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