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CUTHBERT
APPEAL.
BY SAWTELL & JONES.
CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 9, 1870.
—
VOL. IV—NO. 34.
<Jt)e Cutljbert Appeal.
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CQrrespondence.
Hon. Jas. I. Ktddoo—Sib.—It be
comes our pleasant duty, as the Board
of Trustees of this Institution, in behalf
of the patrons and school, to express to
you their many thanks, and high appre
ciation of the beautiful sentiments
and excellent advice contained in tbe
eloquent address delivered at the An
nual Examination of Cottob Hill Semi
nary.
Desiring for the benefit of ourselves
and others, that your excellent coun
sels may be more permanently recorded,
we respectfully request a copy for pub
lication. .
Hoping that it may meet your con
venience and pleasure to grant our re
quest, we remain with sentiments of
esteem. Yours, &c.,
Thos, P. J enter, Pres.
Wm. G. Allen, Secty.
Cotton Mill, Ga., June 24th, 1870.
Messrs. Thos. P. Jesler, and vVm. G.
Alien,
Gentlemen :—Your complimentary
note of yesterday, requesting a copy of
my hastily prepared address for publi
cation, has been received.
While regretting that those portions
of it which won your heartiest approval
were purely extemporaneous, and cannot,
now, be reproduced. I yield my own
preferences to yours, and submit the
original manuscript to your disposal.
Accept, Gentlemen, for yourselves,
and those yon represent, my grateful
acknowledgements.
Very Respectfully,
Jas. J. Kiddoo.
Cuthbert, Ga., June 25th, 1870.
ADDRESS.
Ladies and Gentlemen:— Words are
not light and airy nothings. Mirnbeau,
who was a master of the human pas
sions, has saidthat “ words are tilings.”
They are the symbols of immortal
thought Why did the big heart of
Napoleon tremble when, on bis ocean-
bound prison, he heard a peasant boy
sing the Marseilles’ Hymn? It was be
cause his mind was borne “ o’er the wa
ters and far away ” to France; back to
the time when the volcanoes of ambi
tion boiled in his bosom, and his un
conquerable armies followed him up the
Alps; to the time when the plumes of
his Marshals waved in the battle, like
the young cedars of Lebanon i n the gale;
tundcr the golden dome of the Tuilleries
be had worn the crown of the Caesars;
but, alas ! the grand drama had shiaed
its last scene and left its hero, like an
eagle chained to the rocks of St. Hele
na. Tbe Conqueror, whom the chivalry
of Europe cculd not subdue, wept, like
• child over his broken toys, when the
words of that national air foil upon his
ear.
A haughty monarch once sat at his
royal board, and bauquetted among his
nobles in all the splendor of eastern
magnificence. Beautiful damsels press
ed luscious grapes into crystal goblets,
music lent wings to the light-footed
hours, and all was melody, and bloom,
and sparkle. In the midst of his revel
ry, when he saw a few simple words
traced upon tbe wall, bis knees smite to
gether, and his head fell upon his bo
som, for Belshazzar was awed by a few
simple words. They are the language
of the thoughts and passions, and when
they breathe consolation to the broken
hearted, they mingle thought and feel
ing in whispered music, sweet and gem
tie as the low-toned murmurs of the
barp, when notes of tenderness are on
the strings—while, at other times, when
the orator makes them a part of action,
tbey rouse tbe heart like the bugle-horu
ot Rboderie Dhu the fisiec spirits of
his clansmen.
Thus I have given you examples of
the power of words or thoughts in song,
and when written; and regret, more
than you possibly can, my inability to
give ocular and auricular demonstration
of tbeir mighty power when spoken.
Thought, in its various modes of ex
pression, whether by word or peD, or
act, together with tbe bast methods of
guiding and cyoking its powers, is my
theme.
Oqr rallying cry during the late glo
rious, but unfortunate, struggle ‘‘(Jot-
ton is King”—has long since been ex
ploded. That King was soon dethron
ed, and bis proud subjects conquered.
Mortifying ns it may be to acknowledge
the truth, it was a thought—a simple,
impalpable thought—that when first ut
tered in the United States was pelted
with rotten eggs, that overcame our
mighty king, arrayed the world against
the South, and brought upon ns the
foulest tyranny that ever cursed a proud
people. It was a little thought— a
mean contemtable thongbt, at first; bnt
it rolled on, gaining strength and vol
ume day by day, till it swept over the
Continent with the power of a tornado,
overtnrning onr dearest hopes and high
est privileges, and wreeling, beneath the
ruins of the temple of liberty, the fond
expectations of the friends of Republi
can government throughout tbe world.
“Thought is King;’’mind,-not mat-
ter, rules the world. It is Cf TD6-es
sence of God himself that spoke ic into
existence. The Infinite Mind is ever
sending out bright emi nations from
Himself—is ever full—ever giving,—
bnt never receiving. Like the sun, his
beams illumine immensity, without re
ceiving a reflection in return. The Uni
verse cannot give Him a new thought,
sensation, or emotion.—The finite mind,
however, feeds and grows on that which
it receives from surrounding objects ;
but it is only by properly appropriating
and using these abundant supplies that
it becomes more and more like the great
mind that set it in motion; and is pre
pared, in a secondary degree, to create
new worlds of its own and people them
with its own bright fancies. Mind, like
water, should ever seek its original lev
el, and finds it only in God. “Excelsi
or,” is the clarion cry of every true
man. It should auimnte bis soul in the
first pulsations of lifo; control him
throughout his whole career; hover,
like an angel, over the couch of death,
and bear his spirit upward to God who
gave it.
