PART II.

MISCELLANIES.

FIRST OF JANUARY

The new year dawns, and its appearance is hailed by a flutter of

festivity. Men and women run from house to house, scattering gifts,

smiles, and congratulations. It is a custom that seems borrowed from a

better day, unless indeed it be a prophecy that such must come.

For why so much congratulation? A year has passed; we are nearer by a

twelvemonth to the term of this earthly probation. It is a solemn

thought; and though the consciousness of having hallowed the days by our

best endeavor, and of having much occasion to look to the Ruling Power

of all with grateful benediction, must, in cases where such feelings are

unalloyed, bring joy, one would think it must even then be a grave joy,

and one that would disincline to this loud gayety in welcoming a new

year; another year--in which we may, indeed, strive forward in a good

spirit, and find our strivings blest, but must surely expect trials,

temptations, and disappointments from without; frailty, short-coming, or

convulsion in ourselves.

If it be appropriate to a reflective habit of mind to ask with each

night-fall the Pythagorean questions, how much more so at the close of

the year!

"What hast thou done that's worth the doing?

And what pursued that's worth pursuing?

What sought thou knewest thou shouldst shun?

What done thou shouldst have left undone?"

The intellectual man will also ask, What new truths have been opened to

me, or what facts presented that will lead to the discovery of truths?

The poet and the lover,--What new forms of beauty have been presented

for my delight, and as memorable illustrations of the divine

presence--unceasing, but oftentimes unfelt by our sluggish natures.

Are there many men who fail sometimes to ask themselves questions to

this depth? who do not care to know whether they have done right, or

forborne to do wrong; whether their spirits have been enlightened by

truth, or kindled by beauty?

Yes, strange to say, there are many who, despite the natural aspirations

of the soul and the revelations showered upon the world, think only

whether they have made money; whether the world thinks more highly of

them than it did in bygone years; whether wife and children have been in

good bodily health, and what those who call to pay their respects and

drink the new year's coffee, will think of their carpets, new also.

How often is it that the rich man thinks even of that proposed by

Dickens as the noblest employment of the season, making the poor happy

in the way he likes best for himself, by distribution of turkey and

plum-pudding! Some, indeed, adorn the day with this much grace, though

we doubt whether it be oftenest those who could each, with ease, make

that one day a glimpse of comfort to a thousand who pass the other

winter days in shivering poverty. But some such there are who go about

to the dark and frosty dwellings, giving the "mite" where and when it is

most needed. We knew a lady, all whose riches consisted in her good head

and two hands. Widow of an eminent lawyer, but keeping boarders for a

livelihood; engaged in that hardest of occupations, with her house full

and her hands full, she yet found time to make and bake for new year's

day a hundred pies--and not the pie from which, being cut, issued the

famous four-and-twenty blackbirds, gave more cause for merriment, or was

a fitter "dish to set before the king."

God bless his majesty, the _good_ king, who on such a day cares for the

least as much as the greatest; and like Henry IV., proposes it as a

worthy aim of his endeavor that "every poor man shall have his chicken

in the pot." This does not seem, on superficial survey, such a wonderful

boon to crave for creatures made in God's own likeness, yet is it one

that no king could ever yet bestow on his subjects, if we except the

king of Cockaigne. Our maker of the hundred pies is the best prophet we

have seen, as yet, of such a blissful state.

But mostly to him who hath is given in material as well as in spiritual

things, and we fear the pleasures of this day are arranged almost wholly

in reference to the beautiful, the healthy, the wealthy, the witty, and

that but few banquets are prepared for the halt, the blind, and the

sorrowful. But where they are, of a surety water turns to wine by

inevitable Christ-power; no aid of miracle need be invoked. As for

thoughts which should make an epoch of the period, we suppose the number

of these to be in about the same proportion to the number of minds

capable of thought, that the pearls now existent bear to the oysters

still subsistent.

Can we make pearls from our oyster-bed? At least, let us open some of

the shells and try.

Dear public and friends! we wish you a happy new year. We trust that the

year past has given earnest of such a one in so far as having taught

you somewhat how to deserve and to appreciate it.

For ourselves, the months have brought much, though, perhaps,

superficial instruction. Its scope has been chiefly love and hope for

all human beings, and among others for thyself.

We have seen many fair poesies of human life, in which, however, the

tragic thread has not been wanting. We have beheld the exquisite

developments of childhood, and sunned the heart in its smiles. But also

have we discerned the evil star looming up that threatened cloud and

wreck to its future years. We have seen beings of some precious gifts

lost irrecoverably, as regards this present life, from inheritance of a

bad organization and unfortunate circumstances of early years. The

victims of vice we have observed lying in the gutter, companied by

vermin, trampled upon by sensuality and ignorance, and saw those who

wished not to rise, and those who strove so to do, but fell back through

weakness. Sadder and more ominous still, we have seen the good man--in

many impulses and acts of most pure, most liberal, and undoubted

goodness--yet have we noted a spot of base indulgence, a fibre of

brutality canker in a vital part this fine plant, and, while we could

not withdraw love and esteem for the good we could not doubt, have wept

secretly in the heart for the ill we could not deny. We have observed

two deaths; one of the sinner, early cut down; one of the just, full of

years and honor--_both_ were calm; both professed their reliance on the

wisdom of a heavenly Father. We have looked upon the beauteous shows of

nature in undisturbed succession, holy moonlight on the snows, loving

moonlight on the summer fields, the stars which disappoint never and

bless ever, the flowing waters which soothe and stimulate, a garden of

roses calling for queens among women, poets and heroes among men. We

have marked a desire to answer to this call, and genius brought rich

wine, but spilt it on the way, from her careless, fickle gait; and

virtue tainted with a touch of the peacock; and philosophy, never

enjoying, always seeking, had got together all the materials for the

crowning experiment, but there was no love to kindle the fire under the

furnace, and the precious secret is not precipitated yet, for the pot

will not boil to make the gold through your

"Double, double,

Toil and trouble,"

if love do not fan the fire.

We have seen the decay of friendships unable to endure the light of an

ideal hope--have seen, too, their resurrection in a faith and hope

beyond the tomb, where the form lies we once so fondly cherished. It is

not dead, but sleepeth; and we watch, but must weep, too, sometimes, for

the night is cold and lonely in the place of tombs.

Nature has appeared dressed in her veil of snowy flowers for the bridal.

We have seen her brooding over her joys, a young mother in the pride and

fulness of beauty, and then bearing her offspring to their richly

ornamented sepulchre, and lately observed her as if kneeling with folded

hands in the stillness of prayer, while the bare trees and frozen

streams bore witness to her patience.

O, much, much have we seen, and a little learned. Such is the record of

the private mind; and yet, as the bright snake-skin is cast, many sigh

and cry,--

"The wiser mind

Mourns less for what Time takes away

Than what he leaves behind."

But for ourselves, we find there is kernel in the nut, though its

ripening be deferred till the late frosty weather, and it prove a hard

nut to crack even then. Looking at the individual, we see a degree of

growth, or the promise of such. In the child there is a force which will

outlast the wreck, and reach at last the promised shore. The good man,

once roused from his moral lethargy, shall make atonement for his fault,

and endure a penance that will deepen and purify his whole nature. The

poor lost ones claim a new trial in a new life, and will there, we

trust, seize firmer hold on the good for the experience they have had of

the bad.

"We never see the stars

Till we can see nought else."

The seeming losses are, in truth, but as pruning of the vine to make the

grapes swell more richly.

But how is it with those larger individuals, the nations, and that

congress of such, the world? We must take a broad and superficial view

of these, as we have of private life; and in neither case can more be

done. The secrets of the confessional, or rather of the shrine, do not

come on paper, unless in poetic form.

So we will not try to search and mine, but only to look over the world

from an ideal point of view.

Here we find the same phenomena repeated; the good nation is yet somehow

so sick at heart that you are not sure its goodness will ever produce a

harmony of life; over the young nation, (our own,) rich in energy and

full of glee, brood terrible omens; others, as Poland and Italy, seem

irrecoverably lost. They may revive, but we feel as if it must be under

new forms.

Forms come and go, but principles are developed and displayed more and

more. The caldron simmers, and so great is the fire that we expect it

soon to boil over, and new fates appear for Europe.

Spain is dying by inches; England shows symptoms of having passed her

meridian; Austria has taken opium, but she must awake ere long; France

is in an uneasy dream--she knows she has been very sick, has had

terrible remedies administered, and ought to be getting thoroughly well,

which she is not. Louis Philippe watches by her pillow, doses and

bleeds her, so that she cannot fairly try her strength, and find whether

something or nothing has been done. But Louis Philippe and Metternich

must soon, in the course of nature, leave this scene; and then there

will be none to keep out air and light from the chamber, and the

patients will be roused and ascertain their true condition.

