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“The Icrmcnt of a free, is preferable to t^e torpor of a despotic, Government.”
fQL. I.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, AUGUST 17, 1832.
AO. 22.
lie Southern Banner,
is PUBLISHED IN THE TOWN OF ATHENS,
GEORGIA, EVERT FRIDAT,
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For the publication of-a Literary and Miscel
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to be entitled the
| sEimjKtowTHir MCAOAznra
BY JAMES A. AVKIOHT.
TN issuing proposals for the publication of a periodi
I ctl like the one contemplated, the Editor is aware
rthc difficulty which mast attend it; but having been
hm! convinced that tho entire absence of such works
i the South, and particularly in our own State, arises
o from a want of literary energy than literary re*
cli and capabilities; he has consented with the
ce of a few intelligent friend., to issue this pros-
, „j considered entirely useless to enter into a parti-
blar course of reasoning, to demonstrate to the pub-
* ihat a paper devoted to literary and miicellaneous
htellieenrc, published in this State, will not at least be
fas much utility as other works of the same order,
Lbli.died in distant parts of the Union. It must, how.
ir, be obvious to every reflecting individual, that the
•t strict end general reliance (with few exceptions)
•ach and all nur nativo resources as a people, in an*
ring those demand* unavoidably arising from the
aj compact, moat ever result in general aa well as
;ial bent.fits. Why is it that om •• sister slates” of
10 North, and to some extent the West also, have gone
ch farther in tho developement of genius than
,..„.es? This question cannot be solved without
ailing into'the account the fact, that there there are
icdiums thro’ which the eflbsions of genius can with*
iIBcolty or dfclay meet the public eye, and receive
_..robation, while here no such oullet exists. Han
lividual’in our owti State ahould feel a desire toconv
md arrange a few incidents which accident had
rqwn in his,way, well calculated “ to point a moral
atom a talc,”"ha has either to pay it* postage to a
am stale, or perchance aeo it gadding to the earn*
of a statesman in the columns of eome political
.-'spaper. This reflection will at onco produce tho
inviction in the mind ofovei.v thinking individual, that
n establishment ofa literary and miscellaneous pen*
liewi in 'tills state, will be well calculated lo call forth
.0. productions of individuals possessed ttfgenius the
ertwieintillaliona of which, havo heretofore beon con-
‘ to the immediate community in which they reside,
fo ‘general circulation of a periodical containing,
* 2 and instructing information, will lie of great
in numerous other resprets ; it will create a
,Vir miscellaneous reading, which when Satisfied
oihmo extent, will induce the individual to turn to
ometjlingofa more solid and useful nature; and when
oiufattcd cautiously'with a view to its moral influ-
nttjmay be made to produce a disposition (particu.
■*'juvenile minds) inimical to vice and correspon-
ingly'httaclied to virtue. . , ,
The Magazine will be made up of Tales, original and
E eclcd, (but all of very recent appearance) ofa moral
h instructing nature. Original and selected piece*
in various subjects of general interest, both in prose
K d Verse. Eatracla from the papers and periodicals
the day. ’ No pain* will bo spared to render it useful
nd instructing to its patrons.
TERMS.
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nt them aa early aa the firat of October next, shortly
hr which, if the Mat will warrant it, the publication
till liaxoinmenced.
Ajfcans, July »4,1888.
SftvHITE and WI. HAGAR,
® ESPECTFULLY inform the Printers of the U.
Ll> Stales, to wflom they have long been individu*
> known as established Letter Founder*, that they
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The introdoclion of machinery, in the place of the te*
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ong a desideratum by the European and American
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,-enditare of lime and money on the part of ’our senior
tarfher, fust successfully accomplished Exteftaive
uso of iho-macliiae caat letter, ha* fully texted and es-
ablishfid its superiority \n every particular, over that
mat by the old process ' -
■ATho Letter Foundry busmeu will hereafter be ear-
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(hr new at 8 cents per pound.
WM. HAGAR.
New York, August 10—SI—St. •
From the New York Mirror.
