Thouanti-climax in life's wrinkled page,Worst end of bad beginning—helpless Age!Thou sow'st the thorn, though long the flower hath fled;Alive to torment, but to transport dead;Imposing still, through time's still rough'ning road,With strength diminish'd, an augmented load:Slow herald of the tomb! sent but to makeMan curse that giftless gift thou wilt not take;When hope and patience both give up the strife,Death is thy cure—for thy disease is life!
Thouanti-climax in life's wrinkled page,Worst end of bad beginning—helpless Age!Thou sow'st the thorn, though long the flower hath fled;Alive to torment, but to transport dead;Imposing still, through time's still rough'ning road,With strength diminish'd, an augmented load:Slow herald of the tomb! sent but to makeMan curse that giftless gift thou wilt not take;When hope and patience both give up the strife,Death is thy cure—for thy disease is life!
I.
Awake—awake! for the day-beams break,And the morning wind blows free;The huntsmen strain over hill and plain,And the horn winds merrily!'Tis the dawn of day; and the shadows playO'er the paths in the woody glen;And the scent lies still upon field and hill,For the hound to thread again.Away—away! while the morn is gray,And the feathery mist hangs nigh;The hound bays deep from the craggy steep,And the horn winds merrily!
Awake—awake! for the day-beams break,And the morning wind blows free;The huntsmen strain over hill and plain,And the horn winds merrily!'Tis the dawn of day; and the shadows playO'er the paths in the woody glen;And the scent lies still upon field and hill,For the hound to thread again.Away—away! while the morn is gray,And the feathery mist hangs nigh;The hound bays deep from the craggy steep,And the horn winds merrily!
II.
Press on—press on! o'er the dewy lawn,And through the greenwood still;The brook is passed, and the stag breathes fast,As he pants on yonder hill.The sun peeps now from the mountain's brow,And the wild bird carolls free,While the hot steeds drink at the brook's green brink,And the hounds lag heavily.But hark! again through the tangled glen,Over meadow, and wood, and lea,The deep-mouth'd pack resume the track,And the horn winds merrily!
Press on—press on! o'er the dewy lawn,And through the greenwood still;The brook is passed, and the stag breathes fast,As he pants on yonder hill.The sun peeps now from the mountain's brow,And the wild bird carolls free,While the hot steeds drink at the brook's green brink,And the hounds lag heavily.But hark! again through the tangled glen,Over meadow, and wood, and lea,The deep-mouth'd pack resume the track,And the horn winds merrily!
Wilmington, (Del.,) Nov., 1837.Hack Von Stretcher.
AN AUTHENTIC STORY FROM REAL LIFE.
Itwas in the early days of Codman county, that Eldred Worthington swung his axe upon his shoulder, and departed to seek his fortune in her almost untrodden wilds. Like thousands of others, the early pioneers of our land, he 'kept bachelor's hall,' until he had 'made an opening, and reared his rustic cot.' Then, with buoyant heart, he returned to the place of his nativity, to claim the plighted hand of Miss Abiah Perley, to become his help-mate in his future home.
To those who know any thing of the difficulties encountered by the first settlers, it will be unnecessary to portray the toils and hardships they had to overcome, before the savage was driven farther back to his forest-lair. They went forward, growing with the growth of the place; and, in a series of years, rearing a family of eight sons and four daughters. It was a natural wish of the parents that their children should not suffer for want of education, as they themselves had done in early life; and hence they yielded to their particular wishes. Benjamin, the eldest, desired to be a limb of the law; the second was for physic, and had his choice; and Thomas, the third, also, was much gratified, when arrangements were made for his departure to a neighboring sea-port, to serve a mercantile apprenticeship.His father was so fortunate as to place him in the house of an old acquaintance, Mr. John Howard, one of the first merchants of the city. This gentleman, having commenced life with nothing but his hands, had become extensively concerned in commerce. It was the very field for the mercantile propensity of Thomas. He devoted himself with unceasing assiduity; won the confidence of his employer; was made supercargo of his vessels in several voyages; and finally, as the good ship Ajax was bound on an East India voyage, he again bade farewell to his friends, and went forth upon the distant seas. He was faithful to the important trusts reposed in him. The ship was laden and ready to return; when, to the sad dismay of all on board, who were greatly attached to him, he could not be found! Every effort was made, for weeks and weeks, but the ship was finally compelled to sail without him.
Sad was the news for his disconsolate parents, and his good master, Mr. Howard. Conjecture followed conjecture, but all was mysterious and appalling. The Ajax returned again to the Indies. The strictest injunctions were made by Mr. Howard, that no efforts should be wanting in the endeavor to discover the fate which had befallen his young friend. Captain Bradshaw, a most excellent man, was indefatigable; but deeply did he deplore the day that once more compelled him to weigh anchor, without the slightest tidings to cheer the anxious parents. Though no voyage was made to the Indies for many years afterward, without all possible inquiries, yet the conviction had almost ripened into certainty, that the young man had been murdered, perhaps in the hope of booty, at his last visit to the shore, among an unknown people.
Yearsrolled away. The region of Codman county advanced rapidly in settlement, enterprise, and industry. Where once stood the farm of the elder Worthington, now the thriving, bustling, and enterprising village of Weckford shot up its aspiring head, with its immense factories, its capacious stores, and rich and tasteful dwellings. It was upon the banks of one of the noblest rivers in the world, where the elder Worthington had sagaciously sat himself down, relying upon his axe and his arm. But how little did he think, that ere fifty years had rolled away, the acres he then reclaimed would become the abode of thousands, and himself thereby rendered one of the wealthiest men of Codman county. Yet this is but one case of that talismanic power which has converted the forest into cities, and given to the poor great riches, in the mighty march of enterprise, industry, and intelligence, in the marvellous realm of the New World. Weckford had become a place of great note. It was a central point of trade for the surrounding country, which was peopling with astonishing rapidity; and all contributed to give an importance to the family of the Worthingtons. They were not only very rich, but were eminent in the estimation of 'all the region round about.' The sons had grown up under all the advantages which wealth and connexion could impart. They had studied learned professions, as a matter of course, and settled in Weckford,relying upon the immense wealth which the extraordinary rise of property had poured into the lap of the family. Honors thickened upon them. Benjamin was twice elected to congress, and all the brothers were at times elevated to favor in the municipality, or the honors of state partialities.
