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VOLUME 11. | by c. r. hanleiter. IP® IT UY a Tilt: YELLOW LEAF. Round flew the bowl, the laugh rose high, When summer’s richest canopy, The budded boughs of emerald dye, Was all our shade. So soft the air, so gay the plain, Though August's moon was in her wane, We said that summer’s joyous reign, Would never cease. High rose the laugh, the transport swell, When sudden ! potent ns a spell! Detached by no rude zephyr, ‘ell One yellow leal! The mirth was hushed, the songster’s lays Broke short, and back in solemn gaze Hung on the leaf, nor dared to raise, A tiin’rous lay. F.nch feared upon his neighbor's (ace, His own sad thoughts portrayed in trace, As the pale emblem spoke the race Os summer run. It seemed some fuiry from the skies, Had seen our idle transports rise, And to unmask life’s treacheries, The warner sent. To tell us that the scene might glow, But soon would fade in cheerless snow ; To tell us that our life might know An autumn too. ■rexma**”. 1 ’ ©EIL[E©TI[S) TA L I 8 a REVENUE OF LEONARD ROSIER. It was lute on a summer afternoon that Leonard Ros'er, a student of the most fa mous school of sutgery in Paris, was re turning to his home in the Rue St. Honorc. The merry populace thronged the street., and many acquaintances accosted him ; hut he stopped not to converse with any one, nor turned aside with the crowd to follow any splendid equipage. His face was hand some, but pale, apparently with study ; and it was singular that in one so young, and especially a Frenchman, the expression should have been so uniformly melancholy. He went up the steps of a small house and knocked gently. The door was opened by an elderly woman, whose face beamed with joyful surprise on seeing him. “•I am so happy —so glad you are come Mr. Rosier. I would have gone myself for you, hud I known where to find you. — Mademoiselle Eulalie —” “ What of her —is she worse I” demand ed the youth impatiently; but without waiting the old woman's reply he pushed past her, and went hastily up stairs. The woman looked after hint, and shook her head sadly. Leonard entered a small front chamber just then lighted with the last crimson rays of the setting sun. On a couch near the window reclined the pale anil emancipated form of a young gill, apparently in the last stage of a decline. Illness, though it had wasted her figure to almost ethereal thin ness, had tv-t destroyed the exquisite sym metry of her features. They were still perfect in their delicate outline; and the beautifully-chiselled lips wore a tinge of rose which, like the faint spot of color on each cheek in contrast with her otherwise dazzling paleness, was evidently the effect of disease. Her eyes were large, dark, and supernaturally bright. She held in her almost transparent fingers a rose partly fa ded. Leonard came softly to her bedside, and, bending oxer her, said in a low tone of deep and anxious love, “ Eulalie !” The lovely invalid turned quickly, and her eyes beamed with joy as they rested on him. “ Oh, brother,” she murmured, “you are come at last!” The young man turned away his face, and wept for a minute in silence. At length, looking up, and addressingthe nurse, who had followed him into the loom, he asked, “ When did this fearful change take place 1” t ’ 0 About two hours since,” replied the woman. “ Mademoiselle, while sitting on the fauteuil at the window, was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and raptured a blood-vessel. The bleeding was inconsider able, yet it reduced her to this weakness.” “ Brother!” said the invalid faintly, and clasping his hand, she looked up imploring ly in his face. “Do not suffer her to speak, said the nurse. . . “I must!” replied the young girl; ami by the slight pressure of her fingers Leon ard knew” that she had something on her mind. He motioned the old woman to withdraw j she objected that it would be dangeious to allow her patient to talk, but a glance at Leonard’s face of despait con vinced her that he thought bis sister beyond hope, and that even the chance of prolong ing her feeble life was scarce sufficient to justify them in withstanding her wishes.