Gifts of Genius Part 13

The reverend doctor strangely said; "I do not walk the streets to pour Chance benedictions on his head.

"And heaven I thank who made me so.

That toying with my own dear child, I think not on _his_ shivering limbs, _His_ manners vagabond and wild."

Good friend, unsay that graceless word!

I am a mother crowned with joy, And yet I feel a bosom pang To pa.s.s the little starveling boy.

His aching flesh, his fevered eyes His piteous stomach, craving meat; His features, nipt of tenderness, And most, his little frozen feet.

Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow, I think, how in some noisome den, Bred up with curses and with blows, He lives unblest of G.o.ds or men.

I cannot s.n.a.t.c.h him from his fate, The tribute of my doubting mind Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill, That skirts the ways of humankind.

But, as my heart's desire would leap To help him, recognized of none, I thank the G.o.d who left him this, For many a precious right foregone.

My mother, whom I scarcely knew, Bequeathed this bond of love to me; The heart parental thrills for all The children of humanity.

EARTH'S WITNESS.

BY ALICE B. HAVEN.

That Poet wrongs his soul, whose dreary cry Calls "winds" and "waves," and "burning stars of night"

To bring our darkness nature's clearer light On that just sentence, "Thou shalt surely die;"

To track the spirit as it leaves its clay To bring back surety of its future home, Or echo of the voice that calleth "come,"

To prove that it is borne to perfect day.

Say rather, "winds," who heard the Master speak, And "waves," who by His voice transfixed were stayed, And stars that lighted Christ's deep shade-- Your confirmation of our trust we seek.

Ye know how shadowy Death's dreary prison, Because ye witnessed Christ our life, up risen.

THE WILLOWS, 1858.

THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING.

BY THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, D.D.

When cellar and barn and storehouse were filled with food for the coming winter, our pious New England forefathers used their first common leisure to make public and joyful acknowledgment of their blessings to the G.o.d of sunshine and of rain; to Him, who clothes the valleys with corn, and the hills with flocks. Almost universally, they placed the meeting-houses, where these thanks were rendered, on the hill-top commanding the widest view of the fields from which their prosperity sprung, and nearest to the sky, whence their blessings came. Their modest homes were sheltered from the winds by the barns that held their wealth and overshadowed their low dwellings. The earth was precious in their eyes, as the source of their living. They could spare no fertile or sheltered spot, even for the burial-ground, but economically laid it out in the sand, or on the bleak hill-side; while they threw away no fencing on the house of G.o.d, but jealously preserved that costly distinction for their arable lands and orchards. They were farmers; and it was no unmeaning thing for them to keep the harvest feast. They had prayed in drought, with all faith and fervor, for the blessing of rain; in seed-time, for the favoring sunshine and soft showers; and in harvest, that blight and frost might spare their corn; and when in the late autumn, all their prayers had been heard, and their hands and homes were crowned with plenty, their thanksgiving anthem was an incense of the heart, and their honored pastors knew not how to pour out a flood of grat.i.tude too copious for the thankful people's "Amen." A full hour's prayer wearied not their patient knees; and the sermon, with its sixteenthly, finally, and to conclude (before the _improvement_, itself a modern sermon in length), did not outmeasure the people's honest sense of their grounds of thankfulness to G.o.d.

The landscape appropriate to thanksgiving is not furnished by brick walls and stone pavements. It is a rural festival. The smoke from scattered cottages should be slowly curling its way through frosty air. As we look forth from the low porch of the homestead, the ground lightly covered with snow, stretches off to a not distant horizon, broken irregularly with hills, clothed in spots with evergreens, but oftener with bare woods. The distant and infrequent sleigh-bells, with the smart crack of the rifle from the shooting match in the hollow, strike percussively upon the ear.

Vast piles of fuel, part neatly corded, part lying in huge logs, with heaps of brush, barricade the brown, paintless farmhouses. Swine, hanging by the ham-strings in the neighboring shed; the barn-yard speckled with the ruffled poultry, some sedate with recent bereavement, others cackling with a dim sense of temporary reprieve; the rough-coated steer b.u.t.ting in the fold, where the timid sheep huddle together in the corner; little boys on a single skate improving the newly frozen horse-pond--these furnish the foreground of the picture during the earlier hours of the morning. Later in the day, without, the sound of church bells, the farmers' pungs, or the double sleighs, with incredible numbers stowed in their strawed bottoms, drive up to the meeting-house door. An occasional wagon from the hills, from which the snow has blown, with the crunching, whistling sound of wheels upon snow, sets the teeth of the crowd in the porch on edge, as it grinds its way to the stone steps to deposit its load. Great white coats, with seven or eight capes apiece, dismount, and m.u.f.fs and moccasins--each a whole bearskin--follow. Long stoves, with live coals got at the neighboring houses, occasionally join the procession. Few come afoot; for our pious ancestors seemed to think it as much a part of their religion to fill the family horse-shed as the family pew; and in good weather would send a mile to pasture for the horses to drive a half mile to meeting.

