The Georgia citizen. (Macon, Ga.) 1850-1860, May 02, 1850, Image 1

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VOL. I. Till (ffIDSHA MSIS3 Is published, every Thursday afternoon, in Macon, Ga. on the follow- CONDITIONS : ts paid strictly in advance - ■ $2 50 per annum. If not so paid * * * *3 00 “ “ ta!gal Advertisements will be made to conform to the following pro visions of the Statute: — Sites of I.arid and Negroes by Executors Administrators and Guard ians. arc required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, sixty Vtay* previous to the day of sale. These sales must be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between Vfte hours of ten in the forenoon and three ill the afternoon, at the Court House in the county in which the proiierty is situated. . The sales of Personal Property must he advertised in like manner for ty days. Notice to Debtors ami Creditors of an Estate must be published forty ‘days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Negroes, must be published for four mouths. Citations or Letters of Administration must he published thirty days —for Dismission from Administration, monthly, siz months —for Dis mission from Guardianship, forty days. Rules for foreclosure of mortgage, must be published monthly, for four months —for establishing lost papers, for the full spars of three months —for couqieUing titles from Executors or Administrators where a bond Itas been given by the deceased, the full space of three months. Professional and Business Cards, inserted, according to the follow ing scala: For 4 lines or less per annum - * 85 00 in advance. “ G lines “ “ - - - 7 00 “ “ ujo “ u u . - $lO 00 “ “ Transient Advertisements will be charged sl, per square of 12 lines or less, for the first and 50 cte. for each subsequent insertion. — On these rates there will be a deduction of 20 percent, on settlement, when advertisements arc continued 3 months, without alteration. \n letters except those containing remittances must be post paid or free. Postmasters and others who will act as Agents for the “Citizen” may retain 20 per cent, for their trouble, on all cosh subscriptions for warded. OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the Market. ‘(Tljr ]M'j Corner, From the Ohio Statesman. APPEAL F3 21 SATIOAAL t.\SO\. BY It. E. H. LEVERI.NO. air—■“Wallace.** Spirit of the holy one, Spirit of our Washington, Handed down from sire to son, Inspiration’s source, — Spirit of the rield and flood, Where our fathers battling stood, Let that principle imbued, Fire with pristine force ! On each altar’d heart uproar Freedom's off - ring burning clear, Sacrificial glory there To the (100 of Truth,— As the gath'ring hosts attend, .Patriots for a patriot end, While our spirit fathers Ino id w finessing our oath! l\y the British task-man’s stroke, By the royal duties we broke, By the proud oppressor's look Freezing souls to death, — By the Thraldom's thick’ ning spell, Broken soon as breath'd from hell, Swear we that the ”1 mom” still Bright our land shall wreathe! By our patriot fathers gone, By the victories they won. By their bloody graves when done Freedom's task sublime’— By their spirit's hov'ring now, Warding off the fatal blow, Swear the “Union's” flame shall glow Through all future time ! By each foreign myrmidon, Watching for our setting sun, By each curse they heap upon Glorious Liberty,— By Disunion that they spread, Wishing long the‘“Union” dead, Swear we that its fire shall shed Light till they lie free. By our country's rising fame, By the “Union's'’ doubtless claim, By the States of dff ‘rrnt name, Yet with common right,— By cadi patriotic heart, Sworn to act the patriot part, Swear we that no foul upstart Shall the “Union'’ blight! By our glorious flag unfurl'd Starry o'er a bright'ning world, Showing tyranny is hurl'd Lower still in gloom,— By that banner's brilliancies, Freedom's herald o'er the seas, Swear the “Union” still shall rise O’er Disunion's tomb ! This our sacred oath to Gon, Signed by Truth, and seal'd with blood, Showing that our fathers trod Where their sons shall tread,— This our record through all time, ’Seutcheon'd on our scrolls sublime, Bead in ov’ry glad’ning dime “Union's” flame to shed ! FLOWERS* Flowers! sweet Flora’s children ! llow ye sport and spring, Smiling between bank and brook, Mossy marge, and woody nook, Where the linnets sing: Climbing hedge-row, bush, and briar, As your spirits ne’er would tiro, Over land and lea; Full of life, and full of mirth, Ye alone enjoy the earth— Happy children yc ! Flowers! sweet Flora's children! How yc roam and race Up the valley — up the hill — With an everehanging will, Haunting every place: Hanging half-way down the steep, V\ here not e’en the stag dare leap, In yonr reckless glee; Or, where snows eternal blanch, Listening to the avalanche— Bold adventurers ye! Flowers! sweet Flora's children llow ye dance and twine With loveliest born of Spring, Moving in an endless ring— An exhaustless line! Sometimes shy and singly seen f Like some nun in cloister green, Offering incense free; Sometimes over marsh .and moor, Resting by the cottage door— W elcome comers ye! Flowers, dear Flora's children, How ye love to meet lar away from human sound, Making Nature hallowed ground, Even loneness sweet; \\ here some fount, ’mid mountain springs. Singing falls, and falling sings In melodious key;— Blooming where no step is heard, Save the light step of some bird : Favored child ten ye ! Flowers, sweet Flora’s children, Loved by moon and star; Loved by little ramblers’ lone, Seated on some grassy stone, Many a footstep far ! Loved by all that God hath made, All that ever watched and prayed : For ye seem to me, In your bright and boundless span, Silent speakers unto man, Os the World to be. iUiorrllinuj. Tlie Mother and Daughter. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MOLIERO. Ina magnificent house situated in Burbett street, in a parlor most splendidly and tastefully furnished, sat a lady elegantly attired. Her eyes were anx iously fixed on a time piece, the slow movement of which rendered her almost desperate. this lady was the Marchioness de Montrevel; her age was about thirty-two, though she appeared as young as twenty-five. During a residence of six years in Canada, her face had acquired a delicate paleness, which contrasting with hair black as ebony, and flexible and brilliant as silk, gave to her regular features an expression of mildness and tenderness, which rendered her irresistibly charming. But sometimes this expression degenerated into langour, though without taking away the grace of her fea tures. Her arms of snowy whiteness, and an ivory polish, joined a hand, which Hue bens could not have imitated. A form of faultless symmetry, and most winning manners, all combined to give her a high rank at the court of the Queen regent, Anne of Austria. It was not a lover that this beautiful woman was awaiting with so much impatience; so much the better. Suddenly a ray of joy illuminated her fine countenance, as a young girl of about sixteen years, (who might have been taken for sister, so great was the resemblance,) now entered, and knelt before her. “My mother ! ” “My daughter!” The marchioness opened her arms, and pressed her daughter to her bosom. _ Some time elapsed be fore either could find words to express the pleasure they experienced to be again restored to each other. The marchioness wept and laughed at the same time, while she covered the fair face of the young girl with kisses; then she contemplated her charms with ecstasy, and exclaimed: “My Louise, my good Louise, how happy I am to have you with me again, to behold your growth in stature and in beauty.— May we always remain together, to compensate for : the long years of cruel absence l have endured.” “And think, my dear mother, what 1 have suf fered. ’ “ Child, do not accuse me. When I left you, you were not old enough to comprehend my motives, lut now I can explain and justify my conduct. You have often heard, my Louise, of the glorious death j your father found, upon the battle field of llhinfield; ! you were then hut eight years old, and could not ap- j predate the extent of this cruel loss, not only to have ! him taken away —him who was so dear to us, but all the fortune yon had a right to expect. The Mar-1 qnis dc Montrevel was a faithful subject, and nobly performed his duty, but after bis death his estates were sold, and I gave up a part of my dowry, in or der to fulfil all the engagements lie had contracted during a long war of seven years. Nothing then re mained to you but your mother. Here she was interrupted by Louise, who pressed her in her arms, saying, “And was that not enough?” “Yes,” replied the marchioness, “enough for your love, but not sufficient for happiness. I trembled for vour fate, as I considered our small resources, and often wept bitterly at your progress in accom plishments, which had formerly been my joy and pride. But an unexpected circumstance occurred to dissipate my anxiety. I had an old uncle resi ding in Canada, whose immense wealth had been one of the first elements of the prosperity of Quebec. This uncle h* ard of my husband’s death, and of my ruin; lie invited me to go and live with him, and inherit all his