SHERIDAN’S DEVIL.*
Brinsley Sheridan once, after sleeping all day,
Haying squandered the night in carousing and play,
Sallied forth in the evening, that is ’tween the fights,
And leisurely hastened his steps towards While’s, f
He his fast had not broken, since rising from bed,
For his stomach was queer, and a pain in his head
Made him feel a distaste for each viand that thought
To his fanciful appetite readily brought.
*’ The devil take eating,” he cried in a rage,
For in eating a brute is a* great as a sage.”
Then, pausing, as he a new fancy had caught,
“ Why, a devil’s the thing, and of that I ne’er thought.'
So he hastened to White’s, and there met at the door,
The varlet, who lorded the eatables o’er.
“ My good fellow, come hither; you always are civil,
So just cut me a beef-bone, ana make me a devil.”
*’ IV- ha., not «n« loft, sir , wo just cut tho loot
For Bedfordshire’s duke, and ’tis devilling fast.
Will a chicken not do, air?" “ No, no, let it be—
I’ll bone the duke’s bono, or the devil’s in me.”
So he entered the coffee-room—seatod a chair
Aa close to Ins grace as he civilly dare.
“ Well, I wonder at this house how people e’er dine;
If it do’nt turn their stomachs, I’m sure it does mine.”
11 Why, what fancy has seized you ?” inquired his grace,
“ Methinks I have seen you oft sup at this place.”
"True, you may have oil seen mo a dovil partaking,
“ Before I looked on while the devil was making;
“But just now as I passed by the area I saw
“The Cook’s understrapper the nicest bits knaw
“ From a lovely beef bone,and then daub with his sallow
“Foul hands the rest over with pepper and tallow.”
lie scarcely had finished, when in came the tray;
It traS'Placed for the duke—“ You may take it away I”
Was hi* grace’s command, in a manner that spoke,
That with cliolCT h« newly tvaa ready to choke.
The waiter, though thunderstruck, questioned no more,
But taking tho tray slowly moved lo the door,
when Sheridan cried, “ Then you hither may bring
The devil, for I can still stomach the thing.”
Tim devil alluded to above. is »••••>*» • print.rt.
devil nor a sinner’s devil, tut only an epicurean’s devil;
lo sbnve. is n«iil>.,
I, bul only an epictir
or, in other words, a provocative furs failing appetite,
composed generally of some kind of flab, flesh, or fowl
highly seasoned, and then gridled.
f White’s ia a club-house, rituated in St, James’
atreot; and, in the time of Sheridan, the resort of near
ly all the wits of the age.
To Stage Proprietors.
AY-Iii ■ ■ i noil} on hand nod for b<* coveted .
ft sale at theOffice of the South. Banner, j should be his in toy condition of life,—her
A STORY OF THE HEART.
Ii is noi our place to account for the perversi
ty oflhe human heart,or our intention to excuse
the inconstancy of human nature. As for the
fickleness of love, it is the old woman’s axiom
time out of mind ; as if love, to prove that il is
so, sought necessarily to evince itself incapa
ble of the changes to which all the material
and immaterial world around us is alike liable.
YVe suy no such thing. Wo have seen, we
have known, we can imagine; and withoul
further argument on the passion or no passion
—the affection or'no affection which produced
this or that consequence, we uro content to
draw our own conclusions. Therefore, with
out any sweeping denunciation against the
race of man—without any libel against tho law
of love—-withoul raising one man lo the cleva-
lion of greater or belter spirits—without de
grading tho species to the level of this one—
we shall sketch a simple picture, in a simple
way, and let the moral, if there be any, rest
with the reader.
Thu prccopts scattered to the young are as
seeds sown on the bosom of the earth ; time'
shall roll on, but the season shall come round
to shew that the husbandman has been there ;
and so it was with Delacour. Wealth, emol
ument, and self-interest, had been the lessons
of his youth, and he had profited by them.—
On the death of bis father, a respectable
tradesman, he found himself in fair circum
stances ; and—by aid of his profession—for
he was a lawyer—on the high road to reputa;
lion, and, it might bo, to riches. Possessed
of a fine person, a graceful demeanor, a majes
tic. figure, pleasing voice, lively conversation
and easy vivacity, it iB no wonder he got into
good society, and, from thence, into eome no
tice as a professional man. He was now
turned thirty, and in the full career of fortune;
still unmarried, still sought by anxious moth
ers, and wooed by forward daughters; but he
was not in love, or scarcely dared believe it
himself. The fhtlier of Emily Sidney was a
merchant, who had been mainly instrumental
the good fortune to which Delacour had at
tained I sho was the heiress of a supposed
large property, and the beauty of her circle.
