Newspaper Page Text
BY JAJIES W. .YOTVES.
The Southern Whig, I
PU3LISJED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. |
TERMS,
Three dollars per annum, payable within six I
months after the receipt of tlie iii st number, or
four dollars if not paid within the year. Sub
scribers living out of the State, will be expect
ed in all caseS; to pay in advance.
Ho subscription received for less than one year,
unless the money is paid in ad vance; and no
paper will be discontinued until all arrear
ages are paid, except at the option of the pub
lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance,
bf their Papers, are requested to bear in mind,
a settement of their accounts.
Advertisements will be inserted at the usual
rates; when the number of insertions is not
specified, they will be continued until ordered
out.
All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on
matters connected with the establishment,
must be post paid in order to secure attention
Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by
Administrators, Executors, or Guardians,
must be published sixty days previous to the
day of sale.
Tho sale of personal Property, in like manner,
must be published forty days previous to
the day es sale.
Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must
be published forty days.
Notice that Application will be made to the Court
of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne
g.ues, must be published four months.
Notice that Application will be made for Letters
of administration, must be published thirty
days and Letters of Dismission, six months.
For Advertising—Letters of Citation. § 2 75
•Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 25
Four Months Notices, 4 00
Sales of Personal Property by Executors,
Administrators, or Guardians, 3 25
Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 75
Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50
Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents
for'bvery thirteen lines of snu 11 type, (or space
equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each
weekly continuance. If published every other
week, 02 1-2 cents for each continuance. If
published once a month, it will be charged each
time as a new advertisement. For a single
insertion, 00 per square.
PROSPECTUS
OF THE
sootsshes
THIA paper formerly edited by m. E.
Jones, is now under the dircc' „on of the
undersigned. The growingimpori.aHte of Ath
ens, the state of parties in Georgia, and the
agitation of certain questions, having a direct
influence on southern intere tender it neces
sary that the northwestern part of Georgia
should have some v’.jt'jant, i’aithf'ul sentinel
always on the Wiitc'.i tower, devoted to a strict
construction oftb'j true spirit ofthe constitut
t ic maintainau'oe ofthe rights and
•»{ the States, the retrenchment of
patronage, reform, and a strict accountability
of all p'.iblic officers; moderate, yet firm and
decided in his censures, “ nothing extenuate or
setd.own ought in malice,”—to expose prompt
ly abuses and corruption when and whereevr
discovered—such an one the undersigned pro
doses to make the Whig; while it will contain
the most authentic and important information
connected with our foreign and domestic rela
pons, the latest commercial intelligence, ori
tiinal articles, and selections from the inos
gopular works of the day in the various depart’
merits of Agriculture. Literature and the Arts.
To Georgians the undersigned is conscious
Le appeals not in vain for an increase of patron
age—and he respectfully asks the friends ol
constitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob
tain subscribers.
The Southern Whig is published weekly in
Athens Georgia, at Three Dollars per annum
payable in advance, Three Dollars and fifty
cents if not paid within six months, or Four
if not paid until the end of the vear.
J. W. JONES.
PROSPECTUS.
AT the late meeting of the Alumni of Frank
lin College, it was unanimously resolved to
, be expedient to make arrangements to issue a
Monthly Literary Magazine, to be called
THE ATHENIAN.
The undersigned were appointed by the So
ciety a committee of publication and joint Edi
tors of the work, until the next meeting of tne
Society. We have no interest in the work, ex
cept that which we take in the welfare of the
country and honor of the State. We, of the
South, have too long depended upon foreign
parts forour Literature, and neglected our own
talents. We shall be weak so long as we think
we are weak: and dependent until we make ef
forts to be independent. We hope all the friends j
oi Literature in the State, and especially the
Alumni of Franklin College, will patronize the |
enterprise both by word and deed. State pride I
the love of Literature, our interest in the cause
of general Education, all call upon us to sustain
an enterprise so necessary to our improvement,
■and the honor ofthe Suite.
A. S. CLAYTON,
JAMES JACKSON,
R. D. MOORE,
WM. L. MITCHELL,
C. F. McCAY,
SAMUEL P. PRESSLEY,
H. HULL.
Tme Athenian shall issue monthly, on fine
paper, stitched and covered in pamphlet form,
land shall contain sixty-four pages royal octavo.
-Nothing derogatory to religion, offensive to any
denomination of Christians, or of any political
>arty, shall appear in the Athenian. Its pages
■■shall be honestly devoted to general Literature,
4he cause of Education, the Review of new
works, and notices of improvements in Science,
Arts and Agriculture. Price Five Dollars per
annum, payable on the delivery ofthe first num
ber.
months after date application will be
tj honorable the Inferior Court
of Madison couqty, sitting for ordinary purno
ses, for leave to sell the real estate of James
banders, Jun. late of said county, deceased
. -1 ! SANDERS, c. e. o.
April I—4B—4m.
rp HE undersigned has settled in Macon wi h
JL the view ol practicing LAW—He will at
tend the courts of the adjoining counties, ami
may be found by application at the office of
-Messrs. Poe & Nisbet for the present—His
Office, not quite complete, is on the second floor
ol the New Commercial Bank.