riches. But I should have been con sidered imprudent, and almost guilty, to have ex posed you to the dangers of the passage, and 1 felt obliged to sacrifice the comfort of having you with me to your health and advantage. I confided you during my absence to the care of our relation the Abbess de Chelles. I cannot ex press the weariness and suffering that I endured through the six years of my exile. But to have you with me now, and to know that you will become the richest heiress in France, is a happiness which I would have paid ten times dearer for, had it been necessary.” “Excellent mother,” exclaimed Louise,.passionate ly kissing her hands, “what need I of fortune ? Your tenderness is more precious to me than all your riches.” “ You are but sixteen years old, my Louise, and have not yet learned to appreciate life, excepting in a convent. The time will come when you will un derstand that, in the eyes of men, birth and beauty are not sufficient without wealth. Thank heaven, I have removed far from you this shipwreck. You can follow the dictates of your heart without fear. — You have a right to console or reject.” “But why, my dear mother,” replied Louise, “should you speak upon this subject ? You are yet young, and far more beautiful than I am, and Ido not wish that all the devotion should be on your side or that you should renounce a happiness of which you are more worthy than your daughter.” “ My good Louise,” said the marchioness, slightly blushing, “ what can I desire more than to see your, wishes gratified ? Besides” added she, smiling “we have riches sufficient for us both, and the happiness of one need be no obstacle to the happiness of the other. But this subject must be reserved for future consideration—some other time, perhaps; at pres ent, I wish to be entirely occupied with your concerns —to witness your introduction at court —to see you shine among the most celebrated and the most beautiful ladies there; to-morrow I sha.l present you to the queen regent.” “ To-morrow ? ” u Yes, my dear; why are you so much alarmed. You need not fear not being well received. I ha\e foreseen all this.” “ Oh! it is not fear, dear mother, that distresses me.” “3trt>cpcniicnt in oil tilings—Neutral iti Notljiug.” MACON, GEORGIA, THURSDAY EVENING, MAY, 2, 1850. “What then ? ” “1 have just begun to enjoy your society, to re ceive your caresses; and you already speak of divi ding my time with the world.” “Why, my child, are you not impatient to realise the pleasures that you have so often anticipated, while confined in the retirement of your convent?” “1 am so happy with you,” replied Louise, em bracing her mother tenderly. “1 have a favor to ask; do not refuse my first petition.” “ Speak, my love, speak, and I promise to grant your request, if possible.” “Well, then, let my presentation be deferred a month.” “And do you really wish it ? ” “If it does not displease you too much.” “Displease me! it delights me. lam the gainer by this delay, I shall have you all to myself.” Louise was overjoyed; hut the time she had ob tained was not suffered to be passed in complete re tirement. Two persons had free access to the house, and they made frequent visits. One of them, the Baron de Danneville, about fifty years old, had become acquainted with the Marchioness de Montrevel in Quebec. A daily wit ness of her many virtues, during her long residence with her relation—of the tender cares she bestowed upon him, and of the angelic patience with which she supported the oddities of this difficult old man, all tended to excite esteem, which was soon con verted into deep affection; hut this affection did not often show itself in words. He decided to go to France at the same time the marchioness returned there, and not wishing his motive to be suspected, lie was silent on the subject. On their arrival, he procu red a very large house in the neighborhood of Burbett street, and visited the marchioness without ceremo ny, as he had been accustomed to do at Quebec. So carefully did he conceal his sentiments, that if the marchioness had not been gifted with a large share of discernment, she would not have discovered his love. It is true, as soon as he was aware of it himself, he watched her with the greatest possible care, but could not perceive the slightest appearance of at tachment. She esteemed his character and valued his friendship and good opinion, but —hut the ba ron had a nephew, who possessed as many good qualities as his uncle, with the advantage of youth and beauty,—two powerful arguments in his favor. This nephew in whom the short-sighted baron had not divined a rival, was the Chevalier de Mon