INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY
Of Literature, Art, and Science.

STUDIES OF THE TOWN.

The LORGNETTE, the cleverest book of its kind (we were about
to write, since the days of Addison, but to avoid possible
disagreement say)—since IRVING and PAULDING gave us
Salmagundi, is still coming before us at agreeable
intervals, and will soon be issued in a brace of volumes
illustrated by DARLEY. The Author keeps his promises, given in
the following paragraphs some time ago:

“It would be very idle to pretend, my dear Fritz, that in
printing my letters, I had not some hope of doing the public a
trifling service. There are errors which need only to be
mentioned, to be frowned upon; and there are virtues, which an
approving word, even of a stranger, will encourage. Both of
these objects belong to my plan; yet my strictures shall not be
personal, or invidious. It will be easy, surely, to carry with
me the sympathies of all sensible people, in a little harmless
ridicule of the foibles of the day, without citing personal
instance; and it will be vastly easier, in such Babylon as
ours, to designate a virtue, without naming its possessor!
Still, you know me too well, to believe that I shall be
frightened out of free, or even caustic remark, by any critique
of the papers, or by any dignified frown of the literary
coteries of the city…. This LORGNETTE of mine will range very
much as my whim directs. In morals, it will aim to be correct;
in religion, to be respectful; in literature, modest; in the
arts, attentive; in fashion, observing; in society, free; in
narrative, to be honest; in advice, to be sound; in satire, to
be hearty; and in general character, whatever may be the
critical opinions of the small littérateurs, or the hints of
fashionable patrons, to be only—itself.”

TENNYSON’S NEW POEM.¹

The popularity of TENNYSON, in this country as well as in
England, is greater than that of any other contemporary who
writes verses in our language. We by no means agree to the
justness of the common apprehension in this case. We think
Bryant is a greater poet, and we might refer to others, at home
and abroad, whom it delights us more to read. But it is
unquestionable that Tennyson is the favorite of the hour, and
every new composition of his will therefore be looked for with
the most lively interest. His last work, just reprinted by
TICKNOR, REED & FIELDS, of Boston, is thus described in the
London Spectator of June 8th:

“Although only these words appear on the title-page of this
volume of poetry, it is well known to be from the pen of Alfred
Tennyson. It is also known that the inscription

refers to Mr. Arthur Hallam, a son of the historian. It may
be gleaned from the book, that the deceased was betrothed to a
sister of Tennyson, while the friendship on the poet’s part has
‘passed the love of women.’ Feeling, especially in one whose
vocation it is to express sentiments, is not, indeed, always to
be measured by composition; since the earnest artist turns
everything to account, and when his theme is mournful it is his
cue to make it as mournful as he can: but when a thought
continually mingles with casual observation, or incident of
daily life, or larger event that strikes attention, as though
the memory of the past were ever coloring the present, and that
over a period of seventeen years, it must be regarded as a
singular instance of enduring friendship, as it has shown
itself in a very singular literary form. There is nothing like
it that we remember, except the sonnets of Petrarch; for books
of sportive and ludicrous conceits are not to be received into
the same category.

“The volume consists of one hundred and twenty-nine separate
poems, numbered but not named, and which in the absence of a
more specific designation may be called occasional; for though
they generally bear a reference to the leading subject, In
Memoriam, yet they are not connected with sufficient
closeness to form a continuous piece. There is also an
invocatory introduction, and a closing marriage poem, written
on the wedding of one of the writer’s sisters, which, strange
as it may seem, serves again to introduce the memory of the
departed. The intervening poems are as various as a
miscellaneous collection; but the remembrance of the dead ever
mingles with the thought of the living. His birth-day, his
death-day, the festive rejoicings of Christmastide and the New
Year, recall him; the scenes in which he was a companion, the
house where he was a welcome guest, the season when the
lawyer’s vacation gave him leisure for a long visit, revive him
to the mind. The Danube, on whose banks he died—the
Severn, by whose banks he appears to have been
buried—nay, the points of the compass—are
associated with him. Sometimes the association is slighter
still; and in a few pieces the allusion is so distant that it
would not have been perceived without the clew. Such is the
following (one of several poems) on the New Year.

“The following is of more direct bearing on the theme, and
is moreover one of those charming pieces of domestic painting
in which Tennyson excels.

“The volume is pervaded by a religious feeling, and an
ardent aspiration for the advancement of society,—as may
be gathered from our first quotation. These two sentiments
impart elevation, faith, and resignation; so that memory,
thought, and a chastened tenderness, generally predominate over
deep grief. The grave character of the theme forbids much
indulgence in conceits such as Tennyson sometimes falls into,
and the execution is more finished than his volumes always are:
there are very few prosaic lines, and few instances of that
excess of naturalness which degenerates into the mawkish. The
nature of the plan—which, after all, is substantially
though not in form a set of sonnets on a single theme—is
favorable to those pictures of common landscape and of daily
life, redeemed from triviality by genial feeling and a
perception of the lurking beautiful, which are the author’s
distinguishing characteristic. The scheme, too, enables him
appropriately to indulge in theological and metaphysical
reflections; where he is not quite so excellent. Many of the
pieces taken singly are happy examples of Tennyson, though not
perhaps the very happiest. As a whole, there is inevitably
something of sameness in the work, and the subject is unequal
to its long expansion; yet its nature is such, there is so much
of looseness in the plan, that it might have been doubled or
trebled without incongruity. It is one of those books which
depend upon individual will and feeling, rather than upon a
broad subject founded in nature and tractable by the largest
laws of art. Hence, though not irrespective of laws, such works
depend upon instinctive felicity—felicity in the choice
of topics and the mode of execution, felicity both in doing and
in leaving undone: this high and perfect excellence, perhaps,
In Memoriam has not reached, though omission and
revision might lead very close to it.”

Footnote 1:
(return)

In Memoriam. By Alfred Tennyson. 1 vol. 12mo.
Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1850.

ETHERIZATION.—A writer in the Medical Times
says, “The day, perhaps, may not be far off, when we shall be
able to suspend the sensibility of the nervous chords, without
acting on the center of the nervous system, just as we are
enabled to suspend circulation in an artery without acting on
the heart.”

LEIGH HUNT.

One of the most delightful books of the season will be
The Autobiography of LEIGH HUNT, which is being
reprinted by Harper & Brothers, and will very soon be given
to the American public in an edition of suitable elegance. The
last great race of poets and literary men, observes a writer in
the London Standard, is now rapidly vanishing from the
scene: of the splendid constellation, in the midst of which
Campbell, Scott, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Southey,
Crabbe, and Byron, were conspicuous, how few remain! Moore
(rapidly declining), Rogers (upward of eighty), Professor
Wilson, Montgomery, and Leigh Hunt, are nearly all. It is
fitting that we prize these few, as the remnants of a
magnificent group, which cannot be expected very soon to be
repeated.

Leigh Hunt has, for nearly half a century, occupied a
prominent place in the public eye, as a politician of a
peculiarly bold and decided stamp, when boldness was necessary
for the utterance of the truth; and as a poet and prose-writer
of a singularly-genial and amiable character. As the chief
founder and critic of the Examiner, he would doubtless
occupy a high place in literary history, but as the author of
“Rimini” he is entitled to a more enduring and enviable fame.
This will always stand at the head of his works: but his
“Indicator,” his “London Journal,” his “Jar of Honey,” and
others, abound with the illustrations of a most imaginative and
cordial spirit.

We are glad to possess a good autobiography of Leigh Hunt.
It is the first we have from a long list of celebrated men; and
no one could give us such correct, discerning, and delightful
insights into their usual life and true characters. Hazlitt,
Lamb, Shelley, Keats, Byron, and a crowd of others become
familiar to us in these pages. It was in the Examiner
that the first compositions of Shelley and Keats were
introduced to the British public; and the friendship which Mr.
Hunt maintained with those poets, till their deaths, casts a
sunshine over that portion of his life, which is peculiarly
charming.

Perhaps the two points of this Autobiography which will most
attract the attention of the reader are the author’s
imprisonment for a libel on the Prince Regent, and his visit to
Italy. In that imprisonment of two years, he was visited by
Byron, Moore, Brougham, Bentham, and several other eminent men.
In the journey to Italy, which was undertaken in order to
coöperate with Byron and Shelley in bringing out of the
“Liberal,” Hunt had the misfortune to be deprived of Shelley’s
friendship, by death, immediately on his arrival; and of the
friendship of Byron, through incompatibilities of taste, and
the jealous officiousness of Byron’s friends, amongst whom
Moore bore a prominent part. Mr. Hunt published a volume on the
subject soon after his return to England,
[pg 36] which occasioned him a great
deal of ill-will. To this publication he now refers with
expressions of much regret, and with the calmness which has
been produced by time. But it cannot be denied that he
endured most mortifying and irritating provocations, which
never could have taken place had Shelley lived. We are glad
that he has had an opportunity of leaving a generous and
forgiving record of this remarkable portion of his life; and
certainly nothing can be more delightful than his present
account of it:—

“The greatest comfort I experienced,” he says, “in Italy
was living in the same neighborhood, and thinking, as I
went about, of Boccaccio. Boccaccio’s father had a house at
Maiano, supposed to have been situated at the Fiesolan
extremity of the hamlet. That merry-hearted writer was so
fond of the place that he has not only laid the two scenes
of the ‘Decameron’ on each side of it, with the valley
which his company resorted to in the middle, but has made
the two little streams which embrace Maiano, the Affrico
and the Mensola, the hero and the heroine of his ‘Nimphale
Fiesolano.’ The scene of another of his works is on the
banks of the Margnone, a river a little distant; and the
‘Decameron’ is full of the neighboring villages. Out of the
windows of one side of our house we saw the turret of the
Villa Gherardi, to which, according to his biographers, his
‘joyous company’ resorted in the first instance. A house
belonging to the Macchiavelli was near, a little to the
left; and farther to the left, among the blue hills, was
the white village, Settignano, where Michael Angelo was
born. The house is still in possession of the family. From
our windows on the other side we saw, close to us, the
Fiesole of antiquity and of Milton, the site of the
Boccaccio-house before mentioned; still closer, the
Decameron’s Valley of Ladies at our feet; and we
looked over toward the quarter of the Mignone and of a
house of Dante, and in the distance beheld the mountains of
Pistria. Lastly, from the terrace in front, Florence lay
clear and cathedraled before us, with the scene of Redi’s
Bacchus rising on the other side of it, and the
villa of Arcetri, famous for Galileo. Hazlitt, who came to
see me there, beheld the scene around us with the
admiration natural to a lover of old folios and great
names, and confessed, in the language of Burns, that it was
a sight to enrich the eyes.

“My daily walk was to Fiesole, through a path skirted
with wild myrtle and cyclamen; and I stopped at the door of
the Doccia, and sate on the pretty melancholy platform
behind it, reading, or looking down to Florence.”

This is all very charming, yet hear what the author says
further:—

“Some people, when they return from Italy, say it has no
wood, and some a great deal. The fact is, that many parts
of it, Tuscany included, has no wood to speak of: it
wants larger trees interspersed with the small ones, in the
manner of our hedge-row elms. A tree of a reasonable height
is a god-send. The olives are low and hazy-looking, like
dry sallows. You have plenty of these; but to an
Englishman, looking from a height, they appear little
better than brushwood. Then there are no meadows, no proper
green fields in June; nothing of that luxurious combination
of green and russet, of grass, wild flowers, and woods,
over which a lover of nature can stroll for hours, with a
foot as fresh as the stag’s; unmixed with chalk-dust, and
an eternal public path, and able to lie down, if he will,
and sleep in clover. In short—saving, alas! a finer
sky and a drier atmosphere—we have the best part of
Italy in books; and this we can enjoy in England. Give me
Tuscany in Middlesex or Berkshire, and the Valley of Ladies
between Jack Straw’s Castle and Harrow…. To me, Italy had
a certain hard taste in the mouth: its mountains were too
bare, its outlines too sharp, its lanes too stony, its
voices too loud, its long summer too dusty. I longed to
bathe myself in the grassy balm of my native fields.”

As a whole these volumes are full of interest and variety.
They introduce us to numerous famous people, and leave us with
a most agreeable impression of their author.

THE MORMONS.

THOMAS L. KANE, of Philadelphia, distinguished himself very
honorably a year or two ago by the vindication of the Mormons
against calumnies to which they had been subjected in the
Western States, and by appeals for their relief from the
sufferings induced by unlooked-for exposure in their exodus to
California. We are indebted to him for an interesting discourse
upon the subject, delivered before the Historical Society of
Pennsylvania. He concludes this performance with the following
observations, which we believe to be altogether just. Mr. KANE
is a man of sagacity and integrity, and his opportunities for
the formation of a wise opinion upon this subject were such as
very few have possessed:

“I have gone over the work I assigned myself when I
accepted your Committee’s invitation, as fully as I could
do without trespassing too largely upon your courteous
patience. But I should do wrong to conclude my lecture
without declaring in succinct and definite terms, the
opinions I have formed and entertain of the Mormon people.
The libels, of which they have been made the subject, make
this a simple act of justice. Perhaps, too, my opinion,
even with those who know me as you do, will better answer
its end following after the narrative I have given.

“I have spoken to you of a people; whose industry had
made them rich, and gathered around them all the comforts,
and not a few of the luxuries of refined life; expelled by
lawless force into the wilderness; seeking an untried home
far away from the scenes which their previous life had
endeared to them; moving onward, destitute,
hunger-sickened, and sinking with disease; bearing along
with them their wives and children, the aged, and the poor,
and the decrepid; renewing daily on their march, the
offices of devotion, the ties of family, and friendship,
and charity; sharing necessities, and braving dangers
together, cheerful in the midst of want and trial, and
persevering until they triumphed. I have told, or tried to
tell you, of men, who when menaced by famine, and in the
midst of pestilence, with every energy taxed by the urgency
of the hour, were building roads and bridges, laying out
villages, and planting cornfields, for the stranger who
might come after them, their kinsman only by a common
humanity, and peradventure a common suffering,—of
men, who have renewed their prosperity in the homes they
[pg 37] have founded in the
desert,—and who, in their new built city, walled
round by mountains like a fortress, are extending pious
hospitalities to the destitute emigrants from our
frontier lines,—of men who, far removed from the
restraints of law, obeyed it from choice, or found in
the recesses of their religion, something not
inconsistent with human laws, but far more controlling;
and who are now soliciting from the government of the
United States, not indemnity,—for the appeal would
be hopeless, and they know it—not protection, for
they now have no need of it,—but that identity of
political institutions and that community of laws with
the rest of us, which was confessedly their birthright
when they were driven beyond our borders.

“I said I would give you the opinion I formed of the
Mormons: you may deduce it for yourselves from these facts.
But I will add that I have not yet heard the single charge
against them as a community, against their habitual purity
of life, their integrity of dealing, their toleration of
religious differences in opinion, their regard for the
laws, or their devotion to the constitutional government
under which we live, that I do not from my own observation,
or the testimony of others, know to be unfounded.”

Original Poetry.

THE BRIDE’S REVERIE.

BY MRS. M.E. HEWITT.

TO ——. By Mrs. R.B.K.

JUNE 22, 1850.

Original Correspondence.

RAMBLES IN THE PENINSULA.

NO. II.

My Dear Friend—My companion, Mr. Ronalds, left this
morning in the diligence for Madrid, and I am, therefore, for
the first time since I have been in Europe
alone—the only citizen of the United States at
present in this ancient Moorish city: alone, I may
almost say, in the midst of paradise. Yet the beauties of
nature will not compensate for the solitude of the heart, which
is continually yearning after sympathy; we wish for something
beyond the pleasures of the eye, and I would that you were with
me. I would take you up to me Alhambra, and descant to you for
hours upon its perfections and its romantic history. To me this
wondrous pile has become familiar; I have seen it at all
hours of the day, and have visited it in the enchantment of
moonlight; and never will pass from my memory the pleasant
hours I have spent within its sacred precincts; I shall
remember them and those who shared them with me—forever.
A few days since we made up a party and rode out to the famous
town of Santa Fe, in the delightful Vega, about eight miles
away. We were all dressed in the gay costume of Andalusia, and
presented, as you may imagine, a picturesque appearance; my
companions were lively fellows, and we had a great deal of
sport on the way. Santa Fe is now a dilapidated place, but its
associations make it well deserving a visit. It was built by
Ferdinand, during the memorable siege of Grenada; it was here
that Boabdil signed the capitulation of his city; and it was
from this spot, too, that Columbus was dispatched on his
mission of discovering a new world. The rich and fertile Vega,
as we rode with the speed of the wind over it, seemed to me
like a fairy land—so luxuriant the vegetation—so
rich the meadows and fields of waving grain—so exquisite
the variety of cottages, and villages, and groves, dotting so
vast a plain—so pure and transparent the atmosphere, that
the most distant objects are as clearly defined as those
nearest us. Imagine so lovely a landscape—thirty miles in
length by twenty-five in width, surrounded by tremendous
mountains,—those of the Sierra Nevada, rising back of
Grenada to the height of thirteen thousand feet above the level
of the sea, their summits covered by a dazzling mantle of snow:
imagine this, and you will have some faint idea of this
beautiful Eden of Spain. It is worth a long pilgrimage to gaze
but for one moment upon it, particularly from the Torre de la
Vela of the Alhambra, whence I have beheld it, both in the
bright, gay sunshine, and through the solemnly beautiful night,
illumined by the stars and moon.