The feeling which prompted the peo
ple of old to bnild tbe tower of Babel,
by which they might ascend into Heav
en and become as Gods, was a natural
one ; and, guided by the proper spirit,
kept within proper bounds, should in
spire every soul. It is only by approx
imating the Infinite Mind that we sub
serve the great object of our creation.
The primary purpose of every system
of education should be to train tbe
mind to thml. Thought, energetic,
original thought should be the end aim
ed at in all teaching. How best to pro
mote this should be the study of teach
er and pupil. The memory should not
be cultivated at the expense of the high
er and nobler faculties of the soul.—
While perpetual fountains, gushiog into
the mind from a thousand Vturcee,
should keep it ever full to the brim,
sparkling in the sunlight and purified
by the breezes of Heaven ; it should be
constantly sending nut pearly streams
of thought to beautify and adorn the
waste places of earth, and “ to make
the desert blossom as the rose." Its
waters should be kept ever in motion,
lest stagnation, decay, and death reeuil.
Treasures, whether of wealth or knowl
edge, are worthless if they be kept her
metically sealed; it is only in their
using that good results ensue, and the
world is blessed.
and, though destitute of tbe sanctity,
the divine impressiveness of the Sab
bath pulpit, yet, next to that it is enti
tled to reverence. Such a sentiment
ought to animate the hearts of those
who fill this vocation; each a sentiment
ought to be cherished in society toward
them ; and thns set apart by tbe homage
of public opinion to this hallowed work,
and consecrating to it their talents and
enthusiasm, tbey would soon find their
generous ardor and fruitful genius re
appearing in their pnpiis.
Let us not forget that higher motives
should inspire tbe soul of both teacher
and scholar than mere preparation for
the sordid duties of life. Tbe depths
of the heart, where dwell the supreme
forces of thought and energy, where
the imagination fiods its eagle wing and
the will its Herculean strength, where
tbe nerve gathers its lightning and the
muscle its brawny vigor,—these depths
never answer to the call of sordid earth-
liness. Tbe higher and holier affections
must be stirred into action ere the beau
tiful flowers of youth enn mature into
the generous fruits of thought and feel
ing * *
Thought, like the soul, is immortal.
If man be immortal, his thoughts must
be. Will he enter upon eternity with
the tracery which time has drawn upon
tbe tablet of his soul ? Will he leave
himself behind at death ? Will he launch
his bark upon the open sea of endless
being, with another character than the
one he has constructed here below ?
And yet, all this roust happen, if his
thoughts, tbe component elements of
bis character, are not immortal.
Then, let us cultivate the power of
thought with assiduity as a preparation
for the grand scenes and gtoriuus en
joyments of the future world.
The movements of thought exceed
the rapidity of lightning. The Tele
graph with all its boasted power, csd-
not keep pace with the flight of thought.
It rests this moment on tbe sweet lace
of a gentle maiden in this room,—the
next upon a lone star, which trembles
upon the extreme verge of the Uni
verse, far beyond the ken of telescopic
vision, no£ one ray of light from which,
though travelling with lightning speed,
for millions of years, has ever reached
our distant earth. Where shall bounds
be placed to the stretch of thought ?
The wildest imagination can fix no limit
which it may not pass, no glory which
it may Dot compass. Compared with
its Herculean grasp, what is the spread-
of space, the sway of empire, or the
flight of time 1
Sunny land of the South—Home of
my birth,— though our feeble dust may
have mouldered in the sepulchre of hu
man frailty for ages, ere its consumma
tion,—may thy mountains yet be the
consecrated altars of freedom, and thy
sons and daughters, with intellects as
unfettered as the rolling streams, per
petuate the triumphs of mental suprem
acy, until Xbe columns of mnDdane
grandeur shall become corroded by the
tooth of time.
If weak, puny man possess such pow
ers, Ob ! what must be that God,
“ whose centre is everywhere, and
whose circumference is no where I*
, What mind can grasp the thouht ?
Our proudest doings—our most boasted
achievements—on this footstool are the
mere nestlings of a giant in his crndle.—
What then, must be the strength and ex
altation of our manh'iod’s prime 1 We
think, purpose, live act,for eternity. This
is but the beginning of a thread of
existence which is to run on in the end
less track of eternity, conveying to the
most distant parts of our vast career
the moral and intellectual vibrations we
produce as we pass along. Then, let
every thought gleam with the light of
truth, that in tbe hereaiter, its diamonds,
treasured up in the casket of memory,
may shine with resplendaDt baauty in
our crown of rejoicing.
The union of thought and external
things is the life, the soul of literature.
