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VOL. I.
*ams skdmia
in published, every Thursday afternoon, in Macon, Ga. on the follow l
CONDITIONS ;
If paid strictly in advance - - $-2 50 per annum.
If not so paid - - - -3 00 “ “
Legal Advertisements will be made to eonforin to the following pro
visions of the Statute:—
* Sales of l.an J and Negroes, by Executors, Administrators and Guard
dans, atic required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, sixty
•days previous to the day of sals.
These sales must be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between
bhe heufs of ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the
Court House in the county in which the property is situated.
*fhe Os Personal Property must be advertised itilike manner for
ty days.
Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must he published forty
days.
Notice that application will he made to the Court of Ordinary for
leave to sell Land and Negroes, must he published weekly for four
months.
Citations or Letters of Administration must be published thirty days
—for Dismission from Administration, monthly, six months—{nr Dis
mission from Guardianship,/rty days.
Rules for foreclosure of mortgage, must be published monthly, for
four months —for establishing lost papers, for the full space of three
months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators where
a bond lias been given by the deceased, the full space of three months.
Professional and Dusincss Cards, inserted, according to the follow
ing scale :
For 4 lines or less per annum • - s•> 00 in advance.
“ 6 lines “ “ . - .7 00 ““
“10 “ “ “ - - $lO 00 “ “
XT Transient Advertisements will be charged sl, per square of 12
Sines or less, for the first and 30 cts. for each subsequent insertion.—
•On these rates there will lie a deduction of ‘2O percent, on settlement,
•when advertisements are continued 3 months, without alteration.
IT All Letters except those containing remittances must lie post
paid or free.
Postmasters and others who will act as Agents for the “Citizen"’
anay retain 20 per cent, for their trouble, on all cash subscriptions for
warded.
OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the
Market.
MAIL AKIt A NG£mEi\ TS.
Mail for Milledgeville, Savannah, Augusta and Columbus close at 9
o’clock, P. M.
All mails out of the State (Tennessc and Florida excepted)
at same hour.
“ “ F.rsyth. Haruesville, Thomaston, Gridin, Atlanta, Marietta
and Dalton, close nt 3 o’cl >ek. I*. M.
“ “ Tennessee 3 o’clock, P. M.
“ “ Florida Route, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays at 3 o’-
clock, P. M.
“ Via Knoxville, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday’s at 3
o’clock, P. M.
* Via Clinton, Eatonton, &c. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sun
days at 3 o’clk, P. M.
“ Via Fort Valley, on Wednesday and Saturday mornings, at
8 o’clock.
Office njen from 8 1-2 A. M. to 1 o’clk.. P M., and from 2 to 4 P.
M.
The Mail by Macon &, Western Railroad will be delivered at 5 1-2
to 6A. M. Night Mails, Bto 8 1-2 P. M.
Z. T. CONNER, P. M.
P. 0. Macon, Mar. 12,1850.
€l)f ]M% (Turner,
IIYMN OF ADORATION.
Written for the Georgia Gitizcn,
BY T. H. CHIVE as, M. D.
Lord ! let the rivers of thy love
Pour out upon me from above!
Let the bright waves of glory, roll
Around the Sanctuary of my soul.
Let not the island-clouds that lie
In the pavilion of the sky,
Gather around tliy dwelling place,
And hide the glory of thy face.
Thou art upon the raging seas.
And in the whispers of the breeze,
And in the lightnings of the sky,
Filling the firmament on high!
Thou art upon the mighty lulls,
And in the music of the rills ;
And in the whirlwinds of the sea.
And in the voice that speaks to thee.
Thou art upon the darkest night.
And in the brightest of the light;
And in the highest Heavens, as well
As in the lowest depths of I lcll!
Thus, seeing that thy Home is here,
And feeding that thy voice is near ;
And knowing what thy strength must be,
I offer up my prayer to thee!
Resignation.
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is these!
There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The Heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume tills dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but dim funereal tajiers
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! what seems so is transition ;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whoso pqrtaj we call Death.
£he is not dead—this child of our affection—
But gone unto that school,
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
afe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
Bhe lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year her tender stejis pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus we do walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which Nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, through unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a ch ild shall we again behold her;
For whe i with rapture wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child.
But fair maiden in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful, with all the soul's expansion,
Shall he behold her face.
And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest.
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We cannot wholly stay;
Bv silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
AMBITION.
” The cheat, ambition, eager to espouse
Dominion, courts it with a lying show,
And shines in borrowed pomp, to serve a turn:
it the match made, the farce is at an end,
Vll tne hireling equipage of virtues,
faith, honor, justice, gratitude and friendship
Dtecharg and at once.”-_j EITREV - s Edwin.
TO A CHILD, EMBRACING lILS MOTHER,
BY THOMAS HOOD.
Love thy mother, little one !
Kiss ami clap her neck again;
Hereafter she may have a son
M ill kiss and elasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!
Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee;
Hereafter thou may’st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes !
Press her lips the w hile the glow
With love that they have often told;
Hereafter thou may’st press in wo,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press Iter lips the while they glow'!
O! revere her raven hair !
Although it be not silver-gray,
Too early death, led on by care,
May snatch, save one dear lock away.