The father and mother of this numerous family were now in the vale of years. The prudence, economy, and simplicity, which won the esteem of all, and laid the foundation of their wealth, continued to shed a benign influence over their declining days. They were the very antipodes of the new races who had come upon the stage of human action; and often did they deplore, in the bosom of their own domestic circle, that heartless etiquette and cold formality, which had rendered their children so ambitious to outshine others, and to be looked up to as the exclusives of Weckford. But there was a deeper feeling still, which hung heavily over their wasting years; the painful disappearance of their son, who had ever been their favorite, but who had also been regarded by the brothers and sisters with that unnatural jealousy which such a feeling is apt to beget in the minds of mere worldlings. In October of this year, the aged veteran was forewarned, by the insidious influences of flickering mortality, that he was soon to be 'gathered to his fathers:'
'For Time, though old, is strong in flight;Years had rolled swiftly by,And Autumn's falling leaf foretold,The good old man must die;'
'For Time, though old, is strong in flight;Years had rolled swiftly by,And Autumn's falling leaf foretold,The good old man must die;'
and, with the prudence, foresight, and calmness, which had actuated him through all his well-spent life, he sent for his estimable attorney, the honorable Phillip Longfellow, and by his 'last will and testament' divided his immense estate equally among his children; but an especial provision was inserted, reserving in the hands of a trustee, during the period of twenty years, an equal portion of the whole estate for Thomas, the income of which was to be annually divided among all the children. The trustee was to use all diligence in the almost 'forlorn hope' of endeavoring to gain tidings of the long-lost son. The widow, beside her 'thirds,' had some benefices, which were to go to the lost son, should he ever be discovered; but if no intelligence should be gained, within the twenty years, then the whole reservations were to be equally divided among the other children.
Winter at length came, with its awful severity to lengthened life, and the good old Mr. Worthington, mourned by all the villagers, was followed to the family vault, in the Oaklands of Mount Pleasant, at the ripe age of ninety-eight years. There is a wedded sympathy between those who have been united in true love, that but ripens with the lapse of time. Sixty-nine years had passed away, since Miss Abiah Perley left her paternal abode, for the rude but rural cot of Weckford. She had lived, during this long period, in the bonds of holy love, a pattern of affection, kindness, and peace; and the death of her husband severed a chord which nothing on earth had power to unite. It weaned her affections from this world, andshe sighed only to join him in that 'better country' to which, in the fullness of time, he had been called away; and in less than two years afterward, the last rites of earth were performed over her departed spirit, as her mortal ashes were laid beside his to whom her soul had so long been wedded.
Severalyears had now elapsed since the death of the parents. Weckford had continued to advance in population and wealth; and, as a consequence, the Worthingtons had grown richer and richer. They had indeed attained the apparent summit of their ambition, for none assumed to rival them in fashion, wealth, or importance. They were the leaders of the ton, and the very apex of the élite, in all things.
There were two principal streets in the village of Weckford, stretching along the banks of the river, as far as the eye could reach; and the offices, stores, dwellings, and factories of the Worthingtons, their children, and connexions, were everywhere to be seen. Many of the mansions, along Pleasant-street, were embellished with balustrades, where the residents, at the close of the labors of the day, came forth to enjoy the sweet odors from the flowers of the gardens, the ornamental trees of the walks, and the cooling breezes from off the beautiful river. It was at such an hour, that a stranger, clad in miserable tatters, with a long beard, dishevelled ringlets, and leaning upon a rough stick, cut from the woods, tottered slowly and feebly into the village.
'Will you tell me,' said the stranger, inquiring at the door of a descendant of the Worthingtons, 'where the dwelling of Thomas Worthington, Esq. is?'
'It is that noble edifice which you see yonder, beyond the long row of factories.'
The inquirer moved slowly on, apparently scarce able to sustain himself, from physical imbecility. He was met at the outer gate by a servant.
'Will you tell your master that a distant relation, from across the water, who has experienced many misfortunes, desires to see him?'
The servant returned, and ushered the traveller into the outer hall; and in a few minutes, the owner of the mansion appeared.
'I am, Sir, your supplicant,' said the stranger. 'You doubtless recollect, that a brother of your mother, residing in Scotland, had many sons. Misfortunes have thickened upon one of them. He is poor, and, from a recent loss of every thing by shipwreck, is now pennyless. He begs a lodging at your hands, and something wherewith to clothe his almost naked frame.'
'I have nothing to give to stragglers,' said the lord of the mansion. 'Most persons like you are impostors.'
'Iam no impostor,' said the petitioner; 'here is proof that I am not,' taking a letter from the American consul from his pocket; 'but I am your poor unfortunate cousin; and if you will but relieve my pressing wants, Providence may put it into my power to reward your kindness.'
'I repeat, I have nothing to give; and I should advise you to get some daily work to supply your wants.'
The stranger heaved a deep sigh, and left the house. He tottered on. It was impossible to pass many dwellings, without encountering one owned and occupied by a Worthington, or his descendant. He called upon many; told his misfortunes, and solicited relief; butallwere deaf to his petition, and most of them shut the door in his face.
