U published, every Thursday afternoon, in Macon, Ca. on the follow-
If paid strictly in adcance - 1 - $2 50 per annum.
If not so paid * - * - 300 ““
Legal Advertisements will be made to conform to the following pro
visions of the Statute :
Saits of Land and Negroes, by Executors, Administrators and Guard
ians, are required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, sixty
days previous to the day of sale.
Tbsse sales must be held on the first Tuesday in the month,between
(he hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the
Court House in the county in which the property is situated.
The sales of Personal Property must be advertised in like manner for
Notice to Debtors and Crcditor*of an Estate must lie published forty
Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for
leave to sell Land and Negroes, must be published weekly for four
Citations or Letters of Administration must Ik- published thirty days
—for Dismission from Administration, monthly, sir months —for Dis
mission from Guardianship, forty days.
Rules for foreclosure of mortgage, must be published monthly, for
ftur months —for establishing lost papers, for the full space of three
months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators where
a bond has been given by tire deceased, the full space oj three months.
Professional and Business Cards, inserted, according to the follow
For 4 lines or less per annum * - $5 00 in advance.
“ 6 lines “ “ * * - 7 00 “ “
uio u u . - $lO 00 “ “
|-y Transient Advertisements will be charged sl. per square of 12
liaes or less, for the first and 50 cts. for each subsequent insertion.—
On these rates there will be a deduction of 20 percent, on settlement,
ry \u Letters except those containing remittances must be post
paid HI free.
Postmasters and others who will act as Agents for the “Citizen”
may retain 20 per cent, for their trouble, on all cash subscriptions for
OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the
MAIL IKHAACi E.TJ EATS.
Mail for Millodgeville, Savannah, Augusta and Columbus close at 9
o'clock, P. M.
All mails out of the State (Tennessc and Florida excepted)
at same hour.
• •* Forsyth, BarnesviSJe, Thomaston, Griffin, Atlanta, Marietta
and Dalton, close at 8 o'clock, P. 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, kc.. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sun
day s at 3 o'clk. P. M.
• Via Fort Valley, on Wednesday and Saturday mornings, at
Ofira opon from 8 1-2 A. M. to 1 o’clk.. P M., and from 2 to 4 P.
The Mail by Macon & Western Railroad will be delivered at 5 1-2
•• A. M. Night Mails, Bto 8 1-2 P. M.
Z. T. CONNER, P. M.
F. O. Macon, Mar. 12, 1850.
€l)i’ -port’* Corner,
For the “ Georgia Citizen.”
KY T. 11. CHIVKRS, M. D.
“Maid of ruy lover”—Colkriho*.
Baraph-faced was my Celuta—
Meekly mild her Angel-beauty—-
Doing good she deemed lier duty—
Loving all she wished to know ;
All God’s highest, holiest nature
Wjw expreet in this sweet creature—
Heaven’s own face lived in each feature,
In the days of long ago.
On the Asphodelian Meadows,
In the cool refreshing shadows
Os the Trees of God, wc made us
Hods of flowers as white as snow,
Where we lay. while on before us
Flew the Angel- 1 lours in chorus,
Making all the air adore us,
In the days of long ago.
Like some Cygnet silver-breasted,
In the rushes newly nested 5
Or, like Mosss when he rested,
Cradled on the wave below ;
So my head lay on the pillow
Os her bosom's milky billow,
Underneath the Weeping Willow,
In the days of long ago.
There, with watchful eyes beholding,
God’s sweet Eden-flower unfolding
All her radiant beauty, holding
To the Cross of Christ below ;
I did seem in God’s own presence,
In the realms of peaceful plcasance,
Like our First-born Eden-peasants
In the days of long ago.
As the glorified Orion,
From the Mount that he dii die on,
Sawthe Pleiades of Zion,
Clad in garments white as snow,
Up in Heaven in glory pining,
Through my tears, (deep grief divining,)
I now see the far-oIV shining
Os the days of long ago.
Grief, not age, has made me hoary !
Death has left my whole soul sorry !
Tltis, my blue-eved Morxixg Glory,
Thou dost more than truly know !
But the hopes that we now cherish
In our souls, shall never flourish, -
Till an Eden there shall flourish,
Am in the days of long ago.
flow niv soul doth long to meet thee !
With what rapture could I greet thee!
Yielding, lest I should entreat thee,
With my heart's deep overflow ;
In the flower-embalmed abysses
Os the Eden-wildernesses,
Filled with Heaven’s immortal blisses,
As in days of long ago.