In winding up my business in the Ocmulgee
circuit, I have associated with me Augustus
Reese, Esq of Madison. Our joint attention
will be applied to that object.
Al t ™ E.'A. NISBET.
Macon, January 28—39 lot.
The Southern Recorder,’ Chronicle and
Sentinel, and Whig, will publish the above J
weekly until the first of May.
JUOLM iJw Iw I Wo
I POBTBY.
From the Knickerbocker far April.
Hl MN.
translated from the french of d’lamartiNe.
A hymn more, oh my lyre I
Praise to the God above,
Os joy, and life, and love,
Sweeping its strings 01 fire !
Oh ! who the speed of bird and wind
And sunbeam’s glance, will lend to me,
That, soaring upward, I may find
My resting-place and home in Thee ?
Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom'
Adorest with a fervent flame—
Mysterious spirit! unto whom
Pertain nor sigh nor name !
Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go
Up from the cold and joy less earth—
Back to the God who bade them flow,
Whose moving spirit sent them forth :
But as for me, oh God ! for me,
The lowly creature of thy will,
Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee,
An earth-bound pilgrim still!
Was not my spirit born to shine
Where youder stars and suns are glowing?
To breathe with them the light divine,
From God’s own holy altar flowing?
To be, indeed, whate’er the soul
In dreams hath thirsted for so long—
A portion of heaven’s glorious whole
Os loveliness and song !
Oh I watchers of the stars of night.
Who breathe their fire, as we the air—■
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light*
Oh, say, is He—the Eternal there ’
Bend there around his awful throne
The seraph's glance, the t\, e angel’s knee ?
Or are thy inmost depths ’ffis own,
Oh, wild and mighty gea t
Thoughts of DTy soul! how swift ye go I
Swift as. t [ le eagle’s glance of fire,
from the archer’s bow,
T j the far aim of your desire 1
" bought after thought, ye thronging rise,
Like spring-doves from the startled Wood,
Bearing like them your sacrifice .
Os music unto God !
And shall these thoughts of joy and lovo
Come back again no more to me—
Returning like the patriarch’s dove,
Wing-weary, from, the eternal sea ?
To bear within my longing arms
The promise-bough of kindlier skies,
Plucked froni'the green, immortal palms !
Which shadow Paradise !
iR ■ ..' spirit!—freely forth
the strong wind goes
■^nal^oc .His fei&he passive earth,
Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose ;
Until it folds its weary wing
Once more within the hand divine,
So, weary of each earthly thing,
My spirit turns to thine !
Chifdof the sea, the mountain stream,
From its dark caverns, hurries on,
Ceaseless by night and morning’s beam,
By evening’s star, and noon-tide’s sun—
Until at last it sinks to rest,
O’er-wearied, in the waiting sea,
And moans upon its mother’s breast—
So turns ray soul to Thee I
Oh thou who bid’st the torrent flow.
Which lendest wings unto the wind— (
Mover of all things! where art thou?
Oh, whither shall I go to find
The secret of thy resting-place ?
Is there no holy wing for me,
That, soaring, I may search the space
Os highest heaven for Thee I
Oh, would I were as free to rise, ]
As leaves on autumn’s whirlwind borne—
The arrowy light of sun-set skies,
Or, sound, or ray, or star of morn.
Which melt in heaven at twilight’s close,
Or aught which soars unchecked and free, ;
Through earth and heaven, that I might lose 1
Myself in finding Thee !
Fro?nthe Southern INcrary Journal. 1
!
The Oa’pSian.
A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.
I It was a fine spring morning in the village of >
II , the woods rang with a cheerful me'o- '
dy, the trees scattered their swe ;t blossoms to ■
every passing breeze, and the blue sky above
seemed to shed the light of peacp overall, but
it penetrated not to the heart of a poor girl,
who had just given the last lingering look to
the home wf her childhood, and with her bun
die on her ann,eontainirg all she possessed,—
a neat but scanty wardrobe; was about to en
ter unfriended and alone upon the wide, Untried
sea of worldly cares. She paused a moment
to gather a bunch of heart’s easc from the little
garden, where she herself bad nlaiited the;;',.
They were the last she might ever take thence,
and their little purple and yellow petals glisten
ed with her tears.
Anne Rivers bad been motherless almost
from the hour of her birth, and had new just
lost her only remaining parent, who, to the
surprise of those who had known him, left, in
sufficient to answer the demands of his crecti
tors, and his child thus b^Mflttkenn yless, with
out protection, immediate
means of' 1
Thosi?. who yj"* '>‘s with
and sought her, Wl- ' jb, one, when
it was know , th;.J®^'; She
was chilhxl by and at that :
very season, when heart is inost ;
ready to expand in its unsuspecting warmth, to 1
love anil he loved, to sympathise in every bo- I
dv’s griefs, and yield up its own to the voice |
of consoling tenderness, she was condemned to
realize bitterly how cold are
“The charities of man to man."
What most of all won rded her, was the
avoidance at this time of one, with whom she
had been intimate from childhood.
