University of Virginia Library

THE THANKSGIVING OF THE HEART.

Our good ancestors were wise, even in their
mirth. We have a standing proof of this in the
season they chose for the celebration of our annual
festival, the Thanksgiving. The funeral-faced month
of November is thus made to wear a garland of joy,
and instead of associating the days of fog, like our
English relations, with sadness and suicide, we
hail them as the era of gladness and good living.

There is a deep moral influence in these periodical
seasons of rejoicing, in which a whole community
participate. They bring out, and together, as
it were, the best sympathies of our nature. The
rich contemplate the enjoyments of the poor with
complacency, and the poor regard the entertainments
of the rich without envy, because all are
privileged to be happy in their own way. Yet enjoyment
does not always imply happiness. There
is a disposition of mind which cannot, by any single

word in our language, be expressed. Philanthropy
will best signify it; yet its influence is so
different, as displayed in different situations, that it
is called, alternately, contentment, charity, resignation,
fortitude and love. These are all but modifications
of the desire to diffuse happiness—a spirit
that leads us to rejoice with the joyful, to cheer the
unfortunate, and always to look on the sunny side
of our path, gathering flowers where the repining
(usually the selfish) would see only thorns and
gravel.

It takes but little to make one happy when the
heart is right: but a repining disposition never yet
enjoyed a Thanksgiving. There is always some accident
or occurrence that mars the festival. The
turkey is over-roasted, or the sermon has been too
long; or, perchance, the ball-dress of a young lady
has not been sent home; or the hair-dresser has
failed in finishing the beau;—many are made
wretched by trifles light as these. But the heart
is not in such troubles. It is sheer selfishness that
makes the grief and vexations of which two-thirds
of the world complain. It is chagrin, not sorrow,
people feel; and they endure it, because they will
not cultivate the disposition to be happy. I always
consider good examples much more beneficial than
wise precepts; and the example of Margaret Lowe
was full of instruction to her sex, in that kind of

excellence which was the object of the heathen
philosophy, and is now of the Christian religion,
namely, the excellence of being happy.

Margaret was one of those favoured persons
whose wealth of hope had seemed inexhaustible.
Hume remarks that this temper is more to be coveted
than an income of ten thousand a-year; and
certain it is, that many possessed of that sum are
not so happy as was Mrs. Lowe, when deprived of
all but hope. The father of Margaret was once a
rich man, but in consequence of becoming surety
for a friend he was stripped of all his property, and
thrown into jail, where he died.

What a reward to the benevolence that prompted
him to assist his friend, and which did, in fact, give
thousands to the very men that oppressed him!
There is a defect in our free institutions, or the
rights of the individual would not thus be trampled,
and his feelings, and those of common humanity,
outraged. Margaret then learned a lesson of resignation
she never forgot. It was from her mother.
When a mother's example and precepts exactly
coincide, what a powerful effect they have on
her child!

“Your father is dead, Margaret,” she said, “and
he died in prison—but not in disgrace. The misfortunes
that befal us in our attempts to do good,
should never be regarded as troubles to repine at

or regret: they are only sorrows, and then we
should always study to be resigned. Had your
father wronged his friend, or been guilty of a dishonourable
action, we might with propriety have
indulged in mourning and despair. But such
gloomy feelings ought only to be cherished by the
guilty; and we will thank God that your father
was kept from the temptation to evil—that he died
innocent.”

The mother and daughter knelt down together,
and the prayer they breathed was not all complaint.
Margaret was handsome and portionless.

“It is best for you, my dear, to be without a
fortune,” said her mother. “You will not now be
addressed by any man who does not really believe
you will make him a good wife. It will be in your
power to fulfil such an expectation; whereas, had
you wealth, your husband might expect more happiness
from that than he would ever have enjoyed.
Riches are always over estimated; the enjoyment
they give is more in the pursuit than the possession.”

It was by such instructions, always given in a
kind tone, and with a cheerful countenance, that
the mind of Margaret was developed; and when
she gave her hand to Thomas Lowe, a fine young
man in the employment of a company of merchants
trading to South America and the East Indies, she

was possessed of every requisite to be beloved as a
bride, and better still, of the qualities which secure
esteem for the wife.

