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THE
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WUI be published every SATURDAY Morning ,
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is THE CtTY or MACON, BA.
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ffTSalesof Land by Administrators, Executors
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'tT Notice for the sale of Personal Property must
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Jl o c t r j».
TIIK HAUNTED HEART.
Beside the lulling fountains
Os the olden, better clime,
Reclaimed from its brief wanderings
Along the shores of Time—
Unseen of earth, thy spirit dwells,
A mystery sublime.
Oft in the golden starlight
When soft dews come showering down,
And shadows creep, with phantom steps,
Through forests old and brown—
I see thee rise beneath the skies
With spotless robe and crown.
I know my soul is haunted
By this phantom like to thine—
It comes when all the midnight stars
With piercing splendor shine ;
It comes with morning's wavering light,
And lays its face to mine.
Mine eyelids cannot slumber,
In the chilling depths of night,
For near my restless, dreamless couch,
With eyes transcending light,
The lost one steals in noiselessly
Before my fainting sight!
A heart with sighs is wasted, *
For the dead may not return ;
The ashes of past hopes are all
That on Life’s altar bum—
My soul, like a lone mourner, sits
Beside its shattered urn.
The Spring has brought its longings
To each living thing beside,
It only urges on my bark
Where sluggish waters glide—
A fearful stream of many wrecks—
A dark and “ nameless tide.”
I seem to hear the sounding
Os this dim yet mighty stream,
While bright imperishable shapes
At moments round me gleam—
I tread the narrow winding shores,
Like one when in a dream.
j I know these are but shadows
1 Os that Life which is to be.
‘ * len ® ,ru ggling from its bonds ofelay
Spirit rises free,
o bathe its plu ma ge in the light
Os Immortality.
from Scott s Dollar Weekly Paper.
hope on.
ould Fortune s stream adversely run,
Or storms thy bark assail,
et not heart desponding sink,
r Hope 8 bright promise fail.
1 uhl low r j n g c j (Hu j g thy sky obscure,
[he fu, ure veil i„ g , oom ,
°n, nor clouds, nor darkness fear,
The hud of Hope will bloom.
Should f r ,e ndi forsake, or Daath invadej
r , heart in anguish wring,
"P. let brighter scenes ahead,
ro| n Hope triumphant spring.
Sh r l<l |!f* 'oereasing bear thee down,
Should death s dark stream appal,
Thv°H b,t mnk,a thy G ° d your frie "<l (
> Hope, thy trust, thy all.
THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM.
BY HARRISON & MYERS.
EFThe following beautiful Poem is from the
pen of Mrs. Amelia Wsi.by, of Louisville, Ky.,
and originally appeared in the “Journal,” of
that city.
THE DYING GIRL.
The fitful breeze, that, through the sultry day,
Had fanned the fainting blossoms with its
breath,
Stole through the casement where there lay
A pale young girl upon the couch of death :
Her glance was fixed upon the moon, that rolled
Through blue and starlight in the vaulted sky,
As if she knew her fleeting hours were told,
And wished to take one lingering look and di«.
Beside that humble couch there drooped one
form,
The gentle mother of the dying one,
For grief had bowed her spirit, as the storm
Bends the soft rose upon its emerald tkMsne.
There lay her child, the beautiful, the young,
The breath just sighing on her lip of snow,
And her soft ringlets, all dishevelled, flung
Back from the whiteness of her deathly brow.
Sadly she bent above her, though her look
Was tearless, as she sought her daughter's eye,
Yet her lip quivered like a bright leaf, shook
By the strong tempest as it sweeps the sky :
“ Daughter,’* she murmured, and the maiden
turned
Unto her mother's face her mournful glance,
In which life’s flickering taper wildly burned,
[ For she was startled as if from a trance.
And at that voice, so thrilling to her ear,
A thousand tender thoughts her heart opprest,
’Till to her blue eye tear-drop followed tear,
And the white linen heaved above her breast.
About her mother’s neck she softly threw
Her pale, thin arms, nnd nestling her young
head
Within her sheltering bosom, dashed the dew
From her soft cheek, and in low accents said :
“ Mother, my hour is come—
The wing of death is o'er me, for my brow
Is damp and chill, —sweet mother, I must go
Down to the silent tomb.