The walks and gardens of Grenada are
[pg 38] exceedingly beautiful. The
principal promenade is called (and very appropriately) El
Salon. It is of considerable extent—about eighty feet
in width, with regular lines of lofty elms on either side,
the bending branches of which nearly meet in an arch
overhead. At both extremities of this charming avenue is a
large and handsome fountain of ever-flowing water. The
ground of the walk is hard—slightly curved; and as
smooth and clean as the floor of a ball-room, where
convenient seats of stone, tastefully arranged beneath the
shade of the spreading trees, seem to invite one to
meditation and repose. Outside of this lovely promenade, are
blooming gardens, teeming with roses and other flowers,
which fill the air with fragrance, while through them on one
side runs the river Darre, and on the other the
Xenie—gentle streams, whose waters unite their
melodious rippling to the chorus of nightingales, ever
singing above their pleasant banks. But description is
tiresome, especially when one is attempting to present
something beyond his power, so I shall not fatigue you with
it any longer: besides, a worthy English curate, now my only
companion in this wretched hotel, is boring me so
incessantly with conversation that I find it difficult to
collect any thoughts to put on paper. I wish he was already
in heaven, as, surely, he well deserves to be.

It was my intention to have gone from this place to Almeria
on horseback, but as R. has left for Madrid, I shall return to
Malaga, probably, in the diligence to-night. It leaves at 12
o’clock, under an escort of six cavalry, which on this road is
indispensably necessary. From Malaga I shall take steamer for
Valencia and Barcelona, and according to my present
calculations, will reach Paris about the first of June next.
F—— wants me to go to Italy—I do not know
exactly what course to take, as traveling in Italy during the
summer season is not considered healthy. I should like to
remain in France a month or so, in order to improve myself in
their language: as for Spanish, I speak it with fluency and
ease already, and it is certainly one of the most beautiful
languages in the world.

Yours, JOHN E. WARREN.

THE SUMMER NIGHT.

We are in the midst of July—in the midst of
summer—of the most genial and pure-aired summer that we
have had for years. How beautifully RICHTER, translated by our
Longfellow, of kindred genius, describes the holy time! “The
summer alone might elevate us. God what a season! In sooth, I
often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into
the fields, so alike is it everywhere and beautiful. If we go
outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for
they are no longer cold; and the post-boys who can pass the
whole night on horseback, and the shepherds asleep in the open
air. We need no gloomy house. We make a chamber out of every
bush, and therefore have my good industrious bees before us,
and the most gorgeous butterflies. In the gardens on the hills
sit schoolboys, and in the open air look out words in the
dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no shooting
now, and every thing in bush and furrow, and on green branches,
can enjoy itself right heartily and safely. In all directions
come travelers along the roads; they have their carriages for
the most part thrown back—the horses have branches stuck
in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The
shadows of the clouds go trailing along,—the birds fly
between them up and down, and journeymen mechanics wander
cheerily on with their bundles, and want no work. Even when it
rains we love to stand out of doors, and breathe in the
quickening influence, and the wet does the herdsman harm no
more. And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from
which we plainly discern the daylight on the northern horizon
and on the sweet warm stars of heaven. Wheresoever I look,
there do I find my beloved blue on the flax in blossoms, on the
corn-flowers, and the godlike endless heaven into which I would
fain spring as into a stream. And now, if we turn homeward
again, we find indeed but fresh delight. The street is a true
nursery, for in the evening after supper, the little ones,
though they have but a few clothes upon them, are again let out
into the open air, and not driven under the bed-quilt as in
winter. We sup by daylight, and hardly know where the
candlesticks are. In the bed-chamber the windows are open day
and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger. The
oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew.
Flowers lie about everywhere—by the ink-stand—on
the lawyer’s papers—on the justice’s table, and the
tradesman’s counter. The children make a great noise, and one
hears bowling of ninepin alleys half the night through our
walks up and down the street; and talks aloud, and sees the
stars shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend
their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the
street to their quarters, and the whole neighborhood runs to
the window. The extra posts arrive later, and the horses neigh.
One lies by the noise in the window and droops asleep. The
post-horns awake him and the whole starry heaven hath spread
itself open. O God! what a joyous life on this little
earth.”

Emma is from the German, and signifies a nurse; Caroline,
from the Latin—noble minded; George, from the Greek-a
farmer; Martha, from Hebrew—bitterness; the beautiful and
common Mary is Hebrew, and means a drop of salt water—a
tear; Sophia, from Greek—wisdom; Susan, from
Hebrew—a lily; Thomas, from Hebrew—a twin; and
Robert, from German—famous in council.

Authors and Books.

Mr. James and Copyright.—It appears that the visit of
Mr. G.P.R. James, with which we are presently to be honored, is
not, after all, solely for the “gratification of the natural
curiosity” of the author of the book with so many titles, as
some time ago he advised one of his correspondents here. The
London News observes incidentally: “The long-vexed
question of an international copyright with our transatlantic
cousins shows symptoms of rising to a speedy crisis. Up to a
recent period the Yankees had all the advantage of the
defective state of the law. They could steal freely from our
literary richness; whereas, not only had they little of their
own to be robbed of, but their handful of authors took very
good care to secure English publishers, and, therefore, English
copyrights, for their works. This defense, however, a recent
law decision has wrested from the Coopers and Irvings of the
States; so that English booksellers have now a perfect right to
treat American authors as American booksellers have long been
in the habit of serving English authors. And there is something
just in this lex talionis. If Dickens, may be reprinted
and sold for a shilling in New York, why may not Cooper be
reprinted and sold for a shilling in London? At all events, the
reprisal system will possibly incline our Yankee neighbors to
listen to reason, and to favor the embassy which Mr. James,
the novelist, is to undertake to the States, with a view of
making preliminary arrangements for a full and satisfactory
code directed against all future international literary
free-booting.”

Albert Smith and “Protection.”—The Spectator,
misled by a statement in the Morning Post, to the effect that a
Mr. Albert Smith was present, by invitation, at a Protectionist
meeting at Wallingford, made some caustic remarks on the
supposed adhesion of the witty novelist to the cause of dear
bread. The latter, astounded thereby, sends the
Spectator a note, in which he says:

“The Sphinx, at which you pleasantly affirm I came home
laughing from Egypt, never propounded a darker puzzle to any of
its victims than you have to me. From last week’s
Spectator I learn, for the first time, that I was at a
Protection meeting at Wallingford on some particular day, and
that I wept at the prices of 1845. Allow me to assure you that
I never was at Wallingford in my life: nor, indeed, did I ever
attend a public meeting anywhere. I have not the slightest
notion what the prices—I presume of corn—were in
1845; and I should never think of expressing an opinion, in any
way, upon politics, except against that school which abuses
respectability and philanthropizes mischievous rift-raff.”

R.H. Stoddard is preparing for the press of Ticknor, Reed
& Fields, a collection of his Poems, to include most of
those he has contributed to the periodicals since the
appearance of his “Footprints,” two years ago. The book will be
welcomed by the lovers of genuine poetry. Mr. Stoddard is a
young man of unquestionable genius, and we have been pleased to
observe that there is a decided improvement from time to time
in his compositions, indicating the industry and wise direction
of his studies, in refinement of taste, elegance of finish, and
a rapid and vigorous expansion of his imagination. His
masterpiece, thus far, is The Castle in the Air, fitly
praised by our neighbor of the Albion, as one of the
finest productions of the present time. We do not know of any
poet at home or abroad to whose fame it would not have added
new luster. In the July number of the Knickerbocker we
find the following “Dirge,” which is not unworthy of him:

Inedited Correspondence of Goethe and Schiller.—By
many friends of German literature it will be remembered that
Goethe, during his life, carefully preserved a particular
portion of his papers and letters, which he in 1827 transferred
to the government of Weimar, on the condition that the box in
which they were contained should not be opened until the
present year. The 17th of May was the date fixed upon, and in
accordance with the will of the deceased poet, his heirs and
those of his brother poet Schiller were on that day judicially
summoned to Weimar to witness the opening of the case. Of
Schiller’s descendants there were present on the occasion, his
eldest son and eldest daughter, and the widow of Ernst von
Schiller. Goethe was represented by his daughter-in-law and his
two grandsons, Wolfgang and Walther, who came from Vienna,
their present place of residence, for the purpose. Schiller’s
eldest son is chief inspector of forests in Wurtemberg. Madame
de Junot and Frau von Goethe were also present. The box on
being opened was found to contain a full correspondence between
Schiller and Goethe, ready arranged for the press. A codicil in
Goethe’s will provides for their publication. Most of the
letters, all of Schiller’s in fact, are autograph.

The Countess Ossoli, (Margaret Fuller,) we learn from the
Tribune, will be in New York about the 20th of the
present month. Her work on Italy will be given to the press
immediately after her arrival.

Dr. Hoefer against Dr. Layard.—Dr. Hoefer, a
well-known savant in France and Germany, has astonished
the Parisians by the publication of a work in which he boldly
denies the authenticity of the ruins of Nineveh. Even
admitting, he says, that the ruins of Nineveh remain, it is
impossible that they can be in the place which Dr. Layard has
explored; and, moreover, the Assyrian-like sculptures and
inscriptions found in the supposed Nineveh, were the work of a
later, and a different people, who had the affectation of
imitating Assyrian taste.

Both Rogers and Wilson, it is said, have declined the
laureateship. Referring to the office, the Daily News
has a very prosy simile: “A dog, of any sense or self-respect,
with a tin-kettle tied to his tail, acutely feels the misery
and degradation of the music he is compelled to make. What the
tin-kettle is to the dog, the yearly Ode is to the muse. The
board, if you please, but not the annoyance and irritation of
the jangle.”

Mr. George H. Boker is at present engaged in preparing for
the stage his new play of “The Betrothal.” A correspondent who
has seen it in manuscript, and for whose critical opinion we
have a very high respect, pronounces it superior, both in
action, combination and development of character, and general
management of the plot, to any of his previous dramatic
writings. It will probably be brought out next fall, not only
in this city and Philadelphia, but in London, where his tragedy
of “Calaynos” had such a successful run. We believe Mr. Boker
will yet demonstrate that the art of dramatic writing is not
lost, nor likely to be while we retain the language of
Shakspeare, Jonson and Fletcher.

Bayard Taylor will deliver the poem before the societies of
Harvard College on the 18th inst. Among his predecessors have
been Charles Sprague, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edward Everett,
W.C. Bryant, George Bancroft, Frederick H. Hedge, and some
dozen others of the first rank in letters.

John G. Whittier, we are sorry to learn, has been for some
time in ill health. He is living quietly upon his farm in
Haverhill, on the Merrimack.

Browning’s “Christmas-Eve.”—With great peculiarity and
eccentricity, Mr. Browning is a genuine poet. Whether
eccentricity is inseparable from genius we shall leave it to
others to determine. Mr. Turner’s peculiarities have admirers,
and some persons affect to discover merits in Mr. Carlyle’s
German style. Mr. Browning’s poetic powers raise him almost
above ordinary trammels, but it has been justly remarked of
him, that transcendentalism delivered in doggerel verse has
throughout the effect of a discord.”

From the Illustrated London News.

GEN. ANDRE SANTA CRUZ.

This valiant soldier has lately arrived in London as
Minister Plenipotentiary from the Republic of Bolivia to the
English Court. He before visited Europe in the character of
exile, but his misfortune is in a measure repaid by the
importance and dignity of his present position.

General André Santa Cruz was born in 1794, at La Paz, the
capital of one of the provinces of Bolivia, and is a direct
descendant, through his mother, from the Incas of Peru. He
began his military career immediately upon quitting college, in
the Spanish army, wherein he attained the rank of
Lieutenant-Colonel. He joined the liberating army in 1820, when
Peru proclaimed her independence, and by his valor and tactics,
largely contributed to maintain the proclamation. In 1821, as a
reward for his services, he was promoted to the rank of
Colonel, and in conjunction with General Sucre, assisted to
raise the standard of liberty in the State of Ecuador. It was
in the course of this campaign that the battle of Pichincha was
fought in which Santa Cruz distinguished himself at the head of
the advanced guard. These services attracted the attention of
General Bolivar, and won for him the rank of General of
Brigade. He was next engaged with General Bolivar in the
celebrated campaigns of Xemiu and Ayacucho, which closed the
wars of independence, in 1824.

The achievements of General Santa Cruz in the course of
these campaigns were rewarded by the dignity of Grand Marshal
of Peru, and the government of the departments of Chuquisaca
and La Paz. His sagacious administration in his latter capacity
marked him out as the fittest Governor of Peru, to which high
post he was quickly nominated by his admirer and friend General
Bolivar. The national records of this period bear ample
testimony to the enlightened policy and the systematic prudence
with which General Santa Cruz presided over the destinies of
Peru. He retired from his post in 1827, in consequence of the
defection of part of the army from his staunch friend Bolivar,
and accepted the comparatively insignificant appointment of
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Governments of Chili and Buenos
Ayres. In 1829, a serious rebellion, that threatened
irretrievable disasters, having broken out in the Republic of
Bolivia, the friends of order appealed to their old friend
General Santa Cruz as being the only man capable of
re-establishing public tranquillity. His firmness and mercy had
the rapid effect of calming the excited spirits of the rebels;
and as soon as public confidence was restored, he placed the
financial affairs of the country on a firm footing, and in
conjunction with wise counselors, drew up the civil and penal
codes, which were published within the period of his
discretional government. In 1831, the
[pg 41] National Congress elected him
Constitutional President of Bolivia and Captain-General of
the national forces; and, moreover, confirmed the clause in
the will of General Bolivar, which bequeathed the medal of
honor to him. His occupation of the Presidential chair, to
which he was reelected in 1835, was marked by unusual
commercial and financial prosperity, and the yearly revenue
always exceeded the annual expenditure. He paid great
attention, also, to the diffusion of knowledge.

Peru, harassed and divided by internal dissension, turned,
as his native country had turned in the hour of trouble, to
General Santa Cruz. It was proposed to form a confederation of
the two republics. This proposition was carried out and
solemnly ratified in 1835; whereupon the Peruvians, under the
protection of their former chief magistrate, laid down arms,
and prepared to enjoy the blessings of peace. The Confederation
was confirmed by a convocation of the Congresses of Cicuani,
Huawra, and Tapacari, in 1836, and General Santa Cruz was named
“Protector of the Confederation.” In his capacity of Protector,
the General made a triumphant entry into Lima, in 1837, where
the deliberations of a General Congress of the Confederation
were at once opened, and the constitution of the Confederation
was determined upon. The Protector’s liberal policy had secured
the sympathy and esteem of all enlightened nations, gave an
impetus to native enterprise and industry, and above all,
restored the credit of Peru by acknowledging and liquidating
the English liabilities. This prosperous state of things was
suddenly checked by the appearance of a hostile Chilian fleet,
which seized upon the fleet of the Confederation in the port of
Callao, without any previous declaration of war, and by the
landing of a Chilian expedition on the Intermedios, accompanied
by a handful of Peruvians who were hostile to the
Confederation. This expedition was soon subdued by the skill of
General Santa Cruz, who exacted from it the treaty of
Paucaupata, and then allowed free egress from the territory of
the Confederation. This generosity on the part of the Protector
was met by treachery on the part of Chili, directly her army
was once more on Chilian ground. At this time the Government of
Buenos Ayres made an unsuccessful attack upon the
Confederation. The enemies without having been successfully
repulsed, the prosperous condition of the Confederation
continued, till General Orbegoso, one of the founders of the
Confederation, rebelled, and enlisted the troops under his
command in his Cause. This internal rebellion afforded a fresh
and favorable opportunity for renewed hostility from without,
and the result was that within a short space of time Chilian
troops occupied Lima. On the appearance of General Santa Cruz,
however, the foes were compelled to evacuate and re-embark.
Defeated in this direction, the Chilian troops directed their
course to the northern provinces, where Orbegoso’s rebel band
were collected. Gen. Santa Cruz, in the ardor of his
determination to rid the territory of the Confederation from
this treacherous foe, undertook a march of two hundred leagues,
under the severity of which many of his troops sank, and the
result of which was his defeat at Yungay, by the rebel forces.
The defection of Generals Ballivian and Velasco, who commanded
two powerful divisions of the army of the Confederation, made
this disaster irretrievable. General Santa Cruz was obliged to
retire to Guayaquil, whence he subsequently betook himself with
his family to Europe. He has lately been accredited by his
native country Minister Plenipotentiary in London and
Paris.

There are few public men who have held so many important
public trusts with such universal popularity. The liberality of
the General’s views, his sagacity in council, and above all,
the purity of his patriotism and the unselfish nature of his
administrations, are claims upon the gratitude of South America
that will command wider recognition in times to come even than
they obtain at the present time.

THE CELL OF THE BEE.—Hive-bees not only differ from
wasps in building their comb with material secreted by
themselves, but they also differ in the mode in which they
construct their cells. All the wasps which I have hitherto
described have their tiers of cells single: now, the honeycomb
is invariably double. And, moreover, whilst all these wasps and
hornets arrange their cells horizontally, the bee arranges its
comb vertically.

I think it needless to enter into very minute descriptions
of the honeycomb, as all my readers are doubtless perfectly
familiar with its appearance. Each cell, like that made by the
wasp, is hexagonal, and the cells are put together in a manner
which secures the greatest strength for the least possible
material. Kirby and Spence state that “Maraldi found that the
great angles were generally 10 degrees 28 minutes, and the
smaller ones 70 degrees 32 minutes: and M König, an eminent
mathematician, calculated that they ought to be 109 degrees 26
minutes, and 70 degrees 34 minutes, to obtain the greatest
strength with any given amount of material.” Lord Brougham
states that he has discovered that the bee is right and the
mathematician was wrong, and that other mathematicians with
whom he has communicated agree with him, and have detected the
source of the error.—Instinct and Reason.