Oh! revere hei raven hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Ileav'n may long the stroke defer,
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn,
When thou wilt ask to die with her.
Pray for her at eve and morn!
(1 Ijf Jtaliot.
Translated from the German.
RSamc not the Ways of God.
BY MRS. ST. SIMON.
There was a rich man who had once heard that alms giv
ing and the practice of other good works were not merely a
sacred duty, but the highest w isdom and pleasure also. He
took this to heart and as he had no time to lose, having been
long in forming his purpose, he went forth to do some chari
table deed. He soon found a beggar clothed in rags.
4 Come with me, my friend,’ he said kindly, ‘ I will clothe
thee.’
\\ hen they reached the house he sought among his gar
ments, and not finding a thread-bare coat, lie gave him one
that was almost new.
The poor man thanked him a thousand times, and said,
4 May God reward tliee!’ But in liis joy of having done a
good work, he did not listen to the beggar's words, for it was
not these that he desired. And ho went forth again to do
good.
He now met with a poor family that had no bread to eat.
He said compassionately—‘ I will relieve your wants,'and he
bought a barrel of meal and gave it to them. Filled with
emotion, they called him their benefactor, and promisi and to re
member him in their prayers. But the man rejoiced even
more than the poor family, and he said to himself-—‘ Yes, it is !
like a fruitful and pleasant garden.’
When, on the following day, he found a sick man who was
very poor, he sent him nourishing conserves and strengthen
ing cordials to promote recovery, and again reaped thanks,
which moved him far less, however, than the consciousness
that he had aided and benefitted a poor man who was suffer
ing upon a bed of illness. ‘He will gain his health the soon
er,’ he thought to himself, 4 and return to liis labor, and be en
abled to support liis family. Thus I will ever do, and not give
money to the poor, but rather supply them with that which
they need at once, for this cannot harm them like gold and sil
ver which they often misuse.’
Therefore, on the ensuing day, he gave a Bible to a beggar
woman, who used profane language, and said he would aid
her bounteously if she would learn to read God’s w ord there
in. And the woman promised to do so, and thanked him, as
it seemed, with deep and heartfelt emotion for the gift.
But as the rich and benevolent man was walking out again on
the following day to do good, his way led him, accidentally, by
it broker's shop. He had scarcely cast a glance in at the door,
when he stepped nearer, in astonishment, and beheld his fine
new coat was hanging in the midst of threac’b ire and patched
garments, and upon the table, with various other books, lay
the Bible, which lie had the day before given to the woman.
A nearer examination convinced him that he was not mista
ken, and to the question how they came there, the broker
replied— ‘ Two profligate beggars sold them to me for a few
pence, which they have probably spent in drink.
This pierced the rich man to the heart, and he walked sor
rowfully away, for lie thought how shamefully liis gifts had
been abused. Sunk in deep reflection, he had almost stum
bled over a barrow which two tired porters laid set down, in
order to rest. They were carrying a barrel which lie imag
ined he had seen before. He followed them inquisitively.
They soon rolled it into a baker shop, and on inquiring, he
learned that the poor family to whom lie had given it laid sold
it. Then his blood boiled, and he walked angrily onward.
He now stood before the house of the sick man, to whom
he had sent the conserves and cordials. Loud laughter and
merry song reached his ear, from the invalid’s chamber, and
upon looking in he discovered there two men, who were sit
ting at the table, and drinking wine or brandy. Then rage
took possession of his soul, and he resolved henceforth to quit
the foolish practice of doing good, and to trouble himself about
no one, as every gift was but a temptation to siu, and as the
evil in the world was augmented, rather than diminished
thereby.
And when again, on the following day, a beggar crossed his
threshhold, and asked hint liutnbly for alms, an evil spirit
awoke within his bosom. Scornfully he cast a stout hempen
rope to the beggar, with the word— 4 That is the best alms for
you and your like. Begone, vagabond, and hang yourself
therewith.’
The beggar looked with a sigh towards heaven, and silent
ly walked away with this most depicable of gifts. But the
rich ntan kept his anger till evening, and railing at the cor
rupt world, murmuring against God, and reproving liis
long suffering, he sought his couch, and sleep soon received
the wearied man into its arms.
He then dreamed that he was standing alone on a vast,
meadow. A cloud descended slowly to earth, and an angel
stepped forth from its midst, his glance was pleasant, and his
robe which he wore was white as snow, and white also was
the liliy which beheld in his hand. In silence the messenger
from above beckoned him to approach, and as he did so with
beating heart, the angel said to Hint— ‘ lam sent because of
thine unbelief. Listen then, and treasure up niy words.’
4 The garment which thou gavest away, and didst see at
the broker's, was purchased afterwards by a poor Samaritan,
who gave it to a devout and excellent youth, who yesterday
had his only coat burned upon his back, in endeavoring to
save a human being's life, and who to-morrow is to be or
dained a minister of the gospel. He is at this moment upon
his knees, thanking the Lord for this gift. The Bible which
thou gavest, now serves to edify and enlighten the thought
less son of the broker, who was already entering upon the
path of vice. The barrel of meal was sold by that poor fami
ly, in order to pay their landlord, who is nearly as poor as
themselves, and who pressed them hard for the payment of
the remnant of their rent. They have hungered for a day,
but they have gone to bed contented, since a roof is now se
cured to them. The conserves which were sold for intoxicat
ing drinks, were the means of frustrating a plot against the
life of a worthy man, which those men revealed in their drunk-
in all things—Neutral in Notljing.”