Linda Maxwell, the daughter of an opulnt
tradesman, was the hello and the beauty ol
[J , Hstwcen her and Anne, an early
school-girl intimacy had commenced, which
! near neighbourhood and other incidental cir
| cumslances had tended to continue and i :crease
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULHfica\ o y THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY. Jejfci 30)1.
but during the last year or two, their childish
familiarity had gradually declined. Linda’s
father had been rising in the world, while Mr.
Rivers was growing poor, and Linda’s head
was running on village ballsand parties, while
Anne was subjecting herself to daily privations
in the course of domestic duty.
Another circumstance perhaps insensibly
tended to divide them. William Barton, uni- I
versally a favourite in the village, and by far 1
the finest young man it could boast, had so - .
some time devoted himself to both, with
impartiality that gave rise to much specul- j{ j on
among the gossips of II . His c onduct
in this respect was thought to be inc ons j stent
with his character, which .had alw>- vg exhibit
ed that remarkable frankness ao - ; decision that
seem to be induced by the a< /enturous iife-of
a sailor. His counteu-wce was full of spirit
and good sense, his ey<;swere eloquent in ten
derness, they flashed in scorn of whatever was
mean or dishonorable, and they could look
clearly and unbashed in the face of detraction.
He was Linda’s partner La the dance, and
Anne’s in her rambles y >.ong the hills. He
played the flute to Liu'. d ’ a piano, and read to
Anne while she plie j h er industrious needle.
With the one he Comped when she was guy,
and lor the other he had numberless tales of
the sea to amu, her when she appeared dis
pirited or fatigued, or to bring up the sweet
wondermo’. .t in her meek eyes, and cause them
to beam through the mist of tears at the toils
and perils of a sailor’s life. Linda wore in
her h ~ir the ribbons he had admired, and Anne
the violets ke had gathered, in her bosom.
Seine slander-mongers affirmed, that he was
flirting most up.v.Tirrantably with both; but
others, more eharitable in judgment, declared
there couVa be no doubt the young man was re
ally in lo.ve with one or the other, but being
too young and too poor to think of married life,
that he was thrs equally distributing his atten
tions, in order, honorably to avoid entangling
the affections of ei'.her. If such, however,
were his well-principled resolve, it was ain in
j the one case, and needless in the other Linda
was too conscious of her own charms to think
I of rivalship, nor indeed had the attentions of
1 the young sailor made any other impression
on her heart than to please its fancy and grati
fy its love of admiration : but Anne was nour
ishing almost unconsciously in her bosom, a
deep and enduring affection.
Neither perhaps looked beyond the present
or knew what was in William’s heart. He
went to sea and made no avowal, yet something
1 might have been judged by the parting inter
view with each.
< He passed the first hours of the evening be
fore he sailed, with Linda, and with a sailor’s
honest freedom, snatched a kiss from her
blooming cheek, as he bade her farewell.
With Anne he lingered longer : he saw that
i her heart was oppressed as welt as his own ;
; he wiped the tears from her eyes, and gave her
| his favorite poem “The Shipwreck,” begging
; her to read it and think of him, whose unquiet
home was now to be upon the sea: and so
they parted.
Three years passed away, and no one heard
of him; he who had been the life ofthe vil
lage, was by most forgotten, and of those who
had remembered him at all, the greater part
believed he never would return.
Neither Anne nor Linda spoke of him to
each other; indeed they now rarely met. Lin
da had become more than ever absorbed in
amusement, and Mr. Rivers’ declining he.Jth
required all the time and attention of his devoted
child.
After a lingering and painful illness, at length
he died, and Anne in the h’our ot her affliction,
did not feel Linda’s neglect the less deeply,
that their friendship had been thus long on the
decline.
“ I knew,” she said in the sadness of her
heart, “ I knew that all smypathy was long ago
lover between us, and that our affection had ■
i become 'as a tale that is told,” but I did think j
| some kind recollections of former times, would i
i have brought her to me at this trying moment.
• It was the finishing blow to the little remains
of early attachment that had still lingered in I
her bosom, and she was soon after so siti’itcd
as necessarily to meet Linda every day, and so
; changed in feeling as to do so with the same
j indiffersneo she had felt towards a stranger,
i Mrs. Maxwell offered the friendless orphan
j a home in her family, telling hen she knew
[ that hefdomestic habits Would render her high
! Iy useful, especially in the care of the younger
! children,
‘‘l shall give them quite up to your manage
■ merit, Anne,” said she, with what was meant
j for a benign smile. “ For a year or two at
j least, you may save me the expense of their
j schooling. Linda is extravagant, and throws
| by her dresses before they are half Worn : you
1 can exercise your skill in making them over
] for the children, and now and then in fitting a
! gown or so for yourself,”
| Poor Anne was fain to accept jhis meagre
j charity, though she would have preferred a
| situation remote from her native village, and to •
i earn a subsistence among strangers, rather
than at the. hands of those with whom she had
he ld relations so different; but nursed in the
bosom of retirement, friendless and uuacquaint
ed*wi:h the world’s rough ways, she was ut
terly ignorant of ai’y ofthe means by which a
youi g person of her cleverness and enemy,
might tiiore pleasantly and creditably have es
tablished herself, Nor was it the least of her
young heart’s vexations to be thus holding a
situation of dependence in the family of Linda’s j
mother—
“ Above a servant, but with service more.”