Y et not for this I grieve ;
It is to think that I am leaving thee
Poor and unfriended, mother, —thou wilt be
Alone at morn and eve.
And through the lone, long day,
Thou It sit with breaking heart above the task,
Earning thy daily bread, while others bask
In fortune's sunny ray.
For on thy heart will press
A thousand memories of thy buried child ;
And thou wilt pour thy weepings long and wild,
In utter loneliness.
And in the time of sleep
Tliou’lt turn to kiss me, as thou oft has done ;
But memory will whisper. “ she is gone,”
And thou wilt wake and weep.
Before my father died,
We dwelt beneath our own bright, stately halls—
Round which blue streams, and silver fountain
falls
WereAeen to glide.
There, on the evening breeze,
In summer-time, no harsher sound was heard
Than the low flutter of some singing bird,
Startled among the trees.
And there, beside our hearth,
Thou'st often knelt, and offered up to God
My infant spirit, pure as snow untrod,
And free from taint of earth.
But now, how changed thy lot ;
Strangers are dwelling in our once bright home,
Whilst thou art pent within this close, dark
room—
Unaided and forgot.
I have been, like a spell,
Binding thee unto earth but death has prest
His cold, and heavy hand, upon my breast !
Mother, I go, farewell!”
Slowly, her arms unwound their wrcathingclasp,
Around her mother’s neck ; and her fair head
Fell heavy back, while a low, lengthened gasp,
Stirred her cold, marble bosom she was
dead !
Silent, that mother stood,—the mighty flood
Os grief, within her heart, she strove to bide :
For it seemed sin to weep, while thus she stood
Above the holy, dead and sanctified.
It was no time to mourn ; for she had yet
A bitter mournful duty to fulfil, —
To press the eye-lids o’er the blue orbs set
To close the sweet lips, smiling on her still!
She laid the ringlets round her lifeless face ;
And wrapped the loose shroud round her slen
der form,
That lay in mute and melancholy grace,
As if spell-bound in slumber, soft and warm.
And when the stars of night began to wane
And the warm sun had chased away the gloom,
Strange forms were seen around the lattice pane,
That looked into the dull and dreary room, —
And as they crossed the threshhold ofthe door,
They found her drooping by her daughter's
bed;
Her raven tresses streaming o’er the floor,
And her dark, glassy eye, fixed on the dead !
Oh : ’twas, indeed, a sadly touching sight,—
For her white hand lay prest upon her heart,
As if to quell within, the spirit's might ;
And her cold, purple lips, were half apart !
Thdy raised her from the spot, where she had
knelt
In the meek, holy solitude of prayer;
And, with the nicest touch, her bosom felt,
Seeking for life and warmth,—but death was
there !
From Scott's Philadt Iphia Dollar Weekly Paper-
THE MASSACRE
* T
SC HE I*l ECTADY.
BV JOSEPH A. NUNES.
Author of Bennington, a Prize Tale, Aris
tocracy, or Lfe in the City , Rochester's
Return, S(e.
How the snow comes down ! The big
flakes fluttering in the air, makes it thick
and contract the range of vision to a nar
row circuit. One sheet of white covers
the earth. Tree and bush, hill and plain,
all are clothed in a thick mantle of snow,
and the storm still comes down; raging
with a degree of violence which seems to
know no prospect of abating. Away be
hind us, where the dark forest rears its
towering head, the blanched storm-drops
appear as if they had been formed into the
grand and fearful avalanche. Before us,
where civilizatton lias reclaimed the wild
woods, and the village of the European
settler rises upon the banks of the Mo
hawk, the dwellings coated thick with
snow flakes, look like mounds in which the
white bear of the arctic regions might bur
row, or like the frozen huts of the Esqui
maux.
J urn back and see what objects those
are which move slowly along, struggling
with the driving snow from above, and the
deep beds which lie upon the ground.
1 hey may be a herd of wolves driven
by hunger from the depths of the forest;
but the absence of rapidity in their move
ments makes the supposition improbable ;
besides here are no ravenous howls pierc
ing the air with horrid emphasis.
Look again !
They are men—human beings—out in
this remorseless storm—bending them
selves to the blast, and trudging with wea
ry limbs through the fallen snow.