MACQN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY EVENING, APRIL 4, 1850.
enness. Lastly, tile rope with which thou, in thy blindness,
did mock at God and poverty, has in the hands of that beg
gar proved a source of good, and not of evil. Grief led the
poor man out along the steep bank of the river, here he heard
cries for help, and looking upon the stream, he beheld a fel
low creature struggling in the waves. Then that rope, which
thou didst destine as nn instrument of destruction, became an
instrument of rescue. Casting it to the drowning man, who
caught it when on the point of sinking, the beggar with great
labor drew him to the shore. Therefore blame not the ways
ot a Being who is unsearchable and past finding out, re
buke not the Lord, whom thou canst never comprehend, but
do good and doubt not.’
M ith these words the form of light melted away in the air,
and upon the rosy clouds stood written the words— 4 Happy
are they who see not and still believe.’
M hen he awoke, the rich man communed with himself, and
lie henceforth did good, silently and humbly, prudently un
weariedly, without hesitating, murmuring, or doubting. Then
his good deeds became for him and others a true garden of
blessing and pleasure.
UH.\G A"t S> MEANS.
BY HORACE GREELEY.
One of the most mischievous phases in which a rotten
Morality, a radically false and vicious Public Sentiment dis
guise themselves, is that which characterizes certain individ
uals as destitute of financial capacity. A ‘kind, amiable,
generous, good sort of man,’ (so runs the varnish,) “but ut
terly unqualified for the mangement of his own finances”—
“a mere child in everything relating to money,” &c., &c.—
meaning that with an income of 5.500 a year he persisted in
spending $1,000; or with an income of $2,000 to $3,000, he
regularly spent five to eight thousand, according to his ability
to run in debt or the credulity of others in trusting him.
The victims of this immorality—debtor as well as creditor
—are entitled to more faithful dealing at the hands of those
not directly affected by the misdemeanors of the former. It
is the duty of the community to rebuke and repress these per
nicious glosses, making the truth heard and felt that inordi
ate expenditure is knavery and crime. No man has a moral
right thus to lavish on his own appetites money which he has
not earned and does not really need. If Public Opinion were
sound on this subject—if a man living beyond liis means
when his means were commensurate with his real needs,
were subjected to the reprehension he deserves —the evil
would be instantly checked and ultimately eradicated.
The world is full of people who can't imagine why they
don’t prosper like their neighbors, when the real obstacle is
not in banks nor tariffs, in bad public policy nor hard times,
hut in their own extravagance and heedless ostentation. The
young mechanic or clerk marries aud takes a house, which
lie proceeds to furnish twice as expensively as lie can afford,
and then his wife, instead of taking hold to help him earn a
livelihood by doing her own work, must have a hired servant
to help her spend liis limited earnings. Ten years afterward
you will find him struggling on under a double load of debts
and children, wondering why the luck was always against
him, while liis friends regret liis unhappy destitution of finan
cial ability. Had they from the first been frank and honest,
he need not have been so unlucky.
Through every grade of society this vice of inordinate ex
pendiptre insinuates itself. The single man ‘‘hired out’’ in
the country at ten to fifteen dollars per month, who contrives
to dissolve his year's earnings in frolics .and fine clothes; the
clerk who lias three to five hundred dollars a year and melts
down twenty to fifty of it into liquor aud cigars, are paralleled
by the young merchant who fills a spacious house with costly j
furniture, gives dinners and drives a fast horse on the strength !
of the profits he expects to realize when his goods are all sold
and his notes till paid. Let a man have a genius for spend
ing, and whether his income is a dollar a day or a dollar a 1
minute, it is equally certain to prove inadequate. If dining,
wincing, and party-giving won't help him through with it,
building, gaming and speculating will be sure to. The bot
tomless pocket will never fill, no matter how bounteous the
stream pouring into it. The man who (being single) does not
save money on six dollars per week, will not be apt to on six
ty; and he who does not lay up something in liis first year of
independent exertion, will be pretty likely to wear a poor
man’s hair in his grave.
No mail who hits the natural use of his faculties and his
muscles litis any right to tax others with the cost of liis sup
port, as thisel.-iss of non-financial gentlemen habitually do.—
It is their common mistakes to fancy that if a debt is only
paid at last the obligation of the debtor is fulfilled, but the
fact is not so. A man who sells his property for another's
promise to pay next week or next month, and is compelled to
wear out a pair of boots in running after his due, which he fi
nally gets after a year or two, is never really paid. Very of
ten, he has lost half the face of his demand by not having the
money when he needed it, beside the cost and vexation of
running after it. There is just one way to pay an obligation
in full, and that is to pay it when due. He who keeps up a
running fight with bills and loans throughout life is continually
living on i;thcr men’s means, is a serious burden and a de
triment to those who deal with him, although liis estate
should finally pay every dollar of liis legal obligations.