brun, who being desirous of glory, hoped to find it in France. lie asked and obtained permission to accompany his uncle there ; thus, being much with the marchioness, he saw much in her to admire, and was often eloquent in her praise; she was pleased with the delicate attentions he was constantly show ing her, and by no means discouraged his advances, which she certainly did not rightly understand; she attributed his silence to timidity. “But,” said she, “the time will soon come when lie will gain courage to speak.” The marchioness was so completely absorbed with her own love, that she did not perceive what was passing in the heart of her daughter, or the great change in her manners. She was melancholy and reserved, but had she been asked why she so fre quently sighed, and why she was so languid, she would have been exceedingly embarrased to answer. She was always seated in the parlor at the hour when the chevalier was expected, lie, too, was al tered; he was more serious and thoughtful than he had ever been. The marchioness thought his at tentions to herself were redoubled, and that his pas sion would soon overcome his timidity. She was daily expecting a declaration of his love. One morning she took her daughter’s arm for a little walk, and, in a few minutes, addressed her as fol lows : “You remember, Louise, that in our first conver sation, you observed, I was not too old to forget my own happiness for yours?” “Yes, mother, and what I then said I still think.” “ You must not deceive me ; does not the idea of my being again married give you any trouble ‘?” “No indeed, my mother, you may be assured I shall love the man of your choice almost as well as you can yourself.” “ Well, your friendship will not he ill placed. He is young, elegant in appearance, and ranks high in society.” “So much the better,” exclaimed Louise, in a cheerful voice. “He has great beauty and an irreproachable char acter. You cannot imagine anything more noble.” “O! so much the better ;so much the better, lie must be every way worthy of you.” “Flatterer! ” “ And shall I soon show my gratitude towards him who is so dear to you ?” “Yes, at least I think so,” said the marchioness, half laughing. “J ’>ut you are not sure ? ” “ I must confess 1 am now waiting for a formal declaration, but 1 cannot be mistaken in his feelings, as his whole conduct, even the sound of his voice, shows his deep devotion.” “Good mother,” replied Louise, “you have not told his name ? ” “ I left that to exercise your patience j cannot you divine the name ? ” “I can form no idea who it is.” “Well, then, I must tell you; it is de Monbrun,” replied Madame de Montrevel. At that moment they saw the young gentleman just mentioned, and his uncle, coming to meet them. The baron approached the marchioness with great gravity, and begged the favor of a private interview, which she felt obliged to grant, and the young peo ple seated themselves in the garden. When the baron found himself alone with the marchioness, it was long before he could utter a word; but when he regained his voice, he began to implore her indulgence, and said it was a more dif ficult task to express his feelings than lie could have imagined. “Monsieur de Danneville,” exclaimed the march ioness, “you frighten me by these preparations!” “What I most feared was your raillery.” “My raillery, why, the subject seems too serious for that.” “Serious, indeed,” said he, “ for him whose cause I am anxious to plead before you.” “ Plead, baron, plead, I am all attention.” “ You, alone, dear madam, can repair the evil you have occasioned.” “Me ! If I have injured any one, it was involun tary” “You are not content with being beautiful, but you are amiable, accomplished, talented, and abound ing in goodness of heart.” “Well, if all this be true, how can it be consid ered a crime ? ” “Not a crime, if you only reciprocate ; but your indifference almost deprives him of reason; he has long strove to conquer this passion, fearing your re fusal.” “And can he not speak for himself ?” “Yes, yes,” said the baron, as he threw himself on his knees before her. “I will speak freely, lovely woman. You may have admirer* younger and more polished, hut none whose devotion and sincerity can equal mine.” “You really trifle very pleasantly, hut my mind is seriously disposed this morning, and I must beg you to desist.” The baron was now more confused than even at the commencement of the interview, and earnestly besought her not to render him miserable. But she, thinking it time to put an end to this scene, begged him to rise from his knees, and left him im mediately. This proved a most trying day for the