TIIE FALE OF NAUCOOCHY.
BY J. C. EDWARDS.
Say! have you not heard of the vale in the mountains,
The loveliest spot in our own verdant land—
Where the bow of Omnipotence hangs o’er the fountains,
And the breezes are healthful, reviving and bland ?
the zephyrs perfumed as from the Spice Islands,
Mount up from the valley to welcome the morn ;
W here the gale robs the zephyr to gladden the highlands
M ith sweetness that e’en to proud Yonab is borno ?
Tw a valley of peace—rich in ev’ry soft feature,
In sunshine or shade, in its own verdant green ;
Tis Georgia's Egeria—most lovely—by Nature
Carv’d out of a chaos of wild mountain's Beene!
T)s the rale of Naucoochy, remembered in story—
The silent retreat where blight waters run ;
The home of repose—the arena of glory—
M hen the war-whoop had ceased and the conflict was done:
Twas the couch of the hunter, when Phoebus descending
Left a mantle of darkness over the scene ;
’Twa* the tryst of the lovers, when evening was blending
M ith starlight s soft rays over nature’s terrene
ad oft oj the banks of those limpid still waters,
M hen night’s crescent orb hung in beauty above;
lias the young Indian brave, to Naucoochy’s dark daughter—
Unheard, save by her, told his wild tale of love ;
T\\ as the warrior s home—when the battle was over,
His peaceful retreat—his soft couch of rest:
W hen weary of carnage, the husband and lover
Returned to repose in the vale of the blest.
* * * * * * *
Oh . why is the past, its “gloom and its glory,’’
Its lights and its shadows, withheld from the view ?
Why, peaceful Naucoochy, is thy epic story
Untold to the many, and known to the few ?
’1 is said that a chief,* in the far-west rehearses,
At times, the deeds thy warriors have done,
And tells of an hour, in tradition’s dark versos,
When the vale was surpris’d by the sons of the Sun.f
h rom the far-cast they came with war-steed and helmet,
With cuirass aud sword—and faces all pale.
Nor heeded they then the peace proffer’d calumet,
But swept with Death’s torrent the beautiful vale 5
The valley was drench and and the late limid current
Was red with the blood of the valliant and brave.
The few who remained, fell back when the torrent
Breaks out from the brow of the tipermost cave ;
And there the small band, the last to inherit,
If conquest was their's the nation’s domain,
Guided on by Manito, the frowning war-spirit
T brew a rampart of stone ’twixt mountain and plain,
In the eyrie aloft, the exiles all lonely,
U nconquer’d look’d down on their own lovely land ;
Alas ! that a breach in that rampart tells only •,
“ Sad indeed was the fate of that valliant band
Is this then thy story ? thy requiem for ages ?
Time's footsteps have left thee that record of stone;
Tis the only bright line on thy undecay’d pages,
That tells to the world what thy done ;
For there still a rampart:} in ruin encloses
The “ sky-girted summit” of Yon all’s daak crest;
But thy fame,like thy strength, in silence reposes,
Save when sung by the silver-hair’d chief of the West.
*l!owles, a Cherokee Chief.
+P e Soto suixlued the nation in anti around the vale of Xaula—
+2 he remains of a wall, built of loose flat stones, in some places
nearly breast high, in others scarcely a foot high, can still be seen
across the narrow ascents near the summit of Mount Yonali.
From “The Crnxton’s,” by Bulwer.
THE BROKE* FLOWER FOT.
r ihe story which follows, illustrating so beautiful
ly the lessons ol truth and self-sacrifice, we extract
from “The Craxton’s.”
My father was seated on the lawn before the
house, his straw bat over his eyes (it was summer)
and his book on his lap. Suddenly a beautiful delf,
blue, white and china flower pot, which had been
set on the w indow sill of an upper story fell to the
ground with a crash, and the fragments spluttered
up around my father’s legs. Sublime in his stu
dies as Archimedes in the siege, he continued to
read, “Impaqidum feriunt ruincc:’
‘‘Dear, dear !’ cried my mother, who was at work
in the porch, “my flower-pot that I prized so much !
V 110 could have done this? Primmins, Primmins !”
Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the fatal
window, nodded to the summons, and came down
in a trice, pale and breathless.
“Oh!” said my mother, mournfully, “I would
rather have lost all the plants in the greenhouse in
the blight last May—l would rather the best tea set
were broken ! The poor geranium T reared myself,
than the dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Craxton
bought for me last birth-day! The naughty child
must have done this!”