But, meeting out, the parson's prayer and sermon said, the choir's ambitious anthem l.u.s.tily sung, the politics of the prayer, and the politics of the sermon, both summarily criticised, approved, condemned, partly with looks and winks, and partly with loud words in the porch, there is now a little s.p.a.ce for kind inquiries after the absent, the sick, and the poor; a few solitary spinsters, and one old soldier, lame and indigent, are seized on and carried off to homes, where certain blessed Mothers in Israel, are wont to keep a vacant chair for a poor soul that might feel desolate if left alone on this sociable day. Some full-handed visits are paid on the way home to scattered and rickety houses; but by one o'clock, all the people are beneath their own roofs, never so attractive as on this glorious day. The married children from the neighboring towns have come home, and the old house is full.

The great event of the day is at hand. It is dinner-time. The table of unnatural length, narrower at one end, where it has been eked out for the occasion, groans with the choicest gifts of the year. There is but one course, but that possesses infinite variety and reckless profusion. For one day, at least, the doctrine of an apostle is in full honor. "For every creature of G.o.d is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving." The long grace sanctifies the feast with the word of G.o.d and with prayer. The elders and males are distributed to front the substantial of the board--the round of _a-la-mode_, the brown crisp pig with an apple in his mouth, the great turkey who has frightened the little red-cloaked girls and saucy pugs for months past, the chicken-pie with infinite crimping and stars and k.n.o.bs, decorating its snowy face. The mothers and daughters are placed over against the puddings and pies, which have exercised their ambition for weeks--vying with rival housekeepers in the number and variety of sorts--and which, after the faint impression made on them to-day, shall be found for a month, filling the shelves of spare-closets and lending a delicious though slightly musty odor to the best wardrobe of the family. Children of all ages--to the toddling darling, the last babe of the youngest daughter--fill up the interstices, while the few books in the house are barely sufficient to bring the little ones in their low chairs to an effective level with the table.

Incredible stowage having been effected, the sleepy after-dinner hours are somewhat heavily pa.s.sed; but with the lamps and the tea-board, sociability revives. The evening pa.s.ses among the old people, with chequers and back-gammon. Puss-in-the-corner, the game of forfeits--blind-man's-buff entertain the young folks. Apples, nuts and cider come in at nine o'clock, and perhaps a mug of flip--but it is rather for form's sake than for appet.i.te. At ten o'clock the fire is raked up, and the household is a-bed.

Excepting some bad-dreams, Thanksgiving day is over.

SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS

(FROM GOETHE'S FAUST.)

BY GEORGE P. MARSH.

RAPHAEL.

E'en as at first, in rival song Of brother orbs, still chimes the SUN, And his appointed path along Rolls with harmonious thundertone; With strength the sight doth Angels fill, Though none can solve its law divine; Creation's wonders glorious still, As erst they shone, eternal shine.

GABRIEL.

The gorgeous EARTH doth whirl for aye In swift, sublime, mysterious flight, And alternates elysian day With deep, chaotic, shuddering night; With swelling billows foams the sea.

Chafing the cliff's deep-rooted base, While sea and cliff both hurrying flee In swift, eternal, circling race.

MICHAEL.

And howling TEMPESTS scour amain From sea to land, from land to sea, And, raging, weave around a chain Of deepest, wildest energy; The scathing bolt with flashing glare Precedes the pealing thunder's way; And yet Thine Angels, LORD, revere The gentle movement of Thy day.

TRIO.

With strength the sight doth Angels fill, For power to fathom THEE hath none.

The works of Thy supernal will Still glorious shine, as erst they shone.

A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO.

BY ROBERT TOMES.

As night came on, the steamer doubled the rocky cape, and, steaming with all its engine force, stood right for Valparaiso. Her speed soon slackened, and she began to feel her way cautiously, going ahead, backing, turning, and coming to a full stop. "Let go the anchor," was now the word, followed by a hoa.r.s.e rumble of the chains and a noisy burst of steam. A fleet of shadowy ships and small craft surrounded us, and ahead glimmered the lights of the city, which, irregularly scattered about the dark hill-sides, appeared in the night like so many stars dimly twinkling through a broken rain cloud. With the quick instinct of the presence of a stranger, the dogs became at once conscious of our arrival, and began a noisy welcome of barks and yelps, which continued throughout the night.

The port officials in tarnished gilt came alongside the steamer, had their talk with the captain and pushed off again. Two or three gusty-looking sea-captains boarded us, gave their rough grasps of welcome, drank off their stiff supplies of grog, and pulled back to their ships. Some few of the more impatient of our comrades turned out from the bottom of their trunks their "best," and went ash.o.r.e in glossy coats and shining boots.

Most of us, however, awaited the coming of the morning.

I was up on deck at the earliest dawn of day. The steamer was at anchor close before the city, and I looked with no admiring eyes upon its flimsy white-washed houses and wooden spires, scattered about the base and sides of the cindery, earth-quaky hills upon which it is built. There was hardly a blade of gra.s.s or tree to be seen anywhere, except where the thriving European and American residents had perched themselves on one of the acclivities. The dwarfed trees here, moreover, all in a row before the little painted bird-cage-looking houses, appeared to have no more life of growth and color in them than so many painted semblances in a toy village.