With a resolution and good sense however,
unusual in one so young, she bore up against
these trials.
She often tildes sighed over the memory-of
the past, but she-was uqf one to brood inactive
ly over a romantic sorrow. Her patience and
humility were daily exercised, but she never
quite lost the sunlight of cheerfulness, and re
solutely sought for happiness in the conscien
tious performance ofher duties.
“ She veiled her troubles in a mask of ease, |
And showed her pleasu re was a power to please,’’ i
The children were over indulged, wilful and
idle : sho had a bard task to govern them, but
her patient perseVerance effected much, in
the morning she taught tliem their lessons in a
little co fi. cd room, in one corner of which
stood her own bed, and this apartment wasdiij.
nified with the title of school room, while she
herself, Without salary, and performing nume
rous menial offices, bore in the family the
sounding appellation of governess.
Her pleasantest hours were when she walk
ed with her little charge i to the outskirts of
the village, and entered with the buoyant, spirit
of youth and health into their, amusements:
opening her heart to the sweet influences ol
nature, chasing butterflies with them, running
races down the green hills, or gathering fruits
and flowers that grew wild in the fields. These.
ATSIENS, CIEeRGIA, SATUS? APRSE SS3,
moments of rccrea’J , n h OWover were shorl:
she was expected < () employ her needle at home
w ith all diligenc cn d it was only at night that
she had an ho JS . o r two to herself in her own
room : it ter her’s at that hour. What snatch
es of leis’ i( . e s |je had, she loved to employ in
readinr , all( ] sometimes, when Mrs. Maxwell
3110 xjinda were out, she had a quiet hour’s en-
I j°" y rnent in the parlour, where from the little
> jtielf of showy books, she could select a few
calculated at once to charm and instruct. Her
favorite was “Falconer’s Shipwreck,” and
there were moments when the hand that held
that cherished volffme, would drop upon her
lap, and her thoughts would stray with a deep
and tender interest to him who gave it: the
distant object of that early love, that had sprung’
spontaneously like a wild violet, amid the Ver
dure of her heart, and now lay there drooping
and folded, but not dead. These, however,
were indulgences of rare occurrence. She
had that peace, which arises from constant and
regular occupation, and though her cheek was
paler and her eyes less bright than bad been
their wont in happier days, she wore that look
of sweet serenity, that becomes a young face,
even more than freshness and bloom.
Thus passed three years ; when, one morn
ing taking up a newspaper, one ofthe children
had brought into the school room, she read—
“ Arrived at D— , from , the ship Ga-
ronne, William Barton, commander;”
Could it be he? Had William indeed re
turned to his native country after so many
years? Had the poor sailor boy thus risen in
his profession ; and if so ! it was a thought
that alternately flushed and paled her cheek, —
would he remember her ?
She laboured in vain this day, to confine
her mind to the routine ofthe c ildren’s occu
pations. She longeo, yet dreaded to meet Lin
da : at one moment she was on the poi.it of
seeking her, hoping she would speak of Wil
liam, and tell her something more concerning
his return, than the slight information gained
from the paper: but again he heart shrank
timidly from the thought of < xposiug the inter
est she felt to one, With whom she had so few
sympathies.
The day wore wearily o*, and the®<pnet of
her mind was disturbed by anxiety and inde
cision.
In the evening, as she Was making tea, she
heard from the lips of Linda, the name sho had
so longed, yet feared, to titter; She came near
dropping the cup she was handing tn a ser
vant, and felt as if every eye was upon her, but
nobody was thinking of poor Anne in her re
mote corner, and in a few minutes she gathered
c- urage to listen.
“ He was always a fine young man, and I
doubt not, has turned out well,” said Mrs. Max
well, —“ 1 understand he is to be h; re on the
twelfth.” “ The twelftii, mamma !” exclaim
ed Linda, “that is the night of the assembly
at ’s rooms! Do you think he will be
there !”
“An invitation, should certainly be sent,”
was the reply. “ Pray Mr. Mjjfcwell, my dear,
see about it yourself: it is no metre than a pro
per respect, which on o ht to be paid to our
young townsman.
“Very well, my dear. They say he has
made a fortune, and has come huine io spend
' it: he. is quite right. A man must be a fool to
follow the seas, who has property sufficient to
live at home. I think, Linda, he used to be a
beau of yours : eh ?”
“Dear papa!—that was so long ago. I
dare say he has forgotten it. lam sure, for
my part, I can scarcely remember how he
looked.”
No more was said. No reference was made
to Anne: they seemed not to remember she
had known him. She soon after retired unno
ticed to her room, but sleep visited not her eyes
until a *ate hour. Lttlie hope was blended
with the excitement of her spirit; Prayer
: glowed warmly in her heart that night, but it
| was for patience and submission, more than for
I the fulfilment of any wish she ha I dared to
r'oim : yet, u 6 the lids dosed ut last over her
j ac ,i* fcyus, there was a murmur upon her lips,
‘ “ ilow could Linda forget his looks;”
For several days, no more was heard of
Bartan. The night ofthe twelfth arrived.— {
Linda’s toilette was unusually laborious, and '
as Anne assisted, she thought she had never
seen her so brilliant in beauty. The conscious
glow was bright upon her cheek and lip, the
Hash of triumphant expectation almost dazzling
in her eye.