Mr. Lowe was not rich, but he was of a good
family, and had enough to begin the world with all
the eclat necessary to entitle him to a place in select
society; and for a few years Margaret not only
mingled in the first circles, but in accordance with
her husband's taste, which, it must be confessed,
was rather too much addicted to show, she was a
star in the galaxy of fashion. He was unwise in
this, but then he was not selfish in his extravagance.
He thought his wife would be happier to be thus
distinguished; and she did enjoy it, but it was only
because it appeared to gratify him; and when he
was about taking his last voyage, which he expected
would detain him eighteen months, she
begged to retire to the village of Dorchester, where
she and her mother had resided, and pass the time
of his absence in quiet. He accordingly took a
pleasant cottage, and left her in the possession of
every elegance money could command. But he
did not calculate for contingencies; he did not expect
his voyage would prove unfortunate. How
few that are in health, and rich in hope, do arrange
either their estates or their minds to meet calamity!

Margaret's mind was, in some measure, prepared;
and well for her that it was; for before the

eighteen months had expired, news came that the
vessel in which her husband sailed had been
wrecked and lost, and many of the crew had perished.

Her husband, however, she learned, had escaped;
but nothing further concerning him. Another year
passed, and Margaret had exhausted the funds her
husband had provided for her support; though
these had been, for the last few months, very prudently
managed. She had three children—the
youngest born after her husband's departure. How
was she to be supported—herself and three children?
Her mother was dead—she had no relations.
The subject was the talk and wonder of her
fashionable acquaintance; for she was a delicate
woman, and her husband had always been tender
of her, as though she were the apple of his eye.
True, he had not been exactly economical, had not
studied thrift, but he had studied her gratification;
and did his kindness and generosity deserve to be
repaid by the treachery of affection she would have
manifested, had she made no effort to prevent sinking
to that state of dependence which must have
been so painfully felt by him when he returned?

Margaret had a true woman's heart; willing, indeed
proud, to depend on the man she loved, and
who had vowed to protect her; and she had also a
delicacy (or pride) in her affection for him, which

would not permit her to complain, or to solicit assistance
from others, lest some implication of bad
management, or neglect of his family, might be cast
upon her husband. The dignity and decision of
her character were now unfolded, and the resources
within her own power of performance exerted;
and she was never so self-satisfied, never happier,
even when in the height of prosperity and fashion,
than now, when she plied her needle for hours after
every light in the neighbourhood was out: and
then lay softly down beside her sleeping children,
confident that she had earned enough that day to
buy them food for the morrow. Her two eldest
boys were of an age to comprehend her when she
talked to them of their father. They soon caught
her enthusiasm; and to have every thing nice and
in order when their father returned, for she confidently
expected his return, stimulated them to do
a thousand things they would otherwise have
thought a task. And then at school, how diligently
they studied, because they studied with all their
hearts.

“If you learn your lesson well, my love, you
shall say it to your father when he comes home,”
was, from their mother's lips, sufficient to arouse
either of them, whenever they seemed yielding to
that mental indolence which at times will nearly
overcome the energies of the most intelligent children.

And then, instead of playing, they worked
every spare hour in their little garden, planting
seeds and flower-roots, and watering them with as
much zeal in the rain as the sunshine, that they
might grow the faster, and blow by the time their
father came home.

They expected him so confidently in the beginning
of summer, that not a rose was allowed to be
plucked from the large bush which grew near the
door, and which they wanted he should see in full
bloom. Even the baby knew that bush was kept
for papa—and would point with his little hand to
the garden, when asking for a flower. These trifling
incidents had a sweet and comforting effect on
Margaret's mind. They confirmed her more and
more in the resolution to support her children till
their father came home; and she felt the enjoyment
of their innocent society, their sympathy, was a
pleasure for which the world could offer her no
substitute. Happiness is, in truth, a very cheap
thing, when the heart will be contented to traffic
with nature—art has quite a different price.

But the summer passed away, the roses were
gone, and still the wanderer did not return. The
villagers began to talk seriously to Mrs. Lowe
about her children. They told her she never
could maintain them all,—never could bring up
boys as they should be brought up; and that it was

her duty to place her children with those who
would take them.

Mrs. Lowe scarce ever wept, but at these solicitations.
When the zeal of her well-meaning, but
often injudicious friends, urged upon her their
opinion that her husband would not return very
soon, if at all—that it was impossible she could
maintain her children, and that she was wearing
herself out in the attempt, she would weep bitterly.
But the moment she was alone, her confidence and
cheerfulness returned. She felt certain then—when
there was no one by to damp, by a slow shake of
the head, or a sad glance of the eye (I dislike a
shake of the head the most), the ardour of her feelings—that
Thomas would soon return; and then
how glad he would be to see how the children had
grown, and how they had improved; and that she
had taken care of them.