sensitive Madame do Montrevel. On leaving the baron she went into the garden and heard what she was total ly unprepared for, viz: the chevalier making a most passionate avow al of love for her daughter. This entirely destroyed her patience and self possession. She stepped forward, and in a severe tone com manded Louise to retire; then fixing on the cheva lier an angry look: “It is I, monsieur, who must an swer for my daughter’s actions, and I ought to have been informed of your sentiments otherwise than by chance.” Having uttered these words, she went rapidly to her chamber, and gave vent to her tears for a long time. After this temporary relief she had a hard struggle between passion and duty. At length she formed a resolution, and suddenly rang the boll, telling the domestic who answered to request her daughter’s immediate presence. But it would he difficult to depict her astonishment and grief at hear ing that Louise had quitted the house, leaving a letter which was in substance as follows : “Be not distressed, my good mother, at my ab sence; it is essential for our mutual comfort. 1 was greatly afflicted at your severity this morning, and wept bitterly. I asked myself what fault 1 had com mitted. Then 1 recollected your confidential com munication, and understood our feelings. It was not your daughter—your dear Louise—hut your rival, that you we reoffended with. Me, your rival! It must not be. I cannot* lose the precious love of inv mother —Never, never! and to guard against this calamity, 1 have determined to return to the convent, and remain in that holy asylum until you arc married. Pray let my exile be as short as pos sible. Your devoted daughter, LOUISE DE MONTREVEL-” ‘Noble Jieart! generous child!’ exclaimed the marchioness, having read this letter; ‘you shall soon be restored to my arms.’ The next day, great preparations were making in the house; every one was actively employed from morning till night. This state of affairs continued till the eighth day, when the marriage of the march ioness was celebrated. But poor Louise found tins time long; slie passed gloomy days and sleepless nights. She had pre sumed too much upon her firmness, and was fast sinking, in spite of the holy exhortations of the Ab bess, and the kind attentions of her young friends, the sisters of the establishment. One evening as she sat indulging her grief, she was summoned to receive company in the parlor. — This announcement made her tremble exceedingly, but her heartbeat more violently when on opening the door, she perceived her mother, and was instant ly pressed in her arms. The marchioness was not alone, hut accompanied by the Baron de Danneville and the Chevalier de Monbrun. ‘Wicked girl,’ said she, kissing the fore head of Louise,‘l have yielded to your threats; I am married.’ ‘Married!’ exclaimed Louise, with an accent of de spair she could not suppress. But soon conquering her feelings, she turned towards the chevalier with n forced smile, saying, ‘I entreat you, Monsieur de Monbrun, to make my mother happy.’ ‘What, do you say, little simpleton ?’ asked her mother, laughing; ‘your wish should not he ad dressed to the chevalier !’ Then taking the baron by the hand she continued, ‘I introduce my husband, the Baron de Danneville, to you.’ 1 shall not attempt to describe the scene which followed; the reader can easily supply the blank.— And it is almost useless to add, that the health of Louise was restored as if by magic, and that her marriage with Monbrun took place without loss of time. Society in California.— An intelligent correspon dent of the Journal of Commerce, gives the following picture of California Society. “ This mining business rusts a man wonderfully, and yet I find more literary men engaged in it than of any other class. In fact, the mines are well stocked with lawyers, doctors and schoolmasters. The first of these have little in their calling to attend to —the second, plenty of pliysieing, hut no pay —the third undoubtedly find gold digging a much more agreeable occupation than ramming ideas into thick skulls, or belaboring the unfeeling backs of stubborn urchins. Os ministers, the number is not a great deal, nor the demand ; every effort here to get up Sabbath meetings lias failed. The best we can do is to hold a prayer or conference meeting among 3,5, 6or more professing Christians of different denominations. The ravines are from one to six miles apart, with high hills inter vening, and the cabins are even more scattered. Sunday, too, as I have heretofore told you, is washing day, mending day, prospect hunting and gala-day. There is no marrying to do —no children