“ How he will admire her,” thought Anne ;
and as she gazed, perhaps it was to be forgiv- j
qi>, that a sigh swelled her soft bosom, at the j
contrast her own paler check and plain ging
ham dress presented. She turned quickly
away fi'om the glass, and as she heard the
door close after Lindt* and her mother, sat
down in the solitude of her heart, and buried
her face in her hands, while the slow tears
trickled through her slender fingers, and she
thought of days departed, never, she feared, to
return. Dispersing them quickly, however,
she sought her favorite poenq and endeavoured
to arouse the interest it had So often before
imparted. After a time, the sincere and well
principled effort was crowned with success,
and she was reading with almost all her usual
enthusiasm, —
“But now soft nature's sympathetic chain,
i ugs at his yearning heart with powerful strain;
1 he faithful wife forever doomed to mourn
I or him alas ! who never shall return ;
j nis lovely daughter left without a friend,
Iler innocence to succour or defend ;»
All faint to Heaven he throws his dying eyes,
And, “ O protect my wife and child he cries :
The gushing streams roll buck the unfinished !
sound—”
When sho was siartled by hearing her own
name uttered close to her ear, in a voice that
thrilled every chord in her bosom.
She looked up—could it be?—it was—Wil
liam Barton. There were the same intense
blue eyes that bad so often made her heart leap,
the same bright smile, less glad perhaps, but
I more sweet, more tender.
I For a moment she stood bewildered. “ Wil
liam!” ut last she said, extending her hand to
meet his grasp, and then, in utter confusion,
“I fear, —I tear, —it is a mistake, —the ladies
are out, they expected you at the assembly"
room ’’
“ Ladies!—Anne, I came here to sec you, if
indeed you are unchanged,, if you mean not to
forget and disown uu old triend ”
“Disown, —forget.—Oh William ” She I
burst i .to tears, and he pressed her to his heart, :
and wiped them as he had done when last they [
met am! parted;
‘• This is no tune for concealment,” he said. I
“ 1 know you are unchanged, and though th ■ j
name of love has never vet passed our lips, we j
have always undersnood i nch other’s hearts. |
Have wo not, my oiyn. my dearest, —and shall I
. we ever part again? Well, do not answer j
. then, —only hide your dear face in mv bosom,
: and let me tel! you, that your father s house, the
house where I left you, was the first to which
my feet were directed : —‘.here I was told where
to seek you, and I have come to claim the pro
mise, your eyes have so often unconsciously
given,—that promise which has Dtfen my hope,
through al! these long years of absence. Oh
more precious to me, these tears, this tender
ness, than all that earth beside could offer.”
It was enough. The desolate orphan’s
heart was filled with comfort; the bioom re
mounted to her cheek, th;: lustre to her eye.
A few weeks more, and she was no longer
without one to cherish and uphold her. She
was the happy wife of William Barton.
SONG.
T3SE PALMETTO TREE.
BY WM. KEENAN.
Hurrah for the Palmetto tree,
Hurrah for the land of the brave,
Oh long may its green branches wave
Bright over the fair and the free !
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah for the Palmetto tree.
The ashes ofheroeS
Carolinians! have hallow’d forever.
And will their descendants ever,
From their glorious example recoil ?
Hurrah, &c. Ate.
No ! while the warm stream is gushing
Undaunted we’ll spring to the strife,
And wherever danger is rife—
Onward to glory still rushing.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Then hurrah—Hurrah for the free,-
Our fathers have proved in their need.
Their sons when called on will bleed,
Will conquer or perish with thee !
Hurrah ! Hurr»h, &c. tec.
A Tragedy in Real SJfc.
The vicinity of he northern provinces of I
the kingdom of Naples to the papal territories,
and the ease with which malefactors of
both countries, respectively gain an asylum, by
passing the frontiers, open a door to the com
mission of the most flagitious acts. Conver
sing one day, at Portici, on this subject with
Lady Hamilton, she related to me the follow
ing story which I shall endeavor to give in her
oWn words: “About the year 1743, a person
of the name of Ogilv.e, an Irishman by birth,
who practised surgery with great reputation at
Rome, and who resided not far from the ‘ Pi
azza di Spagna,’ in that city, being in bed,
was called up to attend some strangers who
demanded his professional assistance. They
stopped before his house in a coach, and on
his going to the door, he found two men mask
ed, by whom he was desired to accompany
them immediately, as the case which brought
them admitted of no delay, and not omit taking
with him his lancets. He complied, and got
into the coach ; but, no sooner had they quitted
the street in which he resided, than they in
formed him that he must submit to have his
eyes bandaged ; the person to whom they were
about to conduct him, being a lady of rank,
whose name and place of abode it was indis
pensable to conceal. To this requisition he
also submitted ; and after driving through - n
number of streets, apparently with n view to
prevent his forming any accurate idea of the
part of the city to which he was conducted,
the carriage at iegth stopped. The two gen
tlemen, his companions, then alighted, nud each
taking him by the arm« conducted him into a
house. Ascending a narrow staircase, they
entered an apartment—where he was released
from the bandage tied over his eyes, Ono of
them next acquainted him, that it being neces
sary to put out of life a lady who had dishon
ored her family, they hud chose;, him to per
form the office, knoy;;;,g nis professional skill;
! tnat he would find her in tho adjoining cham
ber, prepared to submit to her fate : and that
he must open her veins with as much expedi
tion as possible ; a service, for the execution
of U hich, he should receive a liberal compen
sation.
i “ Ogilvie at first peremtorily refused to com
; mit an act so highly repugnant to his feelings.
