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VOL. 1.
732 22©S£IA SinfiM I
U published, every Friday morning, in Macon. Gs. on the folio w*-
CONDITIONS :
Ts paid strictly ih advance - - <2 .b per annum.
Ts hot bo paid - - 300 u “
‘Lbga'l Advertiseniontx will lx? made to conform to the following pro- |
Vb.i<vh* of the Statute :
.Wrt df I-anil and Negroes hy Executors. Administrators and Guard
ian!. are required by taw to bu advertised in a public gazette, sixty
days previous to the day of sate.
These sales must he held on tint first Tuesday in the month, between
‘the 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 Ik- advertised in like manner for*
’ty days.
Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must be published forty
Mays.
Notice that application will lie made to the Court of Ordinary for
lsavs to sell Land anil Negroes, must be published weekly for four
months.
Cit/ttione or Letters of Administration must be published thirty day*
—for Dismission from Administration, monthly, sit months —for Dis
mission from Guardianship, forty days.
Haiti for foreclosure of mortgage, must lie published monthly, for
four months —for establishing lost papers, for the fill spare of three
ninths —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators where ‘
a bund has been given by the deceased, thrfull space of three months.
Professional and Business Cards, inserted, according to the follow
ing scale :
Fort linet or leas per annum • * 85 00 in advance, j
“ 6 lines “ “ . - - 7 00 “ 44
“10 “ “ “ - - SlO 00 u “ j
nr Transient Advertisements will be charged SI, per square of id j
lihss or lass, for the first and .">(( cts. for each subsequent insertion.— j
on these rates there will be a deduction of CO percent, on settlement, !
when advertisements are continued 3 m tilths without alteration.
nr All Letters except those containing remittances must lie post - ;
paid or free.
Postmasters and others who will aet as Agents for the “Citizen” j
insy retain per rent, for their trouble, on at) cash subscriptions for- ■
warded.
OFFICE on Mulberry Str-iet, Em* of the Floyd House and near the i
Market.
(TV ■jcVt’B Corner,
For the “Georgia Citizen.’’
J DDLS Ob’ LODE.
So. i.
lIY T. M. ItlllVKllS, M. I>.
Tiie Fall ol IMicr.
“Thou wcr’ttho Morning Star among the living,
Ere thy fair light hal lied;
But, having died, thou art like I[esperus giving
N. w splendor to the dead.”— Plato’* Aster.
“ Thou art gone to the grave!” lint thy spirit is shining,
And singing alar iu the Kkai.ms ok thr Blest ;
While tin? living are left by thy cold grave reclining.
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest —r
1.-ft mourning for thee while they long for for thy rest J
“Thou art gone to the grave!” thou art gone where thy slumber
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain—.
Boon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again J
No more to lie down in that Valley again !
*• Thou art gono to I lie grave !’’ there is none can restore thee,
Or bring thee again from that Sd,knt Annus !
Bnttlie Con abe it kr of Death went to dwell tlnrc before thee,
And Me has prepared time the way to thy Cod!
Prepared thee the way to tlpv Usattifi’l trod ! r
“Thou art, gone to the grave J” thou art silently bleeping
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And in longing for which my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast !
Like Sited lev lor Keats in its grave in mv breast! t
t
“Thou art gone to the grave!” let the dark Weeping Willow ,
|i,-nd over tljv grave where thy beauty was laid !
While thv form thin* reclined *>n the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring dowers which bloom at thy head— I
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy bead.
i
‘‘Thou art gone to the grave!” where the Violets are springing, j
And feeding upon thee above the damp sixl,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, w hile thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains ok (100
With thine Ullai.i me lost from the Fountains of (lon,
Villa Allf.ora, Ga.
From the Washington Union,
TYPES.
Click—click,
Go the type in the “stick.”
They glide in together with ominous sound.
As swiftly the hand that collects them goes round
And arranges them firm in the “stick.”
Click—click.
Click-—click.
See them now in the “stick, *’
What wonderful things they are now, as they sit \
One moment ‘tj* satire, and then it is wit—
Unmeaning when single—combined, then they hit,
A terrible blow with their click—click—
In putting them up in the “stick.”
Click—click!
Click—click.
See them now in the “ stick.”
To the thief or assassin they sorrow lx*tide,
And the wealthy oppressor in vain tries to glide
Away from the clicking—the world cannot hide
Him. away from the sound of that click—click,
Iu putting up types in the “stick.”
Click—click.
Click—click,
As they go in the “stick.”
See guilt, at the sound, with a visage of ‘fright,
Recoiling from self by day or by night,
As it views with suspicion each method of flight 1
But it never can flee from the dick—-click,
Os putting the types in the “stick.”
Click—click.
Click—click.
