International Weekly Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science — Volume 1, No. 2, July 8, 1850

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.

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 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.