here to baptise—no sacramental feast—no fe males to exert a hallowed influence—no homes to tie men down. Sueli a state of society, I venture to assert, has never before existed in the world’s history; lam impatient to get back to some spot where the thirst for gold has not drunk up the nobler qualities of the human heart, and made men bru tish, selfish and unholy. I admit there are some exceptions, but generally speaking, men here are not what they were at home. All restraints are removed, and the cloven foot was boldly displayed.” Putting the Question. — At the time Andrew Jackson and John Q. Adams were candidates for President, a worthy minister of the Methodist order took for his text, on Sunday, the following words : “ Who is on the Lord's side?” After exhorting them with characteristic ardor, he brought the ques tion home to each individual’s heart, thus : ‘My Ik •loved brethren, this is an important ques tion—‘Who is on the Lord’s side ? ’ All those who are on the Lord’s side will rise in their seats.’ To the surprise of the elder, no one arose. With par liamentary propriety, he put the opposite question— ‘Who is on the devil’s side?’ No one arose. At last an ‘old salt’ addressed the oxhorter with — ‘Please, sir, we all goes here for Gin'ral Jackson ! ’ The Latest. —A woman in Ohio put her baby into the washing tub, and its dirty frock and petti coat into the cradle, and set her little boy to rock it. She did not discover her mistake until tlie ba by cried when she pinned its left leg to the line as she hung it out in the yard to dry. (Original papers. COI'JSTANCE OF WERDENBERG, on The Heroes of Switzerland. - A Dramatic Poem. Written for the ‘‘Georgia Citizen,” by Mrs.C. L. llbntx. PART IV.—Scene 1. (The mountain—Enter Berthold meeting Erni.) Bertiiold.—True chamois of the Alps ! thy fearless step Buoys thee o’er danger with the joy of youth. Care has not laid its blighting hand on thee; But why that doubtful glance ? Surely I meet The gallant champion of his country's freedom, Who own'd me late a brother in the cause. Erni.—d am that peasant youth, who dar’d so much— Bertiiold.—Where are the leaders of your glorious band ? Ekxi.—Waiting above. They know that shelter'd hero A patriot brother to our cause is sworn ; Receive them, noble stranger ! They have come To hear the vow that binds lliy faith to ours. The moments press, and j ustice calls aloud. Bertiiold.—Stay ; hast thou known aught of that banish'd inan, Who once tire Lord of Werdcnbcrg was styl'd ? Erni.—l knew him once ere sorrow's hand laid touch'd him ; And memory pictures him the star of manhood, Radiant in youth and rank. Bertiiold.—Care leaves sad print On youth’s bright feature ; years are pass'd since then ; In clouds the star of manhood now is set. Erni.—Oh ! tell me, if thou know'st. Bertiiold.—l’ve told thee all— That all that bound me to my race is broken. Erni.—The vale is fill’d with rumors of his death. Bertiiold.—His death ! Erni.—His murder. From his Castle's walls ’Tis said his life-blood now for vengeance calls. Bertiiold.—Who is the murderer? Erni.—Curses on the wretch 1 The brutal Hmdenborg has seized on her — Constance of Werdenberg—whose very name Is, like an angel’s, worshipped. Bertiiold.—(suddenly grasping Erni’s hand) What of her ? Speak, speak—v> here is she ? Constance, didst thou say ? Erni.—ln prison, of her husbands blood accus’d ; On Sarnen’s height she groans. Whoe'er thou art— Bertiiold.—Know me; I am that wretched,branded man, Whose path is trac'd by ruin and despair. Sav that thou know’st me ; say this tale was told That thou might*st see this tortur’d heart unveil’d And triumph in its agonies. Erni.—Hold, hold, My Lord, there is a majesty in grief To which my spirit bows, else I could spurn A charge so black. True, I believed this morn When rumor told this tale of blood and death, . That I had seen tlie exil'd Count in thee; But fear not for the Countess, every hand— Bertiiold.—No hand but mine. My life shall ransom her ; -V life of shame—a death of ignominy; (departing) Erni;—Rush not to death. We can—we will redeem her. The sons of Switzerland shall right thy wrongs. The vow of vengeance is recorded there; ( pointing to heaven) Bertiiold.—Avenge thine own. There's no redress for me. Brave heart farewell. Now, peril on thy soul, If thou attempt'st to impede iny path. (releases himself from Erni’s grasp and rushes out) Erni.— There is redress in an Almighty arm. Oh ! when the signal lights shall shortly blaze On every hill, till our own forest, sear, Gives back the ruddy glow, may that doom'd house Resume the splendor of its ancient rank, And banners float in triumph on its walls. (exit) Scene 2. (.1 hall in the Castle of Werdenberg. The Governor seat ed on a tribune— citizens arranged around.) Landen^rg.