“Mrs. Primmus was dreadfully afraid of my fath
er, why, I know not, except that very talkative, so
cial persons are usually afraid of very silent, shy
She cast a hasty glance at her master, who was
begining to evince signs of attention and cried
promptly, “No ma’am, it was not the dear boy,
bless his flesh, it was I!”
“Von! how could you be so careless? and you
knew bow 1 prized them both. Oh Primmins ?”
•Primmins began to sob.
“Don’t tell fibs, nursey,” said a small, shrill voice,
and master Sisty (coming out of the house as bold
as brass)jContinued rapidly, “Don’t scold Primmins,
mamma, it was I who pushed out the flower-pot.”
“Hush!” said the nurse, more frightened than ev
er, and looking aghast tow ard my father, who had
very deliberately taken oft’ his hat, and was regard
ing the scene with serious eyes, wide awake,
“Hush! Audit he did break it ma’am, it was
quite an accident; be was standing so, and be never
means it. Did you, master Sisty ? Speak ! [this in
a whisper] or pa will be so angry.”
“Well,” said mother, “I suppose it was an acci
dent; take care in future, my child. You are sorry,
I see, to have grieved me. There’s a kiss; don’t
“No, mamma, you must not kiss me, I don’t de
serve it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose.”
“Ha! and why ?” said my father, walking up.
Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf.
“For fun ?” said I, hanging my head; “just to see
how you’d look, papa; and that’s the truth of it.—
Now’ beat me, do beat me.”
My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped
down, and caught me to his breast. “Boy,” he said,
“you have done wrong,you shall repair it by remem
bering all your life that your father blessed God for
giving him a son who spoke the truth in spite offear.
Oh ! Mrs. Primmins, the next fable of this kind you
try to teach him, and we part forever!”
From that time I first date the hour when I felt
that 1 loved my father, and knew that he loved me;
from that time, too, he began to converse with me.
He would no longer, if he met me in the garden,
pass by, and smile and nod; he would stop, put his
book in his pocket, and, though his talk was often
above my comprehension, still, somehow’, I felt hap
pier and better, and less of an infant, when I thought
over it, and tried to puzzle out the meaning; for he
had a way of suggesting and teaching, putting
things into my head, and then leaving them to
work out their own problems. I remember a spe
cial instance with respect to that same flower-pot
and geranium. Mr. Squills, who was a bachelor,
aud well to do in the world, often made me pre
sents. Not long after the event I have narrated, he
gave me one far exceeding in value those usually
bestowed on children —it was a beautiful, large dom
ino box, in cut ivory, painted and gilded. This
domino box was my delight. I was never weary of
playing at dominos with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept
with the box under my pillow.
“Ah!” said my father one day, when lie found me
ranging the ivory squares in the parlor, “ah! you
like that better than all your playthings, eh ?”
“Oh, yes, Papa,” *
“You would be very sorry if your mamma was to
throw your box out of the window, and break it for
“Juifrpcnknt iu all things—Neutral in Noting.”
MACON, GEORGIA, THURSDAY EVENING, MAY, 0, 1850.
fun. I looked beseechingly at my father, and made
“But perhaps you would be very glad,” he resu
med, “if suddenly one of those good fairies you read
of could change the domino box into a beautiful ger
anium in a beautiful blue and white flower-pot, and
that you could have the pleasure of putting it on
your mother’s windowsill ?”
“Indeed, I would,” said I half crying.
“My dear boy, I believe you; but good wishes
don’t .mend bad actions, good actions mend bad ac
So saying, he shut the door and went out. I can
not tell you how puzzled I was to make out what my
father meant by his aphorism. But I know that I
played at dominoes no more that day. The next
moring my father found me seated by myself under
a tree in the garden; he paused, and looked at me
with bis grave, bright eyes, very steadily.
‘‘My boy,” said lie, “I am going to walk to ,
(a town about two miles oft’,) will you come ? and
by-the-bye, bring your domino box. I should like
to show it to a person there.” I ran for the box, and,
not a little proud ol walking with my father on the
high road, we set out.
“Papa,” said I, by the way, “there are no fairies
“What, then, my child ?’
“M by, how, then, can my domino box be chang
ed into a geranium and a blue and white flower
“My dear,” said my father, leaning his band on
my shoulder, “everybody, who is in earnest to be
good, carries two fairies about with him—one here,”
and lie touched my heart, “and one here,” and he
touched my forehead.
“I don’t understand, papa.”