Monarchs, and Kings their approaches dread ;
They know that with Liberty types have been wed,
And visions, they see, of their thrones blood-red,
As they tremblingly bow at the click click,
Os putting up types in the “stick.”
Click—oliok.
Click—dick.
See them now in the “stick.’’
By the midnight lamp, or the broad sunlight,
Still ever they’re working with power and might;
W hile their voices, from despots, demanding their right
Is louder, somewhat, than the click—click,
Click—click.
Click—click,
Sec them firm in the “stick" —
Their lond voiees, echoing sound through the world ;
At the souud, the bright banner of Freedom’s unfurled—
Wherever ’tis beard, there the tyrants are hurled
From their power, by the sound of that click, click,
Os putting the types in the “stick.’’
Click—click. •
Click—click,
Go the types in the “stick ”
States, Rulers, and Monarchies, Pachas, and Kings,
1 r h ” Poet ’ the Fainter, the Minstrel that sings,
’ ‘ ca nioiit ‘ holy horror” of those little things-
Os tho noise they make, with their click, click,
M hen setting them into the “stick.”
Click—click! j
Click—click,
Go the types in the “stick.”
iTo the good and the just—all the nations around—
| “To the rest of mankind,” and where virtues abound,
\\ itli high throbbbing hearts, there is welcomed the sound,
And the noise that is made by the click—click,
Os putting the types in the “stick.”
Click—click.
t
JHisrcllunij.
THE VILLAGE PRIZE.
A TALE OF WASHINGTON.
j lii one of the holiest villages of old Virginia there !
! lived in the year 175-, an old man, whose daughter !
| was declared, by universal consent, to be the loveli- I
j est maiden in ail the country round. The veteran,
’ in his youth, had been athletic, and muscular above
| all his fellows ; and his breast, where he always
wore them,could show the adornment of three med
als, received for his victories in gymnastic feats when
a young man. Ills daughter was now eighteen,
; and had been sought in marriage by many suitors.
, One brought wealth—another a tine person—another
this, another that. But they were all refused by j
the old man, who became at last a by-word for liis !
j obstimuy among the young men ot the village and !
neighborhood.
At length the nineteenth birthday of Annette, !
i his charming daughter, who was as amiable and
. nmdest as she was beautiful, arrived. The morning
; of that day, her father invited all the youth of the
■ country to a hay-making frolic. Seventeen hand- 1
some and industrious young men assembled. They j
1 came not only to make hay, but also to make love j
to the fair Annette, In three hours they had filled 1
the father's barns with the newly dried grass, and j
their own hearts with Jove. Annette, by her father’s
j command, had brought the malt liquor of her own
i brewing, which she presented to each enamored
• swain with her own hands.
“Now, mv bovs,” said the old keeper of the jewel
they all coveted, as leaning on their pitchforks they
! assembled round the door in the cool of the evening j
, -e“Xu\v, my huls you have nearly all of you made j
j proposals for mv Annette. Now, you see, 1 don't j
| care anything about money or talents, book ladling ,
nor,soldier laming —I can do as well by my gal as j
| any man in the country. But I want her to marry j
( a man of mvown grit. Now, you know, or ought I
j to know, when 1 was a youngster I could beat any-, j
thing iu all Yirginny in the way of leaping. I got ■
my old woman by beating the smartest man on the
Eastern Shore, and I have took the oath and sworn i
it, that no man shall marry my daughter without i
jumping for it. You understand me, lx>ys. 1 here’s i
the green, and here’s Annette, he added, taking i
1 his daughter, who stood timidly behind him, by the i
! hand. “Now the one that jumps ’lie furthest on a ;
j ‘dead level,’ shall marry Annette this very night.”
This unique address was received by the young J
j men with applause. And many a youth, as he j
’ bounded gaily forward to the arena of trial, cast a j
glauce of anticipated victory back upon the lovely j
j object of village chivalry. The maidens left their ;
looms and quilting fra hies, the children their noisy |
sports, the slaves their lalxtrs, and the old men their |
arm-chairs and long pipes, to witness and triumph in |
the success of the victor. All prophesied and many j
wished that it would he young Caroll. He was the j
handsomest 4ml best humored youth in the country, j
; and all kIK‘W that a strong mutual attachment ex- j
; isted between him and the fair Annette. Carroll ;
j had won the reputation of being the “best leaper,” :
j and in a country where such athletic achievements ,
J were the sine qua non ol a mans cleverness, this was
ino ordinary honor. In a contest like the present he j
■ had therefore every advantage over his fAlow-at h- \
!
j Icttr.
The arena allotted tor this hymeneal contest was 1
a level space in front of the village inn, and near the ;
centre of a grass plat, reserved in the midst of the j
village, denominated the “rjreen.” The verdure ,
was quite worn off at this place hy previous exer
cises of a similar kind, and a hard surface of sand,
more befitting for the purpose to which it was to be
! used, supplied its place.
