Part 7

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.

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 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.