Editor's Table. this logic, we do not really expect the reader will be so unfortunate as to find a great deal in this magazine that is worthless. On the contrary, we trust it will be far otherwise. Much industry, and no small amount of talent are each month expended on its pages. We say this without the fear of incurring the charge of inordinate vanity, because we refer you to the favorite pens of the assistant editors, and the many able contributors whose thoughts enrich our columns, and which would be an honor to any magazine. Many a number has been iɛsued of which we have been proud, while seldom has one seen the light of which we felt reason to be ashamed. With this frank avowal, we turn to our new volume. "How can we make bricks without straw?" was the despairing question of the captive Israelites to their exacting masters. Questions something like this many a hapless editor has desperately put, in view of the labor of catering for the tastes of the literary public, when turning to his weary brain for material. In deed, we find it no easy task to furnish each month an acceptable" Bill of Fare," to the numerous and dainty guests who we flatter ourselves sit down to the "Table" of the Repository. We know how monotony palls on the taste; yet perpetual variety — variety spicy, rich, racy, and so arranged as to gratify all tastes-is not at all times possible to be improvised. Insipidity may mark one dish, and too pungent sharpness another, while the whole outset may seem but an unsavory hash, "flat, stale, and unprofitable" to a third. This reflection is not an inspiring one to writer or reader, all must confess. Rare would be the delight of always being able to please, and enviable the favored mortal who, in laying down his monthly journal, could say, "Among so much rubbish I have found one gem!" Intellectual gems are as rare as the "gold of the mountains or gems of the mine." The miner toils long for the modicum of fine dust whose golden particles, washed out from the immense mass of worthless soil, shall barely repay him for his exhausting labor. And he is satisfied. It is only one in the thousand who chances upon the "nugget" of pure gold. It is only one in the million whose loftiest aspirations are answered, whose proud ambition finds the rewards of its long and ceaseless toil in the attainment of an exalted position, and the adoring praises of his fellow-men. Why, then, should the reader of the new book of poems, or the fresh novel or magazine, look for nothing but gold and jewels in the pages before him? If in every other field imperfect success be the rule, if even the noblest army the world ever saw sometimes fails of victory, why should the humble editor be expected to prove more fortunate, or be blamed for sharing the common lot? Notwithstanding the unanswerable nature of hands! With the present number the reader is aware commences the thirty-third volume of the Repository. One third of a century has passed into eternity since this magazine first saw the light-since its indefatigable founder and publisher, a young and generous man, put his hand to the work and gave it to our then young and far from numerous denomination. Through many a reverse, and overleaping many an obstacle, surrounded by difficulties and sometimes disaster, he steadily, courageously pushed it on, gradually winning for it success and a stability well attested by its long life and ever-growing popularity. Many a kindred work, starting under far more flattering auspices, has, since its commencement, grown to sudden greatness, flourished like Jonah's gourd for a few years, and died; while this has gone steadily on until, with we think only one or two exceptions, it is now the oldest magazine in the country. But he, its founder and proprietor, with his shoulder ever at the wheel, always unwearied in his efforts to promote the prosperity of the denomination he so much loved, — years slowly crept over his head, the arduous labors of a life gradually telling on his health, and he died, leaving more than one denominational work to be carried on with the same zeal and ardor which always marked his life, by his son and business successor. May the work prosper in their Under the pressure of these calamitous times, it may well be supposed that the hands of the present publishers will need holding up. The increase in the expense of issuing the work has been enormous, while the subscription price remains the same as before the war. You would none of you hear with complacency that it must be given up,- discontinued. To many of you it would be the loss of an old, old friend, for if we are not misinformed, there are some subscribers who have taken it from its first commencement, while to many it has been a household friend for twenty years. To make it at all remunerative to the publishers a large subscription list is indispensable. This will make their work safe and encouraging to them. It would seem that it would not be a heavy task to double their present list. "Many hands make light work!" runs the old proverb; and with a little effort by every reader, a great work in this field may be done. Miss Chick's general rule, that "it is always every one's duty to make an effort," is particularly applicable here. Each one of you, dear readers, now a subscriber to the Repository, by an energetic application of the said "effort" could procure one more; and by consulting the circular enclosed in the present number, you will learn how much for your interest it may become to try, and try at once. For the sake of the publishers, then, for your own sake, and for the credit of the denomination, will you not do so? We leave the matter in your hands, sure that our confidence will not be misplaced. Ir is with sincere satisfaction that we are able to assure you of the probability that our associates, Mrs. Soule and Miss Davis, will be able once more to assume the active labor which a year since lent such attractions to