— The nurse left the apartment. “ Beloved Eulalie !” repeated Leonard, again bending over his sister. “Brother!” exclaimed she, with an en ergy that startled him j “ brother, l saw him!” . , “ Him ! whom I Oh, heaven ! sobbed the youth. Eulalie motioned for some drops that stood on the table. Leonard poured some from the phial, and adminis tered them; they seemed to revive her. She spoke in a stronger voice, and less in terruptedly. SI jFamUfi : Brtootrtr to SUtcratuve, &£rtcuUure, jpUcitauCca, Sfruraticu, jFovciflu *um Somrsttc Intelligence, szc. “ I saw him—the Marquis de Verneuil.” “ The villain !” groaned her brother. “ Yes—lie is so. Leonard, or he could not have acted as he has done,” said Eulalie, with strange calmness. “To deceive a young girl like me by a false marriage, and then desert her—” “ His life shall pay for it,” said Leonard, in a voice of agony. *’ Not so !” cried Eulalie. “Would such a revenge profit me 1 Hear me, Leonard. The hand of death is upon me, and, ere I die, I have a boon to ask. But, before 1 name it, you must promise—promise me solemnly, on your knees, Leonard, and be fore God, that you will never attempt his life. Leave to the Almighty Judge the punishment of my wrong. Leonard, pre mise me. It is Eulalie’s last prayer hut one.” Leonard hesitated, but, adjured again and again, he knelt down and took the re quired oath. , “ Now hear me,” said his sister, “ for my strength is failing, and the moments are numbered in which I can speak at all. 1 saw the Marquis dc Verneuil from yon window. He drove past in his chariot, and beside him was seated a beauteous lady, whom I judged, front the fond look with which he regarded her, lie means to make hia bride. Leonard, Ido not envy her, but is it wrong to wish that I could leave the world as the wife, not as the outcast mis tress of him who once loved me I Os the tights of a wife I have been cruelly defrau ded—would lie not give them to me for a few moments 1 I should not live to delay his second nuptials. Oh, brother, would he not 1” The emotion that accompanied these words showed how near her heart lay the request. Leonard answered not till she had again urged it, and hesaught him to make her death happy by heating her petition to the marquis. The shades of evening were falling—there was no time to he lost. “ Speed, brother,” said the low pleading voice of Eulalie, “ for, sure 1 am, that to morrow’s suit will not behold me living.— Bring him to my bedside, that 1 may for give him—and be, for but the closing mo ment of my life—his bride. Go, Leonard ; hut whatever may happen, remember your oa;h !” And, summoning the nurse to watch by the couch of the dying girl, the young man left his sister on his strange ert and to the Chateau de Verneuil, some miles distant from Paris. To the burning impatience of his spirit, the fleet hnise lie rode went slow ly ; and, though yet early in the evening, it seemed to him that hours passed before lie reached the chateau. His horse was wet with foam as lie dismounted at the gates. — Those gates were not solitary; a group of gallant steeds were led to and fro by gaily dressed menials, and one or two lately-arri ved guests, with rustling plumes and broid ered mantles, wereadmitted aslie approach ed. Light streamed from the diamond shaped panes of the castle, and rich music floated on the air. The young marquis held a sumptuous feast, and entertained the aris tocracy of Paris. For an instant there was a pause in the music; some toast wa9 pro posed ; then there was a burst of applause, piesently drowned in the rejoicing clam or of cymbal, and bugle, and kettledrum. It was a splendid banquet, in truth, not only in the viands and choice wines, but in the wit and courtly gaiety of that festive company. The soul of their mirth, the in spirer and presiding genius of the revelry, was the marquis himself. The humor of his jests was the most exquiste part of the en tertainment. There was not a shade on his face to show that aught of sadness had ever marred the flesh of liis laughing eye ; it was not in nature like his to feel any por tion of the wo his recklessness inflicted up on others, The revelry was at its height, and the gay host about to challenge fresh admiration by some new brilliant speech, when a servant whispered in his ear, and informed him a voung man had arrived express from Paris, and demanded to see him instantly. The marquis sent his valet to question the stran ger, and finding that his business was not of a political but a private nature, and pioba blv such as did not particularly concern De Verneuil’s interests—this was an inference of the valet’s on observing the humble ex terior of the young student—the marquis returned answer that he could not now he disturbed, and directed the stranger to com municate his errand to the confidential ser vant. Leonard bit his lip till