Without this union, it is but a skele
ton of poor, hard, dry bones. Thought
must be clothed in drapery the of exter
nal objects to be impressive, and enter in
to the peculiarities of the mind. How
beautifuly the ancients personified every
thing; they called the streak of golden
light before sunrise the rosy fingersof Au
rora, the daughter of the Morn, and thus
imagined they could see her painting the
sky; tbe broad belt of stars across the
heavens, tbey thought drops of miik
spilt by the infant goddesses ; the lava
spewed out from the Volcano's Sum
mit, they considered the refuse iron from
Vulcan’s forge; mouotain tops were the
home of the Gods ; silver lakes, sur
rounded by groves vocal with music,
were the abode of waterroymphs, where
Naiads had bathed tbeir beautiful limbs,
while their golden tresses floated on the
wavea; the petals of flowers were cups
for the fairies, and dew the nectar they
drank.
The Bible furnishes numerous in
stances of the power of local associa
tions. Christ drew most of his illustra
tions from familiar objects around him,
from the lilly, the eagle, the narrow
path up the mountain side, with here
and there a traveller, the city on a bill,
the candle in the chamber, etc.
The scenes amid which Shakespeare
was born made him immortal. The
memory of a quiet graveyard in Eng
land gave us the most beautiful elegy
in any language. Goldsmith’s “Deser
ted Village” received its finest passages
from the writer’s memory of an humble
village curate.
Byron gathered beautiful images from
scenery throughout the earth; bnt, in
the last hours of his life, memory fondly
lingered about the ivy that grew on bis
ancestral home.
The memories that linger about home,
and the old school-house.where we spent
our youth ennoble our leeliDgs and create
beautiful thought.
These lines, as true as they are musi
cal, strike a tender chord in all our
hearts:
‘•Thoughts pent up, spoil like bales unopened
To the sun.— speech ventilates our thoughts ;
It burnishes our minds, and makes them fit for
use.” '
True education consists not, alone, in
the accumulation of facts ; but in learn
ing how to nse them. They are valua
ble only as they evoke investigation, re
flection, and thought. Memory, indeed,
is well in its place ; bnt if it crowd out
fancy, invention, and judgment, and
tyrannize over tbe mind, it builds tbe
tomb instead of the temple of learning;
and instead*of being tbe mother of the
Muse* it becomes the prolific mother of
the Dances. Continual stuffing, without
digestion, weakens the mind, and checks
intellectual growth. The deep and ma
jestic current of intellectual greatuess
is dwarfed into a sluggish pool, from
which oozes out only slimy water and
deadly miasma.
To think intensely should become a
habit of tbe mind, growing up with and
into it from earliest childhood.—
Thought strengthens the mind, as QBe
develops the muscles of the physical
man. Severe thongbt demands effort;
bnt the brain glows and expands with
the invigorating exercise. Men gen
erally find it pleasanter to read or to
hear, than to think. Tbey prefer men
tal excitement furnished by others, to
producing it for themselves. They en
joy feasting at the banquet of another,
to preparing a more sumptuous one for
their own use.
The young, especially, think that
greatness is attained without effort.—
They imagine ibere is some happy
combination of faculties, which they
denominate genius; and that, by meaus
of it, one may soar to the sublime sum
mit of mental culture, b^some other jjtan
tbe slow process of gradual laborious
attainment; or that, in the lives ot a for.
tunate lew, there is such a concurrence
of happy chances, as to draw forth an
array of mental power, to develop the
“mighty man,” while the subject of tbe
grand transformation has only to look
on and admire. But men,do not become
great in intellect accidentally, and with
out effort It is tbe fruit alone of hard
study, and energetic and efficient
thought. The highest native powers of
intellect will soon tumble into ruins un
less sustained by untiring application.
It is with the mind, as with the body
the stronger it is the more aliment it
requires to keep it vigorous.
Study and thought are the character
istics—the true elements—of that genius
which knows how to create nDd to com
bine, to magnify and adorn; and to
infuse life nod vigor into everything
which is subjected to its alchcmyr
The case with which master-minds
grasp difficult subjects, or throw off
brilliant vieivs of them, is calculated to
mislead the inexperienced. They did
not witness the labor by which the great
toiled into greatness; and not seeing the
process they are likely to discredit its
existence. Tbe meutal grandeur of the
Lords in the intellectual creation was
wrought out, particle by particle, in the
chambers of thought Vulcan’s labor
was not more arduous than theirs who
forged mental thunderbolts in tbeir toil
ing branins. The babbling brook is
made noisy by its shallowness. The
deep river rolls on in majestic silence
to the sea.
Teaching is a ministry. It is the
present,—it will be mightier still in the
iulnre, while the . sword loses more and
more of its power year by year, and
will^ltiniately, be “beaten into plow
shares and reaping hooks,” and its do-
ion cease.
The pen, and not tbe sword, has been
the great conqneror. No great princi
ples have ever been finally settled by tbe
sword. Tpith has often been crushed
A Coquette’s Lesson
Several years ago there lived in Paris
a woman whose beauty had won the
most boundless admiration from all
whose charm of manner and many fas
cinations bad gained the most enthnsi
astic devotion and been the cause
the rao6t romantic deedsp and whose
coldness of heart made her a wooder
and a mystery to all. She had appear-
of
to the oarth ’bjLjt for a time ; bnt it has e( j suddenly upon tbe surface of Parisi-
ultimately been vindicated and raised
to its proper position by the pen of the
statesman.
Men’s minds are controlled and princi
ples fixed not by blows, bat by thoughts
—by arguments, gently, sometimes it
may be almost imperceptably, at other
times with power and force, flowing
from the pen point of some sturdy think
er in bis closet.