No power is in the ascending course except the Russian; and that has

such a condensation of brute force, animated by despotic will, that it

seems sometimes as if it might by and by stride over Europe and face us

across the water. Then would be opposed to one another the two extremes

of Autocracy and Democracy, and a trial of strength would ensue between

the two principles more grand and full than any ever seen on this

planet, and of which the result must be to bind mankind by one chain of

convictions. Should, indeed, Despotism and Democracy meet as the two

slaveholding powers of the world, the result can hardly be predicted.

But there is room in the intervening age for many changes, and the czars

profess to wish to free their serfs, as our planters do to free their

slaves, and we suppose with equal sincerity; but the need of sometimes

professing such desires is a deference to the progress of principles

which bid fair to have their era yet.

We hope such an era steadfastly, notwithstanding the deeds of darkness

that have made this year forever memorable in our annals. Our nation has

indeed shown that the lust of gain is at present her ruling passion. She

is not only resolute, but shameless, about it, and has no doubt or

scruple as to laying aside the glorious office, assigned her by fate, of

herald of freedom, light, and peace to the civilized world.

Yet we must not despair. Even so the Jewish king, crowned with all gifts

that Heaven could bestow, was intoxicated by their plenitude, and went

astray after the most worthless idols. But he was not permitted to

forfeit finally the position designed for him: he was drawn or dragged

back to it; and so shall it be with this nation. There are trials in

store which shall amend us.

We must believe that the pure blood shown in the time of our revolution

still glows in the heart; but the body of our nation is full of foreign

elements. A large proportion of our citizens, or their parents, came

here for worldly advantage, and have never raised their minds to any

idea of destiny or duty. More money--more land! are all the watchwords

they know. They have received the inheritance earned by the fathers of

the revolution, without their wisdom and virtue to use it. But this

cannot last. The vision of those prophetic souls must be realized, else

the nation could not exist; every body must at least "have soul enough

to save the expense of salt," or it cannot be preserved alive.

What a year it has been with us! Texas annexed, and more annexations in

store; slavery perpetuated, as the most striking new feature of these

movements. Such are the fruits of American love of liberty! Mormons

murdered and driven out, as an expression of American freedom of

conscience; Cassius Clay's paper expelled from Kentucky; that is

American freedom of the press. And all these deeds defended on the true

Russian grounds, "We (the stronger) know what you (the weaker) ought to

do and be, and it _shall_ be so."

Thus the principles which it was supposed, some ten years back, had

begun to regenerate the world, are left without a trophy for this past

year, except in the spread of Ronge's movement in Germany, and that of

associative and communist principles both here and in Europe, which, let

the worldling deem as he will about their practicability, he cannot deny

to be animated by faith in God and a desire for the good of man. We must

add to these the important symptoms of the spread of peace principles.

Meanwhile, if the more valuable springs of action seem to lie dormant

for a time, there is a constant invention and perfection of the means of

action and communication which seems to say, "Do but wait patiently;

there is something of universal importance to be done by and by, and all

is preparing for it to be universally known and used at once." Else what

avail magnetic telegraphs, steamers, and rail-cars traversing every rood

of land and ocean, phonography and the mingling of all literatures, till

North embraces South and Denmark lays her head upon the lap of Italy?

Surely there would not be all this pomp of preparation as to the means

of communion, unless there were like to be something worthy to be

communicated.

Amid the signs of the breaking down of barriers, we may mention the

Emperor Nicholas letting his daughter pass from the Greek to the Roman

church, for the sake of marrying her to the Austrian prince. Again,

similarity between him and us: he, too, is shameless; for while he signs

this marriage contract with one hand, he holds the knout in the other to

drive the Roman Catholic Poles into the Greek church. But it is a fatal

sign for his empire. 'Tis but the first step that costs, and the

Russians may look back to the marriage of the Grand Duchess Olga, as the

Chinese will to the cannonading of the English, as the first sign of

dissolution in the present form of national life.

A similar token is given by the violation of etiquette of which Mr. Polk

is accused in his message. He, at the head of a government, speaks of

governments and their doings straightforward, as he would of persons,

and the tower, stronghold of the idea of a former age, now propped up by

etiquettes and civilities only, trembles to its foundation.

Another sign of the times is the general panic which the decay of the

potato causes. We believe this is not without a providential meaning,

and will call attention still more to the wants of the people at large.

New and more provident regulations must be brought out, that they may

not again be left with only a potato between them and starvation. By

another of these whimsical coincidences between the histories of

Aristocracy and Democracy, the supply of _truffles_ is also failing.

The land is losing the "nice things" that the queen (truly a young

queen) thought might be eaten in place of bread. Does not this indicate

a period in which it will be felt that there must be provision for

all--the rich shall not have their truffles if the poor are driven to

eat nettles, as the French and Irish have in bygone ages?

The poem of which we here give a prose translation lately appeared in

Germany. It is written by Moritz Hartmann, and contains the _gist_ of

the matter.

MISTRESS POTATO.

There was a great stately house full of people, who have been running in

and out of its lofty gates ever since the gray times of Olympus. There

they wept, laughed, shouted, mourned, and, like day and night, came the

usual changes of joys with plagues and sorrows. Haunting that great

house up and down, making, baking, and roasting, covering and waiting on

the table, has there lived a vast number of years a loyal serving maid

of the olden time--her name was Mrs. Potato. She was a still, little,

old mother, who wore no bawbles or laces, but always had to be satisfied

with her plain, every-day clothes; and unheeded, unhonored, oftentimes

jeered at and forgotten, she served all day at the kitchen fire, and

slept at night in the worst room. When she brought the dishes to table

she got rarely a thankful glance; only at times some very poor man would

in secret shake kindly her hand.

Generation after generation passed by, as the trees blossom, bear fruit,

and wither; but faithful remained the old housemaid, always the servant

of the last heir.

But one morning--hear what happened. All the people came to table, and

lo! there was nothing to eat, for our good old Mistress Potato had not

been able to rise from her bed. She felt sharp pains creeping through

her poor old bones. No wonder she was worn out at last! She had not in

all her life dared take a day's rest, lest so the poor should starve.

Indeed, it is wonderful that her good will should have kept her up so

long. She must have had a great constitution to begin with.

The guests had to go away without breakfast. They were a little

troubled, but hoped to make up for it at dinner time. But dinner time

came, and the table was empty; and then, indeed, they began to inquire

about the welfare of Cookmaid Potato. And up into her dark chamber,

where she lay on her poor bed, came great and little, young and old, to

ask after the good creature. "What can be done for her?" "Bring warm

clothes, medicine, a better bed." "Lay aside your work to help her." "If

she dies we shall never again be able to fill the table;" and now,

indeed, they sang her praises.

O, what a fuss about the sick bed in that moist and mouldy chamber! and

out doors it was just the same--priests with their masses, processions,

and prayers, and all the world ready to walk to penance, if Mistress

Potato could but be saved. And the doctors in their wigs, and

counsellors in masks of gravity, sat there to devise some remedy to

avert this terrible ill.

As when a most illustrious dame is recovering from birth of a son, so

now bulletins inform the world of the health of Mistress Potato, and,

not content with what they thus learn, couriers and lackeys besiege the

door; nay, the king's coach is stopping there. Yes! yes! the humble poor

maid, 'tis about her they are all so frightened! Who would ever have

believed it in days when the table was nicely covered?

The gentlemen of pens and books, priests, kings, lords, and ministers,

all have senses to scent our famine. Natheless Mistress Potato gets no

better. May God help her for the sake, not of such people, but of the

poor. For the great it is a token they should note, that all must

crumble and fall to ruin, if they will work and weary to death the poor

maid who cooks in the kitchen.

She lived for you in the dirt and ashes, provided daily for poor and

rich; you ought to humble yourselves for her sake. Ah, could we hope

that you would take a hint, and _next time_ pay some heed to the

housemaid before she is worn and wearied to death!

* * * * *

So sighs, rather than hopes, Moritz Hartmann. The wise ministers of

England, indeed, seem much more composed than he supposes them. They are

like the old man who, when he saw the avalanche coming down upon his

village, said, "It is coming, but I shall have time to fill my pipe once

more." _He_ went in to do so, and was buried beneath the ruins. But Sir

Robert Peel, who is so deliberate, has, doubtless, manna in store for

those who have lost their customary food.

Another sign of the times is, that there are left on the earth none of

the last dynasty of geniuses, rich in so many imperial heads. The world

is full of talent, but it flows downward to water the plain. There are

no towering heights, no Mont Blancs now. We cannot recall one great

genius at this day living. The time of prophets is over, and the era

they prophesied must be at hand; in its couduct a larger proportion of

the human race shall take part than ever before. As prime ministers have

succeeded kings in the substantiate of monarchy, so now shall a house of

representatives succeed prime ministers.