! The father of the lovely, blushing, and withal
happy prize, (tor she well knew who would win,)
with three other patriarchal villagers were the
judges appointed to decide upon the claims ot the j
several competitors. The last time Caroll tried his !
skill in this exercise, he “cleared, 1 to use the leap
ers praseologv —twenty-one feet and one inch.
The signal* was given, and by lot the young men
stepped into the arena.
“Edward Gravson, seventeen feet,” cried one of
the judges. The youth had done his utmost, lie
was a pale intellectual student, But what had in
tellect to do in stub an arena ! Without a look at |
the maiden lie left the ground.
“Dick Boulden, nineteen feet.” Dick with a
laugh turned away, and replaced his coat.
“Harry Preston, nineteen feet and three inches.” :
“Well done, Harry Preston,’ shouted the spectators,
“you have tried hard for the acres and homestead.”
Ilarry also laughed, and swore lie only jumped
i for the fun of the thing. Harry was a rattle-brained
! fellow, but never thought of matrimony. He loved
i to walk and talk, and laugh and romp with Annette,
| but sober marriage never came into his head. He
j only jumped for the fun of the thing. He would
not have said so, if he was sure of winning.
“Charley Simms, fifteen feet and a half.” “Hur
rah for Charley ! Charley’ll win ! ” cried the crowd
good humoredly. Charley Simms was the clever
est fellow in the world. His mother advised him to
stay Jit home, and told him if he ever w’on a wife,
she would fall in love with his good temper, rather
than his legs. Charley, however made the trial of j
the hitter’s capabilities and lost. Many refused to
enter the lists altogether. Others made the trial,
and only one of the loapers had yet cleared twenty
feet.
“Now,’’.cried the villager, “lets see Henry Car
i ro ll. He ought to beat this ; ” and every one ap
i peared, as they called to mind the mutual love of
! the last competitor and the sweet Annette, as if they
heartily wished his success.
Henry stepped to his post with a firm tread.—
His eye glanced with confidence around upon the
villagers and rested, before he bounded forward, up
on the face of Annette, as if to catch therefrom that
spirit and assurance which the occasion called for.
Returning the encouraging glance with which she
met his own, with a proud smile upon his lip, he
j bounded forward.
“Twenty-one feet and a half!’’ shouted the mul
’ titude, repeating the announcement ol one ot the
iu all tljiugs—Neutral in Notl)iug.”
MACON, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY, 17, 1850.
i judges, “twenty-one feet and a half. Harry Car
; roll forever. Annette and Harry !” Hands, caps,
j and handkerchiefs waved over the heads of the spec
j tutors, and the eyes of the delighted Annette spar
kled with joy.
When Henry Caroll moved to his station to strive
for the prize, a tall, gentlemanly young man, in a
military undress frock coat, who had rode up to the
inn, dismounted and joined the spectators, unper
ceived, while the contest was going on, stepped sud
j denly forward, and with a knowing eye measured
j deliberately the space accomplished by the last leaper.
He was a stranger in the village. His handsome
face and easy address attracted the eyes of the vil
lage maidens, and his manly and sinewy frame, in
which symmetry and strength were happily united,
: called forth the admiration of the young men.
“Mayhap, sir, stranger, you think you can beat
| that,”said one the bystanders, remarking the manner
! in which the eye of the stranger scanned the arena.
“If you can leap beyond Harry Carroll, you’ll beat
j the best man in the colonies.’’ The truth of this ‘
I observation was assented to by a general murmur, j
“Is it for mere amusement you are pursuing this
pastime?” inquired the youthful stranger, “or is
there a prize for the winner ? ”
“Annette, the loveliest and wealthiest of our vil
lage maidens, is to be the reward of the victor,”
cried one of the judges.
“Is the list open to till? ”
“All young, sir !” replied the father of Annette, i
with interest, his youthful ardor rising as he sur
veyed the proportions of the straight limbed young
stranger. “She is the bride of him who out leaps
Henry Caroll. If you will try you are free to do
so. But let me tell you, Harry Carroll has no wife
in Virginia. Here is my daughter, sir, look ut her
ami make your trial.”
The officer glanced upon the trembling maiden
about to be offered on the altar of her father’s un
conquerable monomania with an admiring eye. —
The poor girl looked at Harry, who stood near with
a troubled brow and angry eye, and then east upon ;
the new competitor an imploring glance.
Placing his coat in the hands of one of the judges,
he drew :i sash lie wore beneath it tighter around i
his waist, and taking the appointed stand, made, ap- 1
parentlv without effort, the bound that was to de
cide the happiness or misery of Harry and Annette. !
