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; but _all_ were
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 every _son_
of 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 is NOT dead!' 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 him welcome 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.
* * * * *
IT was 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 to add, 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.
TO A BELLE.
I.
IS IT a bliss to see a crowd
Gazing on thee,
Or like a gilded insect proud
In 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 charms
Are lauded ever;
That all would rush into thy arms,
And leave thee never?
O! is it not a sweeter thought,
That only ONE thy love has sought,
And in his soul that love is wrought,
So deep it cannot sever?
III.
Is it bliss to hear thy praise
By all repeated;
To dream a round of sunny days,
Then find thee cheated?
O! happier the hidden flower
Within a far secluded bower,
Whither some mind of gentle power
Has long retreated!
IV.
Is it not bliss to hear thy name
From lips so holy?
O! better than the transient flame
That circles folly.
If thou art lovely, thou wilt find
Pure worship from so pure a mind;
And love that will not leave behind
One taint of melancholy.
_Written in 1828._ J. G. PERCIVAL.
FLORAL ASTROLOGY.
'Flowrets, that shine like small blue stars in the green firmament
of the Earth.'--CAROVÉ.
SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call'd the flowers so blue and golden
Stars, 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 flowrets under 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 part
Of the self-same universal being
Which 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 brink
Of 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.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] The Floral Games of the Middle Ages.
GEOGRAPHICAL DISTINCTIONS OF COLOR.
'Look through nature up to nature's God.'
PERHAPS the 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 of COLOR. 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 each
other, 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 the
geographical 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 diminishing
the 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.