Altogether, it looks as if a great time was coming, and that time one of

democracy. Our country will play a ruling part. Her eagle will lead the

van; but whether to soar upward to the sun or to stoop for helpless

prey, who now dares promise? At present she has scarce achieved a Roman

nobleness, a Roman liberty; and whether her eagle is less like the

vulture, and more like the Phoeix, than was the fierce Roman bird, we

dare not say. May the new year give hopes of the latter, even if the

bird need first to be purified by fire.

_Jan. 1, 1846._

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

It was a beautiful custom among some of the Indian tribes, once a year,

to extinguish all the fires, and, by a day of fasting and profound

devotion, to propitiate the Great Spirit for the coming year. They then

produced sparks by friction, and lighted up afresh the altar and the

hearth with the new fire.

And this fire was considered as the most precious and sacred gift from

one person to another, binding them in bonds of inviolate friendship for

that year, certainly; with a hope that the same might endure through

life. From the young to the old, it was a token of the highest respect;

from the old to the young, of a great expectation.

To us would that it might be granted to solemnize the new year by the

mental renovation of which this ceremony was the eloquent symbol. Would

that we might extinguish, if only for a day, those fires where an

uninformed religious ardor has led to human sacrifices; which have

warmed the household, but, also, prepared pernicious, more than

wholesome, viands for their use.

The Indian produced the new spark by friction. It would be a still more

beautiful emblem, and expressive of the more extended powers of

civilized men, if we should draw the spark from the centre of our system

and the source of light, by means of the burning glass.

Where, then, is to be found the new knowledge, the new thought, the new

hope, that shall begin a new year in a spirit not discordant with "the

acceptable year of the Lord"? Surely there must be such existing, if

latent--some sparks of new fire, pure from ashes and from smoke, worthy

to be offered as a new year's gift. Let us look at the signs of the

times, to see in what spot this fire shall be sought--on what fuel it

may be fed. The ancients poured out libations of the choicest juices of

earth, to express their gratitude to the Power that had enabled them to

be sustained from her bosom. They enfranchised slaves, to show that

devotion to the gods induced a sympathy with men.

Let us look about us to see with what rites, what acts of devotion, this

modern Christian nation greets the approach of the new year; by what

signs she denotes the clear morning of a better day, such as may be

expected when the eagle has entered into covenant with the dove.

This last week brings tidings that a portion of the inhabitants of

Illinois, the rich and blooming region on which every gift of nature has

been lavished, to encourage the industry and brighten the hopes of man,

not only refuses a libation to the Power that has so blessed their

fields, but declares that the dew is theirs, and the sunlight is

theirs--that they live from and for themselves, acknowledging no

obligation and no duty to God or to man.[28]

One man has freed a slave; but a great part of the nation is now busy in

contriving measures that may best rivet the fetters on those now

chained, and forge them strongest for millions yet unborn.

Selfishness and tyranny no longer wear the mask; they walk haughtily

abroad, affronting with their hard-hearted boasts and brazen resolves

the patience of the sweet heavens. National honor is trodden under foot

for a national bribe, and neither sex nor age defends the redresser of

injuries from the rage of the injurer.

Yet, amid these reports which come flying on the paperwings of every

day, the scornful laugh of the gnomes, who begin to believe they can

buy all souls with their gold, was checked a moment when the aged

knight[29] of the better cause answered the challenge--truly in keeping

with the "chivalry" of the time--"You are in the wrong, and I will kick

you," by holding the hands of the chevalier till those around secured

him. We think the man of old must have held him with his eye, as

physicians of moral power can insane patients. Great as are his exploits

for his age, he cannot have much bodily strength, unless by miracle.

The treatment of Mr. Adams and Mr. Hoar seems to show that we are not

fitted to emulate the savages in preparation for the new fire. The

Indians knew how to reverence the old and the wise.

Among the manifestos of the day, it is impossible not to respect that of

the Mexican minister for the manly indignation with which he has uttered

truths, however deep our mortification at hearing them. It has been

observed for the last fifty years, that the tone of diplomatic

correspondence was much improved, as to simplicity and directness. Once,

diplomacy was another name for intrigue, and a paper of this sort was

expected to be a mesh of artful phrases, through which the true meaning

might be detected, but never actually grasped. Now, here is one where an

occasion being afforded by the unutterable folly of the corresponding

party, a minister speaks the truth as it lies in his mind, directly and

plainly, as man speaks to man. His statement will command the sympathy

of the civilized world.

As to the state papers that have followed, they are of a nature to make

the Austrian despot sneer, as he counts in his oratory the woollen

stockings he has got knit by imprisoning all the free geniuses in his

dominions. He, at least, only appeals to the legitimacy of blood; these

dare appeal to legitimacy, as seen from a moral point of view. History

will class such claims with the brags of sharpers, who bully their

victims about their honor, while they stretch forth their hands for the

gold they have won with loaded dice. "Do you dare to say the dice are

loaded? Prove it; _and_ I will shoot you for injuring my honor."

The Mexican makes his gloss on the page of American honor;[30] the

girl[31] in the Kentucky prison on that of her freedom; the delegate of

Massachusetts,[32] on that of her union. Ye stars, whose image America

has placed upon her banner, answer us! Are not your unions of a

different sort? Do they not work to other results?

Yet we cannot lightly be discouraged, or alarmed, as to the destiny of

our country. The whole history of its discovery and early progress

indicates too clearly the purposes of Heaven with regard to it. Could we

relinquish the thought that it was destined for the scene of a new and

illustrious act in the great drama, the past would be inexplicable, no

less than the future without hope.

Last week, which brought us so many unpleasant notices of home affairs,

brought also an account of the magnificent telescope lately perfected by

the Earl of Rosse. With means of observation now almost divine, we

perceive that some of the brightest stars, of which Sirius is one, have

dark companions, whose presence is, by earthly spectators, only to be

detected from the inequalities they cause in the motions of their

radiant companions. It was a new and most imposing illustration how, in

carrying out the divine scheme, of which we have as yet only spelled out

the few first lines, the dark is made to wait upon, and, in the full

result, harmonize with, the bright. The sense of such pervasive

analogies should enlarge patience and animate hope.

Yet, if offences must come, woe be to those by whom they come; and that

of men, who sin against a heritage like ours, is as that of the

backsliders among the chosen people of the elder day. We, too, have been

chosen, and plain indications been given, by a wonderful conjunction of

auspicious influences, that the ark of human hopes has been placed for

the present in our charge. Woe be to those who betray this trust! On

their heads are to be heaped the curses of unnumbered ages!

Can he sleep, who in this past year has wickedly or lightly committed

acts calculated to injure the few or many; who has poisoned the ears and

the hearts he might have rightly informed; who has steeped in tears the

cup of thousands; who has put back, as far as in him lay, the

accomplishment of general good and happiness for the sake of his selfish

aggrandizement or selfish luxury; who has sold to a party what was meant

for mankind? If such sleep, dreadful shall be the waking.

"Deliver us from evil." In public or in private, it is easy to give

pain--hard to give pure pleasure; easy to do evil--hard to do good. God

does his good in the whole, despite of bad men; but only from a very

pure mind will he permit original good to proceed in the day. Happy

those who can feel that during the past year, they have, to the best of

their knowledge, refrained from evil. Happy those who determine to

proceed in this by the light of conscience. It is but a spark; yet from

that spark may be drawn fire-light enough for worlds and systems of

worlds--and that light is ever new.

And with this thought rises again the memory of the fair lines that

light has brought to view in the histories of some men. If the nation

tends to wrong, there are yet present the ten just men. The hands and

lips of this great form may be impure, but pure blood flows yet within

her veins--the blood of the noble bands who first sought these shores

from the British isles and France, for conscience sake. Too many have

come since, for bread alone. We cannot blame--we must not reject them;

but let us teach them, in giving them bread, to prize that salt, too,

without which all on earth must lose its savor. Yes! let us teach them,

not rail at their inevitable ignorance and unenlightened action, but

teach them and their children as our own; if we do so, their children

and ours may yet act as one body obedient to one soul; and if we act

rightly now, that soul a pure soul.

And ye, sable bands, forced hither against your will, kept down here now

by a force hateful to nature, a will alien from God! It does sometimes

seem as if the avenging angel wore your hue, and would place in your

hands the sword to punish the cruel injustice of our fathers, the

selfish perversity of the sons. Yet are there no means of atonement?

Must the innocent suffer with the guilty? Teach us, O All-Wise, the clew

out of this labyrinth; and if we faithfully encounter its darkness and

dread, and emerge into clear light, wilt thou not bid us "go and sin no

more"?

Meanwhile, let us proceed as we can, _picking our steps_ along the

slippery road. If we keep the right direction, what matters it that we

must pass through so much mud? The promise is sure:--

Angels shall free the feet from stain, to their own hue of snow,

If, undismayed, we reach the hills where the true olives grow.

