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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.