the Repository. From the latter we are happy to introduce the following note: DEAR READERS, - It is with some embarrassment that I make my salutation to you, fearing that the little which I have been enabled to do for the past year will be considered as a poor augury for the future. I dare promise nothing, but should my health continue to improve, as I trust it will, I will do my best for the Repository. Would I could more worthily maintain the honor I feel it to be in thus having my name associated with those of Mrs. Sawyer and Mrs. Soule. That they may be blessed with uninterrupted health, and that we unitedly may succeed in making the Repository more acceptable than ever before, is the sincere desire of M. 8. D. ANCIENT BALLADS. Among the many ancient ballads revived in modern times, one which seems least known, which is included in few if any of the collections, and which I have met only once, is one entitled KING LEIR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS. It is a matter of uncertainty whether this ballad was written before or after Shakspeare's tragedy of Lear, that most pathetic and touching of all the tragedies of the great dramatic poet. The incidents of the ballad, it will be seen by the few stanzas we copy, are closely analogous to those of the play. The date of the ballad is lost, and whether the "Sweet Swan of Avon " was the "plunderer or the plundered ” must forever remain in doubt. Critics have not been slow to express their opinion that the great bard availed himself of "helps" in many instances; but whether in this none can tell. "King Leir once ruled in this land With princely power and peace; As fairer could not be. "So on a time it pleased the king A question thus to move, Which of his daughters to his grace Could shew his dearest love; For to my age you bring content,' Quoth he, then let me hear Which of you three, in plighted troth, The kindest will appear." No assurances of love and devotion could be stronger than those of the first and second daughters to the credulous old father; but Cordelia (as in the play) offends the king by ber calm, dispassionate assurance of unpretending duty, and by the modesty of her expressions. The simple-hearted old king, like many a younger and wiser one, is deceived by the hollow professions of the deceitful daughters, who share the crown, while the gentle Cordelia is cast off to wander, friendless and forsaken, round the world, "Until at last in France She gentler fortunes found; Where, when the king her virtues heard, "And am I then rewarded thus, For giving all I have And will relieve my woe!" But alas, for the poor old father! The cockatrice Gonorell, worse even than her sister, gives him a seat in her kitchen and the food her scullions and her dogs refuse. Every species of abuse and ill-treatment is heaped upon him, until he finally loses his reason and wanders, a frenzied outcast. The scene is thus finely portrayed : "Which made him rend his milk-white locks And tresses from his head, And all with blood bestain his cheeks With age and honor spread. To hills and woods and watery founts Till hills and woods and senseless things In his frenzied wanderings he finds his way to France, where, met and recognized by his injured but gentle-hearted Cordelia, he finds protection and gentleness with Cordelia's husband, who, Yet he, good king, in his old days, Possessed his crown again." "But when he heard Cordelia's death, That was so truly-hearted," It will be seen that the final catastrophe differs essentially from that of the play. One's sense of justice is, however, more fully satisfied by the repossession of his crown by the old king, while the death of Cordelia on the battlefield seems less repulsive and terrible than the murder in the prison by which Shakspeare terminates her life. The fate of the sisters, who are condemned and put to death by the nobles of the land, more nearly accords with our modern ideas of justice, and is less abhorrent than their unnatural exit from life depicted by the great dramatist. The poem closes, like most of the old English ballads, with a fine moral: "Thus have you seen the fall of pride The consideration of this ancient ballad recalls a modern poem which has the true oldballad ring. It is by Bayard Taylor, and well worthy to follow the ballad whose fragments are above quoted, and is besides sweetly and sadly suited to the events of the present day and of our own country. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "Give us a song!' the soldiers cried, "The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under: And the tawny mound of the Malakoff, No longer belched its thunder. "There was a pause! A guardsman said 'We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.' "They lay along the battery's side, "They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Briton's glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But they all sang' Annie Laurie.' "Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— Their battle-eve confession. "Dear girl! her name he dared not speak; Yet as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stain of powder. "Beyond the darkening ocean burned "And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell And bellowing of the mortars. "And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of Annie Laurie.' "Ah, soldiers! to your honored rest Your truth and valor bearing, The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring." Few songs are sweeter than this. Under the grim fortresses of the Redan, and the "tawny" Malakoff, with knowledge that the dread works are to be stormed to-morrow, the smoke still rising from the heated guns whose thunders have all day bellowed their stormy salutations, lay the smoke-stained and weary soldiers. Their hearts have gone back to the scenes and the songs of home, and they burst into an anthem of melody such as they had heard by the Severn and the Clyde and the