The olive groves, which we must seek in cold and damp,

Alone can yield us oil for a perpetual lamp.

Then sound again the golden horn with promise ever new;

The princely deer will ne'er be caught by those that slack pursue;

Let the "White Doe" of angel hopes be always kept in view.

Yes! sound again the horn--of hope the golden horn!

Answer it, flutes and pipes, from valleys still and lorn;

Warders, from your high towers, with trumps of silver scorn,

And harps in maidens' bowers, with strings from deep hearts torn,--

All answer to the horn--of hope the golden horn!

There is still hope, there is still an America, while private lives are

ruled by the Puritan, by the Huguenot conscientiousness, and while there

are some who can repudiate, not their debts, but the supposition that

they will not strive to pay their debts to their age, and to Heaven, who

gave them a share in its great promise.

ST. VALENTINES DAY.

This merry season of light jokes and lighter love-tokens, in which Cupid

presents the feathered end of the dart, as if he meant to tickle before

he wounded the captive, has always had a great charm for me. When but a

child, I saw Allston's picture of the "Lady reading a Valentine," and

the mild womanliness of the picture, so remote from passion no less than

vanity, so capable of tenderness, so chastely timid in its

self-possession, has given a color to the gayest thoughts connected with

the day. From the ruff of Allston's Lady, whose clear starch is made to

express all rosebud thoughts of girlish retirement, the soft unfledged

hopes which never yet were tempted from the nest, to Sam Weller's

Valentine, is indeed a broad step, but one which we can take without

material change of mood.

But of all the thoughts and pictures associated with the day, none can

surpass in interest those furnished by the way in which we celebrated it

last week.

The Bloomingdale Asylum for the Insane is conducted on the most wise and

liberal plan known at the present day. Its superintendent, Dr. Earle,

has had ample opportunity to observe the best modes of managing this

class of diseases both here and in Europe, and he is one able, by

refined sympathies and intellectual discernment, to apply the best that

is known and to discover more.

Under his care the beautifully situated establishment at Bloomingdale

loses every sign of the hospital and the prison, not long since thought

to be inseparable from such a place. It is a house of refuge, where

those too deeply wounded or disturbed in body or spirit to keep up that

semblance or degree of sanity which the conduct of affairs in the world

at large demands, may be soothed by gentle care, intelligent sympathy,

and a judicious attention to their physical welfare, into health, or, at

least, into tranquillity.

Dr. Earle, in addition to modes of turning the attention from causes of

morbid irritation, and promoting brighter and juster thoughts, which he

uses in common with other institutions, has this winter delivered a

course of lectures to the patients. We were present at one of these some

weeks since. The subjects touched upon were, often, of a nature to

demand as close attention as an audience of regular students (not

college students, but real students) can be induced to give. The large

assembly present were almost uniformly silent, to appearance interested,

and showed a power of decorum and self-government often wanting among

those who esteem themselves in healthful mastery of their morals and

manners. We saw, with great satisfaction, generous thoughts and solid

pursuits offered, as well as light amusements, for the choice of the

sick in mind. For it is our experience that such sickness arises as

often from want of concentration as any other cause. One of the noblest

youths that ever trod this soil was wont to say, "he was never tired, if

he could only see far enough." He is now gone where his view may be less

bounded; but we, who stay behind, may take the hint that mania, no less

than the commonest forms of prejudice, bespeaks a mind which does not

see far enough to correct partial impressions. No doubt, in many cases,

dissipation of thought, after attention is once distorted into some

morbid direction, may be the first method of cure; but we are glad to

see others provided for those who are ready for them.

St. Valentine's Eve had been appointed for one of the dancing parties at

the institution, and a few friends from "the world's people" invited to

be present.

At an early hour the company assembled in the well-lighted hall, still

gracefully wreathed with its Christmas evergreens; the music struck up

and the company entered.

And these are the people who, half a century ago, would have been

chained in solitary cells, screaming out their anguish till silenced by

threats or blows, lost, forsaken, hopeless, a blight to earth, a libel

upon heaven!

Now, they are many of them happy, all interested. Even those who are

troublesome and subject to violent excitement in every-day scenes, show

here that the power of self-control is not lost, only lessened. Give

them an impulse strong enough, favorable circumstances, and they will

begin to use it again. They regulate their steps to music; they restrain

their impatient impulses from respect to themselves and to others. The

Power which shall yet shape order from all disorder, and turn ashes to

beauty, as violets spring up from green graves, hath them also in its

keeping.

The party were well dressed, with care and taste. The dancing was better

than usual, because there was less of affectation and ennui. The party

was more entertaining, because native traits came out more clear from

the disguises of vanity and tact.

There was the blue-stocking lady, a mature belle and bel-esprit. Her

condescending graces, her rounded compliments, her girlish, yet "highly

intellectual" vivacity, expressed no less in her head-dress than her

manner, were just that touch above the common with which the illustrator

of Dickens has thought fit to heighten the charms of Mrs. Leo Hunter.

There was the travelled Englishman, _au fait_ to every thing beneath the

moon and beyond. With his clipped and glib phrases, his bundle of

conventionalities carried so neatly under his arm, and his "My dear

sir," in the perfection of cockney dignity, what better could the most

select dinner party furnish us in the way of distinguished strangerhood?

There was the hoidenish young girl, and the decorous, elegant lady

smoothing down "the wild little thing." There was the sarcastic observer

on the folly of the rest; in that, the greatest fool of all, unbeloved

and unloving. In contrast to this were characters altogether lovely,

full of all sweet affections, whose bells, if jangled out of tune, still

retained their true tone.

One of the best things of the evening was a dance improvised by two

elderly women. They asked the privilege of the floor, and, a suitable

measure being played, performed this dance in a style lively,

characteristic, yet moderate enough. It was true dancing, like peasant

dancing.

An old man sang comic songs in the style of various nations and

characters, with a dramatic expression that would have commanded

applause "on any stage."

And all was done decently and in order, each biding his time. Slight

symptoms of impatience here and there were easily soothed by the

approach of this, truly "good physician," the touch of whose hand seemed

to possess a talismanic power to soothe. We doubt not that all went to

their beds exhilarated, free from irritation, and more attuned to

concord than before. Good bishop Valentine! thy feast was well kept, and

not without the usual jokes and flings at old bachelors, the exchange of

sugar-plums, mottoes, and repartees.

This is the second festival I have kept with those whom society has

placed, not outside her pale, indeed, but outside the hearing of her

benison. Christmas I passed in a prison! There, too, I saw marks of the

miraculous power of love, when guided by a pure faith in the goodness of

its source, and intelligence as to the design of the creative

intelligence. I saw enough of its power, impeded as it was by the

ignorance of those who, eighteen hundred years after the coming of

Christ, still believe more in fear and force: I saw enough, I say, of

this power to convince me, if I needed conviction, that love is indeed

omnipotent, as He said it was.

A companion, of that delicate nature by which a scar is felt as a

wound, was saddened by the thought how very little our partialities,

undue emotions, and manias need to be exaggerated to entitle us to rank

among madmen. I cannot view it so. Rather let the sense that, with all

our faults and follies, there is still a sound spot, a presentiment of

eventual health in the inmost nature, embolden us to hope, to _know_ it

is the same with all. A great thinker has spoken of the Greek, in

highest praise, as "a self-renovating character." But we are all Greeks,

if we will but think so. For the mentally or morally insane, there is no

irreparable ill if the principle of life can but be aroused. And it can

never be finally benumbed, except by our own will.

One of the famous pictures at Munich is of a madhouse. The painter has

represented the moral obliquities of society exaggerated into madness;

that is to say, self-indulgence has, in each instance, destroyed the

power to forbear the ill or to discern the good. A celebrated writer has

added a little book, to be used while looking at the picture, and drawn

inferences of universal interest.

Such would we draw; such as this! Let no one dare to call another mad

who is not himself willing to rank in the same class for every

perversion and fault of judgment. Let no one dare aid in punishing

another as criminal who is not willing to suffer the penalty due to his

own offences.

Yet, while owning that we are all mad, all criminal, let us not despair,

but rather believe that the Ruler of all never could permit such

wide-spread ill but to good ends. It is permitted to give us a field to

redeem it--

"to transmute, bereave

Of an ill influence, and a good receive."

It flows inevitably from the emancipation of our wills, the development

of individuality in us. These aims accomplished, all shall yet be well;

and it is ours to learn _how_ that good time may be hastened.

We know no sign of the times more encouraging than the increasing

nobleness and wisdom of view as to the government of asylums for the

insane and of prisons. Whatever is learned as to these forms of society

is learned for all. There is nothing that can be said of such government

that must not be said, also, of the government of families, schools, and

states. But we have much to say on this subject, and shall revert to it

again, and often, though, perhaps, not with so pleasing a theme as this

of St. Valentine's Eve.

