to their existence upon the sun. By chemical changes, not yet well
understood by philosophers, depending upon that subtle ethereal
principle which we call _life_,[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 this means, 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.'
B. R. W.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] See 'KNICKERBOCKER,' Volume V., for an able series of articles on
'_Life_,' by Dr. SAMUEL L. METCALF.
TO A LOCK OF HAIR.
THOU'ST played upon that cheek full oft,
Thou shining tress of golden hair!
And wreathed thy curl in dalliance soft
Around 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 part
From 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.
_Delta_.
WILSON CONWORTH.
NUMBER EIGHT.
ALTHOUGH I 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 then allowed 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? Can _you_ be 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;
if _he_ had 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.
WHEN I 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 soon as 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.
HOPE.
HOPE for Experience boldly steers,
And gains that chilling shore,
But only to be wrecked on ice,
And sink to rise no more.
This is that hope whose sordid views
To earth alone are given;
That hope which wreck nor ruin fears,
Her anchor casts in heaven.
For he that would outride the storm,
Though whirlwinds waked the blast,
Makes that his first and only hope,
That all must make their last.
A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.
PART TWO.
OH steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam!
Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream,
What _could_ make a doctor, with serious face,
Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case?
In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say,
That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?'
* * * * *
THE flush that attended his words was cold,
Like a thing that happen'd--a tale that is told;
And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find
Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind.
While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep,
The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep.
Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems
So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams;
When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er
The parts that their waking realities bore;
Like the ghosts of departed returning again
To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men.
Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found
Its way to his regular visiting-round;
Now counting how long such a patient could live,
Now giving a drastic purgative;
It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile,
The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]
His journey soon ended, his dreaming was done,
And quickly dismounted the wonderful one.
Save a handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
No baggage or bag was he cumber'd withal;
Right glad was his heart that he was not delay'd
With porters disputing, and people dismay'd.
At the first man he met, with a citizen's air,
He propounded a question--it made the man stare;
The answer was ready, the questioner bow'd,
And hastily elbow'd his way through the crowd.
'Oh ho!' said his neighbor, as off he went,
(The one that had wonder'd,) 'I know what he meant!'
* * * * *
AT a house, (but I cannot tell which it may be,
Though possess'd of an author's ubiquity,)
At a house in that city, inhabits a maid,
Who travels by spirit, and makes it a trade.
That maid and her sister were sitting alone,
Employ'd in some manner not certainly known;
They might have been working, or reading, I guess,
Or playing at cards, or back-gammon, or chess;
Whatever employ'd them, a very loud rap
Disorder'd their nerves like a thunder-clap.
The sleep-walker quickly adjusted her hair,
Assuming the look she intended to wear,
And toss'd on the table, as other maids do,
Some 'work,' with the needle appearing half through.
One glance to see ev'ry thing properly plac'd;
Or derang'd to exactly the limits of taste,
Then, putting her chair with the back tow'rd the light,
Prepar'd for the visitor, be who he might.
The other, who play'd a subordinate part,
Took the same little process, with little less art;
And then was directed to 'ascertain straight
What manner of person it was at the gate.'
Oh! sleep-walker! sleep-walker! did you but know,
Who the visitor is, that is waiting below.
A leech in good practice, and wanting a wife,
You'd think him a capital venture for life.
The sister arriv'd at the door in a trice,
And the man that was waiting she look'd at twice:
From the crown of his hat to the sole of his shoe,
She look'd at him twice, as she'd look him all through.
That hat was low and its brim was wide,
But the sleep-walker's sister was not inside:
And his coat was black and his breeches were gray,
And look'd as a thriving practitioner's may.
His bosom was clothed in a sombre vest,
That aptly comported with all the rest;
Each pocket contriv'd of an ample space
For holding a portable instrument-case:
But, far more than breeches, hat, waist-coat or coat,
His own proper features seem'd worthy of note.
His locks were grizzled, his beard it was spare,
As he dieted ev'ry particular hair;
From a long, long nose, one could fancy how well
Its owner could practise his organs of smell;
For it seem'd, as he breath'd atmospherical air,
He perceiv'd what its physical properties were.
His eye with occasional glances by stealth,
Was plainly surveying one's bodily health;
And in his thin fingers, there seem'd to exist
A perpetual impulse to feel of one's wrist.
Whatever he utter'd, his look was profound,
And an odor of sanity breath'd all around.
No difficult matter it was to see,
That a person of science and skill was he.