banks of the Shannon. But the theme was not of the war. mingled of the thunder of cannon and the shrieks and groans of the dying. But how true to the secret history of the human heart is the tale that "Each recalled a different name, But they all sang Annie Laurie." In the sacred silence of the breast, unspoken to a comrade or friend, was the true name kept hidden; while a tear, the last fond tribute, perhaps, to the loved one at home they should ever render, stained the battle-soiled cheek. The song is altogether most sweet and true and touching. How many of our own brave soldiers, who sing some song of love and home to-night, may to-morrow lie" dumb and gory" on the fatal field! In another vein, but even more affecting and mournful, are the lines which, under the nom de plume of "Private Miles O'Reilly,"―a name which has won a high and sudden reputation for one whose brilliant pen had earned a name before, — a poet and soldier has given to the public. It has run the gauntlet of the daily papers, but our readers will be glad to peruse it in the pages of the Repository, for the melancholy and truthful interest infused into it by him of the "Lyre and Sword." APRIL 20, 1864. BY PRIVATE MILES O'REILLY. Three years ago to-day We raised our hands to Heaven, And on the rolls of muster Our names were thirty-seven; There were just a thousand bayonets, And the swords were thirty-seven, As we took the oath of service With our right hands raised to Heaven. Oh! 'twas a gallant day, In memory still adored, And the swords were thirty-seven. Of the thousand stalwart bayonets And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep Of the battle-field's holy ground. For the swords-one night, a week ago, There were two limped in on crutches, To pour the wine and raise the cup As we toasted "Our flag and land." And the room seemed filled with whispers Then in silence we brimmed our glasses, As we rose up-just eleven, mourn that the voice to which she owes so much is now silent, and the great and loving heart, which, by some mysterious attraction, won all others to pulsate in unison with itself, is hushed forever. But he has left a memory which will be always dear, while the State kept loyal by him will stand as his fitting monument while our country has a name among the nations. PATRIOTISM AND OTHER PAPERS. BY THOMAS STARR KING. This book, published by Tompkins & Co., comes to us with an introduction by the Rev. Mr. Greenwood, and a brief and touching memorial sketch of the author, the avant courier, no doubt, of a fuller and more elaborate memoir, by his life-long friend, Hon. Richard Frothing And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead ham. That it will be sadly welcomed, as a part Who had made us THIRTY-SEVEN ! THE CHRISTIAN PATRIOT OF CALIFORNIA. It is beseeming that we should show our reverence for the pure in spirit, by reference, even at this late day, to the good and true man so long held dear in our denomination, whose recent death in California sent a pang of sorrow and regret to so many thousands of hearts on both shores of the American Continent. He died at an unfortunate period in our nation's history, and few remain whose work and words are so mighty to aid in its struggle to defend its life against the deadly storm of treason and rebellion which has so long been thundering at the gates of Freedom. He died too soon for us, but at the time God knew was best for himself. He had done a great work, and to him our government undoubtedly owes it that California is this day one of the most loyal and devoted of the States. All through that magnificent country, from the sandy line that girdles the Pacific to the most remote gulches of the wild Sierras, wherever man treads the mart of commerce, or peoples the corral with his grass-fed herds, or delves in the golden mine, his voice was heard calling on the children of the land to be true to their mother; to let no siren voice of open or secret treason ever allure them from their allegiance to the government which had always protected and defended them. How that voice prevailed, we repeat, California's present position toward the government, as well as her magnificent gifts to the Sanitary Commission for the comfort and aid of our soldiers, now proudly tells. Well may we mourn-well may California of their friend that could not die, by thousands of loving and mourning hearts, is what all must know. It seems but a work of supererogation to recommend its purchase and perusal to those who love his memory and his graces, for who will not do so? He is one of those who, nearer to us now that he is gone than while clothed with mortality, will be taken to our hearts and ever cherished; all short-comings, if he had any, forgotten, and only the beautiful, the good, and the true in his spirit and life remembered. It was our intention to lay before the reader several extracts from the book, but space forbids, and we content ourselves, in the present number, with only one, from the article "Beauty in Religion." "A man troubled with doubts, or weary with thought, or faint at heart, has only to gaze upon the heavens in the midnight silence, and a religious awe steals upon the soul, and a strength refreshes every spiritual fibre that is akin to Christian faith. What is it on a moonlight night that 'inundates the air' with beauty, that thrills our frame with emotions too fine for utterance, that heaves our spirit with an inspiration before which all words are weak? The spell resides not in the light or air; it is the spirit of religion streaming through material channels, and stirring with a quicker flow the pulses of the soul. The silence of the summer woods is burdened with the same mysterious power. A solemnity broods over them, as though God had preceded us in our walk, and our presence had intruded on the intense and silent worship of the trees." With this we, for the present, take leave of this most rich and inspiring book. |