It requires but a few threads of hope, for the
heart that is skilled in the secret, to weave a web
of happiness. It is true, Margaret altered the
figures of her web as often as Penelope of old, but
the latter never laboured more perseveringly to
delineate the proud achievements her husband
had performed, than did the former to persuade
herself of the excellent things her Thomas would
yet do.

But this was not to last. Early in October, news
of the death of Thomas Lowe reached the village.
Margaret was for some days incredulous; but the
source from whence the intelligence was derived,
seemed to admit little room for doubt. There was
not a person in the town at all surprised by the
news. Every one affirmed that they had for
months been confident he was dead: and they wondered
Margaret had not foreseen and prepared for
it—wondered that she should be so overcome.
They knew not what treasures of the heart, what
rich fancies had been destroyed, rent, seemingly
from her very grasp, by the blow. She had connected
every bright vision of the future with her
husband's return; and the affection of the mother
could not immediately gather up the fragments of
her shattered hopes, and mould them anew, to fabricate
fair destinies for her little ones. But she
did do this. And she saw her sons handsome
(but that they were in reality) and intelligent, and
respected, and rich. Truly the heart has a deep
and wonderful power. Does it not seem cruel
that stern fate should so often destroy those illusions
which are giving happiness to virtue, and
connecting success with exertion?

Margaret had one sorrow, which she did not
dare to ponder, for she felt yet unequal to devising

means to escape it, or of summoning fortitude to
endure it. It was the thought how her children
were to be supported, for she had not anticipated
that she must always do it. From this idea she
shuddered and shrunk as from a drawn sword.
But these feelings had a salutary effect. They
brought her more and more to see how impotent
would be her own efforts; till she finally cast all
her cares on Him who is peculiarly pledged to
sustain the widow and fatherless. Her warm heart
and enthusiastic mind seemed fitted to enjoy, in
devotion, all that happiness which hope gives—
when it gives us heaven. The earth—I have no
disposition to rail at our planet, or undervalue its
blessings—but the earth is a poor, barren place,
when we are, in our wishes and hopes, confined
entirely to its chances and changes for our felicity.

There are few sensations more painful, than, in
the midst of deep grief, to know that the season
which we have always associated with mirth and rejoicing
is at hand. The contrast of our former with
our present situation, is then brought home to the

heart so forcibly, so acutely, that we must mourn.
Margaret felt this depression as the day appointed
for our annual Thanksgiving approached, and it
seemed as if her eyes were a fountain of tears.
Her neighbours pitied her—they did more, they
strove to console her; and many an invitation for
her and her children to dine, and spend the day
abroad, was urged upon her. But she said she
could not go—her heart was too full of sorrow to
permit her to witness happiness—enjoy it she could
not; and she begged to be allowed to stay in the
solitude of her own home, where she could indulge
her feelings without dampening the mirth which
the happy and fortunate had a right to enjoy.

Her friends saw she was decided, and forbore
to urge her; but they made the festivities of the
season an excuse for sending her a variety and
abundance of good things—indeed, nearly enough
to stock her larder for the winter. The kind and
considerate manner in which these favours were
bestowed, and their seasonableness, affected Mrs.
Lowe with a deep sense of the protecting care of
God, who had thus, as it were, touched the hearts
of all the people in her behalf. She renewed her
resolution to be resigned. She strove to conquer
the weakness of grief, to which she had for some
days been yielding; and she was so far successful,

that, on the morning of the Thanksgiving, she
appeared with a placid, almost smiling face, and
her children, who watched her countenance, and
took the tone of their feelings from her's, were as
gay as birds.

