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!_ ... - THE gouvasßß^iinirisxKms WUI be published every SATURDAY Morning , /„ t ke Britk Building, at the Corner of Cotton Arenme and First Street, is THE CtTY or MACON, BA. BV HARKISOX & DIVERS. TERMS. For the Paper, in advance, per annum, $9. if not paid in advance, $2 50, per annum. If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00. jp” Advertisement* will be inaerted at the usual rates—and when the number of insertions de sired is not specified, they will be continued un til forbid and charged accordingly. tp* Advertisers'by the Year will be contracted •with upon the most favorable term*. ffTSalesof Land by Administrators, Executors , or Guardians, are required by Law, to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten o’clock in the Forenoon and three in the AU ternoon, at the Court House of the county in which the Property is situate- Notice of these Sales must be given in a public gazette sixty days previous to the day of sale. O'Sales of Negroes by Administators, Execu tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction on, the first Tuesday in the month, between the legal hours of sale, before the Court House of thecounty where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration •or Guardianship may have been granted, first giv ing notice thereoffor sixty days, in one ofthe pub lic gazettes of this State, and at the door of the ICoort House where such sales are to be held. 'tT Notice for the sale of Personal Property must be given in like manner forty days previous to the day of sale. Xj’Notice to the Debtors and Creditors ofan Es tate must be published for forty days. gy Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne groes must be published in a public gazette in this Siate for four months, before any order absolute can be given by the Court. rpCiTATioss for Letters of Administration on an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must be published thirty days— for Letters of Dismis sion from the administration ofan Estate, monthly for six months —for Dismission from Guardian ship FORTY DAYS. dj’Rci.r.s for the foreclosure of a Mortgage, must be published monthly for four months— for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of three months —for compelling Titles from Ex ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond has been given by the deceased, the full space of THREE MONTHS. N. B. All Business of this kind shall rcceiv prompt attontionat the SOUTHERN MUSEUM Office, and strict care will he taken that all legal Advertisements are published according to Law. O’AII Letters directed to this Office or the Editor on business, must be post-paid, to in sure attention. .(T 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*