—We meet this day to judge no common cause : A crime at which credulity starts {>ack, Dismay'd at guilt cloth’d in so fair a garb, Calls forth our wonder and demands our justice. Guards lead the prisoner forth—vassals stand back. (Constance is brought in guarded) Landenbero.—Constance of Werdenberg! thou art arraign'd Before the high tribunal of thy country, Stain’d with a crime so black, that every ear Will start appall’d, and every heart recoil As 1 repeat the charge : Thou art arraign'd For murder, perpetrated in thy walls, At dead of night, the chosen hour of guilt. Thy victim—whom ? That husband, whose fell hand Laid low in manhood’s bloom, my only son. Constance.—l will not plead my innocence. In vain Were all appeal before a bar like this. AY hat shameless sacrilege! to steal the robes, The holy robes of justice to conceal I Tate, deadly malice—avarice and revenge. Thou know'st me guillless—know'st these fetter'd hands Are unpolluted with the stain of bl>od. Ilis blood! Guardian of purity, a husband's blood ! If ‘tis a crime to waste my youth in tears, My days in solitude, my nights in prayer ; To nurse one sad remembrance, till it make Life one drear sc-ene of utter desolation ; To love with such impassion’d tenderness, That the heart scarcely feels a pulse or throb, Save that which thrills at memory of him— If this is crime, I am indeed most guilty. Landenbero.—l am prepar'd for this. I know thy tongue Is gifted with most marvellous persuasion. AA'e're poor in words, but arm’d with such strong proofs, As shall make good our charge in heaven’s broad face. Ere we prooceed, guards, bring the lover forth. Constance.—Thou, here! (Herman is brought in) Landenberg.—Mark,friends, that guilty start. Thou didst not know, fair Lady, tliy young Knight Had followed thee, to bear thee tliro’ this need; ‘Tis well he did—he might have heard pcrcliance, A rougher summons than thy silver voice. (sternly) Why did the Duly Constance leave her halls Alone, unguarded, at the midnight hour, To meet this youth in solitary shades. Herman.—Oh! calumny. Landenberg.—What, dar'st thou give the lie to this bold truth, Attested by a secret witness, too! Herman.—l do, though back’d by thousands. True, she came To meet the wretch who speaks, by treachery lur’d, By base and cruel fraud. I m manhood's shame , But she’s as pure as everlasting snow, As cold to passion. Constance. —Herman, ’tis in vain ; Thou canst not wipe away the stain thou’st caus’d. AY ere life alone endanger’d, I could meet My doom undaunted, but the hand that blots The whiteness of my fame, inflicts a pang Keener than death’s last agony — Landenberg.—Enough. Passion too long delays the course of justice. Berthold of \V : knberg, so long exil’d, Was seen at midnight winding up the liills, O’er which Ms Castle frown. Yon vassal saw And knew the banish'd man; yet knavish fool; The n: >rn had dawn’d ere he the tidings brought. Speed bore me to the Castle. There dismay And pallid guilt, and ghastly horror reign'd; I sought the fugitive,hut tain the search • Yet lie had left behind some fearful tokens. That blood-stain’d liand kerchief, wet prints of blood; Deepening in tint, towards the Lady's chamber. Who says she slumber'd while the tempest's rago Swept o'er her walls, and murder toil'd within. That spur, on which liis name and arms are WfOtlghtj Hard by the gate was found. Ilia sable steed With on white - *ar shining upon his brow, Each forest hunter knew. What would ye more? My veins with horror thrill, as one by one, These silent witnesses of death arise.* Where is the murderer ? Echo tells not where— Where lies the murdered f Peep must be the gram j But dt p's the meat below those ancient walls— The waves sir ps calm, though blood may lie beneath. (Enter Chic, who press, s through the guards uiid throws himself at Constance’ feet) Ulric. —My noble mistress 1 rather let me die Than live to see thee thus ! Laxdexberg. —Out with the slave ; llow dare he break, unlieens'd, on our council f (Guards attempt to thrust him out) Ulric. — l will not lienee. Let me stay and die. My master slain, my mistress doom’d to doath ; Their ancient M use despoil'd of all its honors ! Oh ! I have liv'd too long! Cox.st.vxce. —True, faithful heart 5 Break not for me—let not the aged weep. Laxdexberg. —Silence once more. Why should we wait, my friends ? The awful voice of justice calls on me, My country's delegate, to right her laws. Never did crime more black our altars stain— Never was guilt by stronger proofs confirm’d. I read in every eye conviction’s flash, Though mercy softens the indignant rav. Constance of Werdenberg, thy doom is seal'd ; I might have paus'd in pity, ere I gave So dread a sentence; but a pride like thine, By grief unlmmbled, triumphing in guilt, Mer.ts the degradation tliatit meets. No prayers, no tears can avert thy fate; Before to-morrow's sun shall gild the Alps, The night of death shall wrap thee. Guards advance* Constance.