FOURTH OF JULY.

The bells ring; the cannon rouse the echoes along the river shore; the

boys sally forth with shouts and little flags, and crackers enough to

frighten all the people they meet from sunrise to sunset. The orator is

conning for the last time the speech in which he has vainly attempted to

season with some new spice the yearly panegyric upon our country; its

happiness and glory; the audience is putting on its best bib and tucker,

and its blandest expression to listen.

And yet, no heart, we think, can beat to-day with one pulse of genuine,

noble joy. Those who have obtained their selfish objects will not take

especial pleasure in thinking of them to-day, while to unbiassed minds

must come sad thoughts of national honor soiled in the eyes of other

nations, of a great inheritance risked, if not forfeited.

Much has been achieved in this country since the Declaration of

Independence. America is rich and strong; she has shown great talent and

energy; vast prospects of aggrandizement open before her. But the noble

sentiment which she expressed in her early youth is tarnished; she has

shown that righteousness is not her chief desire, and her name is no

longer a watchword for the highest hopes to the rest of the world. She

knows this, but takes it very easily; she feels that she is growing

richer and more powerful, and that seems to suffice her.

These facts are deeply saddening to those who can pronounce the words

"my country" with pride and peace only so far as steadfast virtues,

generous impulses, find their home in that country. They cannot be

satisfied with superficial benefits, with luxuries and the means of

obtaining knowledge which are multiplied for them. They could rejoice in

full hands and a busy brain, if the soul were expanding and the heart

pure; but, the higher conditions being violated, what is done cannot be

done for good.

Such thoughts fill patriot minds as the cannon-peal bursts upon the ear.

This year, which declares that the people at large consent to cherish

and extend slavery as one of our "domestic institutions," takes from the

patriot his home. This year, which attests their insatiate love of

wealth and power, quenches the flame upon the altar.

Yet there remains that good part which cannot be taken away. If nations

go astray, the narrow path may always be found and followed by the

individual man. It is hard, hard indeed, when politics and trade are

mixed up with evils so mighty that he scarcely dares touch them for fear

of being defiled. He finds his activity checked in great natural outlets

by the scruples of conscience. He cannot enjoy the free use of his

limbs, glowing upon a favorable tide; but struggling, panting, must fix

his eyes upon his aim, and fight against the current to reach it. It is

not easy, it is very hard just now, to realize the blessings of

independence.

For what _is_ independence if it do not lead to freedom?--freedom from

fraud and meanness, from selfishness, from public opinion so far as it

does not agree with the still, small voice of one's better self?

Yet there remains a great and worthy part to play. This country presents

great temptations to ill, but also great inducements to good. Her health

and strength are so remarkable, her youth so full of life, that disease

cannot yet have taken deep hold of her. It has bewildered her brain,

made her steps totter, fevered, but not yet tainted, her blood. Things

are still in that state when ten just men may save the city. A few men

are wanted, able to think and act upon principles of an eternal value.

The safety of the country must lie in a few such men; men who have

achieved the genuine independence, independence of wrong, of violence,

of falsehood.

We want individuals to whom all eyes may turn as examples of the

practicability of virtue. We want shining examples. We want

deeply-rooted characters, who cannot be moved by flattery, by fear, even

by hope, for they work in faith. The opportunity for such men is great;

they will not be burned at the stake in their prime for bearing witness

to the truth, yet they will be tested most severely in their adherence

to it. There is nothing to hinder them from learning what is true and

best; no physical tortures will be inflicted on them for expressing it.

Let men feel that in private lives, more than in public measures, must

the salvation of the country lie. If that country has so widely veered

from the course she prescribed to herself, and that the hope of the

world prescribed to her, it must be because she had not men ripened and

confirmed for better things. They leaned too carelessly on one another;

they had not deepened and purified the private lives from which the

public vitality must spring, as the verdure of the plain from the

fountains of the hills.

What a vast influence is given by sincerity alone. The bier of General

Jackson has lately passed, upbearing a golden urn. The men who placed it

there lament his departure, and esteem the measures which have led this

country to her present position wise and good. The other side esteem

them unwise, unjust, and disastrous in their consequences. But both

respect him thus far, that his conduct was boldly sincere. The sage of

Quincy! Men differ in their estimate of his abilities. None, probably,

esteem his mind as one of the first magnitude. But both sides, all men,

are influenced by the bold integrity of his character. Mr. Calhoun

speaks straight out what he thinks. So far as this straightforwardness

goes, he confers the benefits of virtue. If a character be uncorrupted,

whatever bias it takes, it thus far is good and does good. It may help

others to a higher, wiser, larger independence than its own.

We know not where to look for an example of all or many of the virtues

we would seek from the man who is to begin the new dynasty that is

needed of fathers of the country. The country needs to be born again;

she is polluted with the lust of power, the lust of gain. She needs

fathers good enough to be godfathers--men who will stand sponsors at the

baptism with _all_ they possess, with all the goodness they can cherish,

and all the wisdom they can win, to lead this child the way she should

go, and never one step in another. Are there not in schools and colleges

the boys who will become such men? Are there not those on the threshold

of manhood who have not yet chosen the broad way into which the

multitude rushes, led by the banner on which, strange to say, the royal

Eagle is blazoned, together with the word Expediency? Let them decline

that road, and take the narrow, thorny path where Integrity leads,

though with no prouder emblem than the Dove. They may there find the

needed remedy, which, like the white root, detected by the patient and

resolved Odysseus, shall have power to restore the herd of men,

disguised by the enchantress to whom they had willingly yielded in the

forms of brutes, to the stature and beauty of men.

FIRST OF AUGUST.

Among the holidays of the year, some portion of our people borrow one

from another land. They borrow what they fain would own, since their

doing so would increase, not lessen, the joy and prosperity of the

present owner. It is a holiday not to be celebrated, as others are, with

boast, and shout, and gay procession, but solemnly, yet hopefully; in

prayer and humiliation for much ill now existing; in faith that the God

of good will not permit such ill to exist always; in aspiration to

become his instruments for removal.

We borrow this holiday from England. We know not that she could lend us

another such. Her career has been one of selfish aggrandizement. To

carry her flag wherever the waters flow; to leave a strong mark of her

footprint on every shore, that she might return and claim its spoils; to

maintain in every way her own advantage,--is and has been her object, as

much as that of any nation upon earth. The plundered Hindoo, the wronged

Irish,--for ourselves we must add the outraged Chinese, (for we look on

all that has been written about the right of that war as mere

sophistry,)--no less than Napoleon, walking up and down, in his "tarred

great-coat," in the unwholesome lodge at St. Helena,--all can tell

whether she be righteous or generous in her conquests. Nay, let myriads

of her own children say whether she will abstain from sacrificing,

mercilessly, human freedom, happiness, and the education of immortal

souls, for the sake of gains of money! We speak of Napoleon, for we

must ever despise, with most profound contempt, the use she made of her

power on that occasion. She had been the chief means of liberating

Europe from his tyranny, and, though it was for her own sake, we must

commend and admire her conduct and resolution thus far. But the

unhandsome, base treatment of her captive, has never been enough

contemned. Any private gentleman, in chaining up the foe that had put

himself in his power, would at least have given him lodging, food, and

clothes to his liking; and a civil turnkey--and a great nation could

fail in this! O, it was shameful, if only for the vulgarity of feeling

evinced! All this we say, because we are sometimes impatient of

England's brag on the subject of slavery. Freedom! Because she has done

one good act, is she entitled to the angelic privilege of being the

champion of freedom?

And yet it is true that once she nobly awoke to a sense of what was

right and wise. It is true that she also acted out that sense--acted

fully, decidedly. She was willing to make sacrifices, even of the loved

money. She has not let go the truth she then laid to heart, and

continues the resolute foe of man's traffic in men. We must bend low to

her as we borrow this holiday--the anniversary of the emancipation of

slaves in the West Indies. We do not feel that the extent of her

practice justifies the extent of her preaching; yet we must feel her to

be, in this matter, an elder sister, entitled to cry shame to us. And if

her feelings be those of a sister indeed, how must she mourn to see her

next of kin pushing back, as far as in her lies, the advance of this

good cause, binding those whom the old world had awakened from its sins

enough to loose! But courage, sister! All is not yet lost! There is here

a faithful band, determined to expiate the crimes that have been

committed in the name of liberty. On this day they meet and vow

themselves to the service; and, as they look in one another's glowing

eyes, they read there assurance that the end is not yet, and that they,

forced as they are

"To keep in company with Pain,

And Fear, and Falsehood, miserable train,"

"Turn that necessity to glorious gain,"

"Transmute them and subdue."