Late in the evening, an old Quaker gentleman, who accidentally heard the 'poor relation's' story, while passing the door of one of the Worthingtons, offered him a lodging and supper. He went with the benevolent old gentleman; and on the following morning he again wandered forth, to renew his calls of the day before. It was observed that he was very particular not to neglect to call upon everysonof the deceased Mr. Worthington. He expended several days in this way, but every where there appeared the same undisguised dread of a 'poor relation.'
At length, he sought the magnificent dwelling of the Honorable Benjamin Worthington, which was situated about two miles from the main settlement of the village of Weckford. It stood upon a commanding eminence, which overlooked the village, and was justly regarded as one of the most delightful rural retreats that the country could boast. After going through the usual ceremonies of the door, he was introduced to the business-office of the 'Oaklands Mansion.' Presently, the Hon. Mr. Worthington appeared. The stranger repeated his solicitation for relief, and his claim as a relation; but here, too, he met nothing but coldness and neglect.
'Then,' said the stranger, 'if you will not relieve the wants of your most unfortunate cousin, perhaps I can tell you something that will move your pity. You had a brother Thomas, who, many long years ago, most mysteriously disappeared?'
'Yes,' said the honorable gentleman; 'but he is no doubt dead, long and long ago.'
'He isNOTdead!' said the stranger, 'but after an age of misery and misfortunes, he has returned in poverty and in rags; and now solicits you to clothe and feed him.'
'Impossible!' exclaimed the Honorable Mr. Worthington.
'Here is a mark upon my arm, received by a burn, when a child, which proves the truth of what I say,' said the long-lost son.
Horror seemed to convulse the frame of the lord of the Oaklands. 'Take this note,' said he; 'go to the Swan Hotel, a small tavern directly upon the road, about two miles beyond this, and I will come to you with some clothes, and money to provide you a passage over the seas.'
The stranger departed; but not to the Swan inn did he bend his footsteps. He wandered to the confines of Weckford, where he was told that a distant relation of the Worthingtons lived, in a small cottage, a few miles beyond. Here he resolved once more to make himself known. He did so; and found the inmate, the widow of a cousin who had come to this country, and settled many years before, in a neighboring sea-port. He had died, leaving a very small property to his widow, and an only child. Mrs. Amelia Perley—for this was the name of the young widow—was overjoyed to see a relative of her 'dear husband,' although in rags. She bade himwelcome to her table; provided some proper clothing for him at once; and with a sweet smile, that added new pleasure to the offer, she proffered him a home beneath her humble cottage, until he should find one more congenial. The poor stranger accepted the favor of the kind-hearted widow, with becoming thankfulness, and remained under her roof a short time; but at length suddenly and mysteriously disappeared! Whither he had gone, his kind hostess knew not, and the rich Worthingtons took no pains to inquire. They were not a little delighted to be so easily rid of a 'poor relation,' who might have been a burthen, and a shame; but most of all was rejoiced the Hon. Benjamin Worthington, to whom the disclosure of his relationship had been so alarming.
Time passed on, and the disappearance of the mendicant was forgotten in the whirl of fashion, business, and pleasure; although the honorable elder brother was now and then visited by a painful recollection of the 'unfortunate' mark upon the arm of the returned wanderer.
Itwas a holiday in Weckford. Business was suspended, and the people were abroad, participating in the pastimes of the day. A superb carriage, with four white horses, and servants in livery, drove through Pleasant-street, and stopped at the 'Mansion-House,' the first hotel of Weckford. Parlors were taken in the name of 'Mr. Edmund Perley, and servants, from Scotland.' Forthwith it went upon the wings of rumor, that 'the rich Mr. Perley had arrived from Scotland.' As the Worthingtons were aware that the relations of their mother were reputed to be very rich in Scotland, they gathered to the hotel, in great numbers, to offer their respects, and solicit the pleasure of the Honorable Mr. Perley's acquaintance. Day after day did the Worthingtons, and all the descendants, down to the lowest contiguity of blood, pour into the 'Mansion-House,' to 'beg the honor of the rich and Honorable Mr. Perley's visits.' The carriage of the 'Hon. Benjamin Worthington' was out from the Oaklands, and the barouche of 'Edward Worthington, Esq.' from the 'Worthington Mansion.' There was neither end to the family outpouring, nor to their solicitude to bestow attentions. The stranger was polite in his replies; and at last, in return, he invited all his kind relatives to honor him at his levee, at 'the Mansion.'
There never was such an outpouring of Worthingtons. The great halls of the 'Mansion-House' were filled to repletion. All was gayety, beauty, and fashion. It was a magnificent assemblage of the richest and most respectable families of the town; and each one was most anxious to outstrip the others in doing honors to 'the rich and distinguished Mr. Perley, from abroad;' when the 'poor relation' made his appearance, in the midst of the brilliant assembly, dressed in precisely the same clothes in which he wandered through the village, and holding in his hand the same uncouth stick, cut from the wilds, which supported his feeble steps from house to house!
It would be impossible to delineate the various countenances which were there exhibited. We must leave the filling up of that picture to the imagination of the reader. It is only necessary toadd, that the stranger was the long-lost Thomas, who had made an immense fortune in the Indies. He now immediately took steps to carry out the will of his beloved parent, receiving all the property it gave him. In the year following, he purchased the delightful retreat of 'Auburn Grove,' where he erected a charming residence. He soon after led to the altar the amiable and affectionate young widow, Mrs. Amelia Perley, who was not too proud to welcome him to her humble cottage, as a relative of her departed husband, even though he appeared there in the borrowed tatters of poverty and misfortune. It was a lesson which is often repeated by the villagers at Weckford, and will do no harm by being repeated elsewhere.
I.