“Twenty-two feet and an inch ! ” shouted the
judge. The announcement was repeated with sur
prise by the spectators, who crowded around the
victor, filling the air with congratulations, not uu
mingled, however, with loud nuimmrs from those
who were more nearly interested in the happiness
of the lovers.
The old man approached, and grasping his hand
exultinglv, called him hi* son, and said he felt
prouder of him than if he were a prince. Physical
activity and thrength were the old leaper’s true
patents of nobility.
Resuming his coat, the victor sought with his eye
the fair prize he had, although nameless and un
known, so fairly won. She leaned upon her father’s
arm, pale and distressed.
Her lover stood aloof, gloomy and mortified, ad
miring the superiority of the stranger in an ex
ercise in which he prided himself as unrivalled, while
he hated him for his success.
“Annette, my pretty prize,” said the victor, taking
her passive hand, “ I have won you fairly. An
nette’s cheek became paler than marble; she trem
bled like jin aspen leaf, and clung closer to her
father, while the drooping eye sought the form of
her lover. His brow grew dark at the stranger s
language.
“ I have won you, my pretty flower, to make you
a bride!—tremble not so violently —I mean not for
myself, however proud l might be,’ he added with
gallantry, “ to wear so fair ji gem next to my heart.
Perhaps,” and he cast his eyes inquiringly, while
the current of life leaped joyfully to her brow, and
a murmur of surprise ran through the crowd, “per
haps there is some favored youth among the com
petitors who has a higher claim to this jewel.—
Young sir,” he continued, turning to the surprised
Harry, “ moth inks you were victor in the list before
me—l strove not for the maiden, though one could
not well strive for a fairer —but from love for the
manly sport in which I saw you engaged. You are
the victor, and jis such, with the permission of this
worthy assembly, you receive from my hand the j
prize you have so well and so honorably won.”
The youth sprang forward and grasped his hand ;
with gratitude, and the next moment Annette was j
weeping from pure joy upon his shoulders. The |
welkin rung with the acclamations qf the delighted ;
villagers, and amid the temporary excitement pro
duced by this act, the stranger withdrew from the ;
crowd, mounted his horse, and spurred Jit ji brisk :
trot through the village. ’
That night Harry and Annette were married,and j
the health of the mysterious and noble-hearted I
stranger was drunk in overflow ing bumpers of rustic j
beverage. j
In process of time, there were born unto the mar- j
ried p;iir sons and daughters, and Harry Carroll had
become Col. Henry Carroll of the revolutionary
| army.
j One evening, having just returned home after a
hard campaign, he was sitting with his family on the
gallery of his handsome country-house, when an
advance courier rode up and announced the aj>-
proach of General Washington :ind suite, informing
him that he should crave his hospitality for tho
night. The necessary directions were given in re
ference to the household preparations, and Col.
Carroll, ordering his horse, rode forward to meet and
escort to his lioqse tho distinguished guest, whom
he had never yet seen, although serving in the same
widely extended army.
That evening, at the table, Annette —now become
the dignified, matronly, and still handsome Mrs.
Carroll, could not keep her eyes from the face of
her visitor. Every moment or tw r o she would steal
a glance at his pommanding features, and half
doubtingly, half-assuredly, sh:ike her head and look
agjiin, to be still more puzzled. Her absence of
mind and embarrassment at length became evident
to her husband, who inquired affectionately if she
were ill?
“1 suspect, Colonel,” said the general, who had |
been some time, with a quiet, meaning smile, observ-1
ing the lady’s curious and puzzled survey of his tea- j
lures —“that Mrs. Carroll thinks she recognizes in ,
me an old acquaintance.” And he smiled with a mys- j
terious air, as he gazed upon both alternately.
The Colonel started, and a faint memory of the
past seemed to be revived as he gazed, while the
lady rose impulsively from her chair, and bending
eagerly forward over the tea-urn, wath clasped hands,
and an eye of intense, eager, inquiry, fixed still upon
him, stood for a moment with her lips parted as if
sh'? would speak.
“ Pardon me, dear rnadjun—pardon me, colonel
—I must put an end to this scene. I have become,
by dint of camp-fare and hard usage, too unwieldlv
to leap again tw r entv-tw’o feet one inch, even for so
fair a bride as one I wot of.”
The recognition, with the surprise, delight and
happiness that followed, are left to the imagination
of the reader.
General Washington was indeed the haudsome
young “leaper,” whose mysterious appearance and
disappearance in the native village of the lovers, is
still traditionary—and whose claim to a substantial
body of bona fide flesh and blood, was stoutly con
i tested by the village story-tellers, until the happy
| denouement which took place at the hospitable
! mansion of Col. Carroll.
-
The Bachelor Husband.
By Bachelor-Husband, we mean a husband who
is made a bachelor pro tern, by the absence of his
wife.