DISASTERS of life, like convulsions of the earth, lay bare
the primary strata of human nature: they expose to us elements
we might forget, or suppose to be transmuted by the alchemy of
civilization. In this respect they are, like those geological
expositions, useful lessons and mementoes to the lawmaker.

ORIENTAL CARAVANS.

The hadj, or pilgrim-caravan, pursues its route principally
by night, and by torchlight. Moving about four o’clock in the
afternoon, it travels without stopping till an hour or two
after the sun is above the horizon. The extent and luxury of
those pilgrimages, in ancient times especially, almost exceed
belief. Haroun, of Arabian Nights’ celebrity, performed
the pilgrimage no less than nine times, and with a grandeur
becoming the commander of the faithful. The caravan of the
mother of the last of the Abassides numbered one hundred and
twenty thousand camels. Nine hundred camels were employed
merely in bearing the wardrobe of one of the caliphs, and
others carried snow with them to cool their sherbet. Nor was
Bagdad alone celebrated for such pomp and luxury in fulfilling
the directions of the Koran. The Sultan of Egypt, on one
occasion, was accompanied by five hundred camels, whose
luscious burdens consisted of sweetmeats and confectionery
only; while two hundred and eighty were entirely laden with
pomegranates and other fruits. The itinerant larder of this
potentate contained one thousand geese and three thousand
fowls. Even so late as sixty years since, the pilgrim-caravan
from Cairo was six hours in passing one who saw the
procession.

The departure of such an array, with its thousands of camels
glittering in every variety of trappings, some with two brass
field-pieces each,—others with bells and
streamers,—others, again, with
kettle-drummers,—others, covered with purple velvet, with
men walking by their sides playing on flutes and
flageolets,—some glittering with neck ornaments and
silver-studded bridles, variegated with colored beads, and with
nodding plumes of ostrich feathers on their foreheads—to
say nothing of the noble, gigantic, sacred camel, decked with
cloth of gold and silk, his bridle studded with jewels and
gold, led by two sheiks in green, with the ark or chapel
containing the Koran written in letters of gold,—forms a
dazzling contrast to the spectacle it not unfrequently presents
before its mission is fulfilled. Numbers of these gaily
caparisoned creatures drop and die miserably, and when the
pilgrimage leaves Mecca the air is too often tainted with the
effluvia reeking from the bodies of the camels that have sunk
under the exhausting fatigue of the march. After he had passed
the Akaba, near the head of the Red Sea, the whitened bones of
the dead camels were the land-marks which guided the pilgrim
through the sand-wastes, as he was led on by the alternate hope
and disappointment of the mirage, or “serab,” as the Arabs term
it. Burckhardt describes this phenomenon as seen by him when
they were surrounded during a whole day’s march by phantom
lakes. The color was of the purest assure,—so clear, that
the shadows of the mountains which bordered the horizon were
reflected with extreme precision; and the delusion of its being
a sheet of water was thus rendered perfect. He had often seen
the mirage in Syria and Egypt: there he always found it of a
whitish color, like morning mist, seldom lying steadily on the
plain, almost continually vibrating; but in the case above
described the appearance was very different, and bore the most
complete resemblance to water. This exact similitude the
traveler attributes to the great dryness of the air and earth
in the desert where he beheld it. There, too the appearance of
water approached much nearer than in Syria and Egypt, being
often not more than two hundred paces from the beholders,
whereas he had never seen it before at a distance of less than
half-a-mile.—Fraser, June.

Letter from the Duke Of Wellington.—A short time
since, (says the Court Journal,) the rector of a parish
in one of the midland counties, having obtained subscriptions
toward the restoration of his church, still found himself
unable to meet all the claims which the outlay had occasioned.
To supply the deficiency, he wrote to many persons of wealth
and eminence, politely soliciting their aid. The following is a
copy of the reply which he received to the application made to
his Grace:

“F.M. the Duke of Wellington presents his compliments to Mr.
——. As Mr. —— feels that his letter
needs apology, the Duke will say no more on that subject; but
he must add, that as there is not a church, chapel,
glebe-house, school, or even a pagoda, built from the north to
the south pole or within the utmost limits of the earth, to
which he (the Duke of Wellington) is not called upon to
contribute, the Duke is surprised that Mr. ——,
having already raised £7,500 toward the restoration of his
church, should make application to the Duke, who has nothing to
say either to —— or to ——shire.”

Immediately upon the receipt of this, the reverend gentleman
was offered five guineas for the autograph, which he readily
accepted, entering the amount in his subscription-list as the
Duke of Wellington’s contribution to the fund.

Recent Deaths.

Mr. Richard J. Wyatt, an eminent English sculptor, died at
Rome on the 29th of May, after a few days’ illness, and was
buried in the Protestant burial-ground. The hearse was followed
by the British Consul, the American Chargé d’Affairs, and about
fifty friends and artists of all nations. Mr. Wyatt went to
Rome in 1822, and worked for Mr. Gibson. After a few years he
commenced his career, in which he has been so successful. It is
said that he has executed commissions to the extent of £20,000
sterling. He was in the fifty-seventh year of his age.

From Fraser’s Magazine.

THE DOM OF DANTZIC.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

CHAPTER I.

“Dumiger, my own Dumiger, you desired me not to disturb you
this night: but you surely cannot know how late it is. I am
lonely and weary, and could not resist coming to you; there is
a long line of pale light behind the Artimshof, it must be the
day breaking; yes, there, the old worn-out clock is striking
five, and you are worn out, Dumiger, so leave your work to
sleep;” and the young girl blushed deeply as she spoke.

The light in the apartment had burnt out unperceived by
Dumiger; but although pale and thin was the streak of morning’s
dawn, it was sufficient to show that in that room was standing
a form, beautiful from its fullness and ripeness. She who
addressed the man who was sitting at the table was a bride but
nine days since, and absorbing indeed must have been the
pursuit which kept him from her side. She had thrown a shawl
loosely over her shoulders, which fell in many folds down to
her bare feet; her hair, of that singular thickness which all
nations admire, but which the Germans alone as a nation
possess, was coiled around her small and classic head; there
was on her cheek that soft bloom which is called into existence
by love alone, and which makes the pulses of youth beat quickly
as it gazes. Nothing was wanting to complete her
excellence—neither that refinement which poets love to
dwell on sometimes to the prejudice of other qualities, nor
that perfection of feature, the admiration of which is the
first characteristic of early passion; and yet,
notwithstanding, when she placed her hand upon her husband’s
shoulder the touch did not arouse him from his reverie. His
forehead was pressed by both his hands as if to restrain the
pulsations of the temples; implements of all description lay
around him; small wheels, and springs of different
constructions, segments of circles, and various sections bore
evidence to the deep nature of his studies, and to the exertion
which merited repose. The girl sighed as she looked at the
surrounding chaos; she took one hand gently and unresistingly
on his part from his face, and pressed it to her own. While she
gazed fondly upon the pale; wan countenance which it had
concealed, it seemed, alas! to dawn slowly upon her that this
confused heap of material was but an indication of ideas
equally disturbed, and energies as broken. To whom had she
wedded herself? To a man whose whole soul was absorbed in one
idea, and that an idea which evidently separated him from her,
which created a gulf between them, that not fame, nor power,
nor boundless wealth, could ever fill up, for that gulf is
fathomless—the gulf of ambition, for which ambition
barters, as in this instance, its enjoyment—manhood too
often its truth—and old age its repose. Yes, she had
linked her destiny to such a man, and now she felt the full
import of the vow she had made, of the pledge she had taken.
She had done so wittingly, knowingly, with consideration; but
not until that moment had the full force of her position burst
upon her.

“Dumiger,” she again whispered in the small, still voice of
love; bending her lips to his hand at the same
time,—”Dumiger!”

There was silence, for he slept.

But slowly, as though by a secret sympathy, he awoke to
consciousness: he looked wildly around the room, and then
turned a keen, earnest gaze on the form near him.

“Marguerite, my love,” he said gently, and then he put his
arm around her waist, and pressed his lips to hers, “you
promised me, Marguerite, that you would let me toil through
this night.”

“So I did, Dumiger,” she replied; “but I felt nervous and
wretched; I could not sleep: besides, look out, the night is
already passed, it is quite morning, and very chilly too,” she
said, as she drew her shawl closer round her bosom.

“Yes, you will catch cold, my darling. Leave me.”

“And you, Dumiger, will you remain here, poring over these
volumes, and torturing your brains? I am sure, that you will
succeed far more easily (for I never doubt your success, but
lament the price you will have to pay for it), you will succeed
far better by giving yourself more rest, and working by day
instead of night; your cheek is quite pale. Dumiger: now, in
your boyhood, you have lines marked on your forehead which in
others are the result of pain and toil. Your eyes have
lost—”

She was about to add, “their brightness,” when as though a
sudden ray of light had flashed through them, they gleamed with
even more than their wonted intelligence.

“Marguerite, Marguerite,” he exclaimed, clasping her in his
arms, “you know not what you are saying. Look here!” and he
rose hurriedly from his seat and drew her toward the window;
“do you see that star in the east, how bright it is, that you
can even distinguish the ray it sheds from the gray light which
breaks from behind those masses of clouds? By that light I tell
you I shall succeed in my most extravagant expectations. How
many anxious nights I have waited for that star! Until I saw it
I had no hope—now, my hope can scarcely find expression.
I am grateful to Thee, O Providence, for this revelation, for
the accomplishment of all my wishes;” and he bowed his head as
though in adoration, and almost sank on his knees.

Marguerite looked at him as if she dreaded that his brain
was turned. Dumiger interpreted that look; for what look is
there that love cannot interpret?

“No, Marguerite, I am not mad, believe me. This toil has not
yet turned my brain, though it might indeed have done so, for
it is sad [pg 44] and hard to labor night after
night in pursuit of an object so distant and yet so prized.
You ask me why I labor through the night? Foolish child! why
you must know that the clock for which the city has offered
so extravagant a prize, and to obtain which, not I alone,
but so many others are wasting their health and squandering
their youth—you must know that this clock is not only
to tell the hour of the day, and the month of the year, but
to contain within its works the secret of the movements of
the heavenly bodies;—that to obtain this prize they
must read the wonders of the skies, and penetrate its
mysteries. It is a wild and fearful study,
Marguerite—a study, the pursuit of which is not
calculated by the hands on the dial-plate. Even now I marvel
at the audacity of the men who proposed such a design, and
the boldness of those who, like myself, have undertaken to
fulfill it. You cannot imagine, Marguerite, how such
contemplations remove one from the world in which we live.
Until I knew you, Marguerite, I cared for and thought of
nothing else.”

“And even now, Dumiger, is this not the case?” said she,
with a gentle smile.

“No, to your love I owe all, Marguerite,” he answered. “It
seemed to purify my feelings, to elevate my mind to the height
of this vast argument—until I knew you there was a link
wanting in my life. When I used to ponder on the marvelous love
of the Infinite, which could work out this wondrous system, and
give man the faculty and the desire of comprehending it, I felt
that the mind contained capacities long concealed from its
owner; I felt that even in this world there must be at some
time a perfect revelation of perfect love to man, beyond that
love of nature which is to be derived from the study of this
world’s natural laws and those of the lights which rule it. I
was then unsatisfied, Marguerite, for there was a void in my
heart which nothing could fill up; and I remember once meeting
with a passage in a favorite author which said, that whosoever
had a faculty or sensation unemployed could not be happy. I was
in that situation; but strange to say, absorbing as the passion
of love is, when I once understood this great mystery I was
better able to devote all my energies to science. I had often
heard it said, that a pure and holy affection is the purest and
surest source of energy and greatness—until I knew you,
Marguerite, I gave no credit to the saying.”

“And this star, Dumiger, which is growing fainter and
fainter?”

“It was the one evidence wanting to prove the accuracy of my
calculations. Look here, Marguerite,” and he rose from the
table with weak and faltering steps, and drew back a curtain
which was drawn across a corner of the small room. There she
saw a small clock of exquisite manufacture, a complicated mass
of machinery—so complicated that it would have looked
like fabled labor to have even put it into motion, or regulated
it when in motion. “Look here,” continued Dumiger, “here is the
result of two years’ toil. I have already adapted these works
to each other: it is, as you may perceive, a representation of
the heavenly bodies; but I could not satisfy myself that my own
calculations were correct until I saw this star which I
expected to rise as it has risen this morning. Now, Marguerite,
my best beloved, you have seen it burning brightly in that spot
of the heavens, it is a pledge of our future love and of my
great success—I accept it with humility and gratitude.
Yes, now. Marguerite, I will retire with you; a great fact has
been accomplished. If labor is virtuous, if to exercise the
faculties be a part of the discipline of life, then, even if I
die now, I have not lived unworthily, and my labor has not been
wholly in vain. What think you, my Marguerite?”

She looked her answer in those dark, speaking, lustrous
eyes. The greatness of his mind had passed to hers; the
mysterious sympathy of kindred souls united them. She was proud
of him; and her eyes flashed lightning, and her cheek flushed
deeply, as she replied—

“I can forgive you now, Dumiger, all your neglect, in the
hope of seeing you famous and honored by all your
fellow-townsmen.”

“Ay, Marguerite,” replied Dumiger, “there it is; it is fame
for itself I care for—to be great, powerful and wealthy,
is a matter of but small importance. One can live without rank,
without power, without wealth, and perhaps be all the happier
for wanting them. This little room, small and ill-furnished
though it be, contains in it as much happiness as any one heart
can enjoy. If we have everything we desire, what care I in how
small a compass they may be expressed? For instance, I would
not yield one of your kisses, Marguerite, for all the palace of
the Grand Master can offer. Some of my friends have richer
abodes, but what matter? Where did Van Eyck, who immortalized
himself by that one painting, known throughout Europe as the
Dantzic picture, reside? Why, in one of those wretched
buildings, ill supported by props and pillars, near the Grime
Thor, but which his fellow-townsmen are at this moment prouder
of than they are of the Artimshof or the Stockthurm. How did
Andreas Stock live? In obscurity and penury, without one smile
of good fortune to gild the darkness of existence. But do you
suppose that these men were unhappy? Oh no, Marguerite, to make
everything in nature beautiful there is but one element in
nature essential, and that is light. To make everything in the
heart rejoice there is but one sensation essential, it is love.
How think you, Marguerite?”

Her only reply was a long, long kiss.

And they retired to rest as the bells of the city chimed in
the merry morning, arousing in that city its slumbering
passions, fears, loves, difficulties, and perils, which had
been for long hours buried in sleep. But amid the various
sounds which began to echo through the streets, there was one
wanting to give [pg 45] evidence that the dawn, of a
great town was breaking. No clock worthy of the noble Dom,
imitated by Ritter of Strasburg from St. Sophia, arrested
the attention of those who were starting forth on their
several pilgrimages of toil or joy: none had yet been
wrought worthy of the mighty majestic pile which
overshadowed the free city, and reared its towers lofty as
the great League to whose wealth it owed its origin. To
construct such a clock was the object for which Dumiger
labored; and not he alone, but hundreds of skilled workmen,
toiled anxiously through the long autumn nights, for the
citizens of Dantzic loved that glorious fane whose lofty
towers looked upon their birth, and beneath whose shadow the
noblest of their freemen were buried. To connect their names
with that great monument, seemed to them to be an object
well worthy of the noblest and oldest commercial houses. Two
years had been allowed for the undertaking, and the time for
deciding the prize was drawing near; and amongst all who
toiled to win it, none more zealously labored in the work
than Dumiger Lichtnau, known to history as Dumiger of
Dantzic.

CHAPTER II.

If it be a grateful sight to behold the young and happy when
all life is bright before them, when the soil which they tread
on is covered with flowers, and the only murmurs which they
hear are the murmurs of soft breezes, and the only sighs are
sighs of passion; not less beautiful is it to see the young
linked together in love, struggling with adversity; to see two
beings whose sole object in life it is to alleviate the daily
toil of each other; to whom every effort of self-denial through
the object of its exercise becomes a blessing; to whom the
future is full of promise, because exertion gives confidence,
and self-confidence is the source of all hope. There is
something very touching in the sight of those whom the world
deserts, or to whose interests the world is at best
indifferent, arousing all their energies to battle with adverse
circumstances. Then every little addition to the daily comforts
is prized, as the result of independence and of honorable
exertion—in a word, as the reward of labor: every holiday
arrives fraught not merely with enjoyment, but with blessing.
To such there are sources of happiness, which the gay, the
wealthy, the children of life’s sun know nothing of, but which
in their noonday career of splendor and greatness they might
well stop to envy.

On such an existence Marguerite had entered. Hers was a
simple history, told in few words, but connected with long
previous chapters of passions and regrets; for she was the
child of love, begotten in tears, and brought up in one of
those admirable foundling establishments which prevail in
Germany, and are at once the incentives to love and the
protection of its offspring. She left it a year previously to
the period when we are writing, to enter a family of
distinction as a humble friend and teacher. There Dumiger
chanced to meet her. When first he met he loved; and like all
men of earnest purpose, he loved with no common passion. The
family were of that kind so frequently met with in
society—affecting great consideration for those whom fate
has placed beneath them, but expressing consideration in such
terms as made it almost an offense, and proving their vanity in
the very manner in which they affected humility. She at once
accepted Dumiger, though some months elapsed before it was
possible for them to marry. At last, by dint of great exertion,
they laid aside sufficient money to commence the world with.
Dumiger had the small apartment, within whose narrow limits his
mind expanded to the contemplation of the vast field of inquiry
on which he presumed to enter, and he transported Marguerite to
her new home; there to indulge in imaginations of love,
boundless and visionary, as his were of ambition.