Inordinate expenditure is the cause of a great share of the
crime and consequent misery which devastate the world.—
The clerk who spends more than lie earns is fast qualifying
himself for a gambler and a thief; the trader or mechanic who
overruns his income is very certain to become in time a trick
ster and a cheat. Whenever you sec a man spending faster
than he earns, there look out for villainy, to be developed,
though it be the farthest thing possible from his present
thought.
W hen the w orld shall have become wiser and its standard
of morality more lofty, it w ill perceive and affirm that profuse
expenditure, even by one who can pecuniarily afford it, is per
nicious and unjustifiable—that a man, however wealthy, has
no right to lavish on his own appetites, liis tastes or his ostenta
tion that which might have raised hundreds from destitution
and despair to comfort and usefulness. But that is an improve
ment in public sentiment which must be waited for, while the
other is more ready and obvious.
The meanness, the dishonesty, die iniquity of squander
ing thousands unearned, and keeping others out of money
that is justly theirs, have rarely been urged and enforced as
they should be. They need but to be considered and under
stood to be universally loathed and detested.
Providential. One day last w’eek, the Mobile mail steam
er, the J. L. Day, grounded on her regular trip fVom this place,
and did not reach the lake end of the rail road until after dark.
Some fifty or sixty passengers, who were going up the Alabama
river, on their travels, or on their return to their respective
homes, having waited all day for her, with a view of proceed
ing to Mobile, returned to the city sorely vexed and disappoint
ed at their detention until the following day. Yesterday, ad
vices were received that the steam boat Orlino St. John, on
w'hicli probably the whole of them w'ould have embarked to
proceed up the Alabama, had been burnt after she left Mobile,
and that thirty of her passengers, including all the females, per
ished.
The Orline St. John was the favorite and crack passage boat
on the Mobile river, and the above passengers missed her in
consequence of the unexpected detention of the Mobile mail
boat, an event which had not previously occurred for sonie
months. Many of them expressed their regret, that by the
detention here, they should miss the opportunity of reaching
Mobile in time to embark on the Orline St. John on her regu
lar day. How little do we frail mortals know what is for our
good, and how l frequently does, what we consider a misfortune,
result for our benefit- —IV. O. Bulletin. Bth inst.
JANE AND IIER MOTHER,
ABOUT POLITENESS.
Jane. Mother, I love to visit Emma Gordon, all the bro
thers and sisters are so kind and obliging to each other. They
are as polite to each other as other people are to strangers.
Mother. Yes, my dear, I have observed it, and that they
do it, not to gain applause but from principle, that is, they have
a standard of action and adhere to it. Can you tell me what
that standard is ?
Jane. I should think it must be the “golden rule.” ’
Mother. The golden rule is, indeed, the fountain of true
politeness. It is proper that we should be polite—it is a duty.
Jane. Mother, is it tliat, then, that makes them always so
happy ?
Mother. Undoubtedly. Did you ever see any little dis
cords among them ?
Jane. No, mother; and I have often been surprised at
the difference between them and Mr. Vale’s family. The lat
ter often find fault, and disoblige each other. But, mother,
arc we commanded tob e polite ?
Mother. Yes. ‘‘Be courteous,” is an injunction of the
Scriptures. It is only one of the thousand variations of the
golden rule. So apt are w r e to be selfish that a strong rule
was necessary to induce us to do justice to others; and in do
ing j ustice, to do it agreeably, or in a becoming manner. And
its we cannot live independently of each other, we arc bound
by gratitude to return the civilities we receive.
Jane. I thought very polite people w T ere naturally so.
Mother. They are, if they have naturally obliging dispo
sitions. To our friends we should surely be courteous, for
our reciprocal claims require it; and to strangers, because their
circumstances require it.
A Lawyer’s Opinion.
FROM THE FRENCH.
It happened that a farmer, named Bernard, having come
to market in Rennes, took it into his head when his business
was accomplished, and there were a few hours leisure, that it
would lx- a capital use of that spare time to consult a lawyc r.
He had often heard people speak of M. Portier de la Ger
mandaie, whose reputation was so great, that the people
thought a suit already gained if he undertook it. Bernard
asked his address, and went immediately to his office, in
Saint George’s street.
The clients were numerous, and Bernard had to wait for a
long time. At length his turn came, and he was introduced.
M. Fortier de la Germandaie pointed him to a chair, laid his
spectacles upon the table, and asked what brought liim there.
“ ’Foil my word, Squire, ” said the farmer, twirling his
hat round, “ I heard so much talk about you, that finding
myself at leisure in Rennes, I thought I would take advan
tage of the circumstance, and come and get an opinion of
you. ”
“ I thank you for your confidence, my friend, ” said M. de
la Germandaie; “ but you, of course, have a law suit. ”
“ A law suit—a law suit, indeed ! I hold them in utter
abomination ; and more than that Peter Bernard never had
a dispute with any man living. ”
“ Then you wish to settle some estate, or divide the pro
perty among the family. ”
“ Beg pardon, Squire, my family and I never had any pro
perty to divide; we ail eat from the same dish, as the saying
is.”