“I can wait till you do, I’isistratus!—What a
My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s and,
after looking over the flowers, paused before a large
“Ah! this is finer than that which vour mother
was so fond of. V hat is the cost, sir?”
“Only Is. (><].,” said the .gardener. My father
buttoned up bis pocket. “I can’t afford it to-day,”
said be, gently, and we walked out.
On entering the town, we stopped again at a Chi
na warehouse. “Have you flower-pots like that I
bought some months ago ? Ah, here is one mark
ed 3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well, when
your mamma’s birth-day comes again, we must buy
her another. This is some months to wait. And
we can wait, master Sisty. For truth, that blooms
all the year round, is better than a poor geranium;
and a word, that is never broken, is better than a
piece of delf.”
My head, which had dropped before, rose again;
but tlie rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me
“I have called to pay your little bill,” said my
father, entering the shop of one of those fancy sta
tioners common in country towns, and who sell all
kinds of nicknaeks. “And bv the way,” he added,
as the smiling shopman looked over bis books for
the entry. “I think my little boy here can show
you a much handsomer specimen of French work
manship than that work-box which you enticed
Mrs. Craxton into raffling for last winter. Show
your domino-box, my dear.”
I produced my treasure, and the shopkeeper was
lijpral in bis commendations.
“It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing
is worth in case one wishes to part with it. If my
young gentleman gets tired of his plaything, wliat
will you give him for it?”
“Why, sir,” said the shopman, “I fear we could
not afford to give more than eighteen shillings'for
it, unless the young gentleman took some of those
pretty things in exchange.”
“Eighteen shillings” said my father; “you would
give that. Well, my boy, whenever you grow tired
of your box, you have my leave to sell it.”
My father paid his hill and went out. I lingered
behind a few moments, and joined him at the end
of the street.
“Papa, papa!” I cried, clapping my hands, “we
can buy the geranium—we can buy the flower-pot.”
and I pulled a handful of silver from my pocket.
“Did I not say right ?” said my father, passing
his handkerchief over his eyes —“You have found
the two fairies!” *
Oh! how proud, how overjoyed was I when, af
ter placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I
plucked my mother by the gown, and made her fol
low me to the spot.
“It is his doing, and his money!” said my father,
“good actions have mended the bad.”
“What!” cried my mother, when she had learned
all; “and your poor domino box that you were so
fond of! We will go back to-morrow and buy it
back, if it costs double.
“Shall wo buy it back, I’isistratus!” asked my
“Oh, no —no —no! It would spoil a 1 !,” I cried,
burying my face in my father’s breast.
“My wife,” said my father, solemnly, “this is my
first lesson to .our child—*tlie sanctity and happi
ness of self sacrifice; undo not what it should teach
to his dying day !’ t
And this is the history of the broken flower-pot.
“You know, dear, 1 am a spoiled child; I must
have my own way this time,” said Mrs. Finlay, a
beautiful bride, to her adoring husband.
It was a matter of some consequence to Finlay,
that she should not have her own way this time.
It was the first time her will —that odious positive
word—had made its appearance, and now was the
very time to crush, to subdue it, before it had gained
Finlay was a young lawyer of fine talents, just
getting into extensive practice; it was necessary
that he should remain in the city, but a stronger
necessity was upon him, his cara sposa would go to
the country, to be present at the wedding of a friend.
“But, dearest, you know I have several import
ant eases upon docket, which are just about to be
tried; my clients will be dissatisfied,” said Finlay,
in that tone of mild entreaty, which should find its
instant way to a woman’s heart.
“ N'importer, let them go, you will have some
thing besides clients to live upon, you know, one
of these days.”
There was much pride, little sense, and a great
want of feeling in this speech. Mrs. Finlay’s expec
tations all depended upon a kind, indulgent father,
during whose life time they could not be realized.
Finlay felt it jar upon his heart-strings and vibrate
to the verry core, but he excused it, or set it aside.
“ She is a beautiful, thoughtless creature, she cannot
To the country they went. “Well,” thought Fin
lay, “ I shall have exquisite pleasure in pointing out
to my Caroline, some favorite scenes; some striking
views, which may have escaped her notice. We
must sometimes make sacrifices to those we lore ;
leaving town, after all, was a matter of little con
The boat glided almost with the rapidity of light
over the smooth, deep Hudson.
“Come upon deck Caroline, we are nearing the
Highlands, never did they look so splendidly.”