the blood came, as the man delivered his reply ; then taking a pencil and paper from his pocket, he wrote a few hurried lines to the marquis—inform ing him of the dying prayer of Eulalie Ro sier, and imploring him (for liis sister’s sake Leonard stooped to entieaty) to lose not a moment, as she could not survive the night, in doing justice to his victim. No man could resist such an appeal! thought Leon ard, as he gave his note to the valet. The man at first refused to disturb his master agaiu ; but moved by the youth’s evident distress, he at last consented once more to fulfill his request. By St. Denys! hut the modesty of this transcends belief!” cried De Verneuil, as he read the billet; end after giving orders to liis servant to conduct the young stranger without the gates, and inform him that ho might consider himself fortunato that he rg- MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 21, 1843. Esquire Wilkins was the hardest man to beat that ever stood a poll for any office in the gift of liis county. It mattered very lit tle to him wliat principles were in the as cendant, or whether he ran as Whig or Democrat, New-light Locofoco or Indepen dent. He was the people’s man—the poor man’s friend—one whose sympathies, espe cially ori the eve of an election, went out to all the unfortunate of his species, and cov ered even the women and children of the poor voters. He wasn’t proud—he knew every body, but especially was he mindful of his poor neighbors and particular friends, whom he delighted to call upon at their houses. His saddle-bags would be termed by the opponents of the United States Bank, a “ powerful electioneering engine'’ filled as they were with everything to make the heart glad—such as a bottle of the “ very best” for the men, with lots of ginger bread, mint candy and sugar-plumbs for the children, and drops and paregoric for the sick baby. He was precisely of the same opinion with | everybody else on all subjects. He was a | Methodist now, a Baptist then, arid a Pres byterian when it suited the company. He ever had a remedy for every ill and a conso lation for every grief, and never left a poor neighbor’s house without having shed a ray of sunshine upon their desponding hearts. His benevolence on such occasions was be yond all bounds—rents should he paid, doc tors’ bills should he settled, executions should be stayed, and,if lit was elected, tax | ation should cease, and the poor should have relief. But he was in a hurry and could do nothing then —lie must be active or Jones would beat him. Then patting the baby on the head and protesting that it was a mar velous smart child,he would with a sly laugh, charge the mother to name the next one af ter him, and concluding with an earnest in junction to the husband to be at the polls, dead or alive, he would take his leave to visit the house of the next voter. Is it any wonder that ’Squire Wilkins was hard to beat I But the tace is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong. — ’Squire Wilkins was beaten at the last elec tion, and the above picture represents, as near as we can make it, the first interview between.him and his friend Jenkins, just after the election. Jenkins was an “ avail able,” and not only voted the “entire tick et” which had beeu placed in his hands by his dear friend Wilkins, but actually made his oldest son, a lad of 20, “ kiss the calf skin” that he might vote the same ticket.— There was a certain little execution hanging over Jenkins’ head, which had long been held by a neighbor of the opposite politics, who having learned the compromise the former had made of his long professed prin ciples, could not find in his heart any kind ly sympathy moving him to longer indul gence. ’Squire Wilkins had promised to see him harmless from this same execution, and it now became necessary to remind him of said promise. They met on sale day.