The day following that which we have described there was a
great annual fête at Dantzic. The free city for the time
donned its freest and most joyous manners; it was one of those
days in which honest burghers, and most especially honest
burghermasters, delight, because they are then enabled to put
on their greatness with their broadcloths; and every flag and
inscription in the streets is a tribute to their past, and an
incentive to their renewed exertions. Fortunately the day rose
in more than ordinary brightness; the Mottlaw and the Radaw,
two streams which flow through the center of Dantzic, reflected
the variegated masses of colors worn by those who thronged
their banks; Commerce had for that day deserted the lofty mart
and still loftier warehouse to muse by the side of the river
which bore her richest freights; processions from the
neighboring villages marched with music at their head into the
city, bearing the devices of their various trades, and when the
crowd separated to let them pass, the captains of companies and
humbler officials drew themselves up as they traversed the
rude, ill-fashioned pavement of the picturesque and antique
gabled city. It was the fête of the patron saints of the
town,—strange evidence of a future state, even among
those who reflect but little; for there as ever all men turn
alike to some mysterious guardian for protection, and like this
city are consecrated to some faith. In the midst of these happy
groups, which were collected at every corner and filled every
gasthof, moved Dumiger and Marguerite, most blessed and happy
where all looked smiling and contented. Marguerite was the envy
of all brides, and of those who wished to become so; and there
was not a young burgher of distinction who had not at some time
or another looked upon her with admiring gaze, and followed her
to the palace in which she dwelt, and loitered under her
window,—where, however, the thin slight
[pg 46] curtain was rarely if ever
drawn aside to satisfy the vanity of the gazer or to kindle
her own. She was of a very admirable beauty, as perfect as
is commonly found in nature, which fancy can at will
outwork,—tall, of excellent symmetry, with a clear,
noble brow, the proudest type of Nature’s glory. There were
few in town who did not know her at all events, from
reputation, and that reputation was spotless. Of Dumiger’s
appearance we cannot say as much: he would have been
decidedly plain but for the indications of genius which his
countenance afforded. His forehead was marked with the lines
of patient and anxious thought; but these evidences, if they
did not serve to please the gazer, at least commanded his
respect. He was somewhat bent by premature exertion; the
hair, even at that early age, was thin and scanty on the
temples; his step was slightly enfeebled by want of proper
exercise. Altogether he was a very remarkable man from the
intellectual power which every lineament expressed; yet
altogether he was scarcely such a person as would have been
considered likely to awaken a strong passion in a young girl
like Marguerite. For it is too true that, to use the
expression of a writer of that age, il avait l’air d’un
âme qui avait recontré par hasard un corps et qui s’en
tirait comme il pouvait.

And yet—so strange a being is woman!—desirous like the
Hindoo wife to sacrifice herself on whatever altar she raises
in her heart, Marguerite, in order to marry Dumiger, had
refused the greatest offers,—amongst others, no less a
person than the son of that house into which she had been
received. But irrespective of the affection which she felt for
Dumiger, she was in her nature proud and haughty, and she would
not have consented, even under other and less favorable
circumstances, to have entered where she was despised by the
rest of the family. It may be imagined how great indignation
was excited in this man by her refusal, the more especially as,
like Dumiger, he thought himself a proficient in science and
the mechanical arts, and was one of those who in his way was
laboring for the prize so soon to be awarded by the city. If
merit was to be the test of success, he had but little chance;
but where is that man and where are those minds with whom rank
and power have not their weight? He was, therefore, if not the
most formidable by intellect, at all events by circumstance,
the one of Dumiger’s competitors the most to be dreaded, for
his father was the president of that council which presided
over the destinies of Dantzic, and who usurped more than
imperial authority. He belonged to the ancient house of
Albrect, Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, and oldest
freeman of the Hanseatic League. A strange, proud man, who when
he learned indirectly that his son Frederick was in love with
Marguerite, indulged in a storm of fearful indignation, until
he found from her that on no account did she intend to accept
the suit; and then, in spite of his gratification at the
certainty that his son could not make a marriage which he
thought so discreditable, his vanity was wounded at her
decision, and even while he praised Marguerite’s disinterested
conduct, in his heart he was garnering up hatred against her. A
blow to vanity is terrible, and it is a blow which the humblest
and weakest can give as well as the most powerful, in the
contempt or even the indifference expressed for the pursuit in
which we are interested, or for the object which we have
attained. So much of our opinion of the value of an object
depends on the price which others set upon it, that it is
sufficient to know others are indifferent to it for ourselves
to undervalue it. But Marguerite went forward in her career of
happiness, quite ignorant of the dislike she was leaving behind
her. She told Frederick the truth, that she loved Dumiger, and
kindly added, that but for this circumstance she might one day
have loved him; and then with a light heart she left the
splendid palace for the abode of poverty.

They moved on together, those two young and loving beings,
and so intent were they on their own happiness, so concentrated
in each other, that they did not observe how the crowd through
which they passed fell back in admiration: but at last Dumiger
caught the expressions of their faces, and saw the glance which
accompanied them, and then he almost looked nobly born, so
proud became his step and steadfast his gaze. The long market
(surrounded with its fantastic gables, strange, rickety, and
picturesque, which looked us though they retained the
expression of the angular, quaint, rococo faces of those by
whom the houses were formerly tenanted) was crowded with all
that was gay and animated in Dantzic; around the fountains,
somewhat rude in their execution but admirable in their models,
the peasants from the neighborhood were congregated. Presently
the crowd, which had momentarily become greater and still
greater, swayed backward and forward like the tide in a harbor
when a noble vessel enters its gates. They made place for a
herald, who rode on horseback surrounded by his deputies, and
gave notice in an audible voice that on that day week the
Supreme Council would meet to decide on the merits of the
different pieces of mechanism which were to be submitted to
their judgments, and which were to be sent in three days
previously. Then the herald recited the rewards which the great
and free city offered to the most successful competitors: they
were worthy of the great League of which Dantzic was the
head:—A house to be kept up at the expense of the State,
to be styled the “most honorable,” a ring of honor, but above
all, a laurel wreath, and to have precedence immediately after
the Supreme Council itself. Such was the attachment of the
inhabitants of Dantzic to their town and
[pg 47] its glories that its
embellishment was dearer to them than any personal or
material advantages. But it is probable that these honors
would not have been so great on the present occasion had the
Grand Master not been fully impressed with the belief that
his own son would succeed in the contest, and add another
and the greatest to the honors which belonged to his house.
Marguerite and Dumiger pressed forward through the crowd to
hear the proclamation read, and the blood flowed in their
cheeks as they listened. Dumiger turned to look at
Marguerite, her eyes were moist with love and admiration; he
pressed her arm fondly, and said in a low voice,—

“Now, Marguerite, will you forgive me the hours passed in
solitude, in selfish silence, when you know how highly the city
estimates this work to which my nights and days have been
devoted?”

Her only answer was a glance of affection which thrilled
through his frame.

It was night, they were tired of wandering about, and
entered one of the numerous cafés which had been
temporarily erected in celebration of the day. In the center of
the Grande Place a stage was built for dancing, and when the
band played its liveliest tunes the bright-eyed dancers swept
round in admirable time; the variegated lamps which hung around
the square checkered the pavement with every variety of hue,
cast such a glory on the fountain that its outline was worked
as it were with threads of gold. All these different colors and
shapes were reflected in the rippling waves of the ever-rolling
waters. Youths in the gayest dresses strutted away their proud
hour of triumph with that graceful vanity of pretension which
youth so well becomes, or flirted with the tender maidens, who
in silver-laced bodice and scarlet skirt, with their brows
encircled with interwoven wild flowers, sat round the brink of
the fountain, where the murmurs of the ever-falling waters
could best conceal the murmurs of love. And above all this
gorgeous tumult and bright excitement the moon from her throne
of silver clouds rose like a virgin queen; the bold
architecture of the Dom stood in clear relief, some parts as
though sculptured out of heaven’s light, while the depths of
the arches were buried in mysterious shade, emblematic of the
faith to which it was dedicated,—in part clear to the
fresh comprehension of the youngest child, and again full of
deep and fathomless mysteries. Athwart the flood of light which
filled the square, the deep shade of this noble Dom was thrown,
like the dark visions of the future which sometimes fall upon
the heart in its hours of brightest enjoyment. If one had stood
that night on the lofty tower and looked forth on the vast
multitude, he need not, Asmodeus-like, have unroofed the houses
to read the history of human life or the passions of the human
heart, for life and passion had gone forth that night from many
a tranquil abode to revel in publicity. One so standing above
the wild hum of tumultuous enjoyment would in silent thought
have marveled at the strange drama performing as it were at his
feet,—the sad and fearful mixture of the shadows and
lights of life and death, the market-place, and close at hand
the burial-ground. Talk of contemplation in the wild solitudes
of the country, how much more is there room for contemplation
in the crowded mart and the bustling thoroughfare! Where is the
river whose current is so rapid as the current of life, or at
time so dangerous and treacherous? Where is the tide whose ebb
and flow is so uncertain as the ebb and flow of existence?
Where are to be found winds and waves more boisterous than
those which agitate the human heart? Where is the shore so
strewn with wrecks as the heart with the broken memorials of
passion which may have long since swept over it? If Nature in
its solitude affords calm enjoyment, in its human development
it affords matter for deeper thought; if the view from the
mountain-top, extending over hill and dale, expand the mind, to
stand above the wild tumult of a town equally exalts the
imagination and conveys knowledge, even while it compels the
gazer to pass out of himself.

As they approached a coffee-house on the same side of the
street as the Dom, Marguerite proposed to Dumiger to remain
there, where they could best see the dancing, and she drew a
chair toward her.

“No, no, not here!” exclaimed Dumiger; and he took her
across the square to another house of greater reputation.

But it was not on this account that Dumiger preferred it,
but because it had a view of the Dom; he could there
contemplate the space which was left for the clock, of which he
fondly believed he was making the model. He pictured to himself
that tower, the wonder and admiration of the town; that on the
spot where he was then sitting numbers would crowd to view the
wonderful machinery fashioned by his genius.

The history of the café to which he took Marguerite
was curious; it had been opened not less than one hundred and
twenty years without being once entirely closed. It was, in
point of fact, formed by two houses, which were used
alternately to allow of the necessary repairs and cleansings.
On such an occasion as the present they were both thrown
open,—the one part was for persons of the second rank,
amongst which Dumiger and Marguerite now classed themselves;
the other was reserved for the people of the higher order, for
in this city of popular institutions and liberal opinions the
distinction of classes was very strictly preserved.

Marguerite and Dumiger ordered some slight refreshment.
Marguerite was enjoying that repose which is so agreeable to
the mind after the sensation of strong happiness; Dumiger, with
his head resting on his hand, was gazing on the lofty tower of
the Dom, [pg 48] and the light fleecy clouds,
which appeared to be almost attracted by the glittering
vane. At that moment a rude hand slapped his shoulder.

“You here, Dumiger!” said Carl. “Why, Confound it, man. I
thought you were poring over dull tomes of the University
library, or worshiping a saint” and he took off his hat to
Marguerite. “Here is Krantz, your old friend Krantz, whom you
have not seen since we were all at Bonn together: so I will
drink with you as well as he did three years since, when we
reveled in Rhenish.”

Dumiger seized the extended hand, a gleam shot across his
mind: the three years of abstraction and thought appeared to be
swept away; he only beheld his two boon companions; his
countenance was lightened of a dozen years.

“Marguerite, these are two friends of mine,” he said; “it is
getting late and cold. See, the lights on the fountains are
burning very dim, and the benches are deserted. You will not
grudge me this one night for acquaintance sake, dear
Marguerite? I shall not he late, but I must grant myself one
bottle to-night to drink to my success. What, angry, my
Marguerite!”

She was not angry, but she thought that love in life is of
rare fulfillment. Again another night of loneliness: yesterday
it was a disagreeable necessity, now an agreeable excitement,
but both alike led to a lonely room and a lonely heart. But in
the shade Dumiger pressed her hand, and assured her with many
kisses that he would return within two hours, and she tried to
feel satisfied and assured. The three friends sat down; a
larger table replaced the small stand which had been
exclusively devoted to ices; three bottles of huge dimensions
were brought from the cellar; pledge after pledge was received
and given. Dumiger became a different man, save that at
moments, in the midst of some burst of louder hilarity, the
cloud of ambition would cross his brow and seem to furrow it,
and then he would fold his arms across his breast, as if to
repress the outbreak of his soul. It was during one of these
moments of abstraction that Carl turned suddenly round.

“Why, Dumiger,” he exclaimed, “you do not fill your glass!
In former days, man, you were of a very different mood. Has
marriage so tamed you? Won’t Marguerite allow it!”

Krantz and the two friends made the place ring with their
rude students’ laugh. “Ha! ha! I, why I am in excellent
spirits,” said Dumiger, filling a bumper with the strongest of
the wines upon the table. “I ought to be in good spirits, for I
have everything to make me so.”

“Ay, the most beautiful girl in Dantzic for a wife,” said
Carl.

“With a large fortune?” said Krantz, laughing.

“That will come,” replied Dumiger, heated by wine.

“Large fortune!” they both exclaimed; “where are you to get
it, student? Have you found an old cave in the Grime Thor,
Dumiger, with a fortune buried, as the old romances have
it?”

“Yes, I shall soon discover a fortune,” exclaimed the boy,
now fairly excited, and his cheeks glowing with animation; “and
more than a fortune. Fame and honors shall be heaped upon us.
Do you imagine that I have been wasting the last three years of
my life? do you believe that the ambition which was the subject
of your illusive aim at college is dead? No! look here, Carl
and Krantz, this day week will see me famous, and ennoble my
family till it vies even with the Grand Master’s.”

“You are mad,” said Carl.

“No, I am speaking words of soberness,” said he, with an
earnestness which carried conviction even to those wild
spirits. “I tell you that I have an inward confidence that I
shall win this prize which was proclaimed to-day, that my name
will be associated with the proudest fame ever reared in
Dantzic. Oh, the nights and days of toil, the hopes and fears
which have agitated me, for the last three years: these will
account to you for the paleness of my cheek, and my vacant
look. Well, I have this day completed the test by which the
accuracy of my work is proved, and now I hold I shall be
great.”

He spoke so loud that his voice echoed through the
peristyle; it disturbed one not the least interested in the
conversation, Frederick Asprecht. He lent an attentive ear to
all that fell from the speaker’s lips, and then he learned that
not only had he been robbed of an affection which he had
striven to win, but that the same man who had married
Marguerite was about to take from him the possibility of
obtaining a prize he sought for. In the vanity of his
pretensions he could not believe it possible that Dumiger
really was not at the moment speaking extravagantly; it was not
until he listened attentively, and heard him give a detailed
account of the nature of his mechanism, that he saw (for he was
not wanting in scientific knowledge) that Dumiger’s confidence
was far from misplaced. Frederick, when he had heard
sufficient, left the place with a heavy heart, and with
melancholy step retired to his chambers of luxury.

He entered the Grand Master’s palace, and through the vast
marble hall, where the banners hung against the walls, and
devices and armorial bearings testified to the antiquity and
gallantry of his race. The lofty roof, supported by vast ashen
beams, echoed to each step as it rang on the pavement.
Sculpture and painting decorated the several galleries; but he
passed by all unnoticed, for he had one object in view which
absorbed all others, and rendered him now indifferent to the
luxuries and grandeur by which he was surrounded. To his
surprise when he entered a colonnade full of the
[pg 49] choicest flowers, which
united the extreme wings of the vast building, he found his
father walking there with an anxious, timid step, his manner
was nervous and uneasy.

“Frederick,” said the old man, one of those dignified,
astute, tall, gray-bearded, and keen-eyed men, whom we find in
the picture galleries of the middle ages, dressed in a suit of
stately black, with the golden chain of his order, and riband
of the Fleece, “I was very anxious to see you, my son. The
influence of our house is deserting us; you have not attended
the council lately—there is a majority organizing against
us. You should be at your post my son. The first element of
success in life is industry—patient, untiring industry;
it is to this we owe the fortunes of our house the very
decorations which I wear, the consideration with which I am
treated,” and the old man curled the long, tapering moustache,
partly in pride, partly in anger.

“But, my father, you forget that I am wholly occupied in my
studies—that you yourself urged me to contend for the
prize which the city gives—that you considered this would
be the readiest means of extending your family influence.”

“Forget!” exclaimed the old man indignantly. “Forget!” and
his spurs clanged upon the pavement. “I am not quite so old as
to forget thus—neither do I forget that you wasted three
months in making love to that jungfrau Marguerite, and three
more months in lamenting her loss, even after she had spurned
you, you son of the chief citizen of Dantzic. You succeed in
nothing, sir; unstable as water, you trifle away all existence.
Now tell me, you solitary student, where have you been
to-night? Of course not wasting every moment in the holiday
with your boon companions, and making love to all the peasants?
Speak, sir.”

“It is true, my father; I was at the fair,” replied
Frederick, submissively.

“You tell the truth at any rate,” continued the Count,
somewhat touched by his frankness. “Well, then, we won’t say
anything more about the past and Marguerite; but tell me as
frankly what prospect you have of success in the competition
for this famous clock, for on that will greatly depend the
power of sustaining our family influence.”

So appealed to, Frederick thought it wise at once to prepare
his father for the truth. He told him that until that evening
he had imagined that he possessed every prospect of obtaining
the prize, and then he repeated all that he had overheard
Dumiger asserting. In the bitterness of his spirit he inveighed
against him as a personal enemy, and as he spoke vehemently and
earnestly, his father’s eyes glistened with vengeance and
pleasure, for he saw that the dignity of the father had passed
into his son; he had never seen the youth so excited, he now
felt that he was worthy of the old time-honored race.

