here in the heart of the Empire State, what furious, severe storms, and careering winds, have ushered in the early May! Sterile and bare of beauty, are the fields and woods, save tle birds, which, since their return, have withthe beauty of greening grasses, and brave, litstood the fury of more than one pelting snowstorm and freezing blast, singing as cheerily at every lull, as if cold and snow were their native elements. Natural philosophers are they, and we, like them, have learned, in spite of untoward circumstances and in all situaunder the good government of God; and¡¡ tions, to extract our modicum of enjoyment

"When the rude, wintry wind,

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the lion

On the night-breeze is swelling;
Then merrily we sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shealing ring,
With the light, lilting chorus."

And, however far-off it may seem, in the future, we can talk of that pleasant time when

"The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The fox-glove shuts its bellThe honey-suckle and the birk,

Spread fragrance through the dell,"

and borrow delight of the future, instead of that proverbial" trouble," against which philosophers sagely caution us.

But we have strayed far away from May-day and its concomitants, on which so much, in all countries and in all ages, has been spoken and written. Is there, indeed, any other subject, which poets and writers of all sorts have so united in praising as May? Even the Chinese, with their dull, plodding, impassive imaginations, have chanted its delights and benefits. The following little song, translated from the Chinese will testify to this.

May is coming-May is come!
Through the buds the sunbeams glancing,
And the unfettered streams are dancing;
Welcome, May-day, home!

May is coming-May is come!
In the wind the peach-bloom flying,
Lilies on the water lying;

Welcome, May-day, home!

May is coming - May is come!
Fresh and gentle breezes blowing,
Evening's lovely radiance glowing;
Welcome, May-day, home!

May is coming-May is come!
Glowing on our robes, as even
Lights the occidental heaven;

Welcome, May-day, home!

May is coming-May is come! Bring the golden cups, preparing Welcomes, for the guests are nearing; Welcome! welcome home!"'

By the last quaint stanza we learn that even in the Celestial Empire May-day is a festival when the golden cups" are brought forth, and welcomes are prepared "for the expected guests!" Truly the Chinese are not such barbarians as we sometimes imagine them; indeed, what nation has not its lovers of May? The hardy and stern Welsh have had their bards, who, centuries ago, thus cheerily sang:

MAY.

BY DAVYTH AP GWILYM.

A Welsh Bard of the Fourteenth Century.

"Many a poet in his lay,

Told me May would come again;
Truly sang the bards- for May

Yesterday began to reign!

She is like a bounteous lord,

Gold enough she gives to me;
Gold-such as we poets hoard-

'Florins' of the mead and tree, Hazel flowers and fleurs-de-lis." "Underneath her leafy wings,

I am safe from treason's stings;
I am full of wrath with May,
That she will not always stay!
Maidens never hear of love,

But when she has plum'd the grove;
Giver of the gift of song,
To the poet's heart and tongue.
May! majestic child of heaven,
To the earth in glory given!
Verdant hills, days long and clear,
Come when she is hovering near.

Stars, ye cannot journey on,
Joyously, when she is gone!
Ye are not so glossy bright,
Blackbirds, when she takes her fight.
Sweetest art thou, nightingale;
Poet, thou canst tell thy tale,
With a lighter heart, when May
Rules with all her bright array.”

And this is by no means an exception. Of all the bards ancient and modern, who have lived, few of them have forgotten to celebrate the month of May. Its rural delights, and infinite charms. If May-day is so charming in the country, there is another place where it is celebrated in a style interesting and strange, and peculiar to the locality. That is New York. We remember more than a score of May-days there, and would describe one of them, but it has been done by another, in so shrewd and graphic a manner as to quite defy. competition. We give the article, so that all who have seen May-days in that great, dusty, noisy, bustling city, will at once recognize the remarkable likeness of the portrait.