Os course such a kind of life has its little enviable
privileges and advantages; but then it has its draw
backs and annoyances, for which no freedom can ,
compensate. It is freedom made slavery.
Husbands are always raving about the bliss of I
getting away from their wives, and, when they do, J
wliat miserable creatures they are! They areal-!
ways whining then to have them back again.
The Bachelor-Husband is a melancholy proof of j
this. His wife has gone on a visit to her papa, or {
some rich relation in the country, from whom she;
has great expectations. She is not to return for a
fortnight. The “dear Hubby” is left alone-—not al- .
together out of love with the thought of being re
stored to liberty.,
And yet, the first day, what a helpless creature
is! He is left the uncontrolled master of the house,
and doesn’t know where a single thing is kept. If
lie wants anything, he has to get up and search for
it himself, and even then there is but a small chance
of his finding it. For lie doesn’t know one key
from another, and he tries them all; but, as a matter
of course, the very key that is wanted is missing.
The first day be meets some friends. He tells |
them with a triumphant chuckle, that he is a bache- j
lor, and they must come home ami dine with him. j
What a dinner ! Probably it has not been or- j
dered. How very foolish ! He quite forgot that lie i
has to go to the butcher’s, and the poulterer’s and!
greengrocer’s, every day himself now; or, if the din-1
ner has been ordered, it is sure to be some vulgar
dish which he is ashamed to see put upon the table,
or else it turns out to be the very joint lie never
touches. For the cook does not know all his whims
and fancies, his choice aversions, and preferences, as
his wife does.
Then again, the beer was “out” yesterday, and a
fresh barrel has not been ordered in. There is a 1
pause of ten minutes, therefore, to enable the cook J
to run out to the Adam and Eve for a pint of the
)est silo. When the best is brought no one can
drink it.
lie is profuse in his apologies to his dear friends,
who assure him that it does not in the least matter,
but, as they leave, it is evident, from their blank fa
ces, that they have turned down a page in the vol
ume of their experience, as a private memorandum,
never to trust to the tender hospitality of a bachelor
husband again.
l'oor Bachelor ! He is crawling up to bed, like a
melancholy snail, just beginning to feel the weight
of the house he luis newly got upon his back, when
suddenly, he recollects he gave permission to the
Nurse to pass the evening with her mother at Ben
tonville, and that she has not yet eonie in. lie has
raked the fire out in the parlor, and so lie is obliged
to go down into the kitchen, where he sits, listening
to the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen clock, and amu
sing himself now and then with a grand buttle of
black-beetles, till past one o’clock in the morning,
when the ring at the bell proclaims Nurse’s
return.
His troubles begin the first thing next morning.
He cannot get the servants out of bed. Then he
has tu ring separately fur every article he wants. —
The servants’ behaviour altogether is changed to
what it is when Missis is at home. They seem to be
aware of his helplessness, and do as little as they
CJin to relieve it.
When he goes down stairs, the room is scarcely
dusted, or He dusters are lying about, and he near
ly sits down upon the box of black-lead brushes that
has been left in his arm-chair. He cannot get the
urn, and has toting for the toast, and cut his own
bread and butter, and air the newspaper himself.
Then he is pestered with applications from the
maid for towels, or pearl-ash, or soap, or clean sheets;
and, w orse than all, has to meet that awful enquiry
from the cook, “Please, Sir, what will you have for
dinner to-day ?” The daily enquiry persecutes him
to that extent that at last he is driven away from his
home, and regularly dines out.
Moreover, it is cheerless dining all alone —sitting j
opposite to his wife’s empty chair —not a person to j
take wine or exchange ji word with. The silenpe j
grows oppressive, and any cheap saw-dust dining
phiee, where there are nothing but chops and steaks
—excepting steaks and chops —soon become pre
ferable.
Not that, the Bachelor-Husband dines much at
cheap dining places. He runs through the circle of
his friends and relations, beginning with his friends
first, for he knows they give the best dinners, and
reserving the relations for the last. He requires no
invitation—for the fact of his being a Bachelor,
throws open every dining-room door to him. He
begins to stop out bite —associates with youngmen—
for a cigar is one of those recognised privilege* which
the Bachelor-Husband takes behind his wife’s back,
which he would never dare to do to her face.
But smoking, even in his own parlor, is not e
nough to make the plaoe hjippy. The place looks
empty, dreary, and no wonder he comes home late,
for it has lost all attraction, all comfort, in his eyes.
It is a house for him, but no home. He is very lit
tle be’ter than a lodger—he has merely Liken a sit
ting-room and a bed-room for :i fortnight in his wife’s
mansion during her absence. He leaves the first
thingin the morning, and goes homo the last thing
at night to sleep,
Every thing loses the bright appearance it had
when his wife w r as on the spot to look after the house.