“Ah,” he said, “Dumiger again; and his scheme and plan seem
well founded. However, neither the man nor his production will
find great favor in the council while I have influence there;
he may exaggerate his merits.”

“I think not,” said Frederick. “But there is one way to get
rid of his competition,” said Frederick, laying his hand on the
hilt of his sword.

“No, no, young man; take your hand from your sword: I will
have no brawling, no bloodshed, like those common burghers,
whose sons are even now rustling through the market-place. But
wait a little; night gives counsel. I think I have a way far
more practical and less hazardous than that which you
propose—leave the matter in my hands, Frederick. I am
glad to find you have some spirit, that it has not all been
dissipated on that foolish girl; there is always hope in man
where there is energy. What I feared was that you might become
a mere dreamer, and struggle through an idle, vaporing
existence: now I hold that you are worthy of your name,
although the conviction has reached me in an unpleasant form.
But leave this to me, all will be right; you have only one
thing to do, to send Hoffman to me to-morrow morning.”

“Hoffman the silversmith, who lives at the corner near the
senate house?” asked Frederick.

“Precisely,” replied the Count, and soon his firm unbroken
step was heard ringing in the distance.

Frederick went out on the balcony to meditate on what
possible steps his father proposed taking to overrule the
opposition of Dumiger. With all his frivolity and dissipation
he was greatly ambitious, and most anxious to sustain a
reputation he had long enjoyed of having it in his power to
command success in any pursuit to which he chose to direct his
attention—that Alcibiades and Admirable Crichton
character which is the principal source of failure to many men
in life. With the exception of the hours wasted in the useless
pursuit of Marguerite, he certainly had not in the present
instance been wanting in exertion, and he also had, like many
other chief burghers in Dantzic, turned his attention to
mechanical pursuits; it was the first time, he now felt
convinced, that those exertions would be all thrown away. As he
looked down from the lofty gallery in which he was standing on
the dense circle of happy dancers, who were whirling round and
round in the center of the square; as he heard the joyous laugh
from the numerous groups who thronged the coffee-houses; as the
plumes of the guards waved in the moonlight, and the light
flashed on the bright uniforms and brighter checks which
reposed upon them, he began to think how idle was a life of
ambition, how far happier he was when as a boy he joined in the
merry supper; when the clear, bright, sparkling wine
represented the free spirits of those who drank it; when
[pg 50] maidens, with gay hearts and
light golden hair, sought his love. “Give me back these
joys,” he exclaimed in agony; “give me that youth which
graced the pursuits of love, and which dignified every
enjoyment: take from me that ambition, which only leads to
misery in its failure and to disappointment in its
fulfillment.”

CHAPTER III.

Hoffman, the silversmith, whom the count desired to see, was
one of those men who have existed at all times and in all
countries, who trade on the exertions of those who possess more
energy and perseverance than themselves, and who really do seem
essential to the great mechanism of society. He had from time
to time rendered assistance to Dumiger, who, unfortunately at
the present moment owed him a large sum of money, which it
would take a long time to liquidate. The count also had
dealings with the silversmith; for in the quartier Juif
all classes meet and jostle each other. But Hoffman was a
superior man of his order, he knew the secret history of most
of the important burghers, was consulted on many very delicate
subjects, and could have published more scandal than any Sunday
Chronicle of these more modern days. The count was like all
other counts, incessantly in debt; so, when Hoffman was ordered
to attend on the Grand Master, he did not doubt that the
mandate originated in the ordinary necessity, and he prepared
himself accordingly to evade or concede. Some time previously
the count had found it necessary to part with a great portion
of his old family plate, and as it was during the passion of
his son for Marguerite, and after Dumiger had carried off the
prize, he had discovered from the loquacious goldsmith all the
particulars relative to Dumiger, and amongst others the account
of his pecuniary obligations, and that Hoffman had a bond from
him for a very large sum in his possession. The object of the
count’s present interview with Hoffman was to know on what
terms he could purchase the bond; and when the jeweler arrived,
the bargain was soon concluded. Hoffman thought the bond would
never be paid, and so the count purchased it for three times
its apparent value.

On the previous evening Dumiger returned flushed and excited
to his house. The moment his friends had left him, he began to
regret the confidence he had placed in them, and the frankness
with which he had expressed himself. He retained but a very
slight recollection of all that he had said, but he thought it
was quite sufficient to have aroused the ridicule of those
around him. Most painful of all sensations, the vague sense of
a folly committed, the extent and the consequences of which are
alike unknown to us! As he approached his home it seemed to him
that he had profaned his affection for Marguerite by mentioning
her name in that rude society, and broken her confidence by
alluding to his hopes and his fears. While his secret had been
confined to his own breast, or communicated only to Marguerite,
his confidence in himself had never for a moment been weakened;
but now that others were made acquainted with his convictions
and his hopes, they seemed to him exaggerated and unfounded. He
had for a moment forgotten that the chief secret of success in
all undertakings in life is Silence. Silence in the scheming,
silence in the execution, silence in the fulfillment; half the
charm that had given him strength was lost now that he had
opened his breast and disclosed its secrets to others. And it
was with a feeling approaching to disgust that he entered his
workroom, and saw all the material of his great enterprise
scattered about the floor.

He went to Marguerite’s room. She was sleeping with all the
freshness of youthful dreams glowing on her cheek; after the
tumult of the day the stillness of that room soothed his
spirit. He reflected how little satisfactory were all these
pursuits compared to the tranquillity of home, but then, even
as he sat by the bedside, and with her hand in his, pondered on
the past and future—a pageant as it were, robed in cloth
of gold and purple, and laurel-crowned, swept by him; and the
glory of being preëminent among his fellow-men flashed upon his
soul. If he should fail—. A cold damp settled on his brow
at the thought, for in that event all his time had been thrown
away, and there was no possibility of his meeting his various
engagements. It was not one Hoffman but many that beset him,
although Hoffman was truly the most avaricious of his tribe,
where all were greedy. And then, as he gazed on the lovely
countenance by his side, he thought of the affection which had
resigned all luxury, and, far above all luxury, that
consideration which women so prize, for him, and that he had
brought her to a home where she had to deny herself many of
those comforts to which she had been accustomed. He regretted
the deed. Still more did he regret the time that he had that
night wasted, and the money that he had squandered; but it was
too late for repentance. All that he could now do was to nerve
his energies for the toil of the morrow—that morrow which
comes to all men, the faith of the procrastinator, the hope of
the sufferer, the mercy of the unbeliever.

He awoke in the morning with renewed resolution, but his
brow was still heated with the dissipation of the previous
night, and his hand shook as he applied himself to his work.
After a couple of hours, however, when Marguerite had taken her
place by his side, he forgot Dantzic, Carl, and Krantz, all the
annoyances which threatened him. He was absorbed in his
pursuit, and Marguerite was looking over with her attention not
less absorbed than his own, when to their astonishment the
magnificent carriage, with the
[pg 51] heavy, sleek, overfed horses,
of the Count Albrecht, rolled up to the door.

“Look here, Dumiger,” exclaimed Marguerite, running to the
window with a woman’s curiosity flushing her cheek. “Here is
the Grand Master’s carriage—what can he be doing at this
house?”

“He must be calling on the new arrivals who took the
apartments on the first-floor yesterday,” said Dumiger,
scarcely looking up from his work, on which all his attention
was concentrated.

“They are beautiful horses, and the manes and tails are
decorated with ribands which would furnish me with sashes for a
whole life,” thought Marguerite; but she avoided giving
utterance to her feeling, lest Dumiger should interpret it into
an expression of regret at having given up the prospect of ever
obtaining all these luxuries.

Marguerite had just left the window when a heavy step was
heard on the stair, and loud knock at the door roused Dumiger
from his fit of abstraction, nearly making him jump from his
chair. The impulsive “Come in!” which he uttered, was
immediately succeeded by the appearance of the Count.

Dumiger, like most men of deep thought and habits of
abstraction, was diffident. He stood for some moments
thunderstruck without performing any of the usual courtesies of
society. Marguerite in her surprise imagined that she must have
been guilty of some great negligence while residing in the
palace, with which the Count now came to reproach her.

The silence was broken by the Count himself, who nodded
kindly, almost familiarly to Marguerite, and without any
further ceremony took the chair from which Dumiger had just
risen.

“I called to see whether you were comfortable, Marguerite,
in your new abode. It is small,” continued the Count, as
lolling back in his chair he touched the wall with the back of
his head: “I suppose, however, that you will some day be able
to afford a larger. I do not wish to trespass upon your
confidence, but as I have the liveliest gratitude for the
admirable manner in which you, Marguerite, discharged all your
duties while you were with me, you must let me evince my
recollection of them by a small wedding present.” And the Count
laid a rouleau of gold pieces on the table.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Dumiger, seizing the Count’s hand with
effusion, “you are so kind but I can assure you that we are
quite happy here. When one is truly attached to another, the
little sacrifices of life become a pleasure,” and Dumiger’s
eyes so filled with tears, that he did not perceive the quiet,
cold sneer on the Count’s upper lip; but Marguerite remarked
it. Moreover, she knew the Count well—his vast ambition,
his supercilious pride; she had caught the inflection of his
tone when he spoke to Dumiger, and she knew that when he
affected that winning, cajoling manner, he was always the most
dangerous, and most to be suspected. So her only answer or
acknowledgment was a low courtesy, and the blood mantled in her
cheek, but whether from gratitude or some sterner feeling the
Count was unable to divine.

He looked at her for some time under his long gray eyelash;
Marguerite met the look calmly and composedly. Dumiger was
bustling about quite in an ecstacy of delight, and for the time
entirely forgot the clock and the Dom. Not so the Count, he was
curiously scanning all the various parts of the complicated
machinery which were lying round him. He waited until
Marguerite should retire before he judged it right to commence
speaking to Dumiger on the subject that was next his heart, but
Marguerite did not seem at all disposed to give him the
opportunity.

Woman’s prescience of danger for those she loves is
wonderful. Without being able to assign any definite reason,
Marguerite felt that the man’s presence boded her no good; and
it was therefore with a troubled spirit that she heard the
Count, after looking several times at his watch, suggest that
he wished to speak to Dumiger alone.

Dumiger looked at Marguerite, who thought it wiser at once
to take the hint than to allow the Count to suppose that she at
all questioned the sincerity of the kind interest which he
affected to take in her. He waited until the door was fairly
closed, and then drew his chair near to Dumiger’s. The latter,
quite unaccustomed to the neighborhood of so great a man,
immediately withdrew his seat to a more deferential distance;
but the dimensions of the room speedily put a stop to the
retrogression and his modesty by arresting his chair.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the Count to Dumiger, in a somewhat
harsher tone than he had yet used, for he was an impatient and
testy old man. “Don’t draw your chair back in that way. I wish
to speak to you privately and confidentially.”

Dumiger held his breath. What could the Grand Master of the
Teutonic Knights have to say to him? for, whatever might be his
future greatness, at all events its promise could be known but
to few others.

“You were out last night,” continued the Count. “You went to
a wine-shop—you spoke loudly—you drank deeply.”

As the Count continued Dumiger’s cheeks glowed. The Count
must have heard all that he said. His heart sank within him as
he recalled his weakness; but his mind was soon settled on that
point by the Count.

“And when you spoke,” continued he, you talked very wildly
of becoming a great man; of obtaining more enduring fame than
any of our noblest citizens. By the bye, you did me the honor
to class me amongst those you were destined to triumph
over.”

“It was a wild, idle thought,” said Dumiger, faltering forth
a thousand apologies. [pg 52] “I did not know what I said.
Two friends led me into this error. I am sure you will
forgive me, sir: I was excited; my brain was in that state I
really did not know what I said. Who ever could have
repeated this to your Excellency?”

“No one repeated it.” said the Count, “so you need not
entertain any mistrust of your friends. One of my household
overheard you; and his ear having caught the sound of my name,
he listened attentively, that is all. But what does it signify?
You did just as all young men—ay, and the best of our
young men, do—drank deep of the Rhenish. I like you the
better for it. And then, by all accounts, you had some cause
for excitement, for you believe you are to win the greatest
prize that Dantzic has ever proposed for one of her
citizens.”

The scene of the last night passed from Dumiger’s memory
when the hope of fame and the prospect of success were
mentioned. His whole countenance changed, his eye brightened,
and the nostril dilated.

“You heard that, also, your Excellency!” he said. “Well,
then, I need not scruple to tell you the truth. Yes, I have
labored night and day, and I hope to obtain the reward of all
this self-sacrifice; and now I draw near the goal my blood is
excited—I am fevered by my hopes. Look here, sir,” and
forgeting all his fears and etiquettes, he took the Count by
the arm and led him to a curtain which was drawn across a
corner of the room where the model-clock was placed. “Here is
the work; it approaches completion; is it not worthy of the
prize?”

Even to the most unpracticed eye this model of a great work
appeared to be of admirable skill. So complicated was the
machinery, that the marvel seemed to be how it was possible so
nicely to have arranged its various parts, that they could find
sufficient space for working. Massive weights were regulated by
springs of such fine texture, that it was surprising how they
could possibly have been made by a man’s rude hand. The
movement was perfectly noiseless, so beautifully were the
balances arranged around the principal works of the clock
itself: the heavenly bodies were moving in harmony and
regularity; the face of the clock had not yet been affixed, so
the whole of the interior operations of the machinery were
apparent. The Count gazed astonished at the result of long
perseverance and indomitable energy. Dumiger stood beside him
holding the massive curtain aside, and delighting in the
Count’s amazement. At length he allowed it to fall, exclaiming,
with pardonable self-love, “Surely this must succeed!”

The Count resumed his seat, and, for some time, was unable
to regain the composure which he had lost by the sight which he
had seen. Dumiger sat buried in thought.

“And when you have succeeded, Dumiger,” said the Count, in a
voice which he intended to be very kind, but whose inflection
manifested a bitter disappointment,—”and when you have
succeeded, will you be happier? Do you think, Dumiger, that
greatness adds to happiness? Ah, you know little of the world
if you believe this. Besides, remember, you may fail, and then
how bitter your disappointment will be!”

Dumiger was seated with his arms folded, and scarcely paying
any attention to the Count’s observations: his mind was
wandering amid the planets.

“Look, Dumiger, you are attached to Marguerite.”

At the name of Marguerite, Dumiger raised his head and
concentrated all his attention.

“You love her better than all the world?”

“Far better,” said Dumiger.

“For her, like a man of heart, you would sacrifice
everything!” continued the wily Count.

Dumiger nodded his head in assent.

“Even the clock?”

A glow mantled over Dumiger’s cheek; he was about to answer
in the affirmative, when he remembered that the clock had been
his companion for five years past. He had lived with it,
breathed his own life into its movements,—should he
renounce the clock? It, as well as Marguerite, had become a
part of himself; it had long stood him in the place of family,
of love, of all those enjoyments which youth so wantonly and
earnestly clings to. The results of success, ambition, honors,
wealth,—all this he would give up for Marguerite; but his
clock—he hesitated.

The Count repeated the question.

At that moment a sweet voice might be heard caroling one of
those simple national airs which are dear to all nations and
all times. Marguerite had a soft, winning voice, well adapted
to the song she was singing. The Count, as well as Dumiger,
paused in his conversation; the color rose again to Dumiger’s
face as he thought how nearly he was on the point of
sacrificing his faith, and loving the work of his own hands
more than the admirable work of Nature which had been bestowed
upon him, and, as he listened, he lowered his voice and
said,—

“For her I would sacrifice even the clock!”

“You shall,” exclaimed the Count.

“I shall!” said Dumiger, starting from his seat. “Now in
what way do you mean, my Lord Count?”

“You know,” said the Count, “the value of the prize which is
offered by the town. It is worth little in money. The honor is
considered sufficient. Then you are to be given high place
amongst the good citizens, a laurel crown, to ride a white
horse, and sundry other trumperies.”

The Count looked at Dumiger while he applied the word
trumperies to those results which the latter had so impatiently
striven for,—for which he had been laboring night and
day. These outward signs of the results
[pg 53] of great
ambition,—these to be called trumperies! Dumiger
looked at the Count with astonishment.

“And yet,” said he, “it is for such trumperies men sacrifice
their lives, sometimes their characters.”

The old Count colored slightly as he gave a glance at the
riband and star which he wore. Men did sometimes say that the
Grand Master had not obtained all his honors without sundry
sacrifices of one kind and another. Dumiger had not intended
any allusion to these rumors, and he was surprised at the
Count’s change of color, for which, at the moment, he was
unable to assign a reason.

“Well,” said the Count hesitatingly, “as you say you prefer
Marguerite’s love even to your ambition, let us suppose, that
in one moment you were able to attain certain wealth, to place
her in a position worthy of her high qualities, to be at once
on an equality with those of her fellow-citizens, who have
hitherto—pardon me the word—treated her as an
inferior; let us suppose that by some extraordinary powers all
this could be immediately realized;—then let me ask you,
would you sacrifice your clock?”

Dumiger marveled as he listened. He pictured Marguerite
adorned with all those incidents which lend a new charm even to
beauty like hers. He thought, with that vanity which clings to
all men,—he thought if she were so much admired in her
rustic dress, what would she be if she could rival in luxury
and grace the chief ladies of Dantzic? He looked round the
room; and instead of the rudely-carved, worn-out chairs, he
pictured the most graceful and luxurious sofas; instead of two
small, and, in spite of all Marguerite’s taste and exertion,
rather dusty and ungraceful-looking rooms, a suite of
magnificent apartments, where he could gratify every taste and
find people willing to come and applaud it. All this passed
through his mind, and he did not perceive how curiously the
Count was regarding him; but at last Dumiger was recalled to
himself, and he thought how little occasion there was for him
to draw such pictures, as they could never be realized; and why
should he annoy himself by considering this proposition, which
could only be made to him in joke.