MAY-DAY IN NEW YORK.
First of May-clear the way!
Baskets, barrows, bundles;
Take good care-mind the ware!
Betty, where's the bundles?
Pots and kettles,
Broken victuals,
Feather beds,
Plaster heads,
Looking-glasses,
Tow matrasses,
Spoons and ladles,
Babies-cradles,
Cups and saucers,
Salts and castros.

Hurry, scurry -grave and gay-
All must trudge the first of May.

Now we start!-mind the cart!
Shovels, bed-clothes, bedding;

On we go, soft and slow,
Like a beggar's wedding.

[blocks in formation]

GOSSIP WITH THE PUBLISHER MY DEAR FRIEND:- I was about to suggest to you the publication of EASTER EGGS in book form, when the arrival of a neat little package by mail, gave me ocular demonstration that my wish had been anticipated. In the name of the children, I give you thanks. It will bewitch them all, and, better still, come to their young hearts as a love gift that has power to make them wiser and better. I wish it might not only find its way into every Sabbath School in these United and dis-united States, but also into every household, whether Unionist or rebel, for wherever it goes, it will carry glad tidings. Especially do I wish that it may come into the possession of all the country children, for I am satisfied that city children don't begin to enjoy the Easter Eggs which their parents buy for them at grocery stores, half as much as country children do those which they have hunted up themselves, ransacking the old barn over and over again, at the risk of necks and limbs, scrambling up straw stacks, plunging into hay-mows, and crawling under floors and thatches; sometimes scaring the hens off their nests, just as they have got themselves nicely fixed, sometimes waiting as still as a mouse, till their noisy cackle proclaims the fulfilment of their daily tasks, and sometimes, if the truth be told, gathering up those, whose polished shells, betoken embryo chickens, rather than clear whites and golden yolks.

Were you ever in the country about Easter time? If so, you will remember to have heard the good mother say, "I don't see what has got into the hens of late! Two or three weeks ago, they were laying finely; I had eggs to use and eggs to sell, and now I don't get but a dozen or so a day. Are you sure that you hunt everywhere, children?"

Busy about the stove, washing potatoes or boiling ham, or frying cakes, she does not see the roguish glances that pass between the youngsters, as they say demurely, "O, yes, indeed, we do; we don't miss a single spot."

"Well, it's very strange, for I hear the hens cackle all day long. There must be a weasel or skunk about somewhere. We shall have no eggs for Easter, I'm afraid." But lo! when Easter eve comes in, the eggs come too, not in ones, or twos, or dozens, but in great baskets full. Every child has found a nest that filled his cap, and pockets, and both bands. And with loud shouts, they bring them in, and call their mother to get out her kettles, and her madder, her bluing bag and onion skins. "Dear me, but where under the sun did you find them all?" exclaims the amazed woman. The boys and girls laugh gaily, the farmer and the hired man laugh too, and the old kitchen sings with glee. It is the children's secret, repeated annually, with the same success, and the same bursts of merriment. If you are as shrewd a Yankee as I take you to be, you will have guessed bfore this time, that a large per centage of the eggs had been carefully abstracted every night, and deftly concealed in the wheat and oat bins, or buried deep in barrels of bran.

I believe that the reason why EASTER EGGS has interested me so deeply, is because I have now a henery of my own. When I say henery, don't imagine some out-house ornee, that is to say, some nondescript building, made up of pine angles and crown glass, with painted boxes for the hens to lay in, and porcelain eggs for them to lay to. No, indeed, such affairs are not seen this side of the Mississippi, and if we are not mistaken, they are rather unprofit able on the other, the owners of such being generally obliged to buy their eggs and eat other people's chickens. Our henery consists in winter time, of a log barn, a log shop, two or three thatched sheds, a cow yard, a pig pen, and any quantity of lumber piles and rail stacks; while in summer, it extends pretty much all over the farm, the hens particularly affecting the corners of the rail-fences, and the