Is ita bliss to see a crowdGazing on thee,Or like a gilded insect proudIn flattery sun thee?Is not there a dearer thing,Than when a fop, with painted wing,Too poor to bless, too weak to sting,Dreams he has won thee?
Is ita bliss to see a crowdGazing on thee,Or like a gilded insect proudIn flattery sun thee?Is not there a dearer thing,Than when a fop, with painted wing,Too poor to bless, too weak to sting,Dreams he has won thee?
II.
Is it bliss to think thy charmsAre lauded ever;That all would rush into thy arms,And leave thee never?O! is it not a sweeter thought,That onlyONEthy love has sought,And in his soul that love is wrought,So deep it cannot sever?
Is it bliss to think thy charmsAre lauded ever;That all would rush into thy arms,And leave thee never?O! is it not a sweeter thought,That onlyONEthy love has sought,And in his soul that love is wrought,So deep it cannot sever?
III.
Is it bliss to hear thy praiseBy all repeated;To dream a round of sunny days,Then find thee cheated?O! happier the hidden flowerWithin a far secluded bower,Whither some mind of gentle powerHas long retreated!
Is it bliss to hear thy praiseBy all repeated;To dream a round of sunny days,Then find thee cheated?O! happier the hidden flowerWithin a far secluded bower,Whither some mind of gentle powerHas long retreated!
IV.
Is it not bliss to hear thy nameFrom lips so holy?O! better than the transient flameThat circles folly.If thou art lovely, thou wilt findPure worship from so pure a mind;And love that will not leave behindOne taint of melancholy.
Is it not bliss to hear thy nameFrom lips so holy?O! better than the transient flameThat circles folly.If thou art lovely, thou wilt findPure worship from so pure a mind;And love that will not leave behindOne taint of melancholy.
Written in 1828.J. G. Percival.
'Flowrets, that shine like small blue stars in the green firmament of the Earth.'—Carové.
Spakefull well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he call'd the flowers so blue and goldenStars, that in Earth's firmament do shine.Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As Astrologers and Seers of Eld;Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars which they beheld.Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowretsunder us,Stands the revelation of his love.Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this brave world of ours,Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, the golden flowers.And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees alike in stars and flowers a partOf the self-same universal beingWhich is throbbing in his brain and heart.Gorgeous flowrets, in the sun-light shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay!Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light,Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!These in flowers and men are more than seeming;Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.Every where about us are they glowing;Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born,Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the yellow corn.Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield.Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequester'd pools, in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink.Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone;But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carv'd in stone.In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.[2]In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.And with child-like, credulous affection,We behold their tender buds expand,Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.
Spakefull well, in language quaint and olden,One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,When he call'd the flowers so blue and goldenStars, that in Earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,As Astrologers and Seers of Eld;Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,God hath written in those stars above;But not less in the bright flowretsunder us,Stands the revelation of his love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,Written all over this brave world of ours,Making evident our own creation,In these stars of earth, the golden flowers.
And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,Sees alike in stars and flowers a partOf the self-same universal beingWhich is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowrets, in the sun-light shining,Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,Buds that open only to decay!
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,Flaunting gaily in the golden light,Large desires, with most uncertain issues,Tender wishes, blossoming at night!
These in flowers and men are more than seeming;Workings are they of the self-same powers,Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Every where about us are they glowing;Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born,Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,Stand like Ruth amid the yellow corn.
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,In the centre of his brazen shield.
Not alone in meadows and green alleys,On the mountain-top, and by the brinkOf sequester'd pools, in woodland valleys,Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink.
Not alone in her vast dome of glory,Not on graves of bird and beast alone;But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,On the tombs of heroes, carv'd in stone.
In the cottage of the rudest peasant,In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,Speaking of the Past unto the Present,Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.[2]
In all places, then, and in all seasons,Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,How akin they are to human things.
And with child-like, credulous affection,We behold their tender buds expand,Emblems of our own great resurrection,Emblems of the bright and better land.
Cambridge University.H. W. Longfellow.
'Look through nature up to nature's God.'
Perhapsthe most important benefit resulting to mankind from the study of the natural sciences, is the invention to which it leads of new arguments in favor of the being and benevolence of the Deity. And were this the only advantage arising from this study, it would render it well worthy the attention of the wisest and greatest of men. For every discovery which philosophers have hitherto made, whether of some new material element, or of some law or property of matter, has invariably disclosed fresh proof of the existence of an All-wise Intelligence. The chemical constitution and governing laws of a drop of water, even so far as they are now understood, may afford weapons, wherewith the weakest champion of religion might prevail against the most ingenious of the worshippers of the Goddess of Chance. Nay, were the atheist really in search of truth, no champion would be needed. The humblest flower, the meanest worm, even the dust beneath his feet, would seem to disclaim an origin in chance, and to warn him not to neglect the worship of their common Creator.
There can be no more interesting object of attention, than the examination of the evidences of design, as exhibited in parts of the intricate machinery of Nature. Physical principles, which, at first sight, or indeed after much philosophical investigation, have appeared of but limited importance, or perhaps wholly accidental or unnecessary, have, upon farther study, been found to rank among the number of most beautiful and convincing proofs of creative intelligence; have formed the most important links in the chain which holds together the material universe.
Such has been the train of thought suggested to the mind of the writer of this article, by an examination of the nature and physical relations ofCOLOR. This property of matter might appear to a superficial observer as one of inferior importance. He would admit that the differences of color add to the happiness of the human race, inasmuch as they give variety and beauty to material objects, and afford one of the most easy methods of distinguishing them from eachother, but would probably deny that the existence of animal life is at all dependant upon color, and that it is essential to the present constitution of things. But let such an one reflect a little more upon this property—let him consider attentively all its relations—and he will doubtless change his opinion.