But, the two strangers assured him, with so
lemn denunciations of vengeance, that his re
fusal could only prove fatal to himself, with
out affording the slightest assistance to the ob
ject of his compassion; that her doom was)
irrevocable, and that unless h« chose to partici-
1 pate in a similar fate, he must submit to exe
cute the office imposed upon him. Thus si
tuated, and finding all entreaty or romoustrance
in vain, he entered the room, where he found a
lady of a most interesting figure and appear
ance apparently in the bloom of ycuth. She
was habited in a loose undress ; and immedi
ately afterwards, a female attendant placed be
fore her a large tub filled with warm water, in
which she immersed her feet. Far trom im
posing any impediment to the act which she
knew he was sent to perform, the lady assured
him of her perfect resignation ; entreating him
to put the sentence passed upon her into exe
cution, with as little delay p'ossible. She
added, that she was well aware no pardon
could be hoped for from those who had devo- !
ted her to death, which alone could expiate j
her trespass, felicitating herself that his hu- |
manity would abbreviate her sufferings and
terminate their duration,
“Aftera short conflict with his own mind,
perceiving no means of extrication or escape,
either for the lady or himself; bi ing moreover
| urged to expedite his work by the two persons
I without, who, impatient at his reluctance,
threatei ed to exercise violence on him if he
procrastinated,' Ogilvie took out his lancet,
opened her veins, and bled her to death in a
short time. The gentlemen having carefully
examined the body, in order to ascertain that
she was no more, after expressing their satis
faction, offered him a purse of zechins, as a
remuneration ; but he declined all recompeuce,
only requesting to bo conveyed awav from a 1
scene on which he could not reflect without
horror. With this entreaty they complied,
and having applied a bandage to his eyes, they
led him down the same staircase to t he carriage.
But, it being narrow, in descending the steps,
he contrived to leave on one or both the walls,
unperceived by his conductors, the marks of
his fingers which were stained with blood.—
After observing precautions similar to those
j used in bringing hitn from his own house thi-
I ther, he was Conducted home; and at parting,
j the tw-> masques charged him, if he valued his
; life, never to divulge, and, if possible, never to
| think of the past transaction. They added. if
I he should embrace any measure, with a view
1 to render it public, or to set on foot an inquiry
■ into it, he ho should be infallibly immolated to
) their revenge. Having finally dismissed hitn
I at his own door, they drove off', leaving him to
| his o« .. rcfkclions;
, 1 On the subsequent morning, after great irre
; solution, he determined, at whatever risk to
i his personal safety, by con
> cealing so
. vertheless, a deliciJHFd difficult undertaking
■ Jo substantiate the charge, as he remained al
, together ignorant of the place to which he
. had been carried, or of the name and quality
of the lady whom he had deprived of life.
Without suffering himself, however, to be de,
* terred by those considerations, ho waited on
j the Secretary of the Apostolic Chamber, and
acquainted him with every particular ; adding,
that if the government would extend to him
protection, he did not despair of finding the
house, and ol bringing ta light the perpetrators
of the deed. Benedict the Fourteenth, i Lam.
bertini,) who then occupied the papal chair,
had no sooner received the information, than
he immediately commenced tho most active l
measures for discovering the offenders.. A
guardot’ the Shirri, or officers of justice, was
appointed by Ins order to accompany Ogilvie,
who. judging from various circumstances, that
1 he had been conveyed out of the city of Rome,
begau by visiting the villas scattered without
the walls of the metropolis. His seat ch plo
yed ultimately successful. In the villa Papa
Julio, constructed by Pope Julius the Hurd
(dal iMoute,) he there found the bloody marks
left on the wall by his fingers, at the same time
that he recognized the apartment in which he
had put to death the lady. The palace belong
ed to the duke de Braccioni, the chief of
which illustrious family and his brother had
committed murder on their own sister!—They
no sooner found it was discovered, than they
fled to the city of London, where they easily
eluded the pursuit of justice. After remain
ing there for some time, they obtained a par
don, by the exertions of their powerful friends,
on payment of a considerable fine to the apos
tolic chamber, and under the further condition
of affixing over the chimney-piece of the room
where the crime had been perpetrated, a plate
of copper, Commemorating the transaction,
i and their penitence. —The plate together with
the inscription still continued to exist there till
within thsso few years,”
From the Sat. Courier.
The Rich Plan’s Rawghters.
BY- A LADY. -
It is often said that the times are strangely
altered; and certain it is that the people are.