She prepared herself and her children for their
dinner with all the exactness in her power. Her
mourning habiliments made the delicacy of her
complexion appear almost transparent. There are
but few women that look well in black: Margaret
did. It seemed to remedy the only fault which
could have been found in her figure—namely,
height. She was short, but black apparel always
makes a woman look taller than she really is; and
Margaret's symmetrical form appeared to fine advantage
in her black gown; and her round, white
neck, from beneath the folds of her crape handkerchief,
seemed like a sunbeam from a cloud. Sorrow
had touched her fair cheek, but it was only
with its softening power; the blight had not yet
fallen. Margaret was pale, but not wasted—anxious,
but not careworn; for her troubles had only
weighed heavily during the last six weeks. But
still the change in her appearance was so apparent
that many who saw her were astonished. The
sickness of the heart soon and surely displays itself
in the countenance—

Was Margaret destined thus to struggle with
adversity, and fade, and wear away in her efforts
to support her children? She was beginning to
hope better things, for she was naturally inclined
to be happy. As she arrayed her little ones in
their new suits, the wearing of which make, in
most families, an indispensable part of the privileges
of the day, and arranged their bright glossy
hair, she thought there was not three lovelier children
in the world—nor three better—and why
should she complain? There was poor Mrs. Horton
had an idiot child, and Mrs. Pool a deaf child,
and Mrs. Savage a blind child, and some of her
neighbours had sick children, and some had disobedient
children—“But mine,” said she to herself,
“mine are all good and healthy, and happy; and
they can learn, yes, they can learn—and I will
teach them all I can, and, by-and-by, they will
begin to help themselves. O, how many blessings
I have to be thankful for! And I am thankful.”
And she burst into tears.

Margaret Lowe's next neighbour was Mrs. Savage.
She was a kind woman (notwithstanding
her name), and, when her dinner was nearly ready,
she said to her daughter Jane—

“My dear, I wish you would just step over to
Mrs. Lowe's, and see if you can persuade her to
come and dine with us—she must be so lonely
there;—if Mr. Cummings (he was Jane's intended)
would accompany you, and assist in helping
the children along, I cannot but think she would
come.”

The young lady and her lover very willingly
obeyed. She pitied Mrs. Lowe from her heart,
because she was herself about to be married to a
lieutenant in the navy; and who knew but he too
might die, far, far away from his home, and leave
his wife, like Margaret, to mourn! Such thoughts
always came home to Jane's heart, when she heard
Mrs. Lowe mentioned. As for William Cummings,
he had been intimately acquainted with
Mr. Lowe—had sailed several voyages with him,
and acknowledged one obligation from him which
he said he should never forget. What the service
was he had never told; but, as he alluded to it during
their walk, Jane ventured to inquire.

“I cannot tell you, Jane,” said the young man—
“we were engaged in an adventure which we promised
never to reveal without the consent of each
other. And though now the matter might safely be
told, yet, as I never had his consent, I never can
reveal it.”

“But he is dead,” said Jane.

“That does not release me from my promise,
love. I vowed never to tell it without his consent.”

“Ask his wife, then,” said Jane, smiling. “She
and her husband were both one, you know,—if she
consents—”

Lieutenant Cummings was ringing at the door
of Margaret's house, and did not listen to the conclusion
of his Jane's argument. No step was heard
approaching the door, and after a moment's pause,
Jane, being in the habit of calling often, entered
without ceremony, and, passing through the entry,
threw open the door of the small room, where
Margaret usually sat with her children.

“Good heavens!—her husband,” cried Jane.

“Ah! it is indeed Lowe!” said lieutenant Cummings.

And so it was. And a happier group was never
seen. There was Mr. Lowe, his two eldest boys,
one on each knee, with their bright cheeks laid
close to his sunburnt face. They both remembered,
or thought they remembered, their father. But
the little one was more shy. He clung to his mother's
neck, and, as Jane and her lover entered,
Mrs. Lowe, who had been trying to persuade
Charley to kiss papa, had so far succeeded, that the

child had raised his head from her bosom, and she
was holding him towards her husband, her own
sweet face all radiant with smiles, though tears
were swelling in her bright blue eyes;—but tears
of joy have a very different effect from those of
sorrow.

“What a lovely woman Mrs. Lowe is,” said
Jane, as she and her lover were wending their way
home; “and she will be so happy now, for she
has a heart made for happiness.”

“It will be a real Thanksgiving of the Heart to
them, or to her,” said Lieutenant Cummings.

“And why, in particular, to her?” inquired
Jane.

“Because she has sought her happiness in the
performance of her duties—in the cultivation of the
benevolent affections—in making others happy.
When such exertions are crowned with success, I
cannot think earth has a more perfect felicity for
the human heart.”

Would that all who celebrate our annual festival,
might enjoy such felicity. And who that has ever
sought, has failed to obtain it?