This was enough to depress a leas ardent ad
mirer or a more calculating man; hut Dela
cour had owed much to chance, and perceiv
ing, as lie thought, something not altogether
unpropilious to him, ho commenced his secret
suit.
Ah I I remember hor as yesterday. She
was then eighteen,—youth scarce mellowed
into early womanhood. The face, as it pee
ped from tho chastening chesnut ringlets
around it, was worthy the hand of the painter,
though the smilo that played on tho lip might
have defied his skill; the small and well-roun
ded figure vied with sculpture, but marble had
vainly essayed to express the grace and digni-
of that demeanor. And this was the least
part of all. She knew what was kindness and
charity, and practised what she knew. She—
but let her story delineate her character.
It must be presumed that Delacour was, in
his way, ambitious, and this was the object at
which he aimed. He had imagined beau
ty ; here was beauty unrivalled, unexcelled;
virtue,--here was virtue the most alluring;
modesty, simplicity, truth, love, all combined
one; and for fortune, here was such as ho
could never have anticipated; connexion, the
most to he desired, and influence the most to
But why roe-on upon it! She
beauty were alone dowry fit for a prince. In
all slutions alike lovely, alike to be desired.—
In Nuch ecstacies he passed his hours when
new suitor appeared in tho person of a young
baronet of considerable fortune. Money was
nothing to him, and happiness every thing.
Equally handsome anil agreeable, and more
rich than Delacour, be was io every respect,
no common rival; besides which, all the arts
of a true lover were devised t» secure the treas
ure to himself. About thi9time, Mr. Sidney
incurred a great loss of property by un uti
lucky speculation. The affair was slated to
the baronet—the carriage was put down—but
he was not to he changed by time or place
the accomplished suitor, the same unchanged
admirer—nor did he fail to show the preference
he felt. But what will love not effect I Em
ily Sidney was an only child, and with all the
sweet ignorance of affluence, she wondered
what riches bad to do with content. The old
question of love in a cottage, or a paluce
without,” this eternal young girl’s theme, was
pondered upon, but all thoughts-leanud to the
same sido,—the predilection she fell, happily
or unhappily, for Delacour. He professed
disinterested affection—total disregard of ull
future or present expectations—and could she
do less than believe him! The futlier consul
ted, the mother advised—but Emily wept, und
it ended in the refusal of the baronet. A
week after, Delacour made his offer, and wus
accepted ; and who could fail to be flattered
by (he preference? From that linio they
were all the world to one another—forever to.
gether—he tho most attentive of lovers, she
•ha haODinst n( uinman
As no man, by looking in the glass, is like
ly to form a just estimate of his own defects,
or his owp peculiar perfections ; so no man
discovers his true character by gazing, howe
ver intently, in that inward mirror of the mind
—his own imagination. For as our shudows,
seen in the sun, aro most defective represen
tations of our own forms, so are these mental
likenesses like the bright shape of fancy, too
airy and too heavenly, and too perfect to be
aught but ideal types of what wo would fain
believe. Delaquur had Itis vanity. He had
hitherto been a bappv and prosperous man ;
he was much sought, and, moreover, was be.
loved by one whose opinion most men had
been pleased to have gained. And if he de
ceived himself, or believed loo firmly in him
self, what aro not the deceptions that we prac
tise on ourselves, and on others—and this,
when we would be 'rue to ull parlies, ft was,
however, no deceit that he was in love, (hough
tho manner of his loving might be another
thing. Here his heart was fixed. The world
might go round, and the seasons change, but
each and tho other could not affect him. Ail
his feelings, his associations, wore here com-
thing had happened: ho met Mrs. Sidney I Delacour, he hfc? resolved lo bo wretched,
on tho stairs. beewers Ilf) ^carflrf tn 111! ftn? nnrl then ammlit Ia
hined, and nature must change ere he could
But why descant upon, or question, hie ctno
lions ? Who, in a dream, over dreamed llmt
he should awake again in fivn minutes, or five
hours, or ages, or centuries I For us,
bavo ofiontimes stood on the ulmost height of
a green and glorious hill, and there Imvo seen
nature’s most awful might spread out round
us. The vale, the sloping mead, the verdunl
lawn, the bloomy garden ground, the river, the
luke, the slender stream, all blessing and giv.