“But why,” he said to the count, “do you make me such a
suggestion, when I can never hope to obtain this?”

The Count paused a moment, as though to examine Dumiger’s
countenance still more attentively, and then said,—

“You shall obtain this wealth, and much more.”

“I!” exclaimed Dumiger, with astonishment.

“Yes,” said the Count; “at a great price, I know; at a
price, however, which I think you will still be willing to pay
for it—for your clock.”

“My clock worth that!” said Dumiger, “who will give it to
me?”

It was the first time that Dumiger had tested, by the
opinion of another, the value of the great work which he had
achieved, and it gratified him to hear the magnificent
offer.

“I,” said the Count, “I will give you all that I have said;
nay, more, I will use all my influence to have you placed high
on the great book of the citizens. You shall have everything to
make life happy. Give me the clock; sign me a paper, making
over this clock to me; declaring, at the same time, that it is
your free act and deed, and that you never completed it, and I
will immediately settle that fortune upon you.”

“And yet my clock,” thought Dumiger; “all the honors I have
anticipated, the gratification of my ambition, that greatness I
have dreamed of; can I forget all this?”

He was about to reply, when the door opened and Marguerite
entered. The length of time that the conversation lasted had
made her impatient; besides, she mistrusted the Count.

He looked annoyed at her appearance, for he imagined that
Dumiger was on the point of acceding to his terms.

“Marguerite, I am so rejoiced you have come!” exclaimed
Dumiger, as though a sudden light had burst upon him. “The Lord
Count has offered to buy my clock, and to make us rich beyond
all expectation; to have us placed high among the first class
of the citizens; in fact to enable us at once to secure all
that men pass their lifetimes in striving to attain, if I will
give up my clock and declare that I failed in its execution.
What do you say, Marguerite?”

“What do I say!” she exclaimed, and as she spoke she drew
herself up to her full height, her brow contracted, the color
glowed in her cheek. “And did you hesitate what reply to
make?”

“I thought of you, Marguerite.”

“Of me!” she replied. “Oh, do not think of me; or rather if
you do so, think that I would sooner live in the most abject
poverty, and suffer any amount of privation, than part with the
work, the consummation of which will be the glory of your life.
Part with your clock! no, I would sooner sell this hair which
you so prize, part with all those qualities which render me
dear to you; nay more, I think I would even be content to
sacrifice your love rather than see all the results of your
patient industry wasted, your noble ambition sacrificed. Think
of me, dear Dumiger, but think of me only as a part of
yourself, as one who would give up every hope and every future
to secure your happiness, that is, your fame.”

Dumiger rose from his seat, unmindful in whose presence he
stood, he pressed Marguerite in his arms; again the nobility of
his mind brightened in his eye and beamed
[pg 54] over his countenance. It was
another instance amid the thousand which, unknown to them,
were passing around them of a man won to noble thoughts by a
woman’s influence, proving that she is the animating power
to save him in all his difficulties; that she invokes and
renews all those noble thoughts which are concealed in the
recesses of his mind. Hers is the light to dispel the mists
which the chill atmosphere of the world hangs around the
brightest portions of the mind: great at all times, greatest
of all when, in a moment of difficulty, she is called upon
to decide between the good and the evil, the just and the
unjust, the generous and the mean, the ingenuous and the
sophistical; and Marguerite, in one glance, saw all that
Dumiger had failed to discover in the Count’s appearance and
manner,—the dark design, the selfish calculation; her
simplicity of mind perceived indications of low, mean
purposes, which he failed to discern. Thus it is ever that
the first impressions, and, above all other first
impressions, the impressions of innocence and youth, are the
truest and most to be depended on.

For wherein is it that men—so often men of the
shrewdest intelligence and keenest intellect—deceive
themselves by their own egregious vanity.—by that vanity
which makes them prefer to depend on the refinements and subtle
processes of their own intelligence, rather than on the first
impressions of the mind which Heaven has bestowed upon them?
They are not satisfied with perceiving that a thing is good,
but they must learn why it is so. They are not satisfied with
knowing that the world is beautiful, that the harmony of this
globe and its planets is admirable, but they must know the
origin of this beauty, and the cause of the harmony which
strikes them with wonder. It is not enough for them to be told
they are “fearfully and wonderfully made,” but they must attend
schools to learn why they live, move, and have their being.
Such is man, blinded by his self-conceit; blasted not by the
excess, but by the partial light which bursts upon him: whereas
woman moves clear in her apprehension, because she believes
that “whatever is, is right;” and great in her intelligence,
because she knows she is ignorant.

The count saw that all further appeals to Dumiger’s interest
would now be thrown away, but he was not on that account to be
baffled.

“Very well, sir,” he said, in an angry voice; “I make you
the greatest offer that was ever made to any workman in this
city, and you reject it with contempt. The day will come when
you shall repent it. I would have saved you for that woman’s
sake, from the distress and ruin which are impending over you,
but you will not be free. Look to it, sir, for there is danger
even now. Your success is not so certain. I have it in my power
to crush you, and your pride shall be broken.”

So saying he took up the rouleau of gold he had given to
Marguerite and departed. Dumiger and Marguerite stood side by
side, alarmed, but still unbending; and yet the man who spoke
to them was of great power. To recite his titles once
more:—Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights, President of
the City Council; magnificent in his promise, fierce in his
resentments, unscrupulous in his means. For a moment Dumiger
looked at Marguerite as though he were disposed to yield to the
tyranny of that great man, but a glance from her reassured him;
and it was with a low but formal reverence that he opened the
door to the illustrious visitor, while Marguerite stood proud,
haughty, and reserved.

“Did we do wisely?” said Dumiger, when the door closed upon
them.

“Wisely!” exclaimed Marguerite; “oh, Dumiger, can you doubt
it? I feel myself worthier of you now that I was able to
influence you in your moment of uncertainty. I say moment, for
I will not believe that, upon reflection, you could have
hesitated in your decision. Better risk all and lose all than
sacrifice the glorious object which you have in view. Who would
not prefer the greatness which must be yours, if you succeed?
and the count has at least taught us one thing, that success is
almost certain,—who would not prefer this to that wealth
of which he is so proud, and that eminence which it makes him
giddy to stand on? No, Dumiger, you were in the right; and come
what may, you will feel proud of your decision and
self-denial.”

“It was you who decided for me,” replied Dumiger, as he
pressed her lips fondly to his own.

He toiled throughout the day, and the dusk was settling over
the town when the last wheel was finished and the clock was
completed.

CHAPTER IV.

It was late in the evening of the same day. Marguerite and
Dumiger were sitting by the fire together. The fire burnt so
brightly that it was not necessary to light the candles.
Marguerite, with her eyes closed and half reposing in Dumiger’s
arms, was enjoying all the happiness which the sense of
returning affection gives. The night was somewhat changed since
they first sat there. The rain beat against the casement, and
the wind whistled down the chimney. The more it rained and
blew, the closer crept Marguerite to Dumiger’s side. It was a
picture of comfort; of that comfort which, alas! is so easily
destroyed by the breath of tyranny. It was a type of the many
hearths which are covered with ruins when the trumpet sounds
through the city and the tocsin rings to
[pg 55] arms; when war or rebellion
sweeps like a pestilence, not alone over the ruins of
palaces and of senate-houses, but over the abodes of the
humble, where every room can tell a tale of affection and
toil.

There was a knock at Dumiger’s door, which made Marguerite
start and called all the color into her cheeks.

There was something ominous in the knock. It was a short,
quick, clear, and decisive knock. It was the knock of a man in
authority; of one who felt that although standing on the
outside of the door, he had a right to be within. Marguerite
and Dumiger both looked at the fire, as though they could read
in its confused shapes the reason of this interruption; but the
result could not have been very satisfactory, for neither
spoke, while reluctantly Dumiger rose to open the dour, and
Marguerite followed his movements with intense anxiety.

The truth is that people are never thoroughly comfortable
and happy without a sense of the uncertainty of human happiness
stealing over them. We speak of those whose lives are not a
succession of parties of pleasure, of soft dreams and golden
fulfillments—to such favored ones all sense of happiness
is deadened by satiety—but they who toil through long,
long days, and are blest with a few moments of repose, value
them so highly that they scarcely believe such happiness can
last.

Dumiger opened the door, and uttered a faint cry. Marguerite
was in a moment by his side.

He had, indeed, some cause for alarm. An officer of the
Grande Court de Justice stood there. There was no mistaking his
character, for the uniform of the myrmidons of that court was
too well known to all the inhabitants of Dantzic, and more
especially to the poorer classes, who gazed on them with awe,
for they were in general stern, hard-featured, and hard-hearted
men, who did their duty without gentleness, and rarely deserted
a man when once they had him in their clutches. Dumiger had
made acquaintance with them of old on one or two occasions, and
the recollection was anything but agreeable.

The man entered the room very quickly, took his seat in
Dumiger’s chair, and drew his missive from his pocket. It was
Dumiger’s bill to Hoffman for a very large sum, which had been
purchased by the Count.

“What is this?” gasped forth Dumiger; for, at the moment,
the debt had entirely escaped his recollection. “Ach Gott!”
exclaimed Dumiger, “is it possible?” but observing Marguerite
standing by, pale, tearful, and trembling, he restrained his
impetuosity.

Dumiger rose and went to a drawer. He counted over, with the
eagerness of a miser, all the dollars which were kept
there,—the few which had remained after the expenses of
the last fortnight. For some time past he had devoted all his
energies so entirely to the construction of the clock, that the
smallest receipts of his craft had been despised.

A cold perspiration stood on his forehead as he gazed upon
his small store. He knew too well, that by the laws of Dantzic
the debtor was either dragged to the common prison or all his
goods were seized. Either alternative was terrible. He looked
round the room. On one side stood the clock, the child of his
mind and industry, on the other was Marguerite, beautiful in
her grief.

The man had lit a pipe, and was carelessly smoking.

“Come,” said the officer at last, as shaking out the ashes
of his pipe and drawing himself to his full stature, so as to
give weight to his authority—”come, we have no time to
lose, Herr Dumiger. The money or the furniture, or to prison.
Consult the pretty jungfrau there: but you must come to a
conclusion directly, for time presses and I have several other
little bits of business to perform to-night: so I will light
another pipe while you make up your minds.”

It was no easy matter for Marguerite to bring her mind to a
decision. She thought on the one hand of the lonely nights she
might have to pass; on the other, of the irreparable loss the
clock would be to Dumiger. Dumiger clasped her hands in his
own, and as his lips clung to hers he exclaimed, “Perish all
things but love.” He rose—he was on the point of desiring
the man to take away the clock in payment of the debt, in the
hope that he might redeem it on the morrow, when the sudden
thought struck him that the Count was the instigator of this
act. He caught hold of the man by one arm, which was hanging
listlessly over the back of the chair, and exclaimed—

“Tell me who sent you on this mission.”

The man only looked round with an expression of astonishment
at his presumption, and without deigning any reply, he resumed
his pipe.

“Was it the Grand Master?” asked Dumiger.

“Obey my orders and ask no questions,” said the man. “You
had better follow my example. I have told you already that
there is no time to spare. Tell me what course you intend to
take. Give up some articles in this room—there is that
clock, which will do more than pay the bill—or follow me
immediately. There is no other alternative.”

The whole conversation with the Grand Master occurred to
Dumiger. There could be no doubt that the clock would go into
his possession; that it was a deep-laid scheme to spoil him of
the result of all his labor. Better, far better, that
Marguerite should bear the pain of separation, than that the
clock should be endangered, and by such a man.

“Marguerite,” said Dumiger, in a low voice, after a long
pause, “it is fixed. We must part for a short time. I will
write from my prison to some of my friends; they will not
desert me in this necessity. A few short
[pg 56] hours, and I shall return to
you, my own Marguerite.”

But Marguerite had fainted, and the lips which touched his
cheek were cold and pale.

Slowly she opened those large blue eyes, and although her
lips faltered, the look and the voice were both earnest as she
bade him go.

“Yes, Dumiger, you are right: ambition such as yours is a
less selfish passion than love like mine. Leave me for a time.
I know the interval will be short. It is another step toward
the greatness to which you are aspiring.”

The man looked at them with a vague and vacant look. He had
been witness to this description of scene so frequently, that
he began to believe it to be a part of the debtor’s craft. As
some people can regard the most beautiful varying tints of
heaven, the lights and shadows which flit across the face of
nature, and see nothing more in them than a part of that vast
and complicated machinery that governs the world—so he,
in these lights and shadows of life, only beheld the natural
workings of the human mind.

With a pale cheek but a firm step Dumiger departed. The last
sound that fell upon his ear as he left his door, was the
blessing murmured by his bride. Again he felt disposed to turn
back and sacrifice all for his affection; but already one of
the city guard stood behind him, and the rattle of arms on the
pavement told him that his arrest had not been lightly planned
or carelessly conducted.

The castle toward which Dumiger and his guards directed
their steps was the Grimshaus, formerly a citadel and an
important point of defense for the town of Dantzic, though now
converted into a prison for political offenders and debtors.
The reader may be aware that the laws against debtors in the
great free commercial cities were intolerably severe. Some men
were permitted to groan away their whole lives in hopeless
misery. The creditor was in general without pity, and the
debtor unpitied. He was entirely at the mercy of the jailer,
who had it in his power to load him with chains, and even on
the slightest pretext of insubordination to execute summary
justice upon him. These laws, however, had as yet little
affected Dumiger; though threatened with arrest on one or two
previous occasions his difficulties had always been arranged.
But the present debt was more serious than any which had as yet
been pressed for, and he could not but feel that friends might
be less willing to become surety.

They arrived at the square in which the Grimshaus was
situated. It was a wild, unhealthy, stern, fantastic pile,
which stood, in point of fact, upon an island, for a wide, wet
ditch surrounded it, except where a drawbridge connected it
with the square. The towers and ramparts had in some places
mouldered away, and huge bars of iron were introduced in
different parts of the wall to give strength to the building by
binding the yawning mason-work together.

The square was deserted. The cry of the sentinel at the most
distant of the landward posts sounded ominous, like that of a
lost bird at night. Although the moon shone brightly, it was
difficult to distinguish the whole outline of the building, on
account of the pestiferous vapors which arose from the moat,
and hung like a pall over the recently flooded plain. Through
these mists the city chimes sounded muffled and melancholy. It
was solitude—of all solitude the most fearful—a
prison solitude in the neighborhood of a great town. The very
escort appeared to feel the influence of their melancholy and
lonely scene, for the jests stopped as the foot of the vanguard
clanged on the drawbridge. This was merely the effect of
discipline; but to Dumiger it appeared a part of the drama, and
it added to his sense of fear.

They were detained some time upon the drawbridge while the
sergeant was holding some conversation with the officer of the
watch.

“By the Holy Mary!” exclaimed the functionary who had
arrested Dumiger, “there must be something more than a mere
debt in all this. I never saw such a fuss made about the
receipt of the body of a debtor in all my life. And then, it
was rather strange my being ordered to take a file of my guard
instead of honest Jean, who would have held him just as firm in
his grasp, and not kept my poor fellows shivering out all night
in this unhealthy atmosphere. No, no, there is something more
than a debt due: it is a case of political crime. Is it not so,
my lad?” he exclaimed, giving Dumiger a thump on his back which
made the chain-bridge rattle.

“Is it not what?” said Dumiger, who was quite taken by
surprise. He had been gazing on the water, and the purest drops
in it were the two tears which had fallen from his eyes. “I
have heard nothing,” he replied. “What does all this mean, and
why am I kept here?”

“Ah, that’s just what I wish to know!” answered the man,
“and no one can tell us better than yourself. It is not merely
for a case of debt that I was sent to your house to-night. No,
no, I am wiser than that. Come now, tell us the real truth.
What conspiracy have you entered into, what political offense
have you committed, to entitle you to be escorted with such
honor, and be made the subject of so many forms? There is no
use denying it,” he continued, for Dumiger’s astonished
countenance was quite a sufficient protestation against any
such inference. “Look here; the lieutenant of the tower has
been called up, and the guard is reinforced.”

It was quite true. Had Dumiger been a state prisoner of the
highest rank, he could not have been received with more
ceremony. The guard turned out, and the rattle of the muskets
was heard as the massive gates
[pg 57] rolled ponderously upon their
axes. The one light in the entrance gave an awful but not
unpicturesque appearance to the scene, for it was reflected
on the glittering steel. It cast its wild gleams on the
bronzed cheeks of the guards, while the length and height of
the hall were lost in the gloom.

“Forward!” was the word, and tramp, tramp, tramp, mingled
with the rattle of the chains of the bridge. Dumiger was now
placed in the center of the guard.

The soldiers presented arms to the burghers: the burghers
carried theirs as they passed. The single drum beat, and its
echo vibrated through the building. The gates closed behind
them—bolt after bolt was drawn, and Dumiger was separated
from the world.

His heart sank within him, and well it might; for as the
moon shone into the courtyard beyond the hall where he was
standing, he could see that the windows which looked into it
were all trebly barred. Besides, the building looked throughout
so miserably damp and wretched; and there was an entire absence
of care for the comfort of its inmates, which chilled his
blood.