It was the momentary glow of radiant coloring
which a happy heart gives to Nature, that at this
moment rested so gloriously upon the picturesque
•‘Come Mrs. F said Finlay, carefully wrap
ping the shawl about the faultless form of his beau
“ Why George, I should think I had never been
up the river before in my life,” said Caroline, who
was in the midst -of an animated discussion with a
fashionable friend, upon the merits of their respect
ive milliners. “ 1 have seen the Highlands a thous
and times ; all that romantic stuff is out of fashion ;
quite outre ; nobody talks of ‘the beauties of nature’
now, but boarding school misses.”
Thus repulsed, Finlay left her and took bis seat
upon tlie deck with a sigh.
“ Out of fashion,” thought he, and his noble fore
head was wrinkled with frowns, bis proud lip curled,
and a momentary flash illumined liis dark eyes
with unwonted fire. “Out of fashion ! These tow
ering, frowning palisadoes, this dark river, yonder
rising moon! ” lie fell into a reverie, long and
deep, for now lie could not enjoy these things, alone.
At the end of it, all the world’s consoler, Hope, whis
pered kindly, u she certainly has sensibility, her mind
is plastic, I can mould it into any form, aud make
it a complete reflection of my own.”
Conjugal affection is a delicate plant. The first
rude shake sometimes scatters its fair leaves to the
four winds of heaven. If but one leaf be torn away,
all the others are loosened. In poor Finlay’s ease,
they followed one by one, in rapid succession.
A few weeks in the country entirely dispelled
the illusion which love had thrown round his idol
—the celestial halo, which was only a hallucination
of his own imagination, had departed forever. He
had married a beautiful, weak woman, with whom
bis cultivated, refined mind could hold no commu
Finlay returned to town an altered man. liis
high ambition had been sanctified in his own esti
mation, because it was not entirely a selfish feeling.
In all his visions of success bis honors were to be
laid at the feet of his Caroline.
He entered again upon liis laborious employment;
he was for a time entirely devoted to business, and
lost all care and reflection in the close attention
which he gave to his professional duties. But soon,
lie needed relaxation; some place to which he could
resort; to spend a few hours in pleasure. Home,
did not afford it. The spoiled, heartless Caroline,
was engaged -in an endless round of fashionable
amusements. When at home, she was weary, vapid,
peevish. She needed the excitement and admira
tion of a crowd to give her animation. It was not
worth while to exert herself to please one , and he
only her husband.
Thus driven from that home, which should have
been the haven of rest and peace, Finlay fled to
the society of the gay, dissipated young men.
Soon, his office and law books were forsaken.—
Ills client’s frequent knocks were unanswered; they
became less and less frequent, and at length ceased
entirely. They had lost their advocate, their coun
sellor. lie had rendered himself unworthy of their
confidence. The highly gifted, ambitious Finlay
had become a drunkard.
After a few years, Caroline returned to her father’s
house, because her husband was no longer able to
support her; she returned a faded, disappointed,
wretched woman. The viper sting of conscience
told her, that she had brought all her misery upon
Why will not woman learn her own happiness ?
Can one whose every thought before marriage is
selfishness, can she ever sacrifice her own interest
and pleasure to the will of another? Yet, submis
sion, a dignified affectionate submission on her part,
will alone insure domestic comfort. Pride lifts her
self in opposition to this doctrine, crying out “equal
rights.” But down with the rebellious spirit; her
suggestion amounts to this :
“Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.”
Woman, too, must be man’s intellectual compan
ion. Without this, domestic life becomes so dull,
so insipid, that to a man of refined taste and culti
vated understanding it is intolerable.
The weak idolatry of a fool is valuless and disgus
ting to a man of sense ; but the affection of a high
minded, virtuous woman, is a discriminating, intel
ligent, deep affection, which it is an honor to gain,
and a pleasure to cherish.
Teaching by Analogies.
The Olive Branch has the following:
“ A village schoolmaster announced one day to
his pupils that an inspector would soon come to
examine them : ‘lf ho questions you on geography,
lie will probably ask,’ said lie, ‘what is tlie shape of
the earth ; and if you don’t remember, you need
only look towards me ; I will show you my snuff
box, so as to remind you that it is round.’
“Now the teacher had two snuff-boxes; one round,
which lie used on Sunday, and one square, which
he carried during tlie week. The fatal day arrived ;
the dean, as the master had anticipated, asked one
of the scholars, ‘what is the shape of the earth ?’—
The latter, at first a little embarrassed, turns round
to the master, who shows his snuff-box, and he an
‘lt is round, Sunday, sir, and square the rest of
The preceding anecdote reminds us of another
instance of the risk of teaching by analogies. A
female teacher of a school that stood on the banks a
quiet English stream, once wished to communicate
to her pupils an idea of faith. While she was try
ing to explain the meaning of the word, a small
covered boat glided in sight along the stream. —
Seizing upon the incident for an illustration, she ex
“If I were to tell you that there is a leg of mut
ton in that boat, you would believe me, wouldn’t
you, even without seeing it yourselves ? ’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the scholars.