-Tk» thought**, the powers, that ruled
the world in all ages, have always burst
up like a fountain in tbe quiet chamber
of some humble man; and rolled on,
gathering volume aDd impetus, until its
mighty waves swept everything before
it.
The gentlest touch of a “grey goose
quill” may shake empires, overturn
kingdoms,—and set in motion causes
that will never cease in their effects in
time, nor in eternity.
W e need Dot glance at the old world
for examples »f the power of the “pen.”
—In an humble tenement of tbe Quaker
City, a plain ordinary looking gentleman
is writing a document that will exert an
influence upon the world for all time.—
As chairman of the committee fie has
just finished the original draft of the
“Declaration of Independence.” It is
submitted to bis associates, with some
amendments approved, and a few days la
ter tbe Congress of the Confederation is
assembled, while a sea of heads outside
await in trembling suspense its action.
The bell riDger is at his post, while a lit
tle boy is near to give the signal. Honrs
pass away, but the signal is not made;
the crowd grow weary, when all at once
the little urchin claps his hands and
shonts at the top of bis voice—“rmg D’
—“ring 1” The oid bellman pulls tbe
rope with a hearty good will; and tbe
cheerful tones of the oid bell swell over
bill and dale tbe glad tidings of “liberty
to all the land.” The “Dedai ation of In
dependence” is signed ; the “pen” has
done its work,—and the colonies are
free.
Thns, in the history of all govern
ments, the “pen” has proceeded the
“sword,” and the foundations have been
laid firm and deep by tbe pep of .the
thinker loDg before the “sword” has
leaped from the scabbord to protect its
principles.
The “Pen” is the King at whose com
mand muscle and brawn, clubs and bay
onets, swords and guns, and all the para
phernalia of warfare spring into being;
and, at its command, all these elements
subside, and tbe sciences, commerce, ag
riculture, and all the arts of peace pre-
Tire “sword” is but one element of
power, while there are many others
equally potent, and the ‘-peD” controls
them all. It says to this one, “go,”—
and he goeth; to that one, “stay,”—and
he stayeth. It- proclaims war, and it
signs the articles of Peace. It assigns
the sword*its place, and keepeth it in
bounds. It signs the death wairant ot
men and of nations; it giveth repreive
and established! peace. It is the great
conqueror, and the great peace maker.
It is often King and rules over em
pires, even though its throne may be
erected in an humble hut in the wilder
ness. Tbe sceptre of the nominal king
upon his lofty throne falls and rises at
its command. The “Pen” is the poVer
that rules tbe world—it builds up and it
destroys;—it establishes kingdoms, and
forma republics,—and, at its magic
words, both pass away td give place to
something else. There is nothing too
high for its reach, or too low for its at
tention—it presides in the hut and
reigns in the palace. Omnipresent—
almost omnipotent--nothing but God
can set bounds to its power. How
necessary, then, that it should be guided
aright. It is the mightiest engine lor
good, or the most terrible instrument for
evil.
The works of genius—“pen-works”—
live long aKer the holders have mould
ered in the grave. The grand epic of
“the blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle”
has more readers aud admirers now than
three thousand years ago. The very
site of Troy is unknown ; but tbe names
of its heroes lire in this work, and will
live forever. The beauty of Helen, tbe
exploits of Achilles, and Agamemnon^of
Hector and others, live in tbe immortal
“ Illiad,” while their weapons of war
and love have long since crumbled into
dust.
“Dear tbe school-bry spot
Which we ne’er forget, though there we are ter-
got.”
Fond memories of home, with all its
sweet endearments; of school-days, with
their wearisome studies and enrapturing
pleasures, will linger fvith us to tbe latest
hours of life; and, if they were of the
right kind, will keep our hearts pure.
Pleasant associations and companion
ship in early life feed and olothe thought
and have a happy influence upon the af
fections of the heart.
Thought is Tbe King; “the pen is
'mightier than the sword”; it has been
lust, Plato and Socrates, aDd a boat of
others of equal and of lesser glory;
poets, orators, philosophers, statesmen,
still live in their works, and exert an in
fluence upon tbe history ol the world.
In the beginning, when the earth
swung in chaos, and darkness brooded
over the Universe, God said, “ Let there
be fight, and there was light,” the di
vine fingers inscribed the rosy letters
in living light to creation’s utmost verge,
and man and angel, since theD, have
read the mighty words.. His matchless
Pen of power began tbe great work;
suns, and stars, and moons were bis
words; worlds and continents, oceaDS
and rivers bis letters; and man, proud
man, but the dust that hlots tbe book.
His pen began the work, and when tbe
close comes, it shall write in letters of
fire upon this fast dissolving ball, “It is
finished.” But the work of the Pen—
will it be done? Nay; its influence
will never cease, even in Heaven.
A good thought can never die. The
“ Pen,” as a mere thing of steel or gold,
may crumble and fall to pieces; but its
words of wisdom, first written upon pa
per, aud then upon the heart will livo
forever. The Sword rusts away, and
its point no longer can pierce—its mis
sion is done; but tbe Pen makes marks
that can never be obliterated.