The lieutenant of the tower, after the conference with
Dumiger’s officer had lasted some time, approached him. He took
him gently by the arm, and brought him to the broken, rotten,
creaking stairs, which led to the upper rooms, or rather cells,
from which they were separated by two large, massive iron
doors.

The lieutenant himself opened the locks, while two soldiers,
standing on either side with flambeaux, gave Dumiger a full
view of the desolate stair which he had to ascend. The passage
to which it led had been taken out of the thickness of the
walls, so massive were they. They passed through a large hall
where a huge fire was blazing, about which some soldiers slept,
with their cloaks drawn tightly round them to ward off the
draughts which came in strong gusts beneath the doors and even
through the shutters; one or two with handkerchiefs tied round
their heads, to serve the purpose of night-caps, were sitting
by the fire smoking. They took the pipes from their lips to
salute the lieutenant as he passed, but beyond this notice paid
no attention to the object of his visit. It was evidently an
event of no uncommon occurrence. More passages, more bars, more
doors battered by age and mended by slabs of iron, and at last
Dumiger arrived at the room, or rather the cell, which had been
prepared for him. The preparations, it must however be
admitted, were of the very simplest character. A palliasse
thrown down in the corner, a rickety chair, and the strangest
apology for a table, were the whole furniture of the place.
Without one word of explanation the lieutenant motioned him
into his new abode. In vain Dumiger stormed and raved, and
desired to know whether this was the way in which free citizens
were treated in the free city of Dantzic. The lieutenant only
shrugged his shoulders, gave orders to the soldiers to
withdraw, and Dumiger was left to his melancholy
meditations.

A heavy weight, such as magnetic influence affects the brain
with, oppressed his forehead; he threw himself on the
palliasse, and endeavored to recall the events of the last few
hours: but so rapid and intense had they been, that they
already seemed to be numbered amongst the visions of the past.
When the heart is oppressed with suffering, and above all, with
the most painful of all suffering, anxiety, solitude and sleep
are the only consolations. But then the sleep is not the light,
happy, joyous slumber, from which we awake refreshed and
strengthened; it is a leaden, sullen, sodden trance, from which
we awake with the sensation that the whole weight of the
atmosphere has been concentrated on our brows. This was the
case with Dumiger: the flickering, dreary light of the lamp
kept waving before his eyes as he lay there. He felt like a man
whose limbs have been paralyzed by some grievous accident. At
last be breathed heavily, and the load of oppression fell from
his eyelids. Such was the sleep we have described.

When he awoke in the morning the light had gone out; but a
few pale, melancholy gleams of morning pierced the prison-bars,
which were so far above him that it was not possible for him to
reach them. He strove to remember where he was; his eyes fell
on the grotesquely-painted figures which covered the walls, and
which had escaped his observation on the preceding night. These
were the handicraft of some man who had evidently endeavored to
wile away his time in prison by caricaturing his persecutors;
and certainly he had succeeded in the attempt. Nothing more
absurd than some of these pictures could be imagined; every
possible deformity was ascribed to the originals, and the
sketches were surrounded by pasquinades and quaint devices.
Here and there might be found expressions of deeper and more
fearful import, if indeed anything could be more fearful than
the contrast between the ridiculous and such a dungeon. “Non
omnis moriar,” wrote one man in a yellow liquid, which too
evidently was discolored blood. “Justum et tenacem recti
virum,” scrawled another, immediately followed by a
portrait of the “vultis instantis tyranni,” who had, if
we may judge by the chain suspended from his neck, once been a
famous Grand Master. On one part of the wall might be
deciphered a whole romance scrawled with an old nail, in which
the prisoner had arrived at such excellence, that the letters
were like the most admirable type. It was a long, and doubtless
melancholy tale; so much so, that the kind guardians of the
place had scratched it with their knives to prevent its being
easily deciphered. In fact, that little cell had evidently
contained an Iliad of romances; and if the walls could have
spoken, or [pg 58] even the scrawls been
deciphered, some strange tales, and perhaps many mysterious
events, would have come to light. Dumiger gazed on these sad
records of prior existences with a melancholy interest. In
vain he endeavored to explain to himself the cause of his
being treated with such unparalleled severity. He could not
recall any crime such as might excuse his incarceration in
such an abominable place. He buried his face in his hands.
He thought of Marguerite and the clock, and then, happily
for him, he wept, as the young alone can weep when they are
in sorrow, and when their sorrow is unselfish.

He was roused by an unbolting of bars, the turning of huge,
unwieldy keys, and the lieutenant of the castle stood before
him.

Dumiger was in that state of mind when whatever of pride
belongs to the consciousness of innocence loses its strength.
Though there was little to invite confidence in the outward
demeanor of the functionary, he ran toward him, seized him by
both hands, and exclaimed, “Have pity upon me, sir; tell me why
I am here!”

“Pooh, pooh,” replied the bronzed old Cerberus: “be a
man.”

“Be a man!” shrieked Dumiger, “I am a man: and it is because
I am a man, a free man of Dantzic, that I appeal against this
monstrous treatment. Be a man! why, I appeal to you, sir, to be
a man, and to give up that situation, if it can only be
retained by cruelty to others. I say again, be you a man, and
cease to torture me.”

The lieutenant continued looking at him with the most
perfect indifference. He whistled a tune, took the only two
turns in the cell which its extent permitted, and then, as if a
sudden recollection had struck him, put two letters into
Dumiger’s hands.

“Come, you are not very ill treated, young man, when you are
allowed to read.”

Dumiger felt a glow of delight thrill through his frame.
Everything is by comparison, and after the pain be had endured,
the sight of two letters, the one in the handwriting of
Marguerite, the other of Carl, made his heart leap with joy.
They seemed to him to be the guarantees of immediate
safety.

The lieutenant still remained near him. Dumiger would not
open the letters in his presence. At last the officer, after
some minutes’ delay, and having sung sundry snatches of martial
airs, gave Dumiger a contemptuous, indignant glance, and
stalked out of the cell, taking care to rattle the bolts and
bars as a punishment to Dumiger for not gratifying his
curiosity. Poor devil, it was his only amusement to pry into
the prisoners’ secrets.

“How is the lad?” asked the second in command when his
commander appeared.

“Better than he will be when he knows the charges for which
he is shut up. At present he is under the impression it is only
for debt; but when he learns it is for treason, he will whimper
and whine even more than he has been doing.”

“What, so young and a traitor!” exclaimed the subaltern, who
was evidently the kinder spirit of the two. “It is almost
incredible.”

“It may be,” continued the lieutenant. “I have directions
from the Grand Master and Council to keep a strict watch over
him. They say that he is a most dangerous character. But I
never trouble myself much about these kind of fellows. I do my
duty quietly. Meanwhile, I have given him letters which won’t
add to his happiness much when he reads them, if I am to
believe what the inspector told me, who of course read them and
sealed them again.”

The moment the lieutenant had left the cell, Dumiger eagerly
tore open Marguerite’s letter, without remarking that it had
been opened ere it reached him. He read it through with that
rapidity of glance and mental discernment which fear and love
combined can alone give. It was with a groan of horror that he
allowed the letter to drop from his hands, for the full extent
of the difficulties of his situation now broke upon him. She
told him that the same evening, the moment his arrest was known
in the neighborhood, bills had poured in from all quarters;
that she had seen his friends Carl and Krantz, who called early
on that morning, and who found it impossible to obtain
one-tenth of the sum now required for his release. All they
could do, therefore, was to take charge of the wonderful model,
and carry it to the Court-house, where it would have to remain
until the decision of the Council should be proclaimed. The
second letter, which was from Carl, was still more appalling,
for he told Dumiger how essential it was for him to make any
sacrifice in order to put the whole machinery in order, so that
his work might appear to the judges in the most favorable point
of view. He undertook, however, to engage the best mechanist in
Dantzic, in the event of Dumiger not being able to obtain his
release before the appointed day.

What was to be done? Dumiger felt himself driven almost to
frenzy. He thought of Marguerite, of his clock, of his friends;
he then began to think that be had acted very foolishly in
refusing the offer of the Grand Master, who, he felt assured,
although the lieutenant would not admit it to him, was the
cause of all his misery. The more he reflected on the past, the
more desperate he became; he rolled on the ground in agony; the
whole day passed in efforts to reach the window, whence at
least he might perceive the situation of his house, or to shake
the bars of the strongly-ironed door. Toward evening a soldier
brought him some refreshment, but preserved an obstinate
silence. Dumiger allowed the refreshment to remain untasted on
the ground; he could not touch
[pg 59] it. The evening grew on
apace, the merry chimes from the Dom of the city came across
the water; it struck him that they had never chimed so
musically before, or with so much meaning. Another long,
long night of agony was to be passed, and where and how was
suspense to end?

Time swept on, but this night they brought him no lamp, so
that he had no means of measuring its progress; he could only
judge how heavily the hours rolled by the tramp of the guards
as they marched over the drawbridge to the several reliefs. At
ten o’clock he heard the bugles sounding the retreat, and then
when he pictured to himself his gentle young bride, so sweet,
so lovely—when he remembered how greatly he had neglected
her for his ambition—he loathed himself for what he used
to consider laudable, but now felt to have been mere
selfishness.

It was still very early, for the gray cold streaks of
morning had not pierced the prison-bars, when Dumiger was
roused from his uneasy slumber by the rattling of the lock of
his door. He looked up and saw with surprise a man who was not
dressed in uniform.

“Who are you? What do you want?” exclaimed Dumiger, “for
there is such a thing as intrusion even in a prison.”

The man whom he addressed only replied by taking possession
of the single chair which stood by the bedside; he then very
quietly and coolly took a tinder-box from his pocket, struck a
light in the most deliberate manner, and lit the small lamp
which had remained unreplenished from the preceding evening.
Dumiger had then an opportunity of examining his visitor.

He was a little, jesuitical, sly, crafty, leering person,
with a quick, intelligent, practical eye—a man who was
evidently conversant with the world; and to judge from the
sensual expression of his mouth and the protuberance at the
nape of the neck, whose world was of the worst
description—a phrenologist or physiognomist would have
hung him at once. It is fortunate for some men that these
sciences are not more extensively understood, or a great many
persons would suffer for their natural and cerebral
conformation.

“You will soon be free, my son.”

“Free! thank God!” exclaimed Dumiger, throwing himself back
on his pillow and clasping his hands in gratitude.

“You are too quick, young man,” continued the stranger. “I
said you would soon be free, if—you see there is an
if. It is for you to remove it.”

“If—if what? I will do anything you tell me,” almost
shrieked Dumiger, so terrified was he at the possibility of his
hopes deserting him.

“Well,” continued the little man, putting on his spectacles
and examining the roll of his papers, “I will commence by
telling you that I am a native of Hamburgh and like yourself, a
great mechanist. I was sent for by the Council last evening, to
examine all the models which have been received. I do not
hesitate to say to you that yours is by far the best.”

“God be praised, Marguerite, Marguerite!” ejaculated
Dumiger.

“Yes,” quickly remarked the mysterious visitor, “yours is by
far superior to all the rest, but it will not win the
prize.”

“Not win the prize!” said Dumiger; for now all his ambition
had returned to him.

“Certainly not,” was the reply; “you know as well as I do
that the machinery requires some directing power. No one knows
how to apply it: no one knows the secret.”

“Yes, there is a secret,” said the youth, his face
brightening even through the cold, clammy prison
atmosphere.

“And you cannot get out to tell it, or to arrange your own
work, for here I have a schedule of the judgments for debt
which have been lodged against you;” and he held out a list
some twelve inches in length.

Dumiger groaned. “And are there no means of paying
this?”

“You can answer that question as well as myself,” replied
the man. “I will tell you that there are none for the present;
but there is one way in which the clock may still be the
admiration of Dantzic, and yourself free with a great
independence in three days.”

“What way? what way? tell me quickly!” cried Dumiger,
gasping with anxiety.

“Be still, young man, be still; we have plenty of time:
let’s proceed quietly,” said the stranger.

“Well, well, but be quick,” continued Dumiger, in anything
but a quiet tone of voice.

“I have told you,” said the man, quietly readjusting his
spectacles, which Dumiger had slightly disturbed by the
violence with which he seized his arm, “I have told you that I
am a native of Hambro’, a mechanician; that I have seen your
clock, admired it, and taken the trouble to obtain a list of
your liabilities,—here it is again.”

Dumiger gave another groan.

“Your position,” continued the stranger, “appears to me to
be this—that without my assistance your clock will be
worth nothing, while you will remain quietly in prison here,
charged besides, as far as I can understand the matter, with
some political offense; that Marguerite will either pine away
or atone for your loss by amusing herself with some of your
friends—Carl and Krantz for instance. You see I am au
fait with all your domestic matters.”

Oh, jealousy! oh, cowardice of the heart! At the name of
Carl the blood flew to Dumiger’s temples. It just occurred to
him that it was strange that Marguerite should have gone to him
for assistance without any direction from himself to do so.
Root out the feeling, Dumiger; root it out, or you are
lost.

The stranger smiled sarcastically, but affected not to
notice his flushed cheek and faltering voice.

“Now there is but one means to relieve yourself from all
these risks and this load of misery.”

“Again I inquire, what is it?” said Dumiger.

“Sell me your clock: I have come to purchase it on the part
of the free city of Hamburgh,” was the calm, deliberate
reply.

“Sell my clock!” echoed Dumiger.

“The city of Hamburgh,” continued the stranger, without
appearing to remark Dumiger’s exclamation, “authorizes me to
offer for the clock of best workmanship, the freedom of her
walls, an income of four thousand dollars, a place in the chief
council with due precedence, and many other minor advantages.
If you accept these terms a large installment of money will be
paid within three days,—that is, within the time for the
return of post. You will naturally inquire, Why the city of
Hambro’ should make so extravagant an offer? I will recall to
you the extreme jealousy which has always existed between these
two great commercial cities. You will remember that this
rivalry is unceasing—that it comprehends all things, the
smallest as well as the greatest. They attempted to vie with
each other in the construction of their doms: Dantzic gained
the advantage. The fame and the prize given for excellence in
these clocks, and of the unrivaled workmanship which may be
expected, has spread throughout Germany. The inhabitants of
Hambro’ are inferior in science. They wish to obtain a piece of
workmanship which shall be unrivaled, in the easiest manner,
and I was sent here to negotiate the purchase. Well, I was
selected by the Council here as one of the judges. It is an act
of treachery—granted: that cannot affect you. All that
there is for you to decide on are the terms I have offered
you.”

“Oh! Marguerite!” exclaimed Dumiger, “if you were here, what
would you counsel?”

“What would she counsel,” said the stranger, “except to
accept this offer? Remember, if you refuse it you remain here
for days, if not weeks. You cannot hope to obtain the
preference unless you are enabled to inform any one of the
secret of setting the works in motion, and then it would
require a hand as steady and experienced as my own to carry out
your directions; and I should not undertake to do it except on
the conditions which I have named.”

“Show me the conditions drawn out,” said Dumiger.

The man rolled out slowly one of the long strips of
parchment which he held in his hand; he gave it to Dumiger, who
drew the lamp near him, and for a few minutes reveled in the
ideas of freedom and wealth. He had but to say the word, and he
enjoyed all that he had been laboring for through life; but
then, at what price? at that which it pained him to
contemplate—the citizenship of his native town, where his
family had dwelt respected for centuries. No doubt he was
selling his birthright; he was parting with all that a man
should cling to in adversity as in prosperity—that which
is not to be purchased with gold—all his old ties, his
affections, his faith. Once signed, the deed was irrevocable;
and yet if he did not sign, what had he to hope for?

He leaned his head on his hands, in one of those stern
struggles which age a man in a few minutes, as breaths of frost
wither the freshest leaves. He invoked the Spirit of
Love—he called forth Marguerite, and she stood beside
him. He saw her with her cheek paler than when he had parted
from her; he saw her bosom heaving with sighs instead of love;
he heard her soft whisper in his ear, and he thought that
whisper expressed assent—that for him, she too was
willing to relinquish the home and the friends of her
childhood. Ay, is it not ever so? Invoke whom we may in hours
of trial, does not the oracle take its tone from our own
wishes? Fond and futile pretense to invoke the Spirit of Love
to decide where love is interested! As Marguerite seemed to
stand beside Dumiger he lost sight of ambition, and all its
pomp and circumstance; all he asked was to be free.

“Give me the paper,” he said in a firm voice: “the clock is
yours, and the principle of the movement is to be found
engraved on a small plate under the mainspring.”

If he had seen the smile of triumph which passed over that
man’s countenance, he would have hesitated.

The deed was done: the man put his materials and his paper
into his pocket again.

“Now,” he said, rising to go, “the third day’s post will
find you free; and take my advice, leave Dantzic soon. The
people will be irritated at being deprived of their
master-piece. I would not have you trust to their render
mercies; for that matter, it is well for you that you are safe
in prison. Remember this advice, for I know the Dantzickers as
well as you do.”

“Stay, stay one moment,” cried Dumiger, as the stranger was
about to leave the cell, “who told you so much about me? How
did you obtain this list of debts? How came you to hear of
Marguerite, and Carl, and Krantz? Surely,” and he passed his
hand across his brow like a man who is pained by the intensity
of a ray of light after having been long in
darkness—”tell me before you go, what does this mean?”
And he caught a firm hold of the man’s cloak.

“There is no reason why I should not tell you the truth
now,” said he, buttoning his coat tightly over the papers. “I
was sent for by the Grand Master, who engaged me to obtain the
sale of your clock at any price. And he gave me good
inducements to undertake the
job.”

The whole scheme broke on Dumiger’s mind.

“And with what object?” he gasped forth; “tell me that.”