It was thought honorable for people, to be con
stantly engaged in some active and useful vo
cation—but now-a-days, it is thought honorable
to be idle. There is much complaint of the
high price of every necessary of human ex
istence, and with much truth. But if the a
mount of idleness could be calculated with
mathematical accuracy throughout our exten
ded republic, allowing the drones only half
price for services they might perform, which
others are now paid for—it might npt be an un
safe calculation to put it down at the whole
amount now paid for the provisions and mar
ketinginthe United States. It is not a little
inconsistent to hear parents whine about the
price of provisions, while they bring np their
daughters to walk the streets, and expend mo-
I none of our great commercial cities, there
resides a gentleman worth from two to three
millions of dollars. He had three daughters,
and he required them alternately to go into the
kitchen and superintend its domestic concerns.
Health and happiness, he said, were thus pro
moted—besides he could not say, in the vicis
situdes of fortune, that they might not. ere
they should close their earthly Career, be com
pelled to rely upon their hands for a livelihood ;
at:; 1 ; lie could say that they never could become
good wives and the proper heads of a family,
until they knew with practical experience all
the oconomy of the' household affairs. One '
of these daughters, is now the lady of a gov- !
ernor of one of the States—allure now at the |
head of very respectable families—and they 1
carry out the principles implanted by their
worthy parents—winning and securing the es
teem of all around them.
Let the fair daughters of our country draw
lessons from the industrious matrons of the
past. The companions of the men who fought
the battles of the Revolution were inured to
hardships and accustomed to unceasing toil—
and so did thqy educate their daughters.—
Health, contentment, happiness and plenty
I smiled around the family altar. The damsel
who understood most the roughly and econom
ically the management of domestic matters,
and who was not afraid to put her hands into
the wash tub, for fear of destroying their elas
ticity and dimming their snowy whiteness, Was /
sought bv the prudent young men of those
days as fit comptnious tor life—but now-a
days, to learn the mysteries of the household
would make our fair ones faint away, and to
labor comes not in the code of modern gentili
f y-
The ]TKo<lea*n Babylon.
“ L ndon ! oppulent, enlarged, and still
Increasing London.’’
This vast metropolis is (he talisman which
' opens the book of nature and nations, and sets
I before the observer the men of all countries
I and ait ages, in respect both to what they are,
and what they have done. Whatever is pro
tbund in science, sublime in song, exquisite in
art, skilful in manufactwe, determined in free
dom, and voluptuous in enjoyment, is to be
found within the precincts of this modern Ba
uvion. There, too, is to be found every vice
and every crime by which human nature can
he debased and degraded. This picture his
been heightened by a recent publication ; but
the shades are deeper—a salvator gloom in. |
volves the virtue and morality of every class ;
of society. And yet—strange inconsistency '
of man ! —in uo part of the globe are there so ;
many noble institutions for the reliefof suffer
ing humanity, scientific research, and moral
improvement.
A few notes from the “ Great Metropolis,”
the work alluded to, furnishes a proof of the
vast extent of London at the present time.
[jVnZ. Int.
“ The area of the metropolis is calculated
to exceed 14,000 squf re acres. Itts divided
into 155 parishes ; and the computed number
of its courts, lanes, alleys, and rows, is 10,000.
The houses are believed to be 250,000 in num
ber ; the rental of which is .€7,(100,000 ster
ling. The population 2,000,000!”
“In proceeding along the great thorough
fares, the stranger is astonished at tho vast
crowds of people he meets. Whichever side
of the street he is on, in whatever direction
he looks, he sees nothing «n the pavement but
a dense mass of human beings, not stationary
or inactive, but al! proceeding on their respee.
live errands with as much expedi-ioq ns the
crowded state us the thoroughfare will admit.
Vol.
- In fact, when a plan has nothing to hurry him,
o it is so much the custom to walk at a
- puce in the crowded part of the town, that hu
- appears to be in as great haste ss if he had
’ just received intelligence that his house was
- on fire.” ' .
i “The late Wm. Cobbett said, an English.
r man. particularly a cockney, always walked
, as if he bad been sent on an errand, and told
. to make haste 'back. And the celebrat’d
i James Hogg, the •• Ettrick Shepherd.” obswr-
I ved, on his visit to London, in 1632, that a!! the
, folks he saw in tpe principal streets seemed as
if death hiinself was following at their heels;
The number of persons who crossed London
Bridge in one day was counted, and found t<>
be nearly 90,000. 30,000 persons die annual
ly; but the yearly number of births exceed
the deaths by two tw three thousand. It is
’ thought that 120.000 strangers are at ail times
stayb'E in London fp’.a few davs. The
ber of Scotchmen living in London is compu
ted to be 130,000, being within a lew thousand
ot the whole population of Edinburg. The
number of Irishmen, 200,000, nearly equal to
the population of Dublin. The number of
Frenchmen, 30,000.” e
Rome.—The celebrated Abbe de la Mennaisi
says of this city :
“You feel during your first stay at Rome, a
sort of melancholy, vague, oppressive sadness.
