The Georgia citizen. (Macon, Ga.) 1850-1860, May 09, 1850, Image 1

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The Georgia citizen., May 09, 1850, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextVOL. I. Tfai swissa U published, every Thursday afternoon, in Macon, Ca. on the follow- CONDITIONS : 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 ty . Notice to Debtors and Crcditor*of an Estate must lie published forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Negroes, must be published weekly for four uanthe. 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 log scale: 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, when advertisements 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 warded. OFFICE on Mulberry Street, East of the Floyd House and near the Market. 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 8 o’clock. Ofira opon 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 •• 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.” €£LITA. 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— now Naucoochy. +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. ftiisrdlniuj. 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 ones. 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 fret.” “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 no answer. “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 tions.” 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 now.” “What, then, my child ?’ “M by, how, then, can my domino box be chang ed into a geranium and a blue and white flower pot ?” “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 name!” My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s and, after looking over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. “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 father. “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. THE WIFE. “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 Herculean strength. 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 be unfeeling.” 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 sequence.” 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 Highlands. •‘Come Mrs. F said Finlay, carefully wrap ping the shawl about the faultless form of his beau tiful wife. “ 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 nion. 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 herself. 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 swers unhesitatingly: ‘lt is round, Sunday, sir, and square the rest of the week.” 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 claimed: “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 only artificial.’’ “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 the ‘drips.’ “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.' , (Driginnl ]hym. CONSTANCE OF WERDENBERG, OR The Heroes of Switzerland, A Dramatic Poem, Written for the “Georgia Citizen,” by Mrs.C. L. Hbxtz. [concluded.] 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 conspirators.) \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) Scene 2. (.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 counted. 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* undrawn— Chill horror seizes me. (Enter Landenberg) 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. NO. 7.