I bey are a strong parly, too, in num
bers, consisting of more than a hundred—
white soldiers and Indian warriors. The
whites, judging by their uniform, are
Frenchmen. But what do they here ?
I his is no time for them to be found upon
soil governed by the colonists from Great
Bri ian. \\ ar exists between France and
England—-the French colonists of Canada
and the English colonists of New York
are also at enmity, and this is no place for
such travellers as those we see before us.
Perhaps, though, they come as foes, with
warlike designs against some of the-fron
tier settlements of New York ? if so they
are now in a lamentable condition to pro
secute any such designs.
1 hey look numbed with the cold and
worn out with fatigue. Each step they
take seems to be accompanied by a seper
ate pain. Ihe torments of hunger, too,
are on their countenances.
It is midwinter in the year IGS9. A lit
tle less than a month ago ilie body of men
we see still toiling hopelessly through the
deep snow, were sent by the Count do
Frontignae, governor of Canada, against
the settlements in New York. The Indi
ans assembled at the summons of the old
general, and they joiued the French sol
diers who were destined for the expedition.
The whole party started on the journey
with that alacrity which anticipates suc
cess, aud with a dauntless ness that appro- •
bends no danger. They had scarcely,
however, commenced the march which was
to lead them to the homesteads of the un
prepared foe, when the face of the heav
ens became obscured by a sombre shade,
and from the portals of the clouds the flee
cy snow came driving down to earth. Lay
er upon layer, and stratum upon stratum
rose upon the ground, until no landmark
was visibleby which they could direct their
course.
At intervals the storm would cease, and
the sun, struggling with the unmoving
clouds, would suggest hopes of a bright
morrow. The morrow came, but bright
ness came not with it.
I" or twenty-two days have the soldiers
and the red men been wanderers through
the pathless fields and trackless forests.
Some of their number have perished from
cold ; some, in a state of utter exhaustion
have fallen to the ground, and there they
lie still, with their white shroud thickening
above them ; unless, indeed, some raven
ous beasts have discovered and torn them
from their testing places.
Oh ! how these poor wretches—frozen,
famished and exhausted —long for the
sight of a human habitation, or a human
face that is not familiar to them. They
started on their journey to accomplish
conquests, and to carry terror and devas
tation among their enemies, but now it
would afford them joy to be vanquished ;
it would be happiness to he made priso
ners. At the very wosrt their doom would
be death, and lhat a speedy death ; but
n r| w they die and live; they endure an
eternity of deaths.
Hark!
There is a glad cry from those few In
dians who march a little in advance of the
party. The rest gather around them to
ascertain the nature of the discovery that
caused this cry. The Indians strike wiih
their feet the stumps of some trees that
have been cut down—the evidences of
their approximating to the abodes of men
—and direct the attention of their compan
ions to the same objects.
“ That is true,” a French officer ob
served. as he clears away the snow to ex
amine the marks of the axe ; we cannot
be far from some settlement, but what set
tlement is it 1 Can any one here tell I’’
MACON, MARCH 3, 1349.
“ We have had such little opportunity
of knowing the route we have travelled,”
another officer remarks, “ that there are
few of us who can say to a certainly
whether we are in Canada or in the Brit
ish colonies; but there is one thing settled,
we are near habitations of human beings,
and we must go forward and trust to for
tune for the character of our reception, or
return through the snow and perish before
we can reach a place of ceitain safety.”
“ What does Ganaweosa think 1” the
first speaker asks that tall, giant-looking
chief, who a fortnight ago might have been
a powerful, athletic warrior, but whose
haggard looks show w hat hunger might do
even with a Hercules. “ Are we near
friends or foes V’
“ The trees have no marks and the
ground no tracks,” the swarthy chief re
ples. “ Maneto does not show his face iu
the day, and the sparks from his eyes do
not shine at night; but yet the wind—the
breath of Maneto—has not changed since
the white rain began to fall. We are near
the setttemen's of the Saggenah.”
“ Shall we march on then I” the French
officer asks.
“ Shall we stay here and die 1” the Indi
an significantly replies. “ The warriors
of my tribe cannot feed upon air, nor can
they bear lhe cold forever.”