“To get rid of your competition,” said the man quietly.
“After yours there is no doubt that his son’s is the best; and,
therefore, when yours is sold to Hambro’, his will be prized in
Dantzic. As for me, I shall get rewarded for my exertions, both
by the Grand Master your noble count, and my own city. Here is
the truth of the matter,” said he; “now let me go.”

“Let you go, miscreant!” exclaimed Dumiger, “never, until
you return me that paper. Let you go! I will follow you to
death rather. You betrayed me into this act; it was not my own
free will. I am the victim of the basest conspiracy. I have
been induced to sell my birthright—I prefer to remain in
prison—I love my townspeople—I will not be free on
these conditions! Give me back my bond!”

“Never!” said the man, putting himself into an attitude of
defense.

And he did wisely, for there was desperation in Dumiger’s
eye. He waited a moment, and then with a maniac’s strength he
flew at the man, but he found a powerful and vigorous
antagonist. The stranger, who had appeared half decrepit and
aged, rose up in all the strength of youth. In a moment he had
grasped Dumiger’s arms, very coolly taken out a handkerchief,
and in spite of all Dumiger’s efforts bound his hands together.
After he had performed this operation he drew the document
again from his pocket, so as to be well assured that it was
correctly signed, and smiled as he said to Dumiger—

“You know that signature?”

“Scoundrel! miscreant!” were the only words to which Dumiger
could give utterance.

“And now, fellow-citizen,” said the man, “I bid you
farewell. Keep your temper; these sober arts should have taught
you this kind of self-command. You will soon be free. As for
your arms, I dare not untie them now, but I will send the guard
to you. Now, holloa, guard without there!” and he left the
cell.

What did all this mean? A mystery seemed to be encircling
Dumiger which he could not penetrate. He knew there was danger
near him, but was unable to define its extent. Only one thing
was now certain—he had sold that clock on which years of
toil had been bestowed, and not in vain. He had but a few days
since contemplated certain success, now how far it was from
him! And Hamburgh—to be great and ennobled there, what
did that signify to him? How long would it not take for him,
the inhabitant of the great rival city, to be admitted into
this new society? No, he had made an error which could never be
recalled; he had broken the ties which were once so dear to
him. Dumiger now learned the great truth, that it is only the
opinion of the few with whom we are most intimate that we care
for. It is nothing to be great amongst those with whom we have
no sympathies, no affections in common. The kind word from one
lip which we love is far more to be prized than the loudest
acclamations of thousands to whom we are indifferent.

CHAPTER V.

The day at last arrived for the triennial exhibition of the
productions of Dantzic art, on which day the council had agreed
that the prize for the clock was to be adjudged. It was a great
fête for the town. At an early hour of the morning the
inhabitants began to decorate their houses with tapestry, and
to hang garlands over the door-posts. All classes prepared
their dresses of brightest colors, and their gayest, happiest
smiles. And none was happier than Marguerite, for Dumiger had
written to tell her that on the next day he was certain to be
free; but he had not ventured to inform her that the clock was
sold to Hamburgh. Still, although the deed of sale was
irrevocable, his feelings would not permit him to believe that
the excellence of his work would remain unknown to his
towns-people; he felt convinced that the strangers vanity would
induce him to make use of the secret confided to him, so he
wrote to Marguerite that all would go right. Carl and Krantz
arrived early in the morning to accompany her to the great
hall. She had within her a secret which she would not have
disclosed to the universe,—the secret of her husband’s
success, of his fame and future happiness. So far Dumiger had
informed her that there was an intrigue against him, in which
the Grand Master was the principal: he explained to her that
the object the Grand Master had in view was to obtain the prize
and its accompanying honors for his own son. Carl and Krantz
undertook to protect her through the crowd, and it was with an
abundant feeling of confidence that she dressed for the
ceremonial.

She wore her hair braided round her head; a bodice, which
showed the beauty and shape of her form, of scarlet cloth,
attached by threads of gold across the shirt, which was of the
softest and most delicate material; the short blue petticoat,
which reached some way below the knee, but did not descend so
far as to conceal the ankle, the symmetry of which was
well-defined by the silk stocking. The shoe might have stirred
the envy of any grisette in Paris—a class which
was, even in those days, supposed to enjoy a monopoly of taste
and refinement. There was a modesty combined with refinement
and strength of character in the appearance of Marguerite which
would have distinguished her in any crowd. She was a being for
love and sunshine; but one who, at the same time, would have
dared much for him she loved. The kind and generous are ever
gallant, and rarely are the beautiful
unworthy.

Carl and Krantz were also dressed out in their gayest
costumes. It would have been hard to have decided which was the
predominant color in the dresses of these two worthy citizens;
they would have rivaled any tulip bed in a Dutch garden, and
perfectly dazzled Marguerite when they entered the room.

At length the last touch was given to the toilette, and they
sallied forth. Already the streets were so crowded that it was
difficult to move through them; but Carl and Krantz were
determined, energetic fellows, and what with their elbows and
Marguerite’s bright smiles, after incurring a few risks of some
jokes on Carl’s extravagant appearance, they reached the great
hall.

The street in front of the Courthouse was lined with the
burgher guard, stationed there to keep back the crowd; but
Marguerite had an order for admittance at a private entrance,
so, escorted by her cavalier, she ascended the staircase.

When she entered the hall she was struck with awe and
astonishment. The whole of that enormous space, with the
exception of the portion railed off for the competitors and the
dais where the council were sitting, was crowded by a dense
mass of people: along the sides of the vast edifice, and up to
the very roof, were arranged all the various productions of
national art. Nothing can be pictured more beautiful than the
combination of rich and varied colors, or more curious than the
forms which art and genius had given them: here were dyes which
might have rivaled those of Tyre, and fabrics of finer texture
than a Penelope could have woven. At one end, toward which
Marguerite’s eyes were most anxiously turned, the models of the
clocks were arranged. Dumiger’s was placed in the center, for
it was at the same time the largest model, and contained the
most elaborate and complicated machinery; but, alas! the works
remained still, while all the others were in motion, and showed
in the smallest space the movements of the heavenly bodies, and
the progress of time. If Dumiger’s meant anything more than a
confused mass of machinery, it could not for a moment be
doubted that it was the work of highest genius exhibited, but
in its quiescent state it contrasted disadvantageously with the
admirable systems revolving round it. Marguerite held her
breath while she gazed; neither did she perceive how much
attention she herself had awakened—the moment for vanity
had passed, her present interests lay far deeper. Immediately
above her the Grand Council, with the Grand Master, were
sitting, dressed in their robes of state. The Count Albrecht
wore his cordon of the Fleece, and looked every inch a grand
master; the anxiety for his son’s success was apparent in the
nervous glances which he cast around him. Behind, and amid the
retainers, stood the dark, designing-looking stranger, who held
in his hand the fate of Dumiger.

The heralds proclaimed silence, and then the Grand Master
rose to read the decision of the council. It commenced with
reciting the list of the competitors, and when it mentioned
Dumiger’s name, it said, “the work is imperfect, and therefore
must be withdrawn.”

“It is not imperfect,” cried two stentorian voices from the
farther end of the hall.

The voices proceeded from Carl and Krantz, whose excitement
could no longer be retained.

“No! it is not imperfect,” said the gentler voice of
Marguerite.

All eyes were turned toward the spot whence that voice
proceeded. Marguerite nearly fainted to find herself the object
of so much attention.

“Keep your courage,” whispered Carl. “Tell them that Dumiger
will soon be free, and the works put in motion. I will tell
them for you,” he exclaimed, and he began to speak, when the
mysterious stranger stepped forth.

“Stay,” he said, “let me touch the works of this
clock—the secret is mine.”

He forced his way through the crowd, looked carefully over
the machinery, opened a secret spring, arranged two small
wheels, on which the accurate movement of the whole machinery
depended, and immediately it was all in motion.

The proceeding was watched with intense interest by all. The
stranger’s eye gleamed with delight, for he was anxious, with
the true spirit of Hamburg jealousy, that the people of Dantzic
should feel the value of what they were about to lose.

It was indeed a marvelous piece of workmanship: the planets
all revolved in their regular order, figures of exquisite
workmanship appeared and disappeared to mark the seconds, and
the dial plate was of elaborate beauty. The people for some
time stood entranced in wonder. At last they exclaimed, as with
one voice—

“It is a work worthy of Dantzic—and Dumiger has won!
Dumiger forever’.”

If Marguerite had nearly fainted from fear, she was now pale
with delight.

“Dumiger, Dumiger forever!” again shouted the crowd; “where
is the laurel? where is the triumph? Greatest amongst his
citizens, Dumiger has won!”

But at that moment the stranger came forward with a paper in
his hand. The Count’s face, which had been overspread with
anger and shame at these shouts, was again lit up with hope,
for after Dumiger’s his son’s was evidently the best.

“You mistake, my friends,” said this man: “Dumiger is not a
citizen of Dantzic, but of Hamburg, and the clock belongs to
that noblest of free cities.”

“Madman! fool!” burst from the astonished crowd; “we all
know Dumiger, his family are eminent in the list of our
freemen—you are mad! Grand Master, proclaim that Dumiger
has won the prize, that Dumiger is great.”

Joy thrilled through Marguerite’s
frame.

The Grand Master rose, and his voice trembled with anxiety
and secret pleasure as he spoke.

“It is too true,” he said; “the clock is sold to Hamburg,
and Dumiger has lost his rights of citizenship here by becoming
a freeman of that town. The prize, therefore, in accordance
with the decision of the council, is adjudged to the
second—to my son.”

Then the anger of the people rose, wild and savage; in one
moment, like the bursting of a thunder-cloud, the whole aspect
of the place had changed.

“Show us the deed!” they exclaimed.

The stranger took it and held it up. There was no mistaking
it; it was headed by the arms of Hamburg, and signed by
Dumiger. The storm of indignation had subsided for a moment,
but only as it seemed to gain additional strength.

“Tear him in pieces—he shall not have the clock. Down
with Dumiger—crucify the man who could prefer the freedom
of Hamburg to the honors of Dantzic. Down with him!”

And the people tore up the benches, drove back the burgher
guard; some of the boldest dashed on the platform; the Grand
Council had to escape, carrying the stranger with them. The mob
tore out of the hall, and told their friends
outside—anger led to anger, the passions rose like the
waves at the equinox. Nothing could stop the mob, from so
apparently trifling a cause a tumult was created; the jealousy
of the townsmen now appeared—that jealousy, smothered and
subdued for so many years, burst forth in this madness.

Poor Marguerite had fainted. Carl and Krantz, by herculean
exertions, dragged her through the mob; she was taken to a
small room over the great hall, and laid there until the storm
should be appeased.

It did not seem likely to be so. Unfortunately, one of the
guards had in the tumult struck a burgher; in some of the
smaller streets they were even now fighting; but the crowd in
the great square seemed to have a firmer purpose, there was a
gradual calm. At last one man climbed up the statue in the
Center of the square.

“Where is Dumiger?” he asked.

And another voice answered, “He is in the debtor’s
prison.”

“We will go and lead him to his triumph,” was the dark and
threatening reply of the people, who now moved forward in
columns.

CHAPTER VI.

The two days which elapsed since the interview with the
stranger had been passed by Dumiger in great misery. He blamed
himself deeply for having been so easily entrapped into what he
feared would prove a snare, and very foolishly, as we have
seen, he wrote to Marguerite that she had everything to hope,
as he still retained the desire of being honored by his
fellow-townsmen, although they were not to enjoy the fruit of
his labors.

On the eventful morning which has been described, Dumiger
arose full of hope, his triumph was to be secured; and in the
evening he even entertained a secret impression and belief that
the people would not permit the clock to be removed, and that
the error he had made might be retrieved by their energetic
wills. He heard the bands of music playing in the distance. The
merry chimes floated over the water, and bade him good speed.
He thought that he could even discern the buzz of enjoyment,
and the shout of anticipated triumph. He took out the last
letter which Marguerite had written to him, and pressed it to
his heart; that day, he thought, was to see them united never
to be parted again.

What sound was that?—Was it the wind? No, the murmur
of many voices, the tramp of a thousand feet, shook the
drawbridge. He heard his own name called out. Yes, it is! it
surely cannot be an error; it is Dumiger they are invoking. Now
there can be no mistake, the crowd unite in one loud
cry,—

“Where is Dumiger?”

“I am here, I am here,” he shrieks out; “Open the
gates.”

What could it mean? the guards were resisting. There is a
shot fired—is this the way in which a triumph is
conducted? There is a pause—a parley.

“We want the man Dumiger, the prisoner,” exclaims one.

“Good, you shall have him. Let but a few enter,” says the
lieutenant of the tower, “and the guard shall withdraw.”

Immediately there is a loud rush on the stair, not the
tramp, tramp, of regular troops.

“Here, here!” exclaims Dumiger; “here am I, my friends!
Welcome, welcome!” and he rushes to embrace the first who
enters.

“Back, traitor!” answers the man.

Dumiger tumbles against the wall in terror and
astonishment.

“Yes, you are the traitor,” continued he who acted the part
of leader of the motley crowd; “you have sold your
birthright—you have betrayed our interests. What
punishment is fit for such a usurer?”

“Down, down with him,” cried the mob.

The leaders consulted together for one moment.

“My good people,” continued the same man, “we have taken
counsel, and you shall redress. We will not take this man’s
life. This is what we decide,—We will keep the clock to
be the glory of our town, but he shall never see it, neither
shall he have it any more in his power to make another equal to
it or better, for we will put out his eyes.”

“Yes, yes,” vociferated the mob, “it is excellent. Put out
his eyes at once.”

Before Dumiger could collect his scattered senses two
strong, stalwart men had seized him. In spite of his shrieks
and entreaties they threw him down on the straw; one more
savage than the rest drew forth a small knife—agony on
agony! horror on horror! in
[pg 64] one moment to the living man
there was Cimmerian darkness. The deed was done, and they
who had done it looked on with horror and fear at their own
crime. There were no shrieks to break the fearful silence: a
few inarticulate sobs of heart wrung from his misery were
all that was heard, and the mob withdrew silent and
repentant.

Carl had followed at a distance. He had made frantic, but
ineffectual efforts to enter the cell; when the crowd dispersed
he went up the stairs without impediment, and there he found
his friend extended. He raised him, he bore him home with those
sightless, bleeding orbs. He comes, Marguerite; hasten forth to
meet your husband: let the light of your love bless him, for
the light of Heaven has departed forever.

CONCLUSION.

There is great excitement in Dantzic, for the noble clock,
which has been for ten years the marvel of Germany,—the
clock which was made by the cunningest artificers who followed
Dumiger’s model, has stopped. No one can arrange it; the model
was broken up as a jealous precaution. There is but one who
understands it—who can regulate the wondrous movement;
that is he who constructed it.

Yes. the Council will go to Dumiger. They seek his house;
they repent of the fearful crime they committed.

“Dumiger, come forth!” they exclaim. “Forgive us our
offense. Greatest of citizens, all honors and rewards shall be
heaped upon you. Regulate this great work, prized above all
others in this city, for which we contended for five years with
Hamburg. Stand forth in glory and honor!”

And a man, young in years, but decrepit in suffering,
appears, supported by two friends. The partner of his hopes and
fears is long since dead. The streets ring with applause as he
appears, and many kneel to kiss his hand—ay, some his
feet. But all he asks is to be led first to Marguerite’s grave.
There, in the presence of thousands, he prays for strength; and
then he desires them to conduct him to the clock-tower.

When he appears outside, the air is rent with shouts.
“Dumiger, Dumiger, the first of the citizens!” Oh, popular
feeling, at once base and baseless!

He seems to see the works again; he climbs up and touches
every part of the wonderful construction—his hand has
found the secret of the movement, again it is in order, and the
pride of Dantzic is saved.

He stands still for some minutes. A god could not have been
more worshiped, or a prophet looked grander. Again his hand is
on the movement—crash, crash,—the slight spring on
which the whole machinery depended is rent asunder by his own
hand; the clock falls to pieces, never to be repaired. At the
same moment there is a fall, a fearful groan, and Dumiger lies
on the pavement a bleeding corpse. The clock and its maker have
ceased to exist.

Such is the legend, and from that day there has been no
clock in the Dom of Dantzic.

THE SHIP “EXTRAVAGANCE.”

LAUGHING IN THE SLEEVE.—A writer in Notes and
Queries gives an instance of Curry’s wit, introduced after
a defeat in a conversational contest with Lady Morgan. “It was
the fashion then for ladies to wear very short sleeves; and
Lady Morgan, albeit not a young woman, with true provincial
exaggeration, wore none—a mere strap over her shoulders.
Curry was walking away from her little coterie, when she called
out, ‘Ah! come back, Mr. Curry, and acknowledge that you are
fairly beaten.’ ‘At any rate,’ said he, turning round, ‘I have
this consolation, you can’t laugh at me in your sleeve!”

An antiquarian discovery has just been made in Kremusch,
near Treplitz, in Bohemia. Some twelve feet below the surface
of the earth, a tomb, with six bodies in it, was found. It
contained, besides, a gold chain about a yard and a half long,
three gold ear-rings, two gold balls of the size of a walnut, a
gold medallion with a cameo representing a Roman Emperor, and
an iron plate, thickly silvered, on each side of which is
engraved a reindeer, with a hawk on its hind quarters. The
workmanship of the different objects, which evidently belong to
the ante-Christian era, is remarkable for its neatness.

DEATH.

So perfect were the Egyptians in the manufacture of perfumes
that some of their ancient ointment, preserved in an alabaster
vase, in the museum of Alnwick, still retains a powerful odor,
though it must be within 2,000 and 3,000 years old.