“ Is it about some contract for the purchase or sale of some
thing ? ”
“ Not at all; I atn not rich enough to purchase any thing,
nor so poor as to sell what I have. ”
“ \\ hat then do you want of me ?” asked the astonished
lawyer.
“ What do I want ? Why I told you at first, Squire, I
came for an opinion, for which I will pay of course, as I am
in Rennes now at leisure, and it is necessary to profit by the
circumstance. ”
M. de la Germandaie took pen and paper, and asked the
countryman his name.
“ Peter Bernard, ” answered he; happy indeed tliat he
had succeeded in making himself understood.
“ Vour age ?”
“ Thirty years, or thereabouts. ”
“ Your profession?”
“Oh, ah, yes—that is, what I do. Oh, lam a farmer. ”
The lawyer wrote two lines, folded up the paper, and gave
it to his client.
“Is it done already ? ” cried Bernard. “Very well, that's
right. There is no time to get rusty here, as they say. llow
much do you charge for this opinion, Squire ? ”
“ Three franks. ”
Bernard paid without disputing, made a grand scrape with
his foot, and went out, delighted with having “profited by the
occasion. ”
When he had arrived home, it was already four o'clock.—
The jaunt laid fatigued him, and lie went into the house for
some repose.
Meanwhile his grass had been cut four days, and was com
pletely dried, and one of his lads came in to ask whether lie
should get it in -at once.
“Not this evening, ” said Mrs. Bernard, who had just join
ed her husband ; “it would be too bad to set the people to
work at so late an hour when the hay could be got in to-mor
row just as well. ” . a
The lad urged that there might be a change in tlie weather
that everything was in order, aud tliat the people were doing
nothing.
Mrs. Bernard said that the wind was in the right quarter
for fair weather, and they would not get the work done be
fore dark.
Bernard listened gravely to these advocates , without know
ing how to decide between them, when he suddenly recollect
ed the paper he had recived from the lawyer.
“ Stop a minute, ” he cried ; “ I have got an opinion. It
is from a famous lawyer, and cost me three francs. This
will settle tlie matter. Here, Therese, come and tell us what
it says ; you can read all kinds of writing, even lawyer's.”
Mrs. Bernard took the paper, and with some little difficulty
read these lines.
“ Never put off until tu-morrow xchat you can do to
day. ”
“ That’s it, ” cried Bernard, as if he had received sudden
light upon the subject. “ Make haste with the wagon, the
girls and boys, and let us get the hay in. ”
His wife offered some objections, but Bernard declared he
was not going to pay three francs for an opinion , and then
not follow it; so lie set the example, and they did not return
to tlie house until the hay was in the barn.
The event seemed to prove tlie sagacity of Bernard's move
ment, for the weather changed in the night. A terrible storm
came on, and the next morning the streams had overflowed
their banks and swept off every particle of new-mown grass.
The hay harvest of every other former in the neighborhood
was utterly destroyed. Bernard alone saved his hay.
The first experiment gave him such confidence in the opin
ion of the lawyer, that ever after he adopted it as a rule of
conduct, and became, thanks to his order and diligence, one
of the richest farmers in the country. He never forgot the
service which M. de la Germandaie had rendered him, and he
every year brought to the lawyer a pair of good fat chickens;
and he was in the habit of saying to his neighbors, when they
were talking of the lawyers, that next to the commands of God
and the Church, the’most profitable thing in the world was a
lawyer's opinion,
AFFLICTIONS.
Afflictions are the same to the soul as the plough to the
fallow ground, the pruningkiiife to the vine, and the furnace
to the gold.
(Drigimil -pit jiffs.
CONSTANCE OF WERDENBERG.
OR
The Heroes of Switzerland.
A Dramatic Poem,
Written for the KJeorgia Citizen,’ by Mm. C. L. Hants.
r
[Note by Tnn editor. —Owing to the haste of getting out our
first Number, several errors occurred in the first part of the following
original Drama by Mrs. Hcntz, which, injustice to the talented author
ess as well as to ourselves, we republish, in a corrected form, in con
nexion with part 2d. — Ed. Gborgia Citizen.]
PART I.—Scene 1.
A chamber in the Castle of Werdenberg.
CONSTANCE AND HILDA.
Constance! —Why should I shadow o’er the joyous tint*
Os youth and hope, with sorrows such as mine?
No sympathy can heal a wound so deep,
No tenderness assuage this bosom’s pangs.
Hilda. —Ah! gentlest lady—could I see thee weep—■
Hut when 1 mark the anguish of thine eye,
And hear the sighs that labor in thy breast,
I find my own tears of’t unheeded fall.
Constance.—The time has been, when these dry eyes tvero washed
With ceaseless deluges of burning tears—
When these sealed lips poured sacrilegious forth
The maniac ravings of unciiastened grief—
Hut time has calmed the tempest’s raging power
Down to the sullen stillness of de .pair,
Leaving, as sad mementoes of its wrath,
My ruined happiness and blighted youth.
Hilda.—ls love and faith so strong, as to outlive
Time, absence, and perchance e’en death itself.