ing glory to ihe.darkneas of our thoughts with,
in; and when the golden sun broke out, we
hailed the earth as joyous and happy. We do
not know that the cloud was noticed, or the
tempest heard to mourn, though in the deep
forest its voice might have been heard deplo
ring. Wo must confess, that when the rain
came down, we were taken unawares. Our
thoughts were lending on hope, not treading
after servile despair. And when the land
scape was effaced, the brightness of the hoa.
vens gone away, then we could hnve wept,
but that tears were denied. So Delacour had
before his eyes some such genrgeous scene ;
it was still bright, and without shadow, ns if
never moant to fade.
It was a delightful evening at the latter end
of summer when, mounting his horse, lie look
his usual way lo tho mansion or Iho DiOncys.
His easy and fashionablo lounge, his fine per
son, set off by the splendour of his attire,
as well as by the beauty of true content thero
depicted, might alone have attracted the pus-
stingers : but then his steed, as if proud of his
duty, contrived by certain coquettish knaver
ies and ambling graces, to fix tho attention.—
Delacour was born to be admired, “tho ob
served of all observers,” and many were the
remarka as he passed onward. He had been
riding thus for some timo, when he was over
taken by an acquaintance.
“ What I Delacour on the old road ngain,
in spito of the news. Why, Sidney is in tho
gazette.”
"Impossible,” cried Delacour, “I would
have wagered my life agninzt il—you joke.”
Incredulous os a lover,” replied the other,
“ Look and be satisfied.”
The paper wus handed lo him, a glance was
sufficient, and murmuring a hasty adieu, be
set spurs to his hone, and wm quickly lost to
the view: the cloud of dust that followed bis
flight, alone told of his psisage; and those
who sow him, pale, agitated, and flying des-
lerately forward, might hare well mistaken
lim for the messenger of more thsn common
wo. A dagger, indeed, could scarcely have
caused a greater revulsion of the heart.
'He no sooner’entered the house, than the
voice of the domestic proclaimed that eomc-
“ You will find Emily," said she- n 1n lire
drawing room. This affair has agitated us—
you will excuse Mr. Sidney to-night.”
He whispered a polite repiy, and hastened
forward, hut was, for tho first time, unheard.—
Emily was seated at the table, lights were
in the room ; she was gazing at something—
it was his picture, the one Ire had himself giv
en her ; he drew nearer—lire lip quivered, and
tear* were trembling in the eyelids; she sigh
ed again ; he advanced a step further, a slight
cry escaped her.
“ Oh ! it is you,” she exclaimed, bul there
was something tremulous in the voice, half
joy, half anguish ; “ I knew that you' would
come, thnt is, I thought you would.” How
could I do less than come, when I have so of
ten come before,” was the answer. “You arq
very good,” sho sighed, “ my father's misfor
tunes, oh I Delacour, you can guess my fee
lings.”
“ Your feelings aro perhaps peculiar tu
you,” Ire returned, somewhat coldly, “ vou
aro very suspicious to-night.”
“ 1 hope not,” sho replied meekly, “ bul
you are tired, we will have some refreshment
and tune the harp; you were always fond of
that.” The refreshments were brought, she
helped him with her own hands; but when
she turned to the instrument, (be full and sur
charged oyes—the flushed face—the heaving
of the bosom—the trembling speech—tho lock
wandering to and fro on the fare of her lover,
too plainly indicated that she had perceived
something more or less than usual in the man-
nor of his address, sti* o—mait in flnlsr-our.