Indeed, we do not see that they "bate a jot of heart or hope," and it is

because they feel that the power of the Great Spirit, and its peculiar

workings in the spirit of this age, are with them. There is action and

reaction all the time; and though the main current is obvious, there are

many little eddies and counter-currents. Mrs. Norton writes a poem on

the sufferings of the poor, and in it she, as episode, tunefully laments

the sufferings of the Emperor of all the Russias for the death of a

beloved daughter. And it _was_ a deep grief; yet it did not soften his

heart, or make it feel for man. The first signs of his recovered spirits

are in new efforts to crush out the heart of Poland, and to make the

Jews lay aside the hereditary marks of their national existence--to them

a sacrifice far worse than death. But then,--Count Apraxin is burned

alive by his infuriate serfs, and the life of a serf is far more

dog-like, or rather machine-like, than that of _our_ slaves. Still the

serf can rise in vengeance--can admonish the autocrat that humanity may

yet turn again and rend him.

So with us. The most shameful deed has been done that ever disgraced a

nation, because the most contrary to consciousness of right. Other

nations have done wickedly, but we have surpassed them all in trampling

under foot the principles that had been assumed as the basis of our

national existence, and shown a willingness to forfeit our honor in the

face of the world.

The following stanzas, written by a friend some time since, on the

fourth of July, exhibit these contrasts so forcibly, that we cannot do

better than insert them here:--

Loud peal of bells and beat of drums

Salute approaching dawn;

And the deep cannon's fearful bursts

Announce a nation's morn.

Imposing ranks of freemen stand

And claim their proud birthright;

Impostors, rather! thus to brand

A name they hold so bright.

Let the day see the pageant show;

Float, banners, to the breeze!

Shout Liberty's great name throughout

Columbia's lands and seas!

Give open sunlight to the free;

But for Truth's equal sake,

When night sinks down upon the land,

Proclaim dead Freedom's wake!

Beat, muffled drums! Toll, funeral bell

Nail every flag half-mast;

For though we fought the battle well,

We're traitors at the last.

Let the whole nation join in one

Procession to appear;

We and our sons lead on the front,

Our slaves bring up the rear.

America is rocked within

Thy cradle, Liberty,

By Africa's poor, palsied hand--

Strange inconsistency!

We've dug one grave as deep as Death,

For Tyranny's black sin;

And dug another at its side

To thrust our brother in.

We challenge all the world aloud,--

"Lo, Tyranny's deep grave!"

And all the world points back and cries,

"Thou fool! Behold thy slave!"

Yes, rally, brave America,

Thy noble hearts and free

Around the Eagle, as he soars

Upward in majesty.

One half thy emblem is the bird,

Out-facing thus the day;

But wouldst thou make him wholly thine,--

_Give him a helpless prey!_

This should be sung in Charleston at nine o'clock in the evening, when

the drums are heard proclaiming "dead Freedom's wake," as they summon to

their homes, or to the custody of the police, every human being with a

black skin who is found walking without a pass from a white. Or it might

have been sung to advantage the night after Charleston had shown her

independence and care of domestic institutions by expulsion of the

venerable envoy of Massachusetts! Its expression would seem even more

forcible than now, when sung so near the facts, when the eagle soars so

close above his prey.

How deep the shadow! yet cleft by light. There is a counter-current that

sets towards the deep. We are inclined to weigh as of almost equal

weight with all we have had to trouble us as to the prolongation of

slavery, the hopes that may be gathered from the course of such a man as

Cassius M. Clay,--a man open to none of the accusations brought to

diminish the influence of abolitionists in general, for he has eaten the

bread wrought from slavery, and has shared the education that excuses

the blindness of the slaveholder. He speaks as one having authority; no

one can deny that he knows where he is. In the prime of manhood, of

talent, and the energy of a fine enthusiasm, he comes forward with deed

and word to do his devoir in this cause, never to leave the field till

he can take with him the wronged wretches rescued by his devotion.

Now he has made this last sacrifice of the prejudices of "southern

chivalry," more persons than ever will be ready to join the herald's

cry, "God speed the right!" And we cannot but believe his noble example

will be followed by many young men in the slaveholding ranks, brothers

in a new, sacred band, vowed to the duty, not merely of defending, but

far more sacred, of purifying their homes.

The event of which this day is the anniversary, affords a sufficient

guarantee of the safety and practicability of strong measures for this

purification. Various accounts are given to the public, of the state of

the British West Indies, and the foes of emancipation are of course

constantly on the alert to detect any unfavorable result which may aid

them in opposing the good work elsewhere. But through all statements

these facts shine clear as the sun at noonday, that the measure was

there carried into effect with an ease and success, and has shown in the

African race a degree of goodness, docility, capacity for industry and

self-culture entirely beyond or opposed to the predictions which

darkened so many minds with fears. Those fears can never again be

entertained or uttered with the same excuse. One great example of the

_safety of doing right_ exists; true, there is but one of the sort, but

volumes may be preached from such a text.

We, however, preach not; there are too many preachers already in the

field, abler, more deeply devoted to the cause. Endless are the sermons

of these modern crusaders, these ardent "sons of thunder," who have

pledged themselves never to stop or falter till this one black spot be

purged away from the land which gave them birth. They cry aloud and

spare not; they spare not others, but then, neither do they spare

themselves; and such are ever the harbingers of a new advent of the Holy

Spirit. Our venerated friend, Dr. Channing, sainted in more memories

than any man who has left us in this nineteenth century, uttered the

last of his tones of soft, solemn, convincing, persuasive eloquence, on

this day and this occasion. The hills of Lenox laughed and were glad as

they heard him who showed in that last address (an address not only to

the men of Lenox, but to all men, for he was in the highest sense the

friend of man) the unsullied purity of infancy, the indignation of youth

at vice and wrong, informed and tempered by the mild wisdom of age. It

is a beautiful fact that this should have been the last public occasion

of his life.

Last year a noble address was delivered by R. W. Emerson, in which he

broadly showed the _juste milieu_ views upon this subject in the holy

light of a high ideal day. The truest man grew more true as he listened;

for the speech, though it had the force of fact and the lustre of

thought, was chiefly remarkable as sharing the penetrating quality of

the "still small voice," most often heard when no man speaks. Now it

spoke _through_ a man; and no personalities, or prejudices, or passions

could be perceived to veil or disturb its silver sound.

These speeches are on record; little can be said that is not contained

in them. But we can add evermore our aspirations for thee, O our

country! that thou mayst not long need to borrow a _holy_ day; not long

have all thy festivals blackened by falsehood, tyranny, and a crime for

which neither man below nor God above can much longer pardon thee. For

ignorance may excuse error; but thine--it is vain to deny it--is

conscious wrong, and vows thee to the Mammon whose wages are endless

remorse or final death.

THANKSGIVING.

"Canst thou give thanks for aught that has been given

Except by making earth more worthy heaven?

Just stewardship the Master hoped from thee;

Harvests from time to bless eternity."

Thanksgiving is peculiarly the festival day of New England. Elsewhere,

other celebrations rival its attractions, but in that region where the

Puritans first returned thanks that some among them had been sustained

by a great hope and earnest resolve amid the perils of the ocean, wild

beasts, and famine, the old spirit which hallowed the day still lingers,

and forbids that it should be entirely devoted to play and plum-pudding.

And yet, as there is always this tendency; as the twelfth-night cake is

baked by many a hostess who would be puzzled if you asked her, "Twelfth

night after or before what?" and the Christmas cake by many who know no

other Christmas service, so it requires very serious assertion and proof

from the minister to convince his parishioners that the turkey and

plum-pudding, which are presently to occupy his place in their

attention, should not be the chief objects of the day.

And in other regions, where the occasion is observed, it is still more

as one for a meeting of families and friends to the enjoyment of a good

dinner, than for any higher purpose.

This, indeed, is one which we want not to depreciate. If this manner of

keeping the day be likely to persuade the juniors of the party that the

celebrated Jack Horner is the prime model for brave boys, and that

grandparents are chiefly to be respected as the givers of grand feasts

yet a meeting in the spirit of kindness, however dull and blind, is not

wholly without use in healing differences and promoting good intentions.

The instinct of family love, intended by Heaven to make those of one

blood the various and harmonious organs of one mind, is never wholly

without good influence. Family love, I say, for family pride is never

without bad influence, and it too often takes the place of its mild and

healthy sister.

Yet where society is at all simple, it is cheering to see the family

circle thus assembled, if only because its patriarchal form is in itself

so excellent. The presence of the children animates the old people,

while the respect and attention they demand refine the gayety of the

young. Yes, it is cheering to see, in some large room, the elders

talking near the bright fire, while the cousins of all ages are amusing

themselves in knots. Here is almost all the good, and very little of the

ill, that can be found in society, got together merely for amusement.