Constance.—Hush girl forbear—thou'st wakened from their sleep
Memories too mighty for this wearied spirit
Thou knows't not, dreames’t not of the depth and strength
Os woman’s pure, unalterable love.
Oh lterthold! lost and ruined as thou art,
A wanderiug exile from thy native land,
Thou still art dearer to this tortured heart,
Than when thou dwelledst in these ancestral towers,
In all the stainless lustre of thy fame.
Hilda.—Hut may he not return?
Constance-—What, know’st thou not his forfeit Ufa
Would pay his country’s violated law?
Hilda.—So sacred is the history of your sorrows,
I know not all the causes of the gloom,
That shrouds your days in darkness.
Constance. —Listen then
To what oblivion never can efface,
When, in my morn of womanhood, I dwelt
An idol, in my widowed father’s halls.
Led by his wealth and rank, and by the beauty,
Whose waning light now glimmers o'er my face,
Lovers contended for these vaunted charms.
Hilda.—Ah, Lady! where is beauty’s gayest bloom,
That can compare with loveliness, like thine?
Constance. —Tis but the faint reflection of the past,
These cheeks, as colourless a9 Alpine snows,
Then shamed the roses of my native bovvers;
These now reflected locks, then wreathed with care
Might vie in burnish, with the raven’s plumage—
But oh! how vain, how |oor were all these boasts—
How valueless the empire they secured,
Till Berthold came, and shone above the rest,
As shines the day-star o’er each meaner orb.
Young, noble, gallant, passionate, and brave,
His character seemed moulded thus, to meet
The depth, the pride, the passion of my own.
Oh ! o’er my lonely being’s cheerless blank,
The memory of those days of wedded joy,
Comes, like the hectic hues which sunset throw*
Upon the mountain’s icy brow—
But jealous rivals, balHed in tbeir suit,
Detested him, who won the heart they sought,
Othon, proud Landenburg’s still prouder son,
And haughty Herman too, whose lawless flame
Is still the bane and terror of my life,
Bent on him glances of vindictive ire.
I feared those lightning flashes, but he scomod,
And pitied too their ineffectual rage,
A few short months of bliss flew swiftly by,
On angel pinions, glittering as they flew—
Down, swelling heart—back to your draining source,
Ye bitter tears —The fatal day had daw-ied,
Day marked by desolation worse than death;
He left me for the chase, mid lonely paths,
That wind along Helvetia’s mountain heights.
The huntsmen met, Herthold and Othon met
The imprisoned flame blazed forth, wrath long restrained
But unsulidued, in Othon’s fiery breast,
Foamed like the torrent waters near their path—
Defying looks, high words, and angry threats,
With calm contempt my noble Herthold bore—
But when in Othon’s hand the dagger gleamed.
Then steel met steel, and deadly blow met blow
lie fell, but Herthold lives —in exile lives—
Or dies unhonored in a foreign land.
Hilda. —Alas! sweet lady, what a tale of woe!
Constance. —Hour after hour, I watched for his return—
At last his steed came rushing through the gate,
A tale of blood in its ill-omened speed—
Methinks e’en now', I see the thrilling glance,
That met the fond inquietude of mine.
I spoke not, moved not, while in accents hoarse,
And low, he told the fatal deed, he’d wrought,
An age of frenzy, horror and despair
Holled o’er my soul in that tremendous moment.
With frantic earnestness I bade him fly,
But when he wrapped me wildly in his arms,
And vowed near Constance to await his fate,
I rent myself from their embracing fold—
I knelt, 1 prayed—but Oh! how poor are words,
To paint the agony, the living death,
Endured in that last hour, that parting hour.
Hilda. —Unhappy Count, has he ne'er seen his child?
Constance.—Born to an orphanage, more sad than death,
Tli infant heir of Werdenberg received
The baptism of a widow ed mother’s tears,
No father's blessing hallowed the repose
Os cherub infancy—no father’s smile
Beams on his early childhood's opening bloom.
Hilda.— But may not Heaven have brighter days in r.toro?
Constance.—The price of blood is on that noble head,
The gold-bought slaves of Landentierg have chased
His flight to Austria’s uttermost confines.
Oh ! had he fallen in the bloody strife
Hilda.—(taking a letter from her bosom.)
May this bring peace and comfort in its folding,
At eventide, 1 strayed beyond the park.
When I beheld a stranger lingering there,
With cautious haste, he near me came and said,
“To Lady Constance bear this and beware
Lest other eyes, than hers, behold its contents.”
He spake, and plunged into the neighboring wood.
Constance.— (reading,) ‘•Secret, alone, at the dark mountain’s baas
Os Berthold, exiled Bertliold’s fate to learn.”
Mysterious Power! whose hand has laid upon me
Such weight of care; smiles! thou in inercy now ?
What sudden fire is flashing through my brain ¥
All gracious Heaven! it must, it must have been!
£*peak, tell ine Hilda; was his form, though veiled,
OC kingly majesty? Slione his deark eye
Beneath his eagle locks, like the midsun,
When clouds his throne o’ershadows?
Hilda.— His form was muffled
He seemed involved in mystery and gloom.
Constance. —Oh! had 1 wings; Heaven speed mo, a* I go.