as she touched the strings, to have the finest
figure in the world, and indeed her soul was
on the chords. She felt that she needed some
other person to make all ho had once, been to
her: she was a gentle and excellent girl, and
Delacour, who was an admirer of all excel
lence, was quickly won to her side. Sho had
never played with such execution, and now
attentive, and notv wavering lie listened, and
was now impassioned and now as cold as ever
—and now ho dreamed himself hark to all his
former adoration of her. At length lie snuich-
cd a kiss—said something of forgiveness, and
nil was forgotten ; but another hour was over
—he was silent and more cold than death, at
least, to the heart of Emily. H was now
getting late, and ha declined, on n plea of bu
siness, staying the night, which was'his usual
custom. Sho sunk into silence and despon
dency,
“ Yon are snd, Miss Sidnoy,” said Ire, “ or
ungry, but my Emily used not lo he either.”
“ I mu sad,” sho murmured, “ but not angry
—you are full of mistakes to-night.” She smil
ed faintly.
i am surely not mistaken,” he returned.
“ not a word Ires been spoken this half hour;
bul some people miatuke temper for feeling.”
“ Excuse me," she cried, and as she was
seated by his side, she placed her hand gently
upon his shouldor: “you do not understand
me ; thero is no temper in me but Morrow. I
am not angry,” but he arose and hinted that
ho must depart.
“Good night, Miss Sidney,” ftqid ho,
“ good night, Emily,—we shall medt to mor
row.”
His hand was upon the door—she looked
up—blushed—und advanced towards him.—
“ I am not angry,” she Hdded “ you mistake
me. I.et us be friends.” The last gush of
foeling burst from his heart—and he caught
her in his arms. A scarcely audible, “ God
bless you,” came from his lips—an instant—
and he was gone.
In her bosom was left sorrow—and anguish
—and repining; the red blush was on her
brow, b»t she sighed not, neither did sho weep
The next dny sho receivod an apology for not
wniting on her, as his business was urgent, bul
a promise so to do as quickly as possiblo—
But day after day past on, and he came not,—
she watched in vain. 11 was late one evening,
she thought she saw him as usual against tho
garJen gate. Sho w«nt to tho window, but it
was delusion,—she looked more intently, an
swered incoherently some questions addressed
lo her, and fell senseless lo the ground.
Lot us pass over the rest, (t Ires been
said that the father waited on Delacour, but all
llmt could bo elicited was, that his views
were clrenged-his mind, but not his affections,
nllered. With these words he left him:—
“ Young man,” said ho, “ may the sorrows of
this young creature fall a hundred fold on your
head !”
******
How strangely we decide our destiny!—
Led by appearances, even muled by truth.—
Yot why arraign the Providence of Heaven I
For we walk liko the wayfarer of the desert,
when no star is out to guide us. With the
blessing of happiness in our hands, we east it
aside and determine-on misery; and when
weighed down by the burden of care, we would
still seek to be happy: and this,because nothing
is desirable wo possess, and all to be covered
we can never hope to obtain. Vile weakness
of human nature; that we <vbo would, in truth,
believe ourselves perfect, should yet .allow
ourselves, wilfully and willingly, to be so base!
One would think thnt "the wisdom of tire ser
pent”—the cunoing of lrue selfishness might
teaeh us selfish peace'! if" the gentleness of
the dove”—the artlessness of true uature,
might not teftch us disinterested love. Aa far
I bocnvzz ire r eared to be so; and then sought to
' be happy even while resigning his greatest -:f
human good. But what if the affection wo
feel, or others feel for us, be true or falne;
the falsehood or tire truth may be equally mis
erable—Imre can olone shew us the reverse.
In the mean time the world goes on, and wo
must go likewise, lest, thrown from the chan
nel—broken on tho rock hope—while catch
ing at soma other or firmer hold than the reed
within our grasp—lest, finally, wo bo drifted
down the tide of time—and left to perish.—
So Delacour pursued his avocations—rushed
into society—and believed himself contented.