The drawing-room stares at him like a dingy Low
ther Bazaar smothered in dust. Dust seems to spread
itself over every little thing, and the servants ap
pear as if they w’onld be all the bettor for a good
dusting.
The Bachelor-Husband is Jin outcast in bis own
house. He has but little control over any one —and ;
pays the bills that are put before him without a
question, being too glad to get rid of the nuisance,
as quick as possible. The washing, too, wears his
life out. All his lineu comes home wrong. His
waistcoats and neck-handkerchiefs are washed so
biliously he has not the face to wear them. The
strings are off his collars; and, as for Bachelor s But-
! ton’s lie has not a shirt with one on. He does not
i know whom to ask to help him. He complains, but
j his complaints are not heeded, and if he has a cold,
he is obliged to nurse himself, receiving pity, conso
lation, and water gruel, from no hands but his
j own.
He puts his name down to be entered at some
, West-End Club (a Club for Bachelor-Husbands,
1 by-the-bye, would not be a bad move, open at all
hours to all Bachelor-Husbands,) so that, by the
time his wife leaves him a Bachelor the second time,
he may have some table of refuge where he can eat
a good dinner in comfort, and invite friends to come
1 and eat it with him.
W ives should beware of this, and should never
j stay away too long—but should rather return ere
i the fortnight has elapsed, before they receive a let
j ter imploring them to conro home as soon as possi
; ble —for when they receive that affectionate surn
mons, they may be sure that the very climax ot
| wretchedness has been attained by that poor, pitia
! ble, persecuted, helpless, domestic, heartbroken indi
| vidual whom we call the Bachelor-Husband. Com
; moi) prudence, not to say compassion, should whis
j per to them it is not fair, or worthy of the fair sex.
! to prolong anv husband’s sufferings to that extent !
j —unless perchance they leave him in the hands of a 1
| warranted mother-in-law.
—■-IJB
: How docs a Fly Buzz f —How does a fly buzz? I
! is a question more easily asked than answered.—
“With its wings, as they vibrati* upon the air,” re
sponds another, with a smile, halt of contempt, lull}
of complacency of his own more than common mea
surement of natural philosophy. But how, then,
let us ask, can the great dragon-fly, and other simi
lar broad-pinioned, rapid-flying insects cut through
tho qir with silent swiftness, while others go on buz- j
zing when not upon the wing at all ? Rennie, who j
has already put this posing query, himself ascribes ,
the sound partially to air, but to air as it plays on j
the “edges of the wings at their origin, as with an
jeolian harp string,” or to the friction of some inter
nal organ at the root of the wings or nerves. Last
ly, how does the fly feed ? the busy, curious, thirsty
fly, that “drinks with me” but does not “drink as I,”
his sole instrument for eating or drinking being his
trunk or suck; the narrow pipe, by means of which,
when let down upon his dainties, he is enabled to
imbibe as much jis suits his capacity. This trunk
might seem an instrument convenient enough when
inserted into a saucer of syrup, or applied to the bro
ken surface of Jtn over-ripe blackberry, but we often
see our sipper of sweets quite as busy on a solid
lump of sugar, which we shall find on close inspec
tion growing “small by degrees” under his attack.
How, without grinders, does lie accomplish the
consumption of such crystal condiment ? A mag
nifier will solve the difficulty, and show how the fly
dissolves his rock, Hannibal fashion, by a diluent, a
salivary fluid passing down the same pipe, which
returns the sugar melted into syrup.
(Driginnl
[For the Georgia Citizen.]
Gleanings from the Mexican War, No. 2.
RICHARD BEVERLY, OR THE TEST,
PART FIRST.
“We pine for kindred natures
To mingle with our own.”—Mrs. llrxxxk.
‘t I know thee not—and yet our spirits seem
Together linked by sympathy and love,
And, like the mingling waters of a stream,
Our thoughts and fancies all united rove.”—DßYim-i.
“ All our apprehensions have been dissipated, in respect to
the conduct of your army ; and tho intcroouse which has
been elicited since you made our city yours hy conquest, has
been contradictory to the prediction* of evil which were rife
in every circle, while the heavy metal us your caution was tell
ing, with fearful effect, upon our habitations. In rendering
this just tribute, I am not to bo understood as committing my
self against mv country'* causo. I should oppose yon with
might if I wore equal to the striftj; and if my prayers prevail. !
a different story will be the record of future contested fields, i
to any thing which has yet emblazoned your success.”
TliU speech was addressed to Richard Beverly of our mess,
by Isabella Cordova—for the benefit of our readers, we have
anglicized the name as far as possible,—a character which we
shall make better known to tho patrons of the Citizen after
explaining somewhat in detail the circumstances under which
the representatives of the belligerent races met on terms of ;
intimacy.
