Part 6

YEARS rolled 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;'

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, and she 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.

* * * * *

SEVERAL years 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.'

'_I_ am 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; 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.