Hilda.—You w ill not go unaided and alone ;
I/;t faithful Ulric guard thee to the spot,
Let me at least; I tremble for thy safety.
Constance.— l ask no guard, but innocence and heaven,
Mercy lias hung yon trembling lamp on high;
Amid the starry arch ; I need no other guide.
Scene 2.
[The plains of Ruth. In the back-ground are the waters of the
lake. Lofty mountains are seen rising in perspective, their summits
glittering in the moonlight. A boat is gliding over the lake. It paus
es by a wild rock, and Herman, leaping from it, comes foward and
speaks.]
Tis one step more; I’ve basely stooped to fraud,
And steeped in shame, the honors of my manhood.
How shall I meet the upbraithngs of her eye,
When flushed with hope, or pale with anxious fear,
She comes of banished Bertliold’s fate to learn,
And turns its beam on Herman’s hated form!
But hence, ye coward fancies. I have sworn
For life or death, and t'is no passing oath,
The baffling powers of man cannot disturb
The mountain-guarded solitude Tve chosen,
The elements, eternal, solemn, grand,
flhall blend in grandeur, w ith the storm within.
But hush ! she comes; I'll seek this sheltering rock,
And watcli unseen the passions I have, roused. (Retires.)
Constance Enters.
Alone ? The awful solitude of Nature round me !
No coming footsteps echo through the gloom;
I hear the beatings of my own wild heart,
Distinct and loud. It is a fearful sound.
There should be something in the peaceful hush
Os Nature’s mightiest elements to still
The stormy passions of the world within.
How calm thy waters sleep, thou silent lake
Whether they glitter in Heaven’s holy lights.
Or lie in soft tranquility of shade,
They’re eloquent of peace, and image back
Eternity to the blue depths above. a
The guardian mountains watch around thy bJ,
Raising tbeir regal heads amid the cloud*
Or twsning rsund their diadems of 9r.Ow,
A wreath of silvery beams. My awe ttmek soil
Feel* the dread presence of Creation's God,
And bows in homaee to his majesty.
Hark ? is it echo startling from the rock?
Oh! my kick heart; what mist, what darkness vsils msl
tsinksdown on a projecting rock. Herman advances from hiscoaeard
tnent. Constance rushes forward, exclaims “Berthold,* aT-d fkils It V
less in his arms.)
H88K4M..-Ha! Death is on her face. Her heart Ues sold
Beneath the deep pulsation of my own.
I dare not look upon her. Constance, speak;
Speak, break this dreadful stillness. Life returns,
Cosstance.—VVhat voice recalls my spirit back to earth ?
Herman! Tin lost, thou virgin mother save me ;
Herman.— Lady, thou’rt safe, as with the virgin mother,
(Kneeling,) Forgiv e the wretch, who urged by love ami nulnsss.
Has dared to brave thy cruelty and scorn.
CoxsTxxnc.—Deliberate villain! cowardly and cruel,
What price shall pay thee for a deed so base?
Herman.—What price, for years, has paid me for the strength,
Tlie intense devotion, worship of tn> love?
Coxhtajhe.—Herman, in pity more than wrath, I see thee,
Thou art not strong in guilt. A late reuior>e
Shall lead thee back to rectitude and honor.
Herman.—Honor! I care not what the world calls honor;
iiadst thou been mine, thou wouldst have made me all
That glory, virtue, would be proud to claim.
Oh! Coustance, Constance, hadst thou given me,
One spark of that deep passion thou hast wasted,
Hadst thou given me, the morning of thy youth,
I ne'er had left it. / had watched its bloom.
Through trial, shame, temptation, danger, death.
Constants.— Thoukaast ujtlrftmrl Herman,due notthsu
Compare thyself to one, thou const not humble.
1 never wronged thee. What is woman's wealth?
Her tenderness. It was not mine to givs,
TVas given in all its power to another,
Think, when my wed led vows made love a sla,
Didst thou struggle with its lawless strength.
And when that bloody 1 raged) was o'er,
The work of tur.k unhai'oteed love, when left
Crushed, desolate, with wounded brain and heart
Bleeding and torn, the hand of Heaven upon ms,
Didst thou res;>eci the sanctity of grief?
A wife and mother! Hast tliou felt how pure
These holy names ? No I with polluting vows.
Thou hast profaned them, and hast dared tc think,
That Coustauce might to infamy descend.
Herman.— Hold, hold, I sware by the attesting Hoars*
Dear as 1 love thy proud and kindling beauty,
Thy purity and loftiness of sou!,
Inspire a more elevated homage.
Constance.— The* lov’st iuy pride and purity of so all
Where were its pride and purity, if once
I smiled on vews, honor must blush to hear?
What urged thee to the baseness of this night?
Why choose this hour of gloom, this lonely spot?
Whet means the changing hue, the hectic flush,
That, e’en by moonlight, on thy cheek is seen ?
Herman.—l am not master of myself. I yield
To the strong power that bears me to my doom.
Yet Constance, I could urge a plea, to back
My suit, more strenuous than sellish passion.