In travelling from the equator toward the poles, we cannot but be struck with the fact, that there exists a difference of color corresponding to a change of climate. Under the equator, the covering of the earth, that is, the vegetation, is darker than in any other part of the globe; and, as there is but little change of climate through the year, this dark covering does not give place either to the light tints of autumn, or to the snowy robe of winter. In advancing north, the foliage becomes lighter in proportion to the increase of latitude. In the temperate zone, the dark, rich robe of the tropics gives place to one of livelier hue, which, after covering the earth during a part of the year, assumes the light colors of decay, and is buried beneath the snow. Thus this change continues to keep pace with the diminution of temperature, till we enter the frigid zone, and reach the region of eternal frost.
From this difference of color in the north and south, and in summer and winter, we may deduce this general fact, that the earth adapts itself in color to the variations of temperature, presenting a dark surface to the heat of summer and the tropics, and a light one to the cold of winter and the frigid zone.
So much then for the fact. Let us now consider the design of such an arrangement. When a body contains more caloric than the air, or the other bodies by which it is surrounded, heat is given off from it in all directions, till the equilibrium is restored. Three, and perhaps more, physical operations take place in this case; radiation from the heated substance, reflection and absorption by the surrounding bodies. Now it has been proved, by repeated experiment, that these changes depend, as it regards their extent and rapidity, upon the color of the bodies. The more light-colored the heated substance is, the more slowly will it part with its superfluous caloric. Were it entirely black, the change would take place with more rapidity than in any other case. If the surrounding bodies were of a light color, a large portion of the heat radiated upon them would be reflected, and but little absorbed. Just the contrary would take place were they dark. The caloric would nearly all be absorbed, and but little reflected.
Similar to these are the phenomena of light. Bright substances reflect, and dark absorb, the rays from a luminous body. This, however, is hardly a correct method of expressing the fact intended. Philosophers believe that darkness of color is not the cause of the absorption of the luminous rays, but, on the contrary, that this absorption is the cause of the darkness. The fact in question then is this; some bodies are of such a chemical constitution, that they readily absorb light, and, as a consequence, little being reflected to the eye, they appear dark. Others, differently constituted, reflect nearly all the light that is thrown upon them, and, therefore, the lightness of their color bears proportion to such reflection.
Let us apply these facts to the explanation of the design of thegeographical distinctions of color, of which we are treating. Suppose that the arrangement were different. Suppose, for instance, that the portion of the earth near the equator presented, throughout the year, a white surface to the sun. The rays of heat from that body would nearly all, upon reaching such a surface, be reflected back into the atmosphere, and would heat that part of it immediately bordering the earth, and most exposed to this reflection, to such a degree as to make the climate insupportable. The consequence would be, that a large portion of the earth would be rendered uninhabitable. But, by the existing provision, the rays of caloric pass directly through the air, heating it comparatively little, and are, for the most part, absorbed by the earth. The principle is similar in regard to light. Had the constitution of the covering of the earth in the tropics been such as to reflect the luminous rays, which are far more numerous and brilliant there than at the poles, the overpowering glare of light would alone have been sufficient to render those regions uninhabitable by any known species of animals.
Again: Let us suppose that the earth were clothed with a dark covering in the frigid zone. The few and oblique rays of heat, in that part of the globe would, after imparting but little of their caloric to the atmosphere, in their passage through it, be absorbed by the earth. The same effect would take place in regard to the rays of light, which are similarly few and feeble. It is easy to perceive the effect these things would have in darkening the polar regions, in greatly diminishing the temperature of the atmosphere, and, as a consequence, in contracting the extent of the inhabitable part of the globe. Thus we see, that by means of the snow, nay, by one, and as some would think, the least important of its properties,i. e., its color, man and his fellow animals are enabled to live in regions, the climate of which, without the instrumentality of this property, would destroy them.
After speaking of the change of color corresponding to change of latitude, it were superfluous to dwell at length upon the corresponding change of season, since the principle is precisely the same in each case. There can be no doubt but that in the temperate zone, the climate throughout the year is to a great extent equalized by this happy arrangement; that, without it, our winters would be much more rigorous, and our summers proportionably oppressive.
In passing, we might speak of another evil that would arise from snow being of a darker color. Upon a sudden change of temperature, it would melt very rapidly, and, if collected in any quantity, would occasion dreadful inundations, which would sweep and desolate the country. Such accidents occur even now in some parts of the world. How much more frequent and destructive they would be, in the case we have supposed, it is easy to conceive.
Who then can deny that we have, in the general principle which unites these phenomena, a well-attested instance of benevolent design? Who will assert that so beautiful and necessary a provision could be the result of chance?
But perhaps some one will say: 'It is true that there appears to be a happy adjustment of the color of the surface of the earth. It is true that this adjustment has an important influence in diminishingthe difference of the temperatures of the polar and equatorial regions, and in rendering them both fit abodes of animals. But then, unhappily for the symmetry of the whole theory, no exception to the general principle is made in favor of the animals themselves. The inhabitants of the torrid zone, and man in a more marked and invariable manner than all the rest, are distinguished by the dark color peculiar to that part of the globe; so that they absorb the heat in an equal degree with, or perhaps greater than, the earth, since its color is even lighter than theirs. We find the same fact to exist as we advance from the equator toward the poles. The covering of the greater part of animals becomes lighter proportionally with the surface of the earth. In the frigid zone, the light color of man as well as of other animals, for instance the white bear, ermine, etc., must necessarily repel from their bodies by reflection a quantity of heat proportional to that which the atmosphere gains by reflection from the snow. This fact strikes us still more forcibly in the temperate zone, where the difference of climate, resulting from change of season, is greater than in any other part of the globe. Here our color is actually darkened by the heat of summer, in proportion to our exposure to it, and becomes lighter at the approach of winter. So that we are rendered by the heat itself more capable of absorbing it, and, consequently, of suffering from it. Surely, we cannot consider these things as evidences of design.'