“ If we proceed it must be as suppliants
then,” the Frenchman observes, as he
glances at the exhausted frames and pallid
countenances of his followers, “ ibr it
would be vain to attempt to supply our
wants by compulsion.”
“ Let one ofthe pale chief’s young men
go forward with me,” the Indian chief,
Ganaweosa, says, “ and we will soon find
out what is before us, and bring back
word whether the Saggenah wjJ! let us
draw near his fire and eat from his dish.”
The commander of the pariy aaop s the
suggestion, and selects a young officer to
accompany the chief.
“ Let them minister to our wants,” he
says, as the scouts are about to depart,
“ and we will submit to their clemency.
Tell them that we consider ourselves pris
oners of war, and are ready to surrender
our arms and our persons.”
The chief and the young officer express
their intention to comply with the instruc
tions furnished them, and then start off in
search of the settlement. A few moments
suffice to carry them out »if sight, and then
doubt and anxiety again take possession
of the minds of those they have left be
hind them.
A half an hour’s struggle with, and tra
vel through, the snow, brings the messen
gers of the humbled invaders to the verge
of the village of Schenectady—here—
upon the banks of the Mohawk.
No towering steeples dignify the ap
pearance of the frontier settlement. No
frowning battlements are reared to protect
it, nor, in the construction of the houses
have architectural ru es, or beauties, or
classic orders been observed. Hewn logs,
seamed with mud and tough boards over
laying each other, are the materials that
have been used to construct the proudest
dwellings in the place, while, while the
baked tile, or the more humble thatch,
form the roofs.
’Tis past midnight! not a sound is heard
through the whole length of the village.
All is still as death. The inhabitants
slumber in security without thought of
cause for apprehension ; or if any remain
with unclosed eyes they do not wake to
watch.
Through the streets the Indian and the
soldier take their way in silence.
“ The Saggenah keeps no watchthe
Indian says, in a suppressed w’hisper, as
his eyes move rapidly around for the least
evidence of life ; he is like the salmon in
the stream —he buries his head in the
shore, and thinks there is no danger.”
*' We must arouse some of them,” the
soldier replies, subduing his voice to the
same low tone, “ meat and drink, and
warmth, must be ours, even though we
surrender to foes who slumber when they
should be keeping guard.”
“ Is my brother a child,” the chief asks
with a scornful voice, “ that he talks about
surrendering ? or has the snow frozen his
mind, and his senses to sleep 1 We are
weak and numbed with frost, and hungry
and tired, but we are strong enough to
fight with sleeping men. Let us return
to the pale chief we left behind, and to
my young braves ; this news will be food
and fire to them. We will arouse the
white men with the burning of their hou
ses. and their scalps will make the hearts
of my warriors glad.”
“The chief speaks wisely,” the young
officer says; “-we will do as he proposes.
It is better to make prisoners than to be
prisoners.”
They proceed towards the opposite end
of the village, but just as they are almost
at the open fields beyond it, a fierce dog
springs over a low pailing, and interrupts
their progress by loud barking, and by
threatening an onset upon them.
“ What shall we do now 1” the officer
asks, “ this will arouse the people in the
house.”
“Do this!” the Indian replies, as he
raises his tomahawk, and with an unerring
aim, throws it with violence at the enraged
animal.
The dog attempts to avoid the fatal mis
sile, but lie springs aside too late; the
edge of the weapon enters his skull, and
penetrates to the brain, while he falls
down dead, without uttering a sound.
VOLUME 1-NUMBER 14.
Almost at the same moment that the
animal is stretched quivering upon the
ground, there is heard a movement in the
house, and the sash up stairs is raised.
At the first sound the Indian whispers
a word in 1113 compaion’s ear, and they
bury themselves beneath the snow.
A head, in a night cap, is thrust out of
the window, and a shrill female voice ex
claims—
“ Is that you, Peter l ”
“ Is that you, Peter Hinkle ?” the same
voice asks, in a shriller tone than before,
“ because if is is you can’t come in here,
so you may ju9t go back to the inn again,
where you have been carousing all night.
If you can’t come home to your wife at
proper hours you shan’t come home at aIL”
The woman looks at the dead body of
the dog, and takes it to be her drunken
husband.
“ I see you laying there in the snow,
like a sot that you are !” she exclaimed,
“ but for all that you shan't come in, so
you had better pick yourself up, and go
seek some warmer bed, ’ and drawing her
head in, she slams down the sash, and re
tires once more to her couch.