Yet how much nobler, more exhilarating, and purer would be the

atmosphere of that circle if the design of its pious founders were

remembered by those who partake this festival! if they dared not attend

the public jubilee till private retrospect of the past year had been

taken in the spirit of the old rhyme, which we all bear in mind if not

in heart,--

"What hast thou done that's worth the doing,

And what pursued that's worth pursuing?

What sought thou knew'st that thou shouldst shun,

What done thou shouldst have left undone?"

A crusade needs also to be made this day into the wild places of each

heart, taking for its device, "Lord, cleanse thou me from secret faults;

keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins." Would not that

circle be happy as if music, from invisible agents, floated through it

if each member of it considered every other member as a bequest from

heaven; if he supposed that the appointed nearness in blood or lot was

a sign to him that he must exercise his gifts of every kind as given

peculiarly in their behalf; that if richer in temper, in talents, in

knowledge, or in worldly goods, here was the innermost circle of his

poor; that he must clothe these naked, whether in body or mind, soothing

the perverse, casting light into the narrow chamber, or, most welcome

task of all! extending a hand at the right moment to one uncertain of

his way? It is this spirit that makes the old man to be revered as a

Nestor, rather than put aside like a worn-out garment. It is such a

spirit that sometimes has given to the young child a ministry as of a

parent in the house.

But, if charity begin at home, it must not end there; and, while

purifying the innermost circle, let us not forget that it depends upon

the great circle, and that again on it; that no home can be healthful in

which are not cherished seeds of good for the world at large. Thy child,

thy brother, are given to thee only as an example of what is due from

thee to all men. It is true that, if you, in anger, call your brother

fool, no deeds of so-called philanthropy shall save you from the

punishment; for your philanthropy must be from the love of excitement,

not the love of man, or of goodness. But then you must visit the

Gentiles also, and take time for knowing what aid the woman of Samaria

may need.

A noble Catholic writer, in the true sense as well as by name a

Catholic, describes a tailor as giving a dinner on an occasion which had

brought honor to his house, which, though a humble, was not a poor

house. In his glee, the tailor was boasting a little of the favors and

blessings of his lot, when suddenly a thought stung him. He stopped, and

cutting away half the fowl that lay before him, sent it in a dish with

the best knives, bread, and napkin, and a brotherly message that was

better still, to a widow near, who must, he knew, be sitting in sadness

and poverty among her children. His little daughter was the messenger.

If parents followed up the indulgences heaped upon their children at

Thanksgiving dinners with similar messages, there would not be danger

that children should think enjoyment of sensual pleasures the only

occasion that demands Thanksgiving.

And suppose, while the children were absent on their errands of justice,

as they could not fail to think them, if they compared the hovels they

must visit with their own comfortable homes, their elders, touched by a

sense of right, should be led from discussion of the rivalries of trade

or fashion to inquiry whether they could not impart of all that was

theirs, not merely one poor dinner once a year, but all their mental and

material wealth for the benefit of all men. If they do not sell it _all_

at once, as the rich young man was bid to do as a test of his sincerity,

they may find some way in which it could be invested so as to show

enough obedience to the law and the prophets to love our neighbor as

ourselves.

And he who once gives himself to such thoughts will find it is not

merely moral gain for which he shall return thanks another year with the

return of this day. In the present complex state of human affairs, you

cannot be kind unless you are wise. Thoughts of amaranthine bloom will

spring up in the fields ploughed to give food to suffering men. It

would, indeed, seem to be a simple matter at first glance. "Lovest thou

me?"--"Feed my lambs." But now we have not only to find pasture, but to

detect the lambs under the disguise of wolves, and restore them by a

spell, like that the shepherd used, to their natural form and whiteness.

And for this present day appointed for Thanksgiving, we may say that if

we know of so many wrongs, woes, and errors in the world yet

unredressed; if in this nation recent decisions have shown a want of

moral discrimination in important subjects, that make us pause and doubt

whether we can join in the formal congratulations that we are still

bodily alive, unassailed by the ruder modes of warfare, and enriched

with the fatness of the land; yet, on the other side, we know of causes

not so loudly proclaimed why we should give thanks. Abundantly and

humbly we must render them for the movement, now sensible in the heart

of the civilized world, although it has not pervaded the entire

frame--for that movement of contrition and love which forbids men of

earnest thought to eat, drink, or be merry while other men are steeped

in ignorance, corruption, and woe; which calls the king from his throne

of gold, and the poet from his throne of mind, to lie with the beggar in

the kennel, or raise him from it; which says to the poet, "You must

reform rather than create a world," and to him of the golden crown, "You

cannot long remain a king unless you are also a man."

Wherever this impulse of social or political reform darts up its rill

through the crusts of selfishness, scoff and dread also arise, and hang

like a heavy mist above it. But the voice of the rill penetrates far

enough for those who have ears to hear. And sometimes it is the case

that "those who came to scoff remain to pray." In two articles of

reviews, one foreign and one domestic, which have come under our eye

within the last fortnight, the writers who began by jeering at the

visionaries, seemed, as they wrote, to be touched by a sense that

without a high and pure faith none can have the only true vision of the

intention of God as to the destiny of man.

We recognized as a happy omen that there is cause for thanksgiving, and

that our people may be better than they seem, the recent meeting to

organize an association for the benefit of prisoners. We are not, then,

wholly Pharisees. We shall not ask the blessing of this day in the mood

of, "Lord, I thank thee that I, and my son, and my brother, are not as

other men are,--not as those publicans imprisoned there," while the

still small voice cannot make us hear its evidence that, but for

instruction, example, and the "preventing God," every sin that can be

named might riot in our hearts. The prisoner, too, may become a man.

Neither his open nor our secret fault must utterly dismay us. We will

treat him as if he had a soul. We will not dare to hunt him into a

beast of prey, or trample him into a serpent. We will give him some

crumbs from the table which grace from above and parental love below

have spread for us, and perhaps he will recover from these ghastly

ulcers that deform him now.

We were much pleased with the spirit of the meeting for the benefit of

prisoners, to which we have just alluded. It was simple, business-like,

in a serious, affectionate temper. The speakers did not make phrases or

compliments--did not slur over the truth. The audience showed a ready

vibration to the touch of just and tender feeling. The time was

evidently ripe for this movement. We doubt not that many now darkened

souls will give thanks for the ray of light that will have been let in

by this time next year. It is but a grain of mustard seed, but the

promised tree will grow swiftly if tended in a pure spirit; and the

influence of good measures in any one place will be immediate in this

province, as has been the case with every attempt in behalf of another

sorrowing class, the insane.

While reading a notice of a successful attempt to have musical

performances carried through in concert by the insane at Rouen, we were

forcibly reminded of a similar performance we heard a few weeks ago at

Sing Sing. There the female prisoners joined in singing a hymn, or

rather choral, which describes the last thoughts of a spirit about to be

enfranchised from the body; each stanza of which ends with the words,

"All is well;" and they sang it--those suffering, degraded children of

society--with as gentle and resigned an expression as if they were sure

of going to sleep in the arms of a pure mother. The good spirit that

dwelt in the music made them its own. And shall not the good spirit of

religious sympathy make them its own also, and more permanently? We

shall see. Should the _morally_ insane, by wise and gentle care, be won

back to health, as the wretched bedlamites have been, will not the

angels themselves give thanks? And will any man dare take the risk of

opposing plans that afford even a chance of such a result?

Apart also from good that is public and many-voiced, does not each of us

know, in private experience, much to be thankful for? Not only the

innocent and daily pleasures that we have prized according to our

wisdom; of the sun and starry skies, the fields of green, or snow

scarcely less beautiful, the loaf eaten with an appetite, the glow of

labor, the gentle signs of common affection; but have not some, have not

many of us, cause to be thankful for enfranchisement from error or

infatuation; a growth in knowledge of outward things, and instruction

within the soul from a higher source. Have we not acquired a sense of

more refined enjoyments; clear convictions; sometimes a serenity in

which, as in the first days of June, all things grow, and the blossom

gives place to fruit? Have we not been weaned from what was unfit for

us, or unworthy our care? and have not those ties been drawn more close,

and are not those objects seen more distinctly, which shall forever be

worthy the purest desires of our souls? Have we learned to do any thing,

the humblest, in the service and by the spirit of the power which

meaneth all things well? If so, we may give thanks, and, perhaps,

venture to offer our solicitations in behalf of those as yet less

favored by circumstances. When even a few shall dare do so with the

whole heart--for only a pure heart, can "avail much" in such

prayers--then ALL shall soon be well.

CHRISTMAS.