— Not yet, ye ministers of death ! My voice Shall leave an c ello in these storied walls. Hear me, thou man of blood, thou heart of stone j Tliou, who enthron’d upon thy judgment seat, Ilurl’st down thy belts upon a suffering land, Thy doom is seal'd. Upon the verge of fate My spirit bonds, and secs the shadowy* firms Os future tilings float dimly 011 its gaze. A cloud comes darkening, spreading, rolling down j O’er thee it rests, and issuing from it® depths, The voice of coming time rings forth this knell 1 Tyrant , thy damn is sail'd. At that dread bar, The last tribunal of eternal justice, W here every sigh of outrag'd innocence, Shall find a tongue, loud as the tempest’s blast, And every drop of guiltless blood shall rouse 1 losts of avenging angels,—we shall meet. (Berthold at this moment rushes in front of the tribunal.) Laxdexberg.— (recoiling) \\ liat, lias the grave given up its restless prey ? (Constance shrieks and presses wildly forward, while the guards lower their pikes so as to form a barrier against her) Berthold. —Well mr.yst thou startle—well mayst thou recoil, As if the the archangel's summons luid gone forth. But look upon this brow. No unlaid ghost Burst from the cerements of the voiceless ghtve, Thus pales thy guilty blood. Look on me, man! t iend in man’s form, behold thy victim here. There is the hand that dy'd St. Gotliard’s rocks, From Otlion’s veins. Here is the naked heart, Th’ unshielded heart, that thy dead sou assail’d. From clime to dime this weary heart I’ve borne, Far o’er the desert lake beyond those hills, Interminable pillars of the sun, To frosty zones, its iron weight I've dragg’d. Strike, strike this burden'd breast; the purple tide Shall rush in joyous streams, as the glad torrent Breaks through its icy bondage. Slake thy wrath, Life-tiiirs r, in its gush. Unbind her chains, V assa’s of crime ; bold back your herring steel. Laxdexberg. — ics 1 1 leaven lias interpos’d to save from sta>A Our sacred hall. This double stratagem Shall notat-v thy wrath. Thou shalt atone, Berthold of Wcrdonborg, for tliy* foul deed. Guards loose her bands; but bring the heaviest chains To fetter him, for whom our dungeon groans. (Constance released, rushes towards Berthold, but his glance arrests her) Coxstaxce. —Berthe, i ’. is Constance then no longer lov’d t Have \ been snap u and from death to meet it thus From that cold eye, colder than steel to me 1 Tyrant give back your chains. These slighted arms h iil Welcome back with joy tlieir chill embrace. Berthold.—Oh ! Constance, there are wrongs whose very Iliad ow Comes o’er the memory’ with terrific power, Making love's records, but a scorching roll Os injuries, trac’d in fire. Ulric. —Oh, my lost master! Look on tliy* faithful Ulric ; give him once The gracious glance, that erst his faith rewarded. Alas! how chang’d. Berthold.—Bui not to thee, true soul. Why dost thou weep ? To sec tliat time lias cast Its sliade upon the glory of my youth ? Does the young tree, rent by the storm, still wear, Unshorn, its leafy honors f There’s a blight More fell than Timh's. That blight is on my soul. Herman, I know thee. Herman. —(advancing) Berthold 1 is it thee ? Our hands once met in friendship. Berthold.—Never more! More than my hands are bound. My Utter’d Tkart Untreasur’d h-ok* upon itself. Why art thou here ? ’Tis well for thee these ignominious bonds Hold down the of an indignant arm. Traitor, why art th< >(f here ! Herman.— Usurping power can answer. Laxdexberg. —(sneeringly) Why? The lover comes W hen peril waits his mistress. Art thou answered ? Berthold. —Answered ? Oh! Constance, thou whom I have lov’d With such high trust as to believe thee pure As light's first fountain ; have I liv’d to mourn Thy broken faith, my ow n dishonor, shame ? Constance. —Tliou think*st me false ! I thought my* heart impassible to grief, Tlirough its excessive pangs; but thou hast thrown An age-of suffering in this moment's anguish. Thou think'st me false ! Oh ! faith too ill repaid ! Has love no home on earth ? No! let the dove Fold o'er its wounded breast, its wings, or plume Its pinions for the skies. There is an ark O’er sorrow’s deluge, w hu e it.*, coul can rest. NO. 6.