Thou know'sthow long Helvetia’s freeborn sons,
Have groaned beneath imjierial Albert’s yoke,
How long bis haughty delegates have scourged
Our loft)- peasants, monarchs of the soul,
Bold dwellers of the hills, with spirits high
And tameless as the eagles of the cliffs;
They spurn tht b.iid. that presses bondage on them;
GtssLtß. the here*, lies on his rocky bier,
A peasant’s arrow quivering in his heart,
But iandi nberg still lives, nor heeds the and *om
Proclaimed in gathering thunders through the ral*.
Then fly with me. I’ll throw a guardian shield
Os love found thee, flee! you boat awaits,
Tile moonbeams track shall guide us o’er the lakm
Constance.—No foa so dreadt-d as unlicensed love,
Though born of Austnau blood and lordly rank,
I feel the injuries of the noble flu iss,
There’s not a son of Bwilzerland would lift
His arm against an unprotected woman,
But should the) main—sons of the brave and free
Their ancient g.ory by an act so base,
I’d meet them dauuliuas on my Castle walla.
My child enfolded in my sheltering arms—
His helplessness would sa uiy best defence.
Thou Lu.it my answer, leave me to my fate.
Herman—l've sworn to save thee. No 1 I leave the* not
Constance. —Then stay, vain man, I will not w aste on Use
I’leudings to which a nobler u.nd would yield,
1 would have won tnee back to truth and” honor,
But slave of thy mad passions, ihou art lost—
Thou dar’st not follow me. I’m not alone;
Legions of guardian spirits are around me;
They bend from yonder mountains—yan wild rocks,
And wave their silver pinions o’er the lake.
Stand back, false Knight, thou dar'st not follow ms.
(Herman attempted to detain her, when Erni, a peasant
youth, who Lao advanced unperceived from the rook*, a- jrini
him, and fells him to the ground.)
Earn.—Fear not, Lady—
The mountain peasant has a high-born soul—
A stainless hand, which can avenge thy wrong*.
Constance. —Protection, noble youth—let vengeance sleep,
I said these rocks had guardian spirits near them.
Herman.—(rising and springing upon Erni,)
Ila! base-born peasant, coward, lurking spy—
Thou darest to ba’ile me—
Erni. —(wrestling in his grasp) I dare still more—
My peasant arm has not laid down its strength,
Thou know at its weight.
Herman.—liadt then not stolen on me
Dastard wretch ! thou couldst not boast my shame,
This for thy baseness, (drawing a dagger.)
Erni. —(wrenching it from his grasp and throwing it far Into
the waters of the lake.)
This, proud Knight, for thine.
Herman. —l'll not contend with an unweaponed hani,
Bred at the plough, in fellowship with herds,
Thou well may's! boast of strength. Bat we shall meet
\ assal. aye, meet on other terms than these.
(springs into the boat and disappears)
Erni. —Yes, we thall meet, but not when thou shall summon.
Where shall I guide thee, Lady ? Each wild path
The mountaineer's accustomed steps can trace.
Constance.—l onder the towers of Y\ erdenberg ascend—
Behold the mistress of those fated walls,
Erni.— Constance of Werdonberg? Oh! blest the hour,
That gave such glory to my youthful arm.
Con. stance. — (drawing from her finger a glittering ring)
This gem upon its brilliant surface K ara
Tlie name and emblem of our ancient h< -use,
Tlie honor of that aneient house, through the*
Is still undimned and pure—Reoeive this ring;
And by this sacred pledge, each free-born Swisa
Shall find a brother’s place in Constanoe’ heart.
PART 2d.
(The Mine scene as the preceding. The plains of Rutli. The laka
glittering in the moonlight, Bertboidenters after Constance and Xntl
have retired.)
Berth.— Here may the wanderer pause. Here, on this
Where oft when flushed and wearied from the chase
I’ve thrown myself to rest. Pursuit will net disturb
This midnight calm. Slumber is brooding now
O’er th*e fair val<-s, and every eye, perchance,
Save mine, weighed by ita soft, yet leaden power—
Oh! how the memories of other days,
Come crowding, rushing back upon my sowl.
My native skies are bending brightly o’er me,
As if to welcome the sad exile home—
Home! holy, thrilling sound I Have Ia homo t
I see my Castle’s lofty turrets rise
Dim on yon rocky height; but does the heart
Os her, whose weeded bosom was my homo
Cherish, still fond and true, its absent lord ?
Oh! Constanoe, Constance! mid the battle’s dia,
In foreign climes, through anguish, wasting oar *.
Thou, o’er the darkness of my sonl, hast shone,
A melancholy rtar. unse tting, fixed.
—What! even here pursued 1 Kind nature hide
In thy lone depths, the hunted, banished man.
(retires.)
(Enter Werner and tValtherloading the blind Melehtal, Mowed by
Foresters, who form the band of conspirators, and group themselves
around the three first,)
Werner.—Once more, we meet, on Rutli’s hallowed plain,
By the deep bosom of the forest sea
Socnc of our solemn oaths, and aneie and. vows
Heard ye, my friends, the voice of tnumph break
Through the deep stillness of the mountain air T
The tyrant’s fallen! Gessler, the haughty, lies
Powerless, transfixed by Tell'* avenging hiyp-j-
The unburdened vale exults. Freedom uplits
NO. 2.