As soon as all becomes quiet again, the
Indian and his companion emerge from
their hiding place, and stealing noiselessly
away, they succeed in escaping from the
village unobserved. A brief period suf
fices to bring them again in the midst of
their companions, to whom they commu
nicate the defenceless condition of the
place they have just visited, and the cer
tainty of surprising the inhabitants in their
beds.
“ This is indeed better than we expec
ted,” the commander observes, “ for now’
there is every prospect of our accom
plishing the object of our expedition—
but Ganaweosa—”
“ The red man’s ears are open,” the ’
chief says, as he moves towards the com
mander.
‘‘ Let U3 have as little bloodshed as
possible—many prisoners, hut few lives.”
“ Has my bro her no longer any use
for the red man ?” the chief asks in an
angry voice. “ The Indian warrior takes
the scalp of his enemy, as the witness of
his prowess —let my brother be satisfi
ed.”
“ ’Tis useless to talk of mercy to sava
ges;” the Frenchman mutters. “They
must have their own way, for we can do
nothing without their aid.”
The prospects of a successful attack
upon the unsuspecting inhabitants of Sche
nectady infuses new li e into this almost
frozen and famished band. The bloody
instincts of the savages are all active, and
as in imagination he gloats over the work
of extermination, fresh courage comes to
his heart, and additional vigor to his arm.
Ihe French soldiers, too, consider that a
short hour since they would have thought
it mercy to have been taken prisoners,
w'bile now they are about to be conquer
ors, at the same time their wants will be
satisfied ; and these reflections cause them
to forget the privations that have produc
ed so much suffering.
The order is given for the party to ad
vance towards the slumbering village.
They nerve themselves against Ihe ele
ments, and breast the fury of the tempest.
Heaven presevre the inhabitants ! for if
they wake not now they will be aroused
by horrors in their direst forms, and un
close their eyes only to slumber in lhat
long sleep that knows no w aking this side
of eternity.
The French and Indians have reached
Schenectady, and as yet the villagers are
unconscious of the proximity of a foe. So
silent are the streets, and so still is evety
thing within the houses, that we might
mistake them for the resting places of the
dead, instead of the abodes of breathing
mortality.
The place is surrounded—the Indians
disperse themselves in squads of two or
three, and they heap straw and faggots
against the most combustible parts of the
dwellings. Brands are procured and ligh
ted, and as their countenances are render
ed visible by the lurid glare, they look
like hell-born imps gamboling in Eden,
while man tastes the furit which dooms
him to a heritage of woe ! Oh, that the
pure snow should be defiled by such acts
as are now impending! Would that its
thaw could blot out from the chronicles of
humanity the crimes that make the pages
drop blood.
Almost simultaneously the burning tor
ches are applied to the heaps of light fuel,
and as the red flames leap against the
houses, lapping up as they rise the falling
flakes, a wild f antic yell vibrates through
the air, and startles the sleepers in their
beds.
Men, women and children, rush to their
doors and windows, but they either came
in personal contact with the assailants, or
their gaze becomes petrified with a sight
of the swarthy savages dancing amidst the
conflagration, and howling in impatience
for the moment to arrive when they may
drench their murderous weapons in human
gore.
High above the yells of the infuriate
Indians may now be heard the shrill cries
of children, and the despairing shrieks of
women, and while the air is heavy with
the h ud appeals of anguish hearts, the
dreadful work of massacre commences.
Here, on our right, is uttered the pierc
ing shrieks of a help ess woman, which is
smothered in the dill sound of a descend
ing tomakaw—there,on the left—rises the
BOOK AND JOB PRINTING,
Will be executed inthe most approved style,
and on the best terms, at the Office of the
“SOUTHERN MUSEUM.”
-BY
HARRISON & MYERS.
appeal of a child on the name of its par
ent, and before the same can be answered,
we hear the crash of weapons, and a sound
as if a corpse had fallen into the flames.