But let us attentively examine these facts, and we shall find that the seeming difficulty disappears, and that the truths which gave rise to it, unite in a symmetrical whole with the others which we have mentioned, to form a cumulative and unanswerable argument in favor of the existence of a benevolent Creator.
Animal bodies do not depend for the quantity of caloric necessary to their existence upon the sun. By chemical changes, not yet well understood by philosophers, depending upon that subtle ethereal principle which we calllife,[3]a sufficient quantity of animal or vital heat, as it is called, is evolved within the body itself. As this heat is constantly generated, it is necessary, in order that the body may not acquire too high a temperature, that it be as constantly conducted or radiated off. When the atmosphere contains too little caloric, its power of absorbing heat is so great as to deprive the animal body of it more rapidly than it is generated; thus producing the sensation of cold. On the contrary, when the weather is too warm, the air and other surrounding bodies, having less attraction for caloric, do not withdraw it as fast as it is generated; thus producing the feeling of heat. Perhaps, however, this is scarcely a scientific method of stating the fact in question. It is generally supposed by philosophers, that all bodies, whether in equilibrium, as it regards temperature, with surrounding substances, or not, are constantly radiating and absorbing caloric. When equally heated, the cause of their continuing so is, that they receive as much as they give off. When unequally heated, that which contains most caloric radiates more than the rest, and, of course, absorbs less than it parts with. By thismeans, an equilibrium of temperature is after a time brought about. Now, in cold weather, the heat which an animal body radiates is greater in quantity than the sum of what it generates itself, and absorbs from the sun and other bodies. The consequence is, it experiences the feeling of cold. In warm weather, the caloric radiated is less than that absorbed and generated; in which case, the animal suffers from heat. The vital heat of the generality of quadrupeds and other warm-blooded animals is several degrees greater in intensity than that of the atmosphere, during the warmest season in the tropics. The temperature of the human body is about ninety-eight degrees. The mean equatorial temperature Humboldt proved by repeated experiment to be eighty-one and a half degrees. It is evident, therefore, that in warm regions it is more important that the physical state and constitution of animal bodies should be adapted to the radiation of internal, than to the reflection of external heat, since the intensity of the former exceeds that of the latter.
Now we have before mentioned the fact, that the rapidity of the radiation of caloric from a heated body is in proportion to the darkness of its color. This then, taken in connection with the facts just stated, readily explains the reason why the color of animals varies with the temperature. The negroes of Africa, for example, are provided with a dark complexion, in order that the great quantity of heat which the warmth of their climate causes them to absorb, may be compensated for by an increased radiation. These unfortunate people, when they come to the north, as might be supposed, suffer at first extremely from the cold. They in time, however, become somewhat inured to it. Nature provides for them by another species of adaptation, which we cannot stop minutely to describe, but which may be proved to take place. The effect of it is to increase the evolution of animal heat, and thus to make up for the excessive radiation. Natives of high latitudes, however, are white, as has been said, and consequently their limited absorption of heat is compensated for by an equally limited radiation. We see, also, from this general principle, the design of the skin being so formed as to become tanned by exposure to the sun.
It is needless to dwell longer upon these facts. Taken in connection, they present perhaps one of the most interesting and harmonious arrangements that are to be met with in any of the departments of natural science. But it is by no means one of a few evidences of design, by which the advocate of religion may strengthen and confirm his faith. The whole universe is full of such examples. We have reason to believe, too, that we have but a very imperfect insight into the philosophy of Nature; that beyond the veil which separates the conquests of the human intellect from the vast tracts of knowledge, the possession of which yet remains to be acquired, there are myriads of beautifully-ordered systems, far surpassing in extent and grandeur any thing which the fancy of the wildest schemer has ever suggested to his mind. A few pebbles only have been gathered from the shore of the great ocean of truth. No wonder that the poet, impressed with this belief, should exclaim:
'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'
'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'
B. R. W.
Thou'stplayed upon that cheek full oft,Thou shining tress of golden hair!And wreathed thy curl in dalliance softAround that neck so dazzling fair:Whence hast thou caught that amber gleam,Soft as a fading autumn-sky?Part from the sun's enamoured beam,Part from that full refulgent eye.I fear thou'dst murmur, couldst thou speak,And curse the fate that bade thee partFrom thy bright home, a lady's cheek,E'en to be pillow'd on my heart:And I would give, thou wavy tress!To thee earth's warmest, purest breast,If thou in turn my lot wouldst bless,And give to me thy place of rest.Not Zephyr's breath could woo like me,Nor sunbeams there so warmly play;Nor wander o'er that cheek so free,Those wanton curls in sportive play.
Thou'stplayed upon that cheek full oft,Thou shining tress of golden hair!And wreathed thy curl in dalliance softAround that neck so dazzling fair:Whence hast thou caught that amber gleam,Soft as a fading autumn-sky?Part from the sun's enamoured beam,Part from that full refulgent eye.
I fear thou'dst murmur, couldst thou speak,And curse the fate that bade thee partFrom thy bright home, a lady's cheek,E'en to be pillow'd on my heart:And I would give, thou wavy tress!To thee earth's warmest, purest breast,If thou in turn my lot wouldst bless,And give to me thy place of rest.Not Zephyr's breath could woo like me,Nor sunbeams there so warmly play;Nor wander o'er that cheek so free,Those wanton curls in sportive play.
Δ.
NUMBER EIGHT.
AlthoughI joined Collins in much of his dissipation, yet I persuaded myself that I had his good at heart; and thinking a change of scene might have a beneficial effect, I proposed a jaunt to the Falls of Niagara. It was the month of June; we were in possession of a handsome equipage, and plenty of money; we had all the means of making the journey pleasant.