At every step the foot stumbles upon ruins, anti
disturbs the mingled ashes of men of every race _
and country, tvho for 30 centuries have, as con
querors or conquered, masters or slaves, inhab
ited this laud of grandeur and c’eiolation. Ybii
recognize still in this confused mass of ruins,
traces of various nations and ages, and from ail
these arises! know not what v ipourofthe tomb,
lulling the soul to rest, and inspiring it with the
ireauis that come in the sleep of deaths Yoii
would go there to die not to live ; for of Hie
there is scarcely a spvrk. No movement ex
cept the movement ofthe thousand petty inter
ests whick era wi and bloat in tho darkness, like
worms upon the floor of the tomb; The gov
ernment and the people appear to you like
spectres of past ages : the queen-city seated in
the midst of a desert is become the city of
death.
* * * •< Adventurers of all nations, monkd
of every country, ecclesiastics attracted from
every corner ofthe world by the hope of ad
vancing themselves, or by the bare want of sub,
sistence, form a great part of the population;
The end of each one is his interest; he has no
object but gain or pleasure. Repose, idleness,
sleep, int riupted from time to time by shows
which move the senses, form the happiness of
this people, who yet retains germs of a nobler
and more energetic character. There is no
opportunity for patriotism, nothing to call forth
noble deeds, nothing social. The established
government makes no account, in its low and
selfish calculations, of t/iesouZ of man. Is this
a nation? is this a equally? Italy I Italy ! thy
ancient dead arise ; on the sides ofthe Appeiu
nines the shepherds behold them with a sad
brow, and eyes covered with the dust of the
sepulchre, fastening their proud 'ook on the
land once s<>
did not recognize it, shaking their head with a
bitter and horrible smile, they lie down again
in the tomb 1 ’
Theatrical Accident.— Mr. William Sefton;
the leading melo-dramatic actor at the Bowe
ry and Franklin Theatres, having failed to ap
pear at the latter on Monday evening last, as
announced, his brother John came forward
and in the true lugubrious Jemmy Ticitcher ac;
cents, made an apologv to the following effeici:
Ladies and Gentlemen;— The manager
throws himself upon your kind indulgence this
evening for the non-appearance of Mr. Wm.
Sefton, as announced i i the bills ot the day,
[groans, cat calts, and “ What's tlffi matter,”
j from the pit,] and when I assure you, ladies
| and gentlemen, that this disappoiutmsut arises
i solely from an accident, which befei rn.y broth
er last evening, you will, I am confident, actjuit
him of any neglect of his duties or want of
respect towards the numerous aud intelligent
audience assembled here this evening. [Cheers
from the pit and gallery.] I trust, ladies and
gentlemen, that the peculiar situation of my
brother will claim a portion <>t“your generous
sympathy, [renewed applause, in which the
boxes joined.] “ Accide»ts '‘ like the one that
has befidleti my brother, “will happen in the
best regulated families,” though they ssldom
occur but once to the same individual, [consi
derable feeling about, among the female wo
men, for smelling bottles and handkerchiefs,]
and when he shall hnve recovered sufficiently
to have the power lo appear before you, the
kind feeling extended to him iu his present si
tuation will, I am sure, inspirit him to new ef
forts. [Cheers, tears, and subs, with several
shouts of “what ails him ?’’] Distressing td
myself, as you may naturally suppose it to be,
ladits and gentlemen, to'recount die particu
lars of the recent cusu dity which deprives my
brother of the pleasure of appearing before
you this evening, I cannot refuse to answer to
the cali just made from s v ral parts of the
house. [Thai’s Seft<>u; out with it!]—
[Here Sefton, with the flap of his coat tail
his eye, and his comic phiz screwed into a
Linton grimace, came up to the footlights and
stated] —Ladies and Geuth-meii, asJUiss Anne
Waking, of the Bowery Theafre, atjd my bro*
ther, were quietly standing in the parlorof Mri
Marsh, al Jamaica, Inst evening, a clergyman
of that place suddenly married them, and im
mediately left the house, which 1 hope will
satisfactorily account lor the nonappearaucd
of Mr. Sefioti this evening, as it will be his
study to guard against the occurrence of any
similar accident
We need not say that the house was con,
I vulsed with laughter at John’s apology, and
that he retired amidst tremendous cheers from
boxes, pit and gallery.— N. Y. Spirit of tha
! Times.
A Touching Valedictory.— The editor of the’
Hamilton Free Press, in Upper Canada, being
compelled to relinquish the publication of his
paper for want of support, bestows a parting
blessing upon his friends and his party, in the
affecting words that follow, viz.
“Instead of the support which was promts,
ed by the reforms rs, I have met with the most
insulting neglect, ‘ with every thirfl word a lie,
more religiously paid than the Turk’s tribute,’
regarding what they have done for the Free
Press. In one of the auci mt Greek Repub
lies ingratitude was punished by deatn. If
the same law prevailed iu Upper Canada, the
heavens would be d ukened by the ceaseless
smoke of the hecatombs of reformers, whiefi
would be offered up as an atonement ftlt out
raged feeling. A tuple experience* convinces
me of the intrinsic worthlessness of those who
designate themselves reformers; aud, hence
forward, any sSS who wastes ki» Un?e affidea.