Then, “ make your mark ” high and
deep,—make it in defence of right and
truth; and, though ycu and your pen
may crumble into dust and be forgotten,
your works, will meet you in heaven, and
yon will rejoice to greet tbe children of
your braiD.
an society, no one knew how, no one
knew whence. But though no one knew
anything about her, she had surprised
them into approval of her, and every
oue received her unhesitatingly. Her
Dame was d’ Anvers bnt every one
called her ‘Madame,’ because no one
knew whether she was wife, widow, or
mSd- Madame was very beautiful,
>d possessed that inexpressible charm
rt manner for which there are no words
of description; that fascination about
her whole being so dear aud beautiful
in a good woman, so fatal in a wicked
one. Madame was thoroughly selfish
She had made up her mind to have but
oue aim in life—her own ease and en
joyment. She resolved to do or permit
Dotliing from others which ioterlered in
tbe slightest degree with her own com
fort. Thus bad she deceived so manr.
Her lovers were endless in numlfr,
Madame was virtuous. It was peas
ant to have some one always thinking
of her, always anticipating her wishes
some one to bring l^gautiful bouquSs
some one to take her everywhere she
desired to go, and take her to a eplended
supper afterwards. Borne oDe to bring
her every new book, every new piece ot
music, aud some one whom she could
make a lackey of when she had any
commissions to be doDe. This was
Madame’s idea, and maDy bad sbe vic
timized, encouraging and leading tbem
on uDtil they approached the subject of
marriage, and ventured to hope their
suit was not in vain. Each one who
r was foolish enough to commit’himself
thus, lost even the pleasure of her socie
ty forever, and was dismissed and she
went.ou to tbe next who eventually
shared tbe same fate.
Whatever might be said of Madame’s
want of heart, not one word against her
virtue bad ever been breathed. In this
respect she thoroughly respected her
self, acd thus compelled her victims to
respect her. It is strange how perverse
human nature is ! The very faults they
despised in her, the very danger ot "her
presence, seemed to lure meu on more
than ever. No one bad ever made such
a sensation in Paris; but of course at
last her conduct began to excite indig
Dation. She had been tbe cause of tbe
ruin and death of more than one' man
whoso bart beat high with the Lopes
and joys of youth.
The young Cointe do L— had fall
en in a duel od her account. M. de M
, young, rich, of high family, and
will*, tbe prospect of a brilliant marriage
before him, bad poisoned himself for
love of her; and ^mother, a mere boy,
proud and sensitive, after lavishing his
soul’s hpst feelings upoD her in vain, as
solutely died of grief at her rejection.
When told of the feelings such thing
had created against her, she laughed and
said :
‘Well, why are they such fools? I am
not going to be held responsible for the
stupid acts of others. They have eyes
aDd can see. Why do they- not use
their eyes ? 1‘do not compel them to
love me, or ask them to run after me as
they do, and if they do it they must take
and bear tbe consequences.
Madarne’s latest victim was the Mar
quis de Lespierre, who, older than her
other suitors, had formed for her a more
serious, profound and enduring love;
but not content with the privilege of her
society and the exclusive permission to
be her escort on all occasions, had tbe
misfortune to ask her to become bis
wife. This sealed his doom. Disap
pointed and heart-broken, be left ber
presence a sad aud aged man, never
more to appear upon tbe world’s gay
scene, and ever to shun thenceforth tbe
society of women.
It was difficult to tell Madame’s age.
She was nearly forty, but appeared any
age between twenty and thirty-five.—
Never yet had that straDge cold heart
been warmed into anything like love.—
She waa a wonder and a mystery to all,
for she bad seemed to love so many
whom she had in everyway encouraged.
Yet why had she never married ?
J ust at this time appeared upon the
scene a new admirer. This was M.
Victor de Roussel. He was a man of
about forty, handsome, rich, intellectual
aud very dignified in his manner. Some
times there was a stern, uncompromis
ing look upon his face. Such a look
did he fix upon Madame as he saw ber
for the first time in her life. Madame’s
undertone, aDd the eflect of his manner
upon her did not escape him. He saw
the color rise in her cheeks, and the
■smile of pleasure which sbe tried in vain
to conceal.
‘You know I desire you to con^,’ sbe
said in the same tone, and then afraid
of going too far, she said ; ‘I beard you
say the other day that you were fond
of mnsic, and enumerate all my iavorile
composers as vonrs. We must have
tastes alike, for I love music, and will
give you plenty of it!’
‘Yon love music’ with such a cold na-
tnre as yours, he was about to add, but
be said ‘Love ? Did you ever love,
Madame ?’
‘Why I have just told you that I love
music,’ sbe said with a forced laugh.
‘I am not jesting,’ be said quietly; ‘I
mean a man. Have you over loved a
man ?’
‘No, never.’
‘And yet you have appeared to.—
You have led many men to think so,’ he
said, looking steadily at her.
‘It was their own mistake,’ she said.
‘But you certainly encouraged them,
and if you disliked tbem, why did you
do this ?’
‘I did not dislike any of them ; on the
contrary I liked each one in turn, and
always regretted when they banished
themselves by asking me to marry them,’
she replied while she asked herself 'in
dignantly, what right thia man bad thus
to question her actions ? She was angry
with him for bis audacity, yet sbe felt
herself utterly helpless ia bis bands.—
Bbe felt compelled to answer him, and
to answer him truthfully.
‘And why have you never made up
your mind to marry any of them ?’