‘Well, that is faith,’ said the school-mistress.%
The next day, in order to test their recollection
of the lesson, she inquired, ‘What is faith ?’
‘A leg of mutton in a boat! ’ was the answer
shouted from all parts of the schoolroom.
A lady says, that “the prettiest drawn bonnet she knows, is
the bonnet drawn after a quarrel out of your husband.,”
He is rich who receives more than he spends: he, on the
contrary, is poor, who spends more than be receives.
The Axe and the Saw,
Early one spring morning, when the sun had
scarcely melted the hoar frost from the brown face
of the wrinkled earth, an old axe happened to fall
in with a saw. There was a ‘cutting air’ abroad,
that threatened the newly shaven chin with chaps f
“Ah! my old blade!” said the Axe, “how goes
it with you ? I came purposely to see how you do.’’
“ I really feel much obliged to you,’’ said the Saw,
“but am sorry to say that my teeth are very bad.—
My master has sent for the doctor, who, ’twixt you
and me and the post, is no better than ‘an old tile.’
I was in the work-shop last night, where— ’
“Where, no doubt, you sate a great deal,”
facetiously interrupted the Axe.
The Saw showed his teeth in a sort of grin be
twixt melancholy and mirth, and resumed :
“Why, I may say so with some truth ; and I
consider it no more than a duty I owe Mr. Carpen
ter, to do as much as I can, in spite of my teeth, for
he is liberal —in point of board. 11 ’
“And, do you never grow rusty ? ’’ asked the Axe.
“Notwith overwork,” replied the Saw; and, in
deed, I have always found that constant employ
ment best preserves our polish, which, after all, is
“You are quite a philosopher.”
“Not exactly so ; for I sometimes do grow exceed
ingly hot, and lose my temper.”
“And what says your master ? ’
“Why he generally desists awhile, and I soon
grow cool again, and then I cut away like a razor
through a piece of mottled soap ! ”
“You are a happy fellow,” said the Axe. “How
differently am I situated ! My master is a chopping
boy, with a thick block, which is tantamount to
saying he is a fat fool. He is very sharp with me
sometimes ; and when Jie finds I am inclined to be
blunt, he grinds me most cruelly.”
“ Alas! cried the Saw; “ it’s the way of the
world, my friend ; for I have invariably remarked
that the rich always grind the poor for the sake of
“Bravo!” exclaimed the Axe.
“You see I’ve not lived in the world all this time
without getting a notch or two,” said the Saw.
“Nor 1 either,” replied the axe ; “although in
obtaining the said notches, I have not only lost my
courage but a portion of my metal, too ! ’’
“ Well, I never saw! ” exclaimed my friend;
“how you talk ! lam sure your teeth do not give
you any trouble, at any rate.’’
“I ax your pardon my old boy,” remonstrated
the Axe ; “for, although I do not complain of
my teeth exactly, my chops give me a pretty con
siderable deal of trouble, I can tell you.”
The Saw grinned approval of the Axe’s wit.
“Peace ! ” exclaimed the Axe. “Here comes Mr.
Carpenter ; so, ‘don’t show j our teeth till you can
bite,’ —I believe that is the maxim of a relation of
j'ours ? ”
“Not a relation,” said the other, “although they
are the words of a wise old saw.' ,
CONSTANCE OF WERDENBERG,
The Heroes of Switzerland,
A Dramatic Poem,
Written for the “Georgia Citizen,” by Mrs.C. L. Hbxtz.
PART V.—Scene 1.
( Night—on the plain of Ruth, near the lake. Enter Wer
ner, Walt her, End and the blind Mdchtal iciih other
\V erner. —Welcome, ye lion hearts and daring hands,
For the last time ; (or Heaven deserts our cause)
W e meet in stealth, ’neath night’s majestic arch,
To toil for freedom, w hile oppression sleeps.
The hour draws near; the holy, glorious hour,
For which we’ve panted, struggled, wept and pray’d.
Son of the blind ! say, does thy youthful heart
Still pant to pioneer this veteran band ?
Erni. —As pants the bounding chamois for the cliff
hich Alpine hunter's foot has never trod.
