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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.