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% *»• jcitu “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, J0JY AGBOIV CHASE. TeR*s.*-Three dollars per year, payable In advance, Four drfllara if delayed to the end oftho year. The ■r amount will be rigidly ozaoted of all who fail to rtt their payments in advance. No subscription received for lees than one year, un- fS t {, e mdhey is paid in advance; and no paper will !e discontinued until all arrearages are paid, except at l<e option of-lhe publisher. A failure on the part of ibicribers to notify ns of their intention of relinquish* jent, accompanied with the amount due, will be con- lidored as equivalent to a new engagement, and pa. * >rs sent accordingly. AevsaTisxucNTS will be inserted at the usual rates. t^»All I.otters to the Editor on matters connected K|i the'establishment, must be po*f paid in order |rT*>*Notice of the sale of La nd and Nogroes by-Ad- imstralors, Executors, or Guardians, must be publish* Oily dan previous to the day of sale. The sale of Personal Property, in like manner, must , published/orii; days previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be tblirhcd/ortydays. Notice that Application will be made to the Court inary for Leave to sell Land or Negroes, must be iiriicHuL^JMP months* Notice that Application will be made for Letters of Iministration, ?„Wb-rmblt.hcd thirty day,, and for Hers of Dismission, six mmtl D^srists*. For the publication of-a Literary and Miscel laneous Journal in Athens, Geo. 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. ;t^»THE SEMI-MONTHLY MAGAZINE will be rsued in quartoTorm, every alternate Tuesday, on a ins medium sheet, with a fair type, at JT.OO par an- inin in ylvance, or |3,00 after tho expiration of the ^Holden of subscription papers are requeued to re 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 lave now formed a co-partnership in said business, and pe fioin their united skill, and extensive experience, be able to give full satisfaction to all who may la- or thorn with their orders. The introdoclion of machinery, in the place of the te* lioua and Unhealthy process of casting type by hand, ong a desideratum by the European and American “’dander*, was, by American ingenaity, and a heavy ex* ,-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- edon by the partiea before named, under the Arm of WHITE, IIAGAR, & Co. Their specimen exhibits complete aerie* from Diamond to 14 line* Pica. Tho sok.and news type being in the .moat modern light And style. ‘ WHITE, HAGAR, & Co. are agents for the sale of the Smith and Ru,l Printing Pmur, which they can fernish to their customer* at the manufacturer*’ price*. Cbue*, Case*, Composing Slicks, Ink, and avery arti cle used in the Printing Buxine**, kept on isle, and fur- tuihed on abort notice. Old Type taken in exchange (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 *' ~