C—— got wind of this project, and although we had not spoken for weeks, he came to my room the evening before our departure, and told me I was a ruined man, unless I gave up this journey. He explained to me the reasons of his coldness, and the reserve of others; it was to induce me to give up my association with Collins. He said all were interested for me, and besought me to listen to his advice; that some things had leaked out respecting Collins, which he was not at liberty to tell me. I knew I ought to hear him. I was convinced he was disinterested; but I remained fixed, for I intended to pass through N——, and was in hopes to see Alice once more; and this, after once getting into my heart, I could not get out. We departed upon our excursion of pleasure, which proved one of pain. With whom is hope more faithful?
Following the river, we soon emerged from the level meadow country, and began to ascend the hills of Vermont. The moon was at her full, and we rode mostly in the night-time. Collins could not bear the day, and I was willing to give in to his caprices, for the night gave a calmness and amiable tone to his feelings. His heart was open to the influences of nature, though he pretended to hate mankind.
The Connecticut river, in the north, has a swift and sparkling current, so that it makes music as it flows. Tall trees bend over it, all along its course, as if inclining to kiss its nimble waters. These trees are of one kind, and resemble the graceful elm. To the lover of nature, I know of no scene so fitted to call out his enthusiasm. After toiling up an ascent of three or four miles, as you stop to breathe your panting steed, which, if bred in the country, toils so faithfully for you, your eye is filled with all kinds of scenery. Here on your right reposes a village, with its neat white houses, in a rich valley, the land rising in hills in every direction from it, partly wooded, with here and there a wide pasture of close-cropped green, dotted with the fleecy flock and lowing kine. The river bounds it, on one side of which is a circle of meadow land, and on the other a steep rocky precipice, falling abruptly to the water.
It was twelve o'clock at night—a clear moon-light night—when we gained one of these elevations of land. No sound broke the stillness, save the voice of the 'solemn bird of night' marking by contrast the depth of the solitude of silence. Collins wept like a child. He had associations he would not communicate to me. Possibly he had been there before. He refused to speak. We stopped at the first public house, and he retired to his room without uttering a word.
Until this evening, I had never spoken to Collins of my own love affair. I had never told him of my difficulties, nor let him know that I had had any. My object was to divert his melancholy, not to find relief from my own sorrows. That night, as we sat in silence contemplating the scene, some lines of poetry had escaped me, which Alice Clair had been fond of repeating. I felt Collins start as he listened, and soon after, he gave vent to a torrent of tears, the first I had ever seen him shed.
The next morning we rode and travelled on in moody silence. Not a word was exchanged between us. Collins's whole manner toward me had changed. Now and then I discovered a black look upon his face, as he glanced toward me. I treated him with my usual kindness. I had, in the relation of my own unhappy attachment, concealed the name and personal appearance of Miss Clair, and the place, too. I was free from suspicion, supposed his reserve was a freak, and waited patiently for the recovery of his usual manner.
We now left the river, and struck off to the Green Mountains, taking the road to N——, where we arrived about dark. All the town knew of our arrival, almost as soon as we were settled in our apartment. I found that Collins was known there as well as myself, though under a different name. He was greeted as 'Mr. Cowles,' by every one, and the people stared at him as they would at a spectre.
When I asked the explanation of this mystery, after we had retired to a private room, he stared at me for some moments, with the glare of a maniac in his eyes, and then sprang upon me, drawing his dagger from his bosom. This was no time for parley. I flung him from me, wrested the dagger from his hand, and thenallowed him to rise. Seeing that he intended no violence, I sat upon the bed while he walked the room, gnashing his teeth, and mumbling to himself 'curses not loud but deep;' then stopping suddenly opposite to me, he said:
'You, fiend!—why did you seek me? Canyoube the friend who feels an interest in me? Why have you proved a traitor to my peace?
I assured him his words were inexplicable to me.
'Where,' said he, 'did you learn those words you quoted last night? Do you know her too? Have you, too, been a victim to those super-human charms? I am a slave; she bound me; I am helpless. Oh, God!—but I have wronged you; you could not know; you are not to blame. I had better destroy myself. I am crazed—mad! I know not what I say. Oh! leave me, if you value your life or mine!'
This was all strange. What could he mean? He had no acquaintance with Alice. She had told me that she never had an attachment before the one she confessed for me. What other lady in town could there be to excite affections so refined as his? It could not be Alice; this was a vagary too wild to be listened to. However, determined to solve the difficulty, I went immediately to the house of Mr. Clair, and asked for his daughter; 'she was out of town;' for Mrs. Clair; 'she was sick;' for any of the family; 'I could not be admitted.' This was as unceremonious as I could bear; so I walked back to the hotel, and calling the inn-keeper aside, asked him what had become of Miss Clair. Inn-keepers in a country village know all the small news that any one does, for they hear the same story assume so many different shapes over the grog they deal out, that by night they become perfectly saturated with a piece of scandal, and give forty readings of the same event to suit the customer.
Mr. Shuffle gave me a full account of the affair. He said that Alice was with her sister in Albany; that she had been very sick, and not expected to live. After I had been out of town for a few months, she returned to her father's; used to go moping about, and people thought her mind was affected; he wondered that people could be so unreasonable, as to keep young folks that loved each other separate; ifhehad been me, he would have run away with her.
I did not wait to hear farther, or even to inquire about Collins, but ordered a horse, left a note for Collins, in which I advised him to return, as important business required my presence at Albany for a few days; and that I could not undertake our contemplated journey, after what had happened.