Terrible, indeed, is the spectacle which
now fascinates the eight. . The melting
1 snow runs thick with blood, and the de
vouring flames encompass the whole vil
lage in one genera! ruin. The savages,
in the intoxication of the scene, no longer
experience hunger or fatigue. Their ap
petites are all engrossed in the thirst for
blood, and they glut their unnatural yearn
ing without compassion and without re
morse. Even the Frenchmen seem to
have forgotten their natures, for they eith
er take part in the horrid work, or they
gaze with listless indifference at ita pro
gress.
Half of Schenectady is already reduced
to smouldering embers, and half the in
habitants lie stiff among the ruins, or gasp
in the agonies of death.
Here, at the threshold of a burning
dwelling, kneels a beautiful girl at the
feet of a sinewy chief, who impends a
death blow above her head. She averts
her eyes from the glittering weapon, as
the blood-drops fall upon her glossy hair,
and she implores in moving accents the
mercy of the savage; but his heart is ada
mant ; his countenance is incapable of re
laxation. He laughs, as he twines his rejl
hands in her long black hair, and raising
up the sweeping iresses he describes, with
his weapon, a circle round her drooping
head.
“ Mercy ! mercy—for the love of heav
en !” she cries.
She might as well pleftd t r> the darting
adder. The instrument is about to exe
cute its fatal purpose.
“ Not while ! have life to protect her!”
a stalwart youth exclaims, as he darts be
■tween the executioner and the vie im, and
swinging a broad-axe round his head he
hews the savage to the earth.
“To the woods, my beloved ! to the
woods!” he cries, as he raises her in his
arms, aud half supports, half-carries her
along with him—“ we may yet be sav
ed !”
Time and again his flight is a nested by
some straggling indian, but love adds
courage to his heart and vigor to his limbs.
The good axe, faithful to the impulse that
sways it, makes each interruption a tri
umph.
The youth is wounded, hut still he holds
his course, avoiding, as he progresses, the
spots where the noise is greatest, and the
enemy most thick.
Through crackling flames and yelling
savages—over the ghastly dead and muti
lated dying, he takes his way, and at
length, with his lovely bu then, reaches
the woods, where the danger from pursuit
and massacre is over. There is only the
biting frost and the driving snow t<> fear
now, and if they can endure these they
may still live and be happy.
Heaven tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, and it will not permit them to per
ish !
The village is a heap of ruins—the in
habitants are nearly all of them, butcherd.
A few only, like the youth and the mai
uen, have escaped from liitj piiueSS sava
ges. Amidst the carnage and the embers
the famished invaders seat themselves, to
satisfy their craving appetites.
Romance in Reai. Lipe. —Truth is,
after all, stranger than fiction, as the fol
lowing stoiy, from a Cincinnati paper,
proves : Some weeks since, a young mar
ried woman called upon Judge Saffin, of
that city, for permission to enter the Com
mercial Hospital, which was, through his
kindness, immediately obtained. After
remaining there a few days. Mr. Doolittle,
the very efficient steward of the institu
tion, called upon the Judge, stating that
the woman for whom he had obtained ad
mission into the hospital was dead, and
said he was seeking information respect
ing the woman’s husband—stating at the
same time, that the woman was a foreign
er, and expecting her husband here; dur
ing her watching for him she became sick
and destitute and applied as above. Judge
Saffin took the trouble to advertise in one
of the German papers for the person, and
the advertisement had the effect of finding
the man next day, and the sad news of
his wife’s death was told him. The hus
band lost no time in reparing to the place
where the corpse laid. He kissed her
cold lips “ that laid death cold in clay,”
to use the very impressive line of an old
nursery ballad, and did the necessary bu
rial, after taking the body to the church
and doing all the necessary ceremonies
peculiar to his belief and duty in such ca
ses. The corpse was interred in a re
spectable burial place, and the husband
returned to the Hospital to inquire if there
were charges, for which he in honor stood
bound. On his return, instead of his go
ing to the “ Dead Room,” as he did in the
first instance, he was shown to the “ Con
valescent Department/’ What was his
astonishment and delight—how his heart
leaped with joy—in ther efinding his wife,
into whose arms ho fell with a wild joy
ousness, not to be described in a para
graph or exhibited in a drama ! The bo
dy that the kind and sad husband had in
terred, by mistake, was that of an unknown
and friendless female. The whole world
may be canvassed for a more singular in
cident in vain, and the works of the fic
tional drama present nothing to rival it*