‘Because I have not seen tbe man I
could marry. I do not think I could
ever experience tbe feelings a woman
should have toward a husband. Be
sides, I could never give up my inde
pendence and freedom as every woman
must do in a more or less degree, even
in France, and with even the most rea
sonable of husbands. I could never
give up my exclusive ownership of my
self. 1 could enjoy tbe society of men,
listen to tbe pleasing words of love,
pleasing because they flattered, aDd ac--
cept their attentions without binding
myself in any way. I have the natural
love of admiratiou and approbation be
longing to my sex, and like to have som^ 1 yon come ?’ she said, her heart the while
Horace and Cicero, Virgil and Sal- „f ace flushed under the gaze of a man
£3T We are told- that ‘an hone3t
man is the noblest work ov God,’ but
the demand for the work has been so
limited that I have thought a large share
ovtbe fust edisbun must still be in the
and a strange tremor thrilled her from
head to foot. M. de Roussel was es-
soetialiy different from any man she bad
met before. All others had yielded to
her spell at once, or if they made a faint
effort to resist, it was soon abandoned.
Bhe had been accustomed to see all men
bow to ber as willing, unquestioning,
unresisting slaves. Not so, M de
Roussel He could not but admire her
beauty, but after that a quiet look of
scorn settled upon his face as the result
of bis scrutiny. It surprised ber and
made her indignant; but lie interested
her more than the most enthusiastic of
her lovers had ever done. Madame met
M. de Roussel frequently in society.—
She felt piquid by bis indifference, for
be bad asked permission to call upon
her, and had never availed himself of it.
There was design ia this avoidance of
her which she little suspected.
M. de Roussell bad beard of ber; he
bad known M. de Lespierre, and ' his
whole nature revolted against a woman
who could make a wreck of such a man.
He had asked himself, what right had
this woman to go on causing ruin and
misery to others and' never suffering
herself? Why she not be taugbt a les
son that would effectually cure her, and
why should be not teach that lesson ?
The first step was to gain her interest.
This he did by teigning utter indiffer
ence. He had not availed himself of
ber permission to come and see ber on
purpose, aud it was what be wanted
when one evening she said to him:
‘Why have you not been to see me,
Monsieur de Roussel ? This is scarcely
gallant after asking if you might come,
and betraying me into expressing my
pleasure at the thought of your comiog.’
‘All, Madame, I am afraid you flatter
me. Do you really desire me to cotne ?
I scarcely dare hope so much.'
~ .id the last words eagerly in ap
one always near to do my bidding, and
to gratify my love of pleasure by antici
pating ony every wish for amusement,
my every taste. I could have been con
stant to one if I bad found one who had
sense enough to Lie satisfied with his
position^ aud not always desired to be
come my husband. In fact, monsieur,
I liked them all in turn, aa companions,
lovers, escorts, slaves, but not to marry.’
M. de Roussel looked at her for a
moment, and then said :
And has it never occurred to you
that you bad no right to trifle with the
feelings of others in this way ? Huve
you never thought of the misery you
might cause ? That perhaps you might
utterly crush and deBolate some honest
heart that loved you sincerely aDd earn
estly 1'
These consequences were their care.
They should have guarded against
them. I do not hold myself responsi
ble in any way/ehe said with a scorn
ful srdile. 1
Did it,never cross your mind that
you might possibly share the fate of uur
victims?' be asked,
‘I am not afraid,’ she answered gaily,
rising to go aa her carriage waa an
nounced ; T could never love aDy one
sufficiently to suffer.’
Do not say this,’ be replied iD an un
dertone, giving ber his arm; ‘I like to
hope that there is some one in this world
whom you might one day love.’
He felt her arm tremble, and knew
sbe understood him as be wished her to
do. As be handed her into the carriage,
he pressed her hand and said :
‘May I ask again to come ?’
‘YeB; come to-morrow.’
‘I will’
‘I shall wait for you with impatience,’
she said ungurdedly.
‘I will come. Good-night.’
‘A demain,’ she said.
‘A demain !’ he replied as he walked
away.
For tbe first time in ber life, Madame
passed a sleepless night for tbe sake of
a man. Thoughts of M. de Roussel
haunted her as no thoughts had ever oc
cupied her before, and her heart beat
faster as she thought of seeing him tbe
oext day. In tbe morniag she arose
with a flushed face, and looking more
beautiful aud interesting than usual
from the gentle languor produced by
fatigue ? As the hour approached fur
M. de Roussel’s visit, she began to
tremble. Wbat was this strange emo
tion ? What mysterious power bad this
mau over her ? Until now sbe had al
ways ruled, now she felt herself mas
tered. Madame knew nothing of tbe
simple power of love.
In the most becoming of toilettes M.
de Roussel found Madame waiting for
him. Her heart throbbed wildly and
sbe trembled so that sbe could scarcely
rise to greet him, all of which M. de
Roussel observed, bnt of course ap.
peared not to Duties. Bbe was begin
ning to love him as he wished sbe should
He knew bow wildly, how paaeiottalely
sbe would love once the ice was broken
He took both her bands, aDd stood
gazing at her for a long time in silence.
Her eyes fell before bis, and ehe tried
in vain to release herself.
‘You are very beautiful!’ be sand se
riously.
‘I have been told that Very often, mon
sieur.’