But the canker of the heart eats not away so
soon. If lie had any feelings—any sentiment*
—he had foresworn the better part. As it hr
never loo late for a man to grow wise, so it is
never too late to love honour. Had he then
lived for this! Ho remembered his debts of
obligation—of gratitude to his old friend; but
then ho recalled also the prospects Ihat might
yet he open lo him—tho increase of wealth-^-'
his expectations of the future—he thought but
onco and no more; he hastened into amuse-
meuls, into dissipation, and while he foi^ot
his affeclion ho forgot himself. Some have
remarked that his person became altered, his
spirits changed, that il was natural depretmloa' -
and forced hilarity; but if he ever experien
ced wretchodness, or sighed in the full emo
tion of regret, he was the last to believe that
his sorrows, his vexation, bis self-reproaches,
were of his own creation.
But a few months had gone by, and another
lady caught his attention, of his own years-»-
hnndsome. accomplished, and of doslred
woulih. lie soon imagined himself- to be'in
love, for in false hearts no flame Is so easily
kindled as false passion; and the ladywatin
love with him, just such love as a calculating
< omun may bestow, ’who thinks more -pf hor.
self than of tire world beside. She knew, io*
deed,.of no feelings but of tho sphere of a
drawing-room, or any emotion but such aa
might lie in the compass of a carriage. Again
family, fortune, friends, and connexions were
rnnvasaed, and were found filling; again he
pictured uninterrupted peace, unclouded days )
again he was in possession of all his dreams;
again hoped, was again happy; again con
stant, again, in fact, a Inver.
Time rolled on und on, and he saw no rea
son to regret hi* choice. He bernmo rest
less, for otlrers were iff pursuit of the same
prizo a* himself, and then he grew impatient
arid more impassioned, and, at longth, made
liis offer, and was successful. He was now
more gay than evor— more fashionable—more
splendid. In all public places and private
parlies Ire was the acknowiedeed suitor, end
congratulated by his friends on the fortune he
would acquire—on the conquest he had tnade;
he was not backward in boasting the favour in
which ho found himself, in exhibiting the in*
fluenco ho hnd over her and in talking oflhe
brilliant prospects that he untioipated in the
future.
It was with this lady hanging on his arm,
that he first again beheld Emily Sidney.-**
The bloom of youth was gone, the form wat
ted, the ringlets confined beneath a gauze cap;
tho figure no longer joyous with content, bq^
shaked by despondoncy arid, disappointment.
She arose as she beheld him—the young Bar
onet was at her side.
“ I hope I have the ploaxure of seeing you
well,” said Delacour, will) his. unchanging
eye fixed full upon her face. She blushed,
faltered, und murmured an assont. “ 1 beg
your pardon,” be added, 11 but I hear you only
indistinctly. You *uy thot you ure well, sure
ly.” Sire fixed hor expressive look reproach-'
fuily upon him. “I am belter than 1 have
been,” she returned, “ indeed—quite well,”
and so they parted. The worda that had boon
spoken were the common compliments of the '
day: but oh! the mannersaid every thing.vq*
On that night she burnt a little likene*s”ehe
hnd drawn of him from memory: the cast
aside all embarrassment, she quitted her sick
room dressed, sung, laughed, danced and
played os she was used to do; she hurried in
to company, into amusement, was ns much
admired as over, as usual suught as when slid
had a fortune : but her parents saw the dark
side of tire picture,—tho young girl’s heart was
broken.
Gnu it bo possible that Dolaeouf Went boms
that night in rcmorselcs* complacency ?—
That no compunction dwelt within his breast
—that no conscience visited hie thought—
ihat tho Tided form of nature's loveliness-*-
the sweet confusion that pleaded, liko the'
tongue of mercy and of truth—that, last of all/
that look—had spoken nothing! It is impos
sible. He knew be was to blame >>e writh
ed under the infliction of secret regret**
he thought he had not aeted quite honorably
—quite tenderly—but for all of ihat he would
have started at tho name of villian. Yet ii
was for his good lie should act ae lie had done;
she would marry tho'Baronet; his destiny,
and obt liimSelf, was to be reproached, and,
shifting from any further vguinent, he hasten
ed to conclude affairs With the lady in ques
tion. ’ :
New came tho eonfusioti oPpreparation.^-*
Parties were givon and received, und the round
of reciprocal introductioh took place, and, i*
the sudden rush of nohnnoa events, Delanone
lost all recollection of the past, and sacrificed
its momory for ever on the altar *' ~
