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 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."
Oh, Extravagance saileth in climes bright and warm.
She is built for the sunlight and not for the storm;
Her anchor is gold, and her mainmast is pride--
Every sheet in the wind doth she dashingly ride!
But _Content_ is a vessel not built for display,
Though she's ready and steady--come storm when it may.
So give us Content as life's channel we steer.
If our Pilot be Caution, we've little to fear!
Oh! Extravagance saileth 'mid glitter and show,
As if fortune's rich tide never ebbed in its flow;
But see her at night when her gold-light is spent,
When her anchor is lost, and her silken sails rent;
When the wave of destruction her shatter'd side drinks,
And the billows--ha! ha!--laugh and shout as she sinks.
No! give us _Content_, as life's channel we steer.
While our Pilot is _Caution_, there's little to fear.
--Charles Swain.
* * * * *
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.
"Death is a road our dearest friends have gone;
Why, with such leaders, fear to say 'Lead on?'
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried;
But turns in balm on the immortal side.
Mothers have pass'd it; fathers; children: men,
Whose like we look not to behold again;
Women, that smiled away their loving breath.--
Soft is the traveling on the road of Death.
But guilt has passed it? Men not fit to die?
Oh, hush--for He that made us all, is by.
Human were all; all men; all born of mothers;
All our own selves, in the worn-out shape of others;
Our _used_, and oh! be sure, not to be _ill_-used brothers."
--Leigh Hunt.
* * * * *
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.