The mooting was at Monterov. The long truce which follow
ed the capture of that city was emphatically a God-send to the ;
American soldiers, after the toils and privations of liard march- i
ing and the hazards of actual strife. A cursory retrospective
glance may be indulged, with the hope of eliciting something !
of interest with respect to the character of the country tra
versed ; and more especially Vith a view of .presenting the;
actual contrast in the circumstances of our fellows, during the :
changes of the strife with Mexico, up to the time of the for- j
mal introduction of the subject of this sketch. \\ e hope, in ;
these papers, to supply that transcript of the common sol- j
dier’s life, which has been neglected In all previous records.
We do not impugn the motives of those writers, who by im
plication at least, have declared to the reading public, that ho j
is a miserable gleaner indeed, who reaps in the field of war
life, after a record has been mJtde of the triumph of arms,
and the character of those who hold distinguished posts.
From the beginning of the war at Palo Alto, until the mis
erable truce, the alpha and omega of soldier-life, presented
one unbroken chain of privations and disappointment, with
about as distinct difference as you would expect in the links,
save only the triumphs of our arms. The marches were not
only excessively fhtiguing, but generally in the earlier part of
them, through a sparsely peopled waste of interminable ckap
paral. There were but few objects to relieve the monotony. ;
The occasional haciendas wore at such remote interval*, a#
to lose almost entirely the effect of diversifying the prospect,
and the men and women who eonferrred upon these points
their distinctive characteristics of interest and novelty, were ,
frightened away hy the stories which preceded the army flush
ed with success in every conflict with their people. Mar was I
terrible to the simple pastoral people who inhabited the bor
der States of the Mexican Republic. They drew their no-
tions of it from the fearful incursions of brutal and predatory
hands of the wildest Indians, or the animosities of partisan
strife and internal commotion. It is not at all strange, that they j
should regard ou” people, who they believed came to despoil
their possessions, os Indrones and cut-throats, and removed
with “ hot haste” from the path of conquering invaders,
their families and all the appliances of their novel mode of life, ;
hy which a correct observation of their social habits might [
; l>e instituted.
But this dismal waste, animated only by the song of birds
and the howl of the prairie wolf, was lost in forgetfulness, af
ter two day's march beyond Mier, entirely new features in the
general aspect of the country burst in mature loveliness upon ,
the vision, increasing in novelty and interest every league,
unti the picturesque scenery of Sierrc Madre and its numer
ous valleys with their dense forests and serpentine brooks, ;
o'.ear and limpid and romantic, castle like residences and
: green gardens diversified the perspective.
Monterey reached and conquered, and the joyous holiday
of the soldier commenced. For a time the work of blood
was at an end, and we had suffered enough to learn to appre*
I date the new scenes in which we moved, and regale our sen
ses in the bnlmv atmosphere, which at morning, mid-day and
noon, reinvigorated the tense nerves of the working men of
the army, and sent a thrill of new energy and animatiutf
j throughout the entire lines. To those who participated in
the pleasures of this truce, the lovely valley, the top of the
gigantic peaks in which Monterey, with its turrets and towers
and gardens, was the main object of the attractive perspective
i the beautiful picture is as vivid as when palpably before tho
j vision. The camp of the victors of Monterey has often boon
i described, and for any thing more than a few general features,
to Indicate tlie proper channel for the imagination of the gen
-1 oral reader, for a glance at its clustering associations, we refer
| him to the army chronicles. The tents were arranged in
i regular brigade sections, distinct and separate from each other,
at equal distances, and bounded on all sides by the dense pri
meval forest, undisturbed except in the immediate vicinage of
each section. Contiguous to each brigade,—the first distant
two leagues from the city,—was its bold spring of pure moun-
I tain water, in parade ground, and its allotted limits for the
market, furnished with every luxury and fruit known to tho
region bv the representatives of the middle and lower classes
! of the Mexican population
’ There was no oppn vsive labor to disturb the quiet enjoy*
j ment of the scene and its object of interest, during the truce,
the soldier's own saturnalia, save a semimonthly detail for
light guard duty, or shorter demand upon liis time at tho
stores of the Commissary. Many of his days were spent in
visiting the city, and if he grew weary of tracing the not yet ex
tinct marks that indicated the severe conflicts of liis compan
ions in which the gates to the city were won, and the several
prominent forts with their bastions and battlements recently
’ frowning with their death-dealing guns, the valley on all
; hands, with its summer residences and beautiful hacienda t
1 its hot. cold and mineral springs invited his attention and stu
dy. The nights, too, soft and balm)*, had their own claims to
attraction, and one or inure might be spoilt in fruitless efforts
to discover the purpose and origin of the bright fires which
flashed from tho summits of hundreds of the encircling peak*
of the chain of mountains, the next wonid bring its agreeable
change with the incidents of the times. Familiarity wears
away the force of prejudices very often, and the soldiers wero
not long enjoying tho circumstances we have glanced at, beforo
evidences were given that the principle had its effect in the cir
cles of Mexican society, in which were welcomed many of
the invaders of the country. This of course enhanced that
gaietie dr cocur which incited the good conduct of the man
of “ the rank and file” as well as their officers to deserve tha
confidence of those high-toned Mexicans who threw their
doors open to them, There were, of “ the rank and file,”
some who had the eci.se of propriety to respect and accept
the tender, and taste to appreciate the offering. Tho gentle
man may be recognized under any exterior. Beverly, who
ranked as humble as sergeant was of this class, and had as ful
ly the confidents; o# his officers and coiiqiauions as any other
individual of the regiment. He had been well raised and lib
erally educated, apd in l,i< humble capacity and uniform de
portment. was a living ism trad iet ion of the popular conviction,
at home and abroad, that the only gentlemen of the army wars
epaulettes, His amusements were rational, and into his past
times any officer might have entered without conipromitting
his dignity or character.