shadows of the tall weeds. They are not a bit particular either, in their foraging expeditions, but quite as reckless as Floyd's soldiers, helping themselves to whatever comes in their way. Now and then husband looks terribly cross, when he finds they have pecked those Isabellas and Catawbas, of which he is so choice and proud; and I put on my moodiest expression when, on going out to gather my early tomatoes, I find nothing left of the fairest and ripest, but their skins, and then we both exclaim, "they shall be shot, every one of them; I won't be plagued with the little torments any longer. It's a deal cheaper to buy them, and less trouble, too." But when the boys come in at night, with such a lot of fresh eggs, and report that a hen has stolen her nest, and come off with a brood of twenty, our wrath begins to mollify, and when the next morning we breakfast on fried chicken and omelette, we conclude to give them a few days' grace, for it would be a sad pity to kill them off just now, when they're laying so well and bringing up so many little ones; and then, though eggs are only five cents a dozen and hens four for a quarter, half dimes and quarters don't wear holes in emigrants' pockets, now-a-days; and the end of the matter is, that our threats end where they begun, on our angry lips, and our hens live on till we get ready to eat them.

There is nothing, indeed, outside of my garden, that I enjoy so intensely on a farm, as rearing and tending chickens, and hunting eggs, though the last pleasure doesn't often fall to my lot now, the boys nearly monopolizing it. Don't think, though, that I pet them as if they were little humanities. No, indeed; I would like to. But, O! it is such hard work to eat them afterward! The first year that we kept poultry, (we lived in town yet, and had to be content with a small stock), we bought a splendid cock, to perambulate with our halfdozen hens. He was a showy fellow, and I think must have descended from the one Noah took into the ark with him; his pedigree was certainly no mean one, for his crow had that sonorous ring, that intonates only when royal blood throbs in the heart. The boys called him Bennie, but I always thought of Henry the Eighth, as he stalked along so proudly, with six wives in his train. My health was very delicate that summer, and to shorten the restless nights, I used to rise with the first streak of daylight, and go out into the garden. Bennie soon learned to watch my coming, and met me regularly on the threshold, and after eating

the early breakfast which I ever brought him, would walk beside me, as demurely as a dog or kitten. Up and down the paths I'd go, and up and down Bennie'd go too. When I stopped he would stop; when I went on, he'd go on. In short we became inseparable companions out of doors.

But all joys are transient-life is fleeting particularly so to fat hens and roosters. In October, the word went forth that Bennie must die. I didn't decree it, though I did think he used his young sons shamefully. You must shoot him, then," I said, compressing my lips as I spoke; "he is too fine a fellow to die by guillotine or gallows." Yet when the gude man went out with his gun, I went into an inner room, tied a hood closely about my ears and buried my head in pillows. Will you laugh at me, when I say there were tears upon my cheeks when I went out again ? Well, laugh on! I loved him! With my own hands, I prepared the last, to me, sad rites. I plucked off his gorgeous plumage, carefully too, leaving not a single pin feather behind; I singed him, thoroughly, too, not a hair was left; I dressed him; how my fingers shook as I held up his great heart, yet warm with blood as good as human; I jointed him, I washed him, put him to soak, and went to bed and dreamed of him. Next day, I cooked him, nicely too, seasoning him to suit a gourmand. I dished him up, and then went to the table determined not to be a child. I looked long at the sturdy yellow leg as it lay upon my plate; I cut off a bit, it was a very small one, too. I put it to my lips-in an instant there flashed over my mind and heart the memory of that whole summer time, and I could as easily have bit my baby's little toe in two, as tasted of that mouthful. Since then I have never allowed myself to love a rooster, or a rooster's wife or children.

But I do love to go out of a morning early, and see sixty or a hundred fowls gather about me as I scatter corn, or crumbs, or curds. I love to listen to the crowing of the cocks, the singing of the hens, and the peeping of the chicks; and I love to go at night-fall, and watch them perched in long rows upon their roosts, and hear the faint flutter of their wings, and the low, plaintive tones which issue from their beaks, and which I always interpret to mean, "leave me this one more night to live."

Did I ever tell you of my cosset chickens? You must know that the first spring we lived upon the prairie, we had one little chick

« PreviousContinue »