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REFLECTIONS ON THANKSGIVING EVE.

ALL New-England has this day united in celebrating the great and joyous feast of the Puritans, in offering up thanks to the Giver of all good. It was a beautiful idea, (it could not have been an accidental coincidence) to fix on the same day as the jubilee of grateful hearts throughout the whole land of the original pilgrims; and it is to be hoped that it will be so in years to

come.

Surrounded by our friends the richest blessing in our cup of joy strong in health and rich in so many sources of happiness, it cannot be amiss to dwell upon the thought that all these blessings come from God, and loudly claim the gratitude of all his creatures. Thinking thus, upon the eve of this heartsome festival, I am led to analyze this sentiment of gratitude, to dwell upon its character and nature, its source and its object.

Gratitude is an emotion of delight, proceeding from a consciousness of obligation to another, prompting an acknowledgement of him as a benefactor. It is spontaneous and involuntary, the moment an obligation is perceived. Gratitude is a characteristic emotion. It is an instinct as innate as self-love. Convince me of being the object of another's favor; inspire me with a consciousness of having drawn benefit from his kindness and my gratitude rises up and flows as irresistibly, as a tear from the eye.

But, if this emotion is felt as soon as consciousness is entertained of having received a favor, ingratitude never exists but in the forgetfulness of another's kindness. The remembrance of benefits enjoyed is the only basis of grateful emotion. Thanks, uttered without reflection, or memory of blessing, are solemn mockery. On this day, appointed for me to express my thankfulness, unless my memory retraces the particulars among the numerous proofs around me, of the supreme benevolence of my Maker, I may have the joyous feelings created by the recurrence of the customary festival-I may have a bland complacency in my upward look of cheerfulness; but there is, after all, no throb of real gratitude in my bosom.

If it be ingratitude not to preserve the consciousness of being an object of kindness, how few render thanks and are truly grateful! Two causes seem to me to destroy the sense of obligation. Ours are blessings of every day; therefore we esteem them our right. They are shared by many; and therefore they are common and cheap. What, then, have we to be grateful for? Now, could I take the most heartless substitutor of thanks for gratitude, and persuade him into the momentary fancy that he were the

single occupant of the globe, and then point him to primeval chaos, and to the Spirit of God breathing life into dust, and stamping it with a heavenly impress, kindling the affections, lighting up intelligence, infusing moral power, ever guarding it when helpless, sustaining its infirmities, providing its sustenances, pitying its errors, rescuing it from death, and opening to it a pathway to immortality, I do not doubt that this solitary being would sink in lowliest adorations, and pour forth the full tide of overwhelming emotions, warm with gratitude and love! The theme of Providence is only trite, because it is perpetual. We forget the bounty, because it has an unceasing flow. The very affluence and constant supply of gifts keep the bounteous Giver from the view. If He were to do only once, what He is constantly doing, the blessing-seen, acknowledged, estimated — would enkindle the incense of warmest gratitude. If life were inclining downward to nothingness, if it were rushing on to destruction, and the hand of God snatched it on the verge, the heart would spring to the lips, impatient for grateful utterance. But, now that the silver chain of a never-failing Providence is let down from Heaven, by which life is upheld over the abyss of nothingness, and vibrates, but never falls, scious of dependence as if we were self-raised into being by our own wisdom and care.

we are as uncon

The proofs of an over-ruling Providence are hid in no secret cells. It is no gem from the heart of deep mines. It is no pearl from the profound caves of a fathomless sea. The eye cannot but fall on one of these proofs. Memory comes back loaded with treasured bounty. Hope, looking through life and death, sees only a perfect path to Heaven. There is food for gratitude in the meanest thing that gives me raiment, or sustenance, or pleasure, or satisfaction. Light! Thanks for light; for its gates were unbarred by the hands of God! Darkness! Thanks for its blessings! The same beneficent hands draw the curtains of night around me, and lull me to gentle rest. Providence wakes in those silent watches, and keeps the tide of life flowing on within me while I sleep. My thoughts should rise in gratitude, for my rest has been hallowed; my Father has been near, keeping watch and ward over me!

The most obvious of my blessings is creation. Existence is a gift of love, and it demands gratitude. Existence with animal sensations is a greater boon; but greater still is that inspiration by which man became a living soul.' Man is God's image. Man is intelligent, capable of elevated desires and of wide knowledge, of affection and esteem, - able to know and worship his Creator. Elevated thus above the brute creation, shall I be more thankless than its creatures ? 'The ox knoweth his owner,

and the ass his master's crib.' My limbs are fashioned with capacities to contribute to my comfort: should not this contemplation excite my gratitude? I ask of the blind-what is the worth of sight? of the cripples in yonder hospital, if they count lightly the exercise of the limbs? While thinking of the astonishing process constantly going on within my frame, necessary to my existence every moment, I cannot repress the feeling, that a miracle, wrought in its behalf, could hardly strike from a hard heart an ascription of grateful praise, sooner than this single thought.

Providential preservation deserves my thanks. Whose heart will not glow while recollecting the perils of infancy, whose weak complaints and cries were heard in Heaven? Who is there, that wraps his clothes around him against the bleak and biting winter's frost, or thinks of the stone-cold hearth of poverty, and can prevent his grateful spirit from rising up to Heaven? Health is breathed into our atmosphere by the same power that breathed the soul into our bodies. For our preservation, the year is crowned with plenty. The clouds distil their dews for us. For us, they fill their urns from the ocean, and ours are all the water-springs they enrich. And when the vallies, standing so thick with corn, are laughing and singing with natural gladness, it often occurs to my thoughts, that vegetation — without which the race of man would perish is in itself an operation, for the preservation of my species, more wonderful than would be the pouring forth from Heaven of manna to supply our annual wants.

Yet, this exultation over full garners and fertile fields, is hardly the joy of gratitude. It is the exuberant delight of plenty-the reward of successful culture. Had his Creator proposed to Adam, in Paradise, to bring him his daily sustenance, or, if he would bury a seed in the earth, He would cause it to rise up into a lofty tree, with branches loaded with fruit, what a miracle would it have seemed! It would have filled the soul of Adam with gratitude! But so it is; custom, and the alternations of the seasons, are too apt to impair our impressions of a present Deity.

I should be grateful for the constantly accumulating blessings of life for liberty and law, peace and home, kind friends, partners in sorrow and joy; for sorrow drooping to despair, making the heart better and soon yielding to reason, which brings it back to cheerfulness; for disappointments, which have taught wisdom; for trials, proving the strength of my trust in Providence; and for losses, making death welcome and Heaven dear.

And yet, methinks, all these blessings are but vanity, compared with other claims upon my gratitude. The harvest is past; the summer is ended; and I am thankful. Have I nothing else to thank God for ?

The Scriptures, the privileges of Christian worship, the means

of intercommunion with the Author of my being, the hope of future bliss beyond the grave; thinking on these things, fear and despair seem ingratitude, while the offspring of Hope is Gratitude. I reflect on the past-and the future seems brightly reflected upon it. Heaven has been my friend, and therefore will I give thanks to Heaven!

VISIT TO THE HUNTING ISLANDS.

FROM THE MS. OF A SOUTHERN SCHOOLMASTER.

THERE is a string of islands, occupying the middle third of the coast between Charleston and Savannah, which, from the grand sport of which they are the scene, and because they are good for nothing else, are called the Hunting Islands. They are uninhabited, and overrun with deer; and occasional parties of gentlemen are formed to go and spend a week there in hunting.

of

On Friday, the twenty-eighth of November, in pursuance such a hunting expedition, I stepped from the recitation-room into the bounding boat, (what a change!) and away we went. Did you ever move to the dipping of a dozen oars, measuring their strokes to the wild cadence of the boat song? We were ten, in three boats, with two dozen oarsmen - the distance about forty miles. We carried provisions for ten days-tents, beds; in short, all things requisite for house-keeping; besides warlike stores, and a pack of twelve fine hounds.

Away, through the winding channels of this island-worldnow we passed the neat plantation, with its village of white huts and black tenants; now we rounded the bare sand-island-the home of the sea-bird; now we coasted the wide marshes, overgrown with gigantic grass, enlivened only by the hoarse voice of the crane, the shrill cry of the curlew, and the dissatisfied cackle of the marsh hen. Here, the porpoise tumbled his huge bulk about, with clouds of gulls hovering over to catch the fish that he drove to the surface; there, the bank was covered with ten thousand sheerwaters, which arose with confused scream as we approached, and then swept, in their noiseless, beautiful flight, over the face of the water; anon, we were started by the hurtling of innumerable ducks, which swept past us and over us, clouding the air.

We had every variety of incident. The channels, as I have said, were intricate. We got aground fifty times, and shook our