— ’Squire Wilkins was in a biißtle—over head and ears in business, buying the property of his poor neighbors that was being sacrificed under the Sheriff’s hammer—and it was with difficulty Jenkins could attract his no tice. But Jenkins’ only mule, which com prised the bulk of his estate was about to be (not “ put upon the block,” for the ani mal was fractious and had an aversion to blocks, hut what was the same thing) ceived no chastisement for his daring folly, the marquis laughingly asked his guests “ what they thought of the sang froul of a sutgeon’s apprentice, who had the impu dence to demand that he should on the in stant leave his courtly guests, to tide post haste to Pat is, and marry his siek sister !” The shout of merriment that followed this jmjnr aftek rag i£gg©Ta®^ a “knocked down” to the highest bidder, and he sought his friend Wilkins. He at length came upon him unawares. “ Good morning, ’Squire,” said Jenkins with rather a beseeching smile upon his tal low face, at the same time extending his hand, which Wilkins did not observe. “Good morning, sir,” icplied Wilkins, coldly, at the same time starting as if in search of some oneiti another direction. But Jenkins mustered tip courage to pur sue his friend, the ’Squire, and, quickening liis pace, overtook him, and laying liis bony hand upon the ’Squire’s arm, intimated that he would like to have a few words in pri vate with him. Stepping a few paces to one side, the ’Squire preserved peifect silence, with his eyes fixed upon some object in the distance, while Jenkins commenced in a tremulous tone, his vacant gaze directed full in the ’Squire’s face— “ Well, ’Squire—you know—that execu tion—you know, what I told you about. They’ve tuck old Blaze and the Sheriff’s gwine to sell him in spite of all I kin do. I can’t raise a cent, and the old woman and children’s all got the fever’n ager —anti “ That’s bad—that’s bad,” replied the ’Squire, growing restive under the recital, and seeming impatient to be off—“ but—no money—that’s very had.” “ Well, ’Squire, can’t you fix it for me— old Blaze is all we’re worth upon the face of the yeath—and you know you sed ” “ Oh, yes, but it’s utterly impossible— han’t got a cent of money to spare —losing every day—expect to be sued next Court.” “ But you know, ’Squire, I’m your friend, and goes the ‘ entire stripe’ for you all the time, agin Jones or anybody else—and then you know ” “ Yes ; but you see I can’t —it’s as much as I can do these times to take care of my own affairs,” replied the ’Squire, as he turn ed to leave. “ But, ’Squire, it's only twenty dollars, and Blaze is worth more’rt a hundred— we'll be completely ruinated, ’Squire.— Conte now, you remember wliat you prom ised ” But the ’Squire was out of hearing, half way across the square, and poor Jenkins was left to make the best he could of his desperate case. Poor fellow, the election was over, and even the little influence lie had possessed on the eve of the election was gone. ‘There were no poor men’s friends there to aid him, and he had to sub mit to the cruel motification of seeing his little nil of worldly possessions—his only mule—purchased by Esquire Wilkins, for less than half it was worth, and sent away to stock that gentleman's plantation with other property which he had purchased at the sale. He turned away from the scene in disgust. “ Dad blame your pore men’s friends,” said lie—‘‘they’re all alike in this world. Ther an’t one of ’em that wouldn’t take the shirt off a pore man’s back, if it would fit ’em and they wasn’t too dratted proud to wear homespun. Let one of ’em come a cajolein’ about me again with ther saft sodder ! Old Wilkins, the ceteful old cus, lias got nty vote nnd my mule too this time—but if ever I vote for a pore man’s frietid agin may I be cussed with St. Anti ny’s dance all the rest of my life and never stop jiiinpin tel the eend of the world !” question fell like u thunderbolt on the curs of Leonard as he quitted the gates of the Chateau de Verneuil. The young student returned to his sis ter’s deathbed—with what tidings] To tell her that her last prayer had been mocked— that her name had been scoffed at by tlm author of her sufferings—had setved to point a just for his heartless companions ! Leonard rejoiced that when he again saw Eulalie, she was beyond the ennsiousness of wrong or of woe. She did not even know her brother as he knelt beside her, weeping hitter tears ; and'long before sur.rise Eula liehad sunk into the arms of death. It was high noon upon a bright day in Oc tober, when a brilliant bridal company was issuing from the church of St. Koch. It consisted of many of the nobles of Paris, and dames whose beauty was dazzling even amid the splendor of their altiie who pos sessed the gift more rare even than loveli ness, the aristocrat mein, the high-bicd de licacy of air, that compelled the crowd about the church-door to fall hack involuntarily as they advanced. In the rear of the gorgeous tiain come the Marquis de Veineuil and his bride, tlie most admired beauty in the fashionable circles of Pat is. The magnifi cence of her dress, and the proud hearing of the marquis, excited expressions of de light and homage as they moved. He bow ed gracefully to the salutations of his friends —more distantly to mere acquaintances, and look the hand of his fair bride to assist her into the carriage in waiting. Just then there was a sudden movement in the crowd, and a young man, his face pale as death, and his eyes glaring like those of a maniac, sprang into the space sacred to the approach of aristocracy, and confronted the bride groom. He had a drawn sword in his hand. “Marquis de Yet neuil !’’ cried he, as the noble stopped, alarmed at this wild np pailion, “ I do not seek your life! I have sworn an oath to the dead, aye, the dead Eulalie, to do you no harm, and well it is for you that 1 hold my vows more sacred than you do yours ! But you shall not pass without a memorial from me Take this —and remember Leonard Rosier!” As lie spoke he struck the marquis on the face with the flat of his sword, then turning away, rushed into the thiong. Stung by the insult,DeVerneuil shouted to his friends to cut him down, or secure him ; but in vain. There was little affection at that lime Binong the populace for the corrupt and selfish aristocracy. The discontent which piereded the days of the revolution, had been long at work ; and on the first flash of a quarrel between a noble and one of their own order, most of the inferior class were ready, without inquiry, to es pouse the cause of the latter. Theyoungsurgeon had insulted oneofthe hated class of the nobility ; he was borne off in triumph by the crowd. When some of his acquaintances recognized him, and proclaimed his wrong, shouts of defiance were flung by the incensed people in the faces of Leonard’s pursuers, and the distur bance became so great that it was thought expedient to let the offender escape. De Vei neuil stepped into his carriage and took his seat by his bride, with his face glowing with rage and shame, and muttering curses and tlueats. The bridal cortege, was pursu ed as it departed by execrations and taunts fiomthe multitude, glad of any opportuni ty to give vent to the fire that had so long burned secretly and sullenly, and was soon to burst forth and amaze the world with its dreadful devastation. Years had passed. The revolution was at its height. Its horrors were enacted daily—hourly ; and the guillotine streamed with the blood of the noble victims. It was a stormy winter night in 1793. The door of a house in the Rue Nicaise was besieged by a party of sansculottes, who were dragging along with them a pris oner, whom they had seized coming out of the house of the Prince V- . They knocked loudly at the door. “O pen, Citizen Rozier! open the door! we have anew subject for you !’’ A window above was thrown open, and the figure of a man with a lamp in his hand, was visible. He wore a dressing-gown, which the wind blew hack from his mea gre limbs; and a soiled velvet cap, decora ted with a tri-colored cockade. “ A subject!” repeated he with a hoarse voice. “ A subject ! and his head not off!” “ Not yet!” cried or.e of the men.— “ You must give him quartets for an hour or two —till morning ; for the guillotine has had hard work to-day. Ills turn comes earliest in the morning, unless he goes off first by an extra post, for he is half dead with fright already. See what you can do towards reviving him ; and for a foe you shall have him to-morrow warm fiom the axe.” “ Bring him in, then,” replied the sur geon, and he descended to open the door. The sans-culottes dragged in their prisoner who seemed, in truth, more dead than alive. “ Keep the bird well caged !” cried they. “We took him from an aristocratic nest; a hand leagued for the distruction of the re public.” “ Come in, and guard him.” “ Not so, citizen doctor! We know you well, and can trust you. We leave the pris oner in your charge, for we have much bu siness before us to night. At dawn we will take him away—if you have not in the meantime dosed him to death. Come lads 1” And shaking the doctor by the hand ; and beckoning to his companions, the sans ! culotte depat ted. 1 “ You deserve the guillotine, all of yog!” WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. muttered the doctor, then turning; to the prisoner, said encourageingly— '* Do not despair, it may he in my power to bare you. I have saved more than one victim from 1 those bloodhounds. Troth! if they had the 1 least suspicion of me, ’twere as much ns any head is worth, hut let us hope for the beat. While speaking he lignied the lamp, which had