Thanksgiving Day.
There be those of us whose memories, though
vexed with an oyster-rake would not yield matter
for gratitude, and whose piety though strained
through a sieve would leave no trace of an object
upon which to lavish thanks. It is easy enough,
with a waistcoat selected for the occasion, to eat
one's proportion of turkey and hide away one's
allowance of wine; and if this be returning thanks,
why then gratitude is considerably easier, and
vastly more agreeable, than falling off a log, and
may be acquired in one easy lesson without a
master. But if more than this be required—if to
be grateful means anything beyond being gluttonous,
your true philosopher—he of the severe
brow upon which logic has stamped its eternal
impress, and from whose heart sentiment has been
banished along with other small vices—your true
philosopher, say we, will think twice before he
“crooks the pregnant hinges of the knee” in
humble observance of the day.
For here is the nut of reason he is obliged to
crack before he can obtain the kernel of emotion
proper to the day. Unless the blessings we enjoy
are favours from the Omnipotent, to be grateful
is to be absurd. If they are, then, also the ills
with which we are afflicted have the same origin.
Grant this, and you make an offset of the latter
against the former, or are driven either to the
ridiculous position that we must be equally grateful
for both evils and blessings, or the no less
ridiculous one that all evils are blessings in
disguise.
But the truth is, my fine friend, your annual
gratitude is a sorry sham, a cloak, my good
fellow, to cover your unhandsome gluttony; and
when by chance you do take to your knees, it is
only that you prefer to digest your bird in that
position. We understand your case accurately,
and the hard sense we are poking at you is not a
preachment for your edification, but a bit of harmless
fun fo our own diversion. For, look you!
there is really a subtle but potent relation between
the gratitude of the spirit and the stuffing of the
flesh.
We have ever taught the identity of Soul and
Stomach; these are but different names for one
object considered under differing aspects. Thankfulness
we believe to be a kind of ether evolved by
the action of the gastric fluid upon rich meats.
Like all gases it ascends, and so passes out of the
œsophagus in prayer and psalmody. This beautiful
theory we have tested by convincing experiments
in the manner following:—
Experiment 1st.—A quantity of grass was placed
in a large bladder, and a gill of the gastric fluid of
a sheep introduced. In ten minutes the neck of
the bladder emitted a contented bleat.
Experiment 2nd.—A pound of beef was substituted
for the grass, and the fluid of a dog for that of the
sheep. The result was a cheerful bark, accompanied
by an agitation of the bottom of the bladder, as if
it were attempting to wag an imaginary tail.
Experiment 3rd.—The bladder was charged with
a handful of chopped turkey, and an ounce of
human gastric juice obtained from the Coroner.
At first, nothing but a deep sigh of satisfaction
escaped from the neck of the bladder, followed by
an unmistakeable grunt, similar to that of a hog.
Upon increasing the proportion of turkey, and
confining the gas, the bladder was very much
distended, appearing to suffer great uneasiness.
The restriction being removed, the neck distinctly
articulated the words “Praise God, from whom all
blessings flow!”
Against such demonstration as this any mere
theological theorizing is of no avail.
