INTERNATIONAL WEEKLY MISCELLANY
Of Literature, Art, and Science.
* * * * *
Vol. I. NEW YORK, JULY 8, 1850. No. 2.
* * * * *
[Illustration: 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:
"'IN MEMORIAM.'
"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
'IN MEMORIAM
A.H.H.
OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.'
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.
CIV.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
"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.
LXXXVII.
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore;
How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair.
And shook to all the liberal air
The dust and din and steam of town:
He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixt in all our simple sports;
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts
And dusky purlieus of the law.
O joy to him in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark,
To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking through the heat:
O sound to rout the brood of cares,
The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed
To hear him, as he lay and read
The Tuscan poets on the lawn:
Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
Or here she brought the harp and flung
A ballad to the brightening moon:
Nor less it pleased in livelier moods,
Beyond the bounding hill to stray.
And break the livelong summer day
With banquet in the distant woods;
Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
Discuss'd the books to love or hate,
Or touch'd the changes of the state,
Or threaded some Socratic dream;
But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
For 'ground' in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down.
'And merge,' he said, 'in form and loss
The picturesque of man and man.'
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,
Or cool'd within the glooming wave;
And last, returning from afar,
Before the crimson-circled star
Had fallen into her father's grave.
And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine vail
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honeyed hours.
"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: _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, 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 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.
Lonely to-night, oh, loved one! is our dwelling,
And lone and wearily hath gone the day;
For thou, whose presence like a flood is swelling
With joy my life-tide--thou art far away.
And wearily for me will go the morrow,
While for thy voice, thy smile, I vainly yearn;
Oh, from fond thought some comfort I will borrow,
To wile away the hours till thou return!
I will remember that first, sweet revealing
Wherewith thy love o'er my tranced being stole;
I, like the Pythoness enraptured, feeling
The god divine pervading all my soul.
I will remember each fond aspiration
In secret milled with thy cherished name,
Till from thy lips, in wildering modulation,
Those words of ecstasy "I love thee!" came.
And I will think of all our blest communing,
And all thy low-breathed words of tenderness;
Thy voice to me its melody attuning
Till every tone seemed fraught with a caress.
And feel thee near me, while in thought repeating
The treasured memories thou alone dost share
Hark! with hushed breath and pulses wildly beating
I hear thy footstep bounding o'er the stair!
And I no longer to my heart am telling
The weary weight of loneliness it bore;
For thou, whose love makes heaven within our dwelling,
Thou art returned, and all is joy once more.
* * * * *
TO ----. BY MRS. R.B.K.
Oh how I loved thee! how I blessed the hour,
When first thy lips, wak'ning my trusting heart,
Like some soft southern gale upon a flower,
Into a blooming hope, murmured "we ne'er will part."
Never to part! alas! the lingering sound
Thro' the sad echoes of pale Memory's cave,
Startles once more the hope my young soul found,
Into bright hues, but, only for the grave ...
Must we then part! ah, till this heavy hour,
Fraught with the leaden weight of sorrowing years,
I could have stemmed grief's tide like some light shower,
Where shows a rainbow hope to quell all idle fears.
But the dim phantoms of o'er shadowed pleasures,
Gleaming thro' gathering mists that cloud my heart,
Lend but a transient ray, those fragile treasures--
And heavier darkness falls to gloom the thought "We part!"
JUNE 22, 1850.
* * * * *
ORIGINAL CORRESPONDENCE.
RAMBLES IN THE PENINSULA.
NO. II.
GRENADA, May 26, 1850.
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 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:
There's a new grave in the old church-yard,
Another mound in the snow;
And a maid whose soul was whiter far,
Sleeps in her shroud below.
The winds of March are piping loud,
And the snow comes down for hours;
But by-and-by the April rains
Will bring the sweet May flowers.
The sweet May flowers will cover her grave
Made green by the April rain;
But blight will lie on our memories.
And our tears will fall in vain!
* * * * *
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
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
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 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.