been extinguished by the wind as he opened the door. He turned to the stranger, and stood as if struck by a thun derbolt. For a minute’s space the two ga zed upon one another ; the surgeon’s pale face grew paler, and his eyes glared fixed ly, as on some hideous apparition. At length, recovering his self-possession by • strong effort, lie said with a sneer, “ I bate the honor of seeing the Marquis do Ver neuil 1” “ Mercy, mercy !” gasped the prisoner. He was tienibling violently, and drops of cold sweat stood on his forehead. “Monsieur de Marquis does not recog nise me 1” asked the doctor. The prisoner looked 8t him earnestly, and shook his head; teiterating his entreaties for compassion. “ Monsieur le Marquis does not know me !’’ repeated the surgeon in the same hit ter ironical tone. “ The great and noble find it hard to recollect the poor; it is the canaille that always have such inveterate memories.” “ For heaven’s sake, do not mock my mis ery !” implored the fallen noble. “You have said you could save me—” The suigcou rang a small bell, and a servant appeared, when he ordered him t biing wine and refreshments. They were set on the table, the doctor drew up chairs, and invited his guest to sit down. The ago ny of thp prisoner increased every moment. *• For God’s sake, have pity upon me !” “ All in good time. Eat—you have need of refreshment.” “ Let me fly. The darkness of the night will favor my escape.” “ Impossible I There are spies about the door. My own servants would betray you. You cannot stir hence till morning. You had better eat something.” “ Oh, fate ! How can 11” “ Drink, then.” The doctor poured out a cup of wine and pushed it towards his guest. He did not touch it, but stood shir eiiug with terror. A pause ensued. “ Save me! save me I” again faltered he. “ Monsieur le Marquis,” said the doctor drily, “seems to have a very great fear of death !” The prisoner renewed his supplications. The surgeon hesitated. At length he sa : d, “ 1 know of hut one way to help you.” The prisoner was breathless. “ You are aware,” continued the doctor, “ that I am an anatomist. From what the sans-culottes said, you must have known that they are in the habit of bringing me bodies from the guillotine for dissection.- They do it out of friendship, for they think me an excellent citizen. You need nut shudder. I have, as I before mentioned, saved several who were brought to me alive and yet, thanks to Marat, with whom 1 am intimate, I have never been in want of fresh bodies. 1 have just now one in the house. Hut I cannot pass him off for you, M. le Marquis, because he is abort and stoat, and lacks the symmetry of proportion for which you are remat knble. Besides he has at pre sent no head. “These sans-culottes are not easily deceived. 1 must deliver job into their hands alive, or show them your corpse. The only method 1 see ifcthis; you must drink a portion I have prepared, which will render you insensible, and apparently dead, till to-morrow evening. When my. good friends come for you, 1 will take them to the marble table where you are laid out like a corpse.” The prisoner shuddered, but after a min ute said, “ If ynußave me, 1 assure you, on my honor, your reward shall be princely.'* The doctor turned hia head with an ex ptession of disgust. “ When must 1 take the drink V asked his guest. “ Immediately.” “ And where shall I pass the night !*’ “ As soon as you have drunk the portion, you will fall into a stupor, which will soon become total insensibility. 1 will then call my servant and order him to remove your body into the dissecting-room, and to lay it on the table.” The pi isoner groaned. •* You do not like youi lodgings 1” said the surgeon. “ But you will he in tio condition to notice them when you have taken the draught.” “ Let me only see the room !” implored the marquis. “ You had better lose no time. Hark ! what is that 1” The clock struck. “One, two! they will be here : ,ti less than an hour.” “ I will take the draught J” cried prisoner in mortal anguish. “But ynly me sec the room l” The doctor rose without tepty, am}’ tak ing the lamp, led the way, beckoning 19 hia guest to follow him- At the other end the hall they filtered* passage which led tq the dissectiag-room. It was large, and fur nished with wooden cases, and glaasea iq which were preparations in spirits of win?. More than one skeleton ws visible, pack iq its case. On a marble in the middle of the room lay an uncovered headless, ■ cpvpse, mangled and bloody, The marqut^ | NUMBER 30.