‘Bnt I do not speak it as others have
spoken it,' he said, bending over her.
‘No,’ she said musingly ; ‘you do not
say or do anything as others do. You
are to me very different to all others.’
‘Aod so I desire to be,’ he said point,
edly, aDd then tearing to go too far at
first, be changed the subject
M. de Boussel left her two hours later
in a state of happiness and hope, which
was pew to her. She bad first almost
unconsciously wished that he might love
her, now she hoped it, and began to be
lieve that he did. Many had loved tier
before, but never had it occasioned her
the slightest emotion. Now her whole
being thrilled with joy.
Groat was the surprise of the ‘world’
to find M. de Roussel madame's ‘next
victim’ as they.supposed, for every one
had beard him express bis contempt and
scorn for her, now they ridiculed him.
But be only replied: ‘Do out be too
hasty. Wairt’ •
lizod madme’s society, and she was nev
er seen aDy where with any ene else.—•
But a change had coine over her, Sbe
bad no more the haughty, disdaioful
and coquettish manner of former days.
A subdued, calm, happy look had set
tled upon ber face, lighting it up with
a wonderful beauty. All ber smiles, all
ber dangerous little speeches that might
mean so much or so little, were lavished
□ pen de Roussel alone.
Months passed, and M. de Roussel
held the position toward madame that
others had held before him. He was,
perhaps, the most attentive, most devo
ted, most passionate of all her lovers,
yet madame was not satisfied. A
strange feeling of dread insecurity
troubled her heart. She had never be
fore cared. But now she longed to have
some claim upon M. de Roussel, aod
sbe resolved when be offered himself as
her husband, as she bad no doubt he.
like all the rest would do, to accept him
This determination astonished herself.—
But M. de Roussel did not offer himself.
Nearly a year had passed. Would he
Dever speak ? His attentions and devo
lions never ceased or lessened for a mo
ment, during all this time, yet be never
asked the question that others bad asked
in a few months. Perhaps he feared the
same fate, and loved her too weld to risk
losing her. How was she to convince
bint to the contrary ? How let him know
that he was the one dear exception ?
Often before madame bad not scrupled
to affect love when no real feeling exis
ted in ber heart; but now that it was
filled with an intense, real love, a new
feeling of delicacy, a natural womanly
shrinking, made her timid and reserved.
Such thoughts aud feelings began to
torment ber.
She became pale and anxious. Mr
de Roussel affected not to understand
tbe cause, and added to ber annoyance
by constantly asking ber about it.
Another year passed. Two years !
Madame could scarcely endure the tor
ture of uncertainty and suspense any
longer. Her love for de Roussel con
quered her whole being, beyond all
power of control. She was his very
’slave, heart and soul.
Oue day be cams as nsual, and after
a few words of greeting he said ;
‘Are you going to be alone?’
‘Am I not always alone, except -when
A
HEROIC REMEDY.
HENRY’S
CARBOliIO
He was going
beatiDg high with hope,
to speak at last !
‘I have something to say to yon.
have come to say adieu 1’
‘Adieu ? Wliat do you maan ?’ sbe
exclaimed, her face growing ghastly.
‘I am goiDg away.’
‘But you are coming back ? Yon
could not be so cruel, so heartless as to
abandon me when yon know
'How much you love me ; is that what
yon would say ?’ he asked, interrupting
her. •
‘Yes ! yes !’ she said, burying her face
in ber hands. •
‘But you once said you would never
marry any man ?’
‘I know I said so, but I had not met
you then. I could be your wife, Victor.
I have never loved any one as I have
loved you.’
‘You speak the truth. This as it
should be,’he said angrily, seizing ber
band ; ‘yon luve me as they who came
before me loved you. You spurned
them from you. Now share their fate.
Suffer as you made them suffer. Your
time has come. Know at last wbat it is
you have been doing all your life.—
Learn by your own misery tbe desola
tion and ruin you inflicted upon others.
You had no right to do this and your
punishment has come.’
, He paused, and sbe sank to tbe floor
utterly bumbled aud crushed, aod said
in despairing voice :
‘But I have never wronged you, Vic
tor. I was earnest and sincere in my
love for you. I should Dever have
spurned you. Even now I will be your
wife.’
‘My wifs!’ he exclaimed, with scorn
ful emphasis; ‘I am married already,
and were I not, never should you have
been my wile. I have never loved your
I made love a trap to catch you in, and
I have caught and conquered yon, as
we put out of the way a wild animal
that has been devouring our compan
ions. You will devour no more. I
despise aDd loathe you, anu could so
contemptible a being excite so much
leeling, I would add bate. I go now to
my good, my gentle, my pure wife, who
waits for me in Italy, and I leave you
to yourself ; it is tbe bitterest punish
ment I could inflict. Profit, if you can,
by tbe lessoD I have taught, and may it
be a warning to all other coquettes and
adventuresses. Thanking yon for your
society and maDy pleasant? hours, and
for the preference you did me the honor
to feel for me. I leave you forever.’