All is prepar’d ; the maiden's smile is won,
Who opes this night hex casement to my vows
And by iny forest spear ! this mountain rose
Shall bloom hereafter, by her country foster’d.
All is prepar’d—then let our watchword ring
Far as the farthest herald torch shall blaze—
Bertliold of Werdenberg—
Conspirator. —Bertliold of Werdenberg!
Erni. —Aye, swell the sound,
Till every son of freedom grasps the steel—
The noble exile join'd our forest league,
And pledg’d his life to liberty ; but he,
bail's scourge and curse, has seized with impious hands,
The Countess—chain’d her in his rocky cell.
Warn’d of danger, Werdenberg has rush'd
To perish with her, for he cannot save;
The chains of Landenberg are clanking now
On limbs which should be sacred as our lives.
Ob ! noble woman ! haste the tardy hour—
Be Werdenberg, the watchword that shall bid
Each mountain cliff, with flames of vt-ngeanec burn.
Melciital. —My son, I tremble at thy fiery zeal;
Let Werner’s temper'd courage, Waltlier's strength
And cooler valor discipline thy youth.
Erni.— Father ! can I be cool ?
Werner. —Brave Erni—no!
From Cri’s vale to Jura’s farthest height,
The spirit has gone forth—gone forth in power;
The hour for deeds is come. We’re arm’d ifiy friends!
The sword, the helm, the breast-plate heaven lias given.
Fear not, blind Melciital! He who nerv’d the arm
Os William Tell, shall guard and bless thy son.
Walther.— Thy counsel —
Erni. —Counsel l Heaven will rend
Its seamless curtains, if we linger thus ;
Oh! had yc seendffm dark, despairing, wild—
Walther. —On thou, brave Erni,
What signal shall announce that Sarnen's tower
lias op’d its barred walls!
Erni. —My bugle horn
Shall send a blast so loud and so triumphant,
The ancient hills shall bid their echoes ring
In jubilee ; and then these granite cliffs,
As if ignited by earth’s central fire,
Shall flash their signal flames on night's dark brow.
(Erni springs upon a cliff and a bright blaze ascends)
EnNi.—(shouting) Such be the torches that shall lightour path.
Follow who will—once more our rallying words
Be Liberty, Helvetia, Werdenberg.
(Erni disappears; peasants ascend the cliff and follow him,
repeating the words, For Liberty, Helvetia, Werdenberg)
Werner and Walther. —(approaching Melciital)
First let us lead the sightless Melchtal home—
Melciital. —No! In this lonely cave I'll wait our doom.
Oh 1 let me hear the bugles blast, then lay
My aged head on its last pillow earth.
O’ alther leads him aside)
” erner. Now, comrades, to our posts, we dare not shrink j
Erni has lighted glory's path for us. (Exeunt)
(.4 prison—Berikold in chains — Constance.)
Constance.—Deluded Berthold! Canst thou stoop so low 1
1 hou’st taken slander's serpent in thy breast,
And driven thy true wife from thee. All the deep
And hoarded memories of our youthful love
To thee are lost. Oh ! liad I heard thy fame
Sullied by injury’s breath, thy wedded truth
And tenderness thus wrong’d, I ne’er had warm’d
The traitor in my heart. I would have spurn’d
The wrocth who breathed dishonor on thy name,
And held thee faultless gainst th’ opposing world.
But tills is woman's love.
Berthold.— And this is mine.
Ilad a wing’d herald, from another sphere
Come down to tell thee false I had denied him j
But thy own lips, thy treachery lias reveal’d
In lightening characters.
Constance.— My lips reveal’d,
Berthold ! wliat phantom has assum'd my voice
To rifle thee of reason ? Oh 1 thou ravest,
Berthold, thou once wert just. Return, my husband,
To tht true self return Take back, once moro,
The noble, trusting soul, the generous heart
That, scorning treachery, no suspicion knew.
Oh ! by the weight of anguish pressing here t
Crushing me to the dust, by all thy hopes
Os heaven’s forgiving mercy, bear not thus
To death s dark margin, to the speechless gravo,
An error mourn'd too late.
Berthold.— Spirit of truth !
Did falsehood ever wear a look like that ?
I will believe thee ; give this life's last hour
To love and Constance. Throu’ this wasted gem,
That like a scatter'd star, sent dazzling up
Its ray on Rutli's plain—
Constance.— And is this ail ?
Berthold, the accusing judge, whose rays condemn
An unsoil'd life to inform - .