Our festivals come rather too near together, since we have so few of

them; thanksgiving, Christmas, new year's day,--and then none again till

July. We know not but these four, with the addition of "a day set apart

for fasting and prayer," might answer the purposes of rest and

edification, as well as a calendar full of saints' days, if they were

observed in a better spirit. But thanksgiving is devoted to good

dinners; Christmas and new year's days, to making presents and

compliments; fast day, to playing at cricket and other games; and the

fourth of July, to boasting of the past, rather than to plans how to

deserve its benefits and secure its fruits.

We value means of marking time by appointed days, because man, on one

side of his nature so ardent and aspiring, is on the other so slippery

and indolent a being, that he needs incessant admonitions to redeem the

time. Time flows on steadily, whether he regards it or not; yet unless

_he keep time_, there is no music in that flow. The sands drop with

inevitable speed, yet each waits long enough to receive, if it be ready,

the intellectual touch that should turn it to a sand of gold.

Time, says the Grecian fable, is the parent of Power; Power is the

father of Genius and Wisdom; Time, then, is grandfather of the noblest

of the human family, and we must respect the aged sire whom we see on

the frontispiece of the almanacs, and believe his scythe was meant to

mow down harvests ripened for an immortal use.

Yet the best provision made by the mind of society, at large, for these

admonitions, soon loses its efficacy, and requires that individual

earnestness, individual piety, should continually reanimate the most

beautiful form. The world has never seen arrangements which might more

naturally offer good suggestions, than those of the church of Rome. The

founders of that church stood very near a history, radiant at every page

with divine light. All their rites and ceremonial days illustrate facts

of a universal interest. But the life with which piety, first, and

afterwards the genius of great artists, invested these symbols, waned at

last, except to a thoughtful few. Reverence was forgotten in the

multitude of genuflections; the rosary became a string of beads, rather

than a series of religious meditations, and "the glorious company of

saints and martyrs" were not so much regarded as the teachers of

heavenly truth, as intercessors to obtain for their votaries the

temporal gifts they craved.

Yet we regret that some of these symbols had not been more reverenced by

Protestants, as the possible occasion of good thoughts. And among others

we regret that the day set apart to commemorate the birth of Jesus

should have been stripped, even by those who observe it, of many

impressive and touching accessories.

If ever there was an occasion on which the arts could become all but

omnipotent in the service of a holy thought, it is this of the birth of

the child Jesus. In the palmy days of the Catholic religion, they may be

said to have wrought miracles in its behalf; and, in our colder time,

when we rather reflect that light from a different point of view, than

transport ourselves into it,--who, that has an eye and ear faithful to

the soul, is not conscious of inexhaustible benefits from some of the

works by which sublime geniuses have expressed their ideas in the

adorations of the Magi and the Shepherds, in the Virgin with the infant

Jesus, or that work which expresses what Christendom at large has not

even begun to realize,--that work which makes us conscious, as we

listen, why the soul of man was thought worthy and able to upbear a

cross of such dreadful weight--the Messiah of Handel.

Christmas would seem to be the day peculiarly sacred to children, and

something of this feeling here shows itself among us, though rather from

German influence than of native growth. The evergreen tree is often

reared for the children on Christmas evening, and its branches cluster

with little tokens that may, at least, give them a sense that the world

is rich, and that there are some in it who care to bless them. It is a

charming sight to see their glittering eyes, and well worth much trouble

in preparing the Christmas tree.

Yet, on this occasion as on all others, we could wish to see pleasure

offered them in a form less selfish than it is. When shall we read of

banquets prepared for the halt, the lame, and the blind, on the day that

is said to have brought _their_ Friend into the world? When will the

children be taught to ask all the cold and ragged little ones, whom they

have seen during the day wistfully gazing at the displays in the

shop-windows, to share the joys of Christmas eve?

We borrow the Christmas tree from Germany. Would that we might but

borrow with it that feeling which pervades all their stories about the

influence of the Christ child; and has, I doubt not,--for the spirit of

literature is always, though refined, the essence of popular

life,--pervaded the conduct of children there!

We will mention two of these as happily expressive of different sides of

the desirable character. One is a legend of the Saint Hermann Joseph.

The legend runs, that this saint, when a little boy, passed daily by a

niche where was an image of the Virgin and Child, and delighted there to

pay his devotions. His heart was so drawn towards the holy child, that,

one day, having received what seemed to him a gift truly precious,--to

wit, a beautiful red and yellow apple,--he ventured to offer it, with

his prayer. To his unspeakable delight, the child put forth its hand

and took the apple. After that day, never was a gift bestowed upon the

little Hermann that was not carried to the same place. He needed nothing

for himself, but dedicated all his childish goods to the altar.

After a while, grief comes. His father, who was a poor man, finds it

necessary to take him from school and bind him to a trade. He

communicates his woes to his friends of the niche, and the Virgin

comforts him, like a mother, and bestows on him money, by means of which

he rises, (not to ride in a gilt coach like Lord Mayor Whittington,) but

to be a learned and tender shepherd of men.

Another still more touching story is that of the holy Rupert. Rupert was

the only child of a princely house, and had something to give besides

apples. But his generosity and human love were such, that, as a child,

he could never see poor children suffering without despoiling himself of

all he had with him in their behalf. His mother was, at first,

displeased at this; but when he replied, "They are thy children too,"

her reproofs yielded to tears.

One time, when he had given away his coat to a poor child, he got

wearied and belated on his homeward way. He lay down a while, and fell

asleep. Then he dreamed that he was on a river shore, and saw a mild and

noble old man bathing many children. After he had plunged them into the

water, he would place them on a beautiful island, where they looked

white and glorious as little angels. Rupert was seized with strong

desire to join them, and begged the old man to bathe him, also, in the

stream. But he was answered, "It is not yet time." Just then a rainbow

spanned the island, and on its arch was enthroned the child Jesus,

dressed in a coat that Rupert knew to be his own. And the child said to

the others, "See this coat; it is one my brother Rupert has just sent to

me. He has given us many gifts from his love; shall we not ask him to

join us here?" And they shouted a musical "yes;" and the child started

from his dream. But he had lain too long on the damp bank of the river,

without his coat. A cold, and fever soon sent him to join the band of

his brothers in their home.

These are legends, superstitions, will you say? But, in casting aside

the shell, have we retained the kernel? The image of the child Jesus is

not seen in the open street; does his spirit find other means to express

itself there? Protestantism did not mean, we suppose, to deaden the

spirit in excluding the form?

The thought of Jesus, as a child, has great weight with children who

have learned to think of him at all. In thinking of him, they form an

image of all that the morning of a pure and fervent life should be and

bring. In former days I knew a boy artist, whose genius, at that time,

showed high promise. He was not more than fourteen years old; a slight,

pale boy, with a beaming eye. The hopes and sympathy of friends, gained

by his talent, had furnished him with a studio and orders for some

pictures. He had picked up from the streets a boy still younger and

poorer than himself, to take care of the room and prepare his colors;

and the two boys were as content in their relation as Michael Angelo

with his Urbino. If you went there you found exposed to view many pretty

pictures: a Girl with a Dove, the Guitar Player and such subjects as are

commonly supposed to interest at his age. But, hid in a corner, and

never, shown, unless to the beggar page, or some most confidential

friend, was the real object of his love and pride, the slowly growing

work of secret hours. The subject of this picture was Christ teaching

the doctors. And in those doctors he had expressed all he had already

observed of the pedantry and shallow conceit of those in whom mature

years have not unfolded the soul; and in the child, all he felt that

early youth should be and seek, though, alas! his own feet failed him on

the difficult road. This one record of the youth of Jesus had, at

least, been much to his mind.

In earlier days, the little saints thought they best imitated the

Emanuel by giving apples and coats; but we know not why, in our age,

that esteems itself so enlightened, they should not become also the

givers of spiritual gifts. We see in them, continually, impulses that

only require a good direction to effect infinite good. See the little

girls at work for foreign missions; that is not useless. They devote the

time to a purpose that is not selfish; the horizon of their thoughts is

extended. But they are perfectly capable of becoming home missionaries

as well. The principle of stewardship would make them so.

I have seen a little girl of thirteen,--who had much service, too, to

perform, for a hard-working mother,--in the midst of a circle of poor

children whom she gathered daily to a morning school. She took them from

the door-steps and the ditches; she washed their hands and faces; she

taught them to read and to sew; and she told them stories that had

delighted her own infancy. In her face, though in feature and complexion

plain, was something, already, of a Madonna sweetness, and it had no way

eclipsed the gayety of childhood.

I have seen a boy scarce older, brought up for some time with the sons

of laborers, who, so soon as he found himself possessed of superior

advantages, thought not of surpassing others, but of excelling, and then

imparting--and he was able to do it. If the other boys had less leisure,

and could pay for less instruction, they did not suffer for it. He could

not be happy unless they also could enjoy Milton, and pass from nature

to natural philosophy. He performed, though in a childish way, and in no

Grecian garb, the part of Apollo amid the herdsmen of Admetus.