Unable to speak, madame fell sense
less to the floor, where she was found
several hours later. It was many days
before she returned to consciousness ;
and when, after a long illness, she came
from her room again, she was but the
wreck of her former self. Bowed with
sorrow, illness and remorse, she seemed
like an old woman. The faces and
voices ol those she had wronged haun
ted her at all times, and she saw their
sufferings reflected in her own. Then
the disconnected words—‘married,’ wife,
‘Italy’—those dreadful words of M. de
Roussel’s—had made an idelible impres
sion on her mind. The world wearied
ber; it’s sights and sounds tortured
her. Life bad become almost intolera
ble aa it was. She longed for rest and
peace. Within a year, like Louise de
Valliere, she sought in a convent what
can be no where, if it is not in the heart.
She is the most strict and most devout
of all the duds. She still lives bnt
whether she has found the peace and rest
she sought, she best knows.
M. de Roussel is happy with his wife,
whom he idolizes. He never thinks of
madame, and baa not even troubled him
self to inquire what became of her.
Such is the life aud lesson of a co
quette—such the inevitable end of all
such lives.
Constitution
RENOVATOR!
BASED ON SCIENCE,
prepared With skill,
and all the available ingenuity and cxpeKiiMS,
that the art of pharmacy of the present day
can contriuute
And Combining in Concentrated Form the moat
Valuable Vegetable Juices*
Known in the History of Medicines fi*r
PURIFYING THE BLOOD,
Imparting
NURTURE TO THE SYSTEM*
Tone to tbe Stomach)
And s Heilthv Action of the Liver, Kidney*,
Secretive sad Excretive Organs.
A DYING ZOUAVE
Lay breathing his last on the battlefield, hi*
companions surged on and left him atone/—
They knew the cause of his approaching end—
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Thousands of Precious Lives
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To dance once more upon their withered Cheeks
DISEASE, LIKE A THIEF,
Steals upon its victim* unawares, and before
they are aware of its attack, plants itself firm- I
ly in tbe system, and through neglect or inat- f
tention becomes seated, and defies all ordinary
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ciless grasp.
Do Yon Know tlie Cause of
The wasted form -the hollow cheek t
The withered face—the sallow complexion t
The feeble voice—the sunken, glassy eye 1
The emaciated fbrm—the trembling frame f
The treacherous pimple—the torturing sore f
The repulsive eruption—the inflamed eye!
The rimpled face —the rough colorless akin 1
and debilitating ailmeuts of the present age ?
The answer is simple, and covers the whole |
ground in all its phazes viz: the
FANGS OF DISEASE
AND
HEREDITARY TAINT
Are firmly fixed ia the
Fountain of Life—the Blood.
t5e s
Indiscriminate Vaccination
during tbe Jate war, with diseased Lymph hi
TAINTED THE BEST BLOOD
Id the entire land. It has planted the germ of I
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men, women and children on all sides, and I
nothing ehort of* 1
A BKKOIC eemzdt
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Such a Remedy is
HENRY’S
CARBOLIC
CONSTITUTION]
RENOVATOR.
M'll
A follow, having a spite at a Ban.
sage-maker, rushed into bis shop, when
crowded with customers, threw a large,
dead cat upon the couoter, and said :
‘That mares nineteen I We’ll settle
wheQ you're not so busy J' and made
his exit. He was, of course, followed
by the sausage amateura, empty banded.
Esr Give tbe devil bis due is well
eoough in a proverb but, ray friend,
wbat will become of you and me if this
On reaching the Stomach, it assi mulates
once with the food and liquids therein,
from the moment it passes into the Blood, ii
tacks disease at its fountain head, in its
and maturity, and dissipates it through tbs
enucs of the organs with unening certainty,
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The tubercules of Scrofula that someti
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domen. like kernels of corn, are withered,
solved aod "eradicated and tbe diseased
nourished into life. The Torpid Liver
active Kidneys are stimulated to a healthy _
cretion, and tbeir natural functions restored
renewed health and activity.
Its action upon the blood, fluids of the body,
and Glandular System, are
TONIC, PiJflIFYING AND DISINFECTANT,
At its touch, disease droops, dies, and the
tiru of its violence, as it were,
LEAPS TO NEW LIFE.
It Relieves the entire system of Paios an
Aches, enlivens the spirits, and imparts
Sparkling brightness to the Kys,
A rosy glow to the Cheek,
A ruby tiige to the Lip,
A clearness to th6 Head,
A brightness to the Complexion, %
A buoyancy to the Spirits,
And happiness on all sides.
Thousands have been rescued from tbs v<
of tl e grave by its timely use.
This Remedy is now offered to the publi
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Foe old Affections of the
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Nervous Prostration, W eakness, Genera
tude, and Loss of Appetite, it is unenr
It extinguishes
Affections of the Bones, Habitual Cottivi
Diseases of Ihe Kidneys, Dyfpepsia,
Erysipelia, Female Irregularities, Fis
tula. all fckin Diseases, Liver
Complaint. Indigestion, Piles,
Pulmonary 1
sumption, Scrofula
or King’s E^il,
3y p hillis.
Prepared by
Prof. M. E, HENRY,
DIRECTOR-GENERAL
on she
JBKKLIN HOSPITAL.
V. A, L. L D FJLS ^
HENRY &
>• „
CO., Proprietor*.
Laboratory, 278 Pearl Street
• Punt-OfEoe Box. 6272. Nnr You*.
®-C05STITUTIQff REKOVALO’l i. i
per bottle, , ! x bottlesUr *5 ReftwTtjhi
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