Berthold.— Oh! would *
No other witness had confirm’d my doubts ;
This token of thy presence in a spot,
Where night and solitude held mystic league,
First rous'd the demon in me. Then I sought
Thee, Constance, doubling, trusting—doling still.
Oh. night of misery—wretchedness untold !
Whence eamc the burning words, whose echo still
’ ibrates upon my ear ? O'er whom were breath’d
Those deep and fervent strair.3, those sighs of passion I
” hose the dear cheek, whose living warmth press'd thins t
I heard thee, yet I lice — within thy room —
With but a curtain's wall against thy voice,
’ Heard thee avow, another till’d the heart,
An exil’d husband left.
Constance.— Oh ! ;ceived one !
My child—thy son !
Bethold.— Constance ! my son
Constance.— lliine ! — mine
Born in thy exile, nurtured with my tears ;
’Twas o’er his couch I loan’d—to LJm I breath’d.
Berthold.— Oh! Constance! how I've wrong'd thee j
These chains these chains ! My soul would burst its osfl,
To meet and mingle with that yet true heart.
What! can thine arms thus seek me ? Canst thou yet
Seal rny forgiveness on the lips tliat death
So soon must chill ?
Constance.— And must thou die ?
Have we thus met in love and trust to part ?
Oh ! thou All-Seeing, yet I nscen, look down,
Temper in pit} - , thy mysterious wrath ;
I bow before it, feel its justice, yet
Oh ! spare me this, this blow, or take me first.
Berthold. Can death and joy thus meet ? Yes, it is joy
Intense and exquisite, my Constance, thus
To gaze upon thee—meet thy look of pardon,
b eel the soft fold of these embracing arms,
” hde mine these fetters bind. Now, now they gall j
’ . rut i lless despot! now I feel thy power j
The life I gave thee up seemed but a waste,
1 nsunn and, unflower and ; I panted for the gravo,
As the worn pilgrim for his bed of inoss.
But now - rebounding from suspicion's grasp,
I feel anew - born being. Thou, before me.
Thron'd once more in tliat high sphere of purity
And light, from which I late believed thee fallen j
Thy spotless hands in mine, thy pure cheek near,
Thy glance of holy fervour turn'd on me
Oh ; can 1 leave this warmth of living be*autv,
For cold, cold death. Must I depart, *
Nor know a father’s joy, nor press our cherub boy
Once to thus yearning bosom ? ®
Constance.— Why. Oh ! why
Di<lst thou thus rush on death ? How didst thou leant
Tliat Constance’life wast peril’d, that thou cam’st
To offer up thy own ?
Bei.tiiold. —To tell thee this,
I must go back to that dark hour when devils
Drove me a madman from the arms I sought,
Leaving sad traces of my despai^tioii—
Too fatal speed ! I will not tell thee now
How long I struggled with the evil power.
I sought the mountains, wrestled with the tempest,
Daring Heaven s bolt. A bold, preventing spirit
Came in a peasant's form and held me back
1 rom suicide—one of a noble band,
Leagued to redeem this country from oppression,
I join'd this brotherhood ; ’twas he, tliat youth
Told me thy danger.
Constance.— Band of Patriots ! Berthold—
The lion-hearted Swiss. They will yet save theo.
Berthold.— They’ll come too late. My momenta now gra
Oh ! could I yield my life in such high conflict,
Die like the brave and free; pour out my blood
In one full stream, not thus ignobly perish :
Constance.—Hark ! heard'st thou not a sound ? The bolt*
Chill horror seizes me.
Landenberg—Art thou prepar'd ?
Repented of thy crimes, and made thv peace
With Heaven ?
Berthold.— ” ho talks of peace with Heaven ?
Landenberg.—l, -wretch ;
I would not send thee to a double death.
Berthold.— Cam’st thou to summon me ?
Landenberg.—l came to bid thee
Count by the beatings of thy heart, thy momenta,
Short will the reckoning be.
Constance.—ls there no mercy left ?
Not thee, not thee I sue; but can the Power-
The illimitable Power that made us, thus forget
Hia suffering children ? Mercy has left earth—
There’s none in Heaven.
Berthold.—Leave us, tyrant, leave us,
Standing between eternity and time,
Looking on both, the narrowing spot that bears me
Is sacred from thy tread. Bound as I am,
The muffling shades of death, at thy command,
W siting to wrap me, I have a power o'er thee,
1 o which thy blanching cheek bears witness;
The power of innocence o’er guilt! Mv hand it- stain’d
But white from murder's tint, my mounting spirit.