For intercourse with the Mexicans he hail a decided advan
tage over the majority of his companions and officers, in tlmt
he spoke the Spanish language with fluency, and while el cap*
itan might confer a favor upon the sergeant, by giving the in
fluence of his position,—no small matter in the introduction,—
the obligation was paid oft’ in the duties of the interpreter.
The face, mind and manners of Beverly were quite sufficient
to maintain or to increase the impression made in his favor by
the introduction into company with his officer.
In every relation in life, as son, brother and friend, he had
filled the measure of the expectations of those who knew him
beat. At Monterey the same rigid adhesion to principle which
marked his intercourse in good society at home, was the inflex
ible rule of his conduct.
Having succinctly stated the circumstances under which
our dramatis persona were brought together, and given a
brief outline of the character of the hero, with your permis
sion, reader, we will fill up this introductory chapter, w ith as
nearly a lifc-like a picture of Isabella Cordova, as the materials
retained in our memory will allow. First and foremost, then,
whether she bad ever seen the poetry of Drvdcn or not, she
very well understood the force of the sentiment in the follow
ing lines :
t‘ Kindness by secret sjin[*athy is tied,
For noble souls in nature are allied,”
And brought this knowledge to bear upon tho intercom*!
with Beverly. In other words, by her marked attention and
kindness toward the sergeant, she enforced the conviction
upon his mind that he was noble, and fier's a “ kindred na
ture,”
She had an object in view in winning the affection and con
fidence of Beverly, and in winning these she succeeded, al
though she was slow in developing her real motives, and care
ful to conceal the tendency of her womanly tactics. BtPlct
us not anticipate. The plot of the Castilian beauty will be
developed with the progress of the story.
Os the personal attractions of Isabella, Beverly was bo
mean witness, nor did lie greatly exaggerate those cliarms,
when he borrowed from Byron's Beppothe language for hi*
owp description, so far as mere appearances to him were con
cerned. With much feeling lie quoted,
U Heart on her lips, an! soul within her eyes,
Suit a< her dime, and sunny as tier skies.”
11l his moments of eestacy, when our moss-mate was fresh
from an interview with the charming beauty, lie wuuld re
count her attractions in the eloquent language at Byron or
Rogers, or others of those readers of the facinations of per
sonal charms and mysticisms of Jove, He would quote these
so often that his own interest in thorn seemed to make him for
getful that any one besides himself had any claim to the pa
ternity of the effusions. They ought to have been his, for hi*
circumstances produced the original of the ideal of the real
authors. Rogers, in bis Italy, only dreamed,
“ But then her face,
Fo lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflow ing of an innocent heart.”
Beverly real tied the truth of the picture, as he gsaed upon
Isabella, lie thought, too, that “Grace was in all her steps,
heav'n in her eyes.” Our own testimony would go far to con
firm the opinion of tho enamored sergeant, for we have eeeij
her, when her
“Glossy hair war clustered o'er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eye-brow’s shape was like the a-rial bow,
Her cheeks ail purple with the beams of youth,”
Isabella was of pure Castilian descent, and though born iff
the old world, and under the influence of republican auspices,
she was proud of tracing her ancestral line, to the time of tha
palmy days of old Spain .when her name appeared in the records
of chivalrie Knights. The best population of Mexico ja mode
up of the desendants of old Spanish families. These present
characteristics which distinguish them from the masses as
| clearly as color in the two grant! species of the human race
to be found in our Southern States. They differ from the
majority in oomplexion, features, habits, and are known by tha
superior refinement which enters largly into all their social in
terchanges. Indeed, you would as readily consent to recognise
the respective representatives of the Courts of St. James and
j Faustin First, as of the same blood, as the relior of old Spae-
I ish grandees, and the tnaisof the Mexican population. Sine*
NO. 8.