That very night I started across the mountains for Albany, and did not sleep until I saw the house that contained all I thought I loved on earth. The visit to old scenes had renewed all the fervor of my affection. Not wishing to be recognised, I stopped at a dwelling in an obscure part of the town, and sent a little boy to the house with a note, directing him only to give it into Miss Clair's own hand. If her health permitted, I requested an interview; but certainly some token of recognition by the bearer. She was well enough to meet me, and we agreed to take a walk that afternoon.
I pass over the agonizing bliss of meeting. All was forgiven in an instant. She had been sick indeed—sick at heart. She had heard of my disgraceful course of life in the city, after parting from her, and then again of my relapse at L——. She had supposed that I had given up all thoughts of her, and she said that she had tried to banish me from her thoughts; but, smiling through her tears, her words were: 'You know, Conworth, you were my first and only love. I had determined to run the risk of what I feared would happen. I was willing to risk something for one who might be so much, if he did truly love me in return as I did him. I have been forsaken, and forgotten, and disregarded; but the fault was in me in the first instance in trusting to you. I could hardly expect you to change your character for one like me.'
I could not bear this; I implored her to accuse me, to upbraid me—any thing but such words; and then I endeavored to palliate my faults, and in doing so, I told the exact truth. I led her back to motives, and temptations, and despairing states of mind, through which I could distinctly trace my own lapses; convincing her that all resulted from my separation from her; that 'could I have her with me to guide, comfort, and encourage me, I should, I felt confident, do every thing to make her happy.'
The idea of marriage had not crossed my mind until this instant. In consoling her, and drawing the picture of our union, I was so charmed with the notion, that I began to speak in earnest, and did, upon the spot, adopt the resolution of making the attempt to persuade her to unite herself to me on the instant.
I succeeded. She consented. We were to be married on the next morning. By good luck, her brother-in-law was absent from home, and I knew her sister possessed rather a romantic turn of mind. The devil lent me cunning and eloquence, and I persuaded her it was the only way to save Alice's life and mine.
To bring this about, I had, without premeditation, to invent plans which should have the appearance of having been well-digested. I told her 'that I came authorized from my father to bring Alice to his house, if I could do so as my wife.' I then showed her the wealth that I possessed—for beside my own money, Collins, on starting, had constituted me his banker—and the whole story was so well got up, that she seemed delighted with the novelty of the scheme.
Behold me then on the eve of perpetrating marriage. Every thing was prepared. My carriage, (one I had hired, and called mine,) was at the door; the trunks were lashed on, and we were standing before the minister, in her sister's parlor; the justice's daughter, and a friend I had picked up, acting as witnesses. The ceremony began. Hardly had a word been spoken, when the door flew violently open, and Collins, wild and haggard, with his dress torn and soiled, and without a hat, rushed into the room. He looked about him for a few moments in triumph, and then said, slowly: 'I am come in time, false woman!' He stepped toward Alice, who, pale and trembling, was sinking to the floor. A dagger gleamed in the madman's hand. I rushed forward, and taking the blow aimed at her, I fell senseless to the earth.
WhenI awoke from my delirious dream, which followed the wound I had received, I found myself in a small private house. My father was standing by my bedside, and my sister was wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. I had been thus for a fortnight. My father and sister had arrived upon the earliest intelligence after the accident. They imagined they were journeying to attend my funeral. Would it had been so!
My father took my hand, as my eyes closed, upon meeting his anxious gaze, and said: 'It is all well—all is forgiven. Be calm; you are better, God be praised! I ask no more.'
I could not speak. His kindness, his affection, wounded me worse than ten thousand daggers. I covered my eyes with my hand, and wept. When I was strong enough to bear it, my sister told me all that had happened. Alice had confessed to her every thing. The substance was this.
'Collins had some years before met Alice Clair at a boarding-school in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an exile from home for his vices, and was living in the city, without plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners, and received his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile when she met him; to be at home when he called to see her; as far as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is just no way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for his kindness and attentions in bringing her new books and music. But with the playful coquetry of a child, she had impressed the heart of Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved her. The principal of the school had always allowed his visits, until ascertaining the knowledge of his true character, and seeing some instances of his misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no more of him.
Soon after, she returned home, and was continually persecuted with letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to N——, and behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would have subjected him to arrest, had he not left town. All these facts were never hinted to me, during my stay at N——. Probably they were forgotten, except by the parties more immediately interested.
No wonder some surprise was manifested at seeing myself and Collins ride into town together. Well, after I had left Collins, and departed for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither, and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mind already shattered by excess, and stimulated to insanity, he imagined himself the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on both of us. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly proved fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral. Mr. Clair followed us, so soonas he got wind of our intended visit, to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of his child.
'When you are older and more settled,' it said, 'in your views, if you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I am willing to forget, for the sake of your happiness and that of my child. You have perhaps unwittingly destroyed the peace of my family. You do not know the pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Your case is not hopeless. All depends upon yourself.'
My sister in a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It needed not to tell me where it came from. I have worn it next to my heart ever since that fatal morning. It is now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record this passage in my history, and look upon all that is left in this world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man, but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of profiting by the gift, of her affections.
Collins was released, by my father's request, after the question of my danger was over, and went I know not whither. From that day to this, I have never heard of him. The money of his in my possession was placed in the hands of a lawyer, and no trace can be found of his connections or of himself, by the most careful search.
We returned to my father's house. Hardly had we arrived, when we heard of the sudden death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fatigue and disappointment, she was attacked by fever, which was followed by delirium; and she went out of a cruel world, unconscious of her misery. My cup of bitterness was full. I neither hoped, nor excited expectation. I was considered a broken, ruined man. I remained some time a burthen upon my father's hands, leading a harmless but restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of existence.
Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar from all who knew me. I made arrangements to receive annually a small sum, to enable me to carry my projects into execution, and bidding adieu to all those I truly loved, and who I knew still loved me, I embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans.