W.W.
WRITTEN IMPROMPTU IN AN ALBUM
_Germantown, Phila., Dec. 26, '83_. In memory of these merry Christmas
days and nights--to my friends Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Churchie,
May, Gurney, and little Aubrey.... A heavy snow-storm blocking up
everything, and keeping us in. But souls, hearts, thoughts, unloos'd.
And so--one and all, little and big--hav'n't we had a good time?
W.W.
THE PLACE GRATITUDE FILLS IN A FINE CHARACTER
_From the Philadelphia Press, Nov. 27, 1884, (Thanksgiving number)_
_Scene_.--A large family supper party, a night or two ago, with voices
and laughter of the young, mellow faces of the old, and a by-and-by
pause in the general joviality. "Now, Mr. Whitman," spoke up one of
the girls, "what have you to say about Thanksgiving? Won't you give
us a sermon in advance, to sober us down?" The sage nodded smilingly,
look'd a moment at the blaze of the great wood fire, ran his
forefinger right and left through the heavy white mustache that might
have otherwise impeded his voice, and began: "Thanksgiving goes
probably far deeper than you folks suppose. I am not sure but it is
the source of the highest poetry--as in parts of the Bible. Ruskin,
indeed, makes the central source of all great art to be praise
(gratitude) to the Almighty for life, and the universe with its
objects and play of action.
"We Americans devote an official day to it every year; yet I sometimes
fear the real article is almost dead or dying in our self-sufficient,
independent Republic.
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