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BY SAWTELL & JONES,
®I)C €utt)bert Appeal.
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or Guaidiaus, are required by law to beheld on
the first Tuesday in the month, between tn<* hours
often in the forenoon, and three in thj* after
noon. at the Court House iu the county yb which
the property is situated. Terms of saUf must be
"jJotice of these sales must be a public
gaaetU 40 days previous to the dav.'of sale.
Notice for the sale of personat/property must
be given in like manner, 10 previous to sale
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must be published 40 days.
Notice that application will be made to the
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the deceased, the full space of three months.
Publications will always be continued accord
ing to these, the legal requirements, uuless oth
erwise ordered.
Correspondence.
Bon. Jos. J. Kiddoo — 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 the
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,
yet 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. Jester, Pres.
Wm. G. Alien, Secty.
Cotton Hill, Ga. } June 24th, 1870.
Messrs. Thos. P. Jester, and Nm. G.
Allen,
Gentj.emen ;—*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 oannot,
now, be reproduced. I yield rny own
preferences to yours, and submit the
original manuscript to your disposal.
Accept, Gentlemen, for yourselves,
and those you represent, my grateful
acknowledgements.
Very Respectfully,
Jas. J. Kiddoo.
Cuthhert, Ga* June 25th, 1870.
ADDRESS.
Ladies and Gentlemen :— Words are
not light and airy nothings. Mirabeau,
who was a master of the human pas
sions, has said that “ words are things.”
They are the symbols of immortal
thought. Why did the big heart of
Napoleon tremble when, on his ocean
bound prison, he heard a peasant boy
sing the Marseilles’ Hymn? It was be
cause his mind was borr.e “ 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 in the gale;
tdndcr the golden dome of the Tuilleries
he had worn the crown of the Caesars ;
but, alas ! the grand drama had shifted
its last scene and left its hero, like an
eagle chained to the rocks of St. Hele
na. The Conqueror, whom the chivalry
of Europe cculd not subdue, wept, like
» child over his broken toys, when the
words of that national air fell upon his
ear.
A haughty monarch once sat at his
royal board, and banquetted among his
nobles in all the splendor of eastern
magnificence. Beautiful damsels press
ed luscious grapes iDto crystal goblets,
music lent wings to the ligbt'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 the wall, his 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 gen*
ile as the low-toned murmurs of the
harp, when notes of tenderness are on
the strings—while, at other times, when
the orator makes them a part of action ,
they rouse the heart like the bugle-horn
of Rboderic Dhu the fiezee 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
»| their mighty power when spoken.
Thought, in its various modes of ex
pression, whether by word or peD, or
act, together with the best methods of
guiding and evoking its powers, is my
theme.
Ot#r rallying cry during the late glo
tious. but uulbrtuoste, struggle-^
CUTHBERT |ljj APPEAL.
ton is King ” —has long since been ex*
ploded. That King was soon detbron
ed, and bis proud subjects conquered.
Mortifying as 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 us the
foulest tyranny that ever cursed a proud
people. It was a little thought— a
mean contemtable thought, at first; but
it rolled on, gaining strength and vol
ume day by day, till it swept over the
Continent with the power of a tornado,
overturning our dearest hopes and high
est privileges, and wrecking, beneath the
ruins of the temple of liberty, the fond
expectations of the friends of Republi
can government throughout the world.
“ Thought is King;” mind;*- not mat
ter, rules tbe world. ' Jt is Cf TOo^BB
-of God himself that spoke it into
existence. The Infinite Mind is ever
sending out bright eminations from
Himself—is ever full—ever giving,—
but never receiving. Like the sun, his
beams illumine immensity, without re
ceiving a reflection in return. The Uni
verse cannot give Him anew thought,
seosation, 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 oyvn bright fancies. Mind, like
water, should ever seek its original lev
el, and finds it only in God. “Excelsi
or,” is tbe clarion cry of every true
man. It should animate his soul in the
first pulsations of life; 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 build the 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 withiu 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 the
mind to think. 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, gushing into
the mind from a thousand Iburces,
should keep it ever full to the brim,
sparkling in the sunlight and purified
by the breezes of Heaven ; it should be
constantly sending out 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 result.
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.
‘'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 use them. They are valua
ble only as they evoke investigation, re
flection, and thought. Memory, indeed,
is well in its place ; but if it crowd out
fancy, invention, and judgment, and
tyrannize over the mind, it builds the
tomb instead of the temple of learning;
and instead*of being the mother of the
Muses it becomes the prolific mother of
the Dunces. Continual stuffing, without
digestion, weakens the mind, and checks
intellectual growth. The deep and ma
jestic current of intellectual greatness
is dwarfed into a sluggish pool, from
which oozes out only 6limy water aDd
deadly miasma.
To think intensely should become a
habit of the mind, growing up with and
into it from earliest childhood.—
Thought strengthens the mind, as ase
develops the muscles of the physical
man. Severe thought demands effort;
but the brain glows and expands with
the invigorating exercise. Men gen
erally find it pleasanter to read or to
hear, than to think. They 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 there is some happy
combination of faculties, which they
denominate genius; and that, by menus
of it, one may soar to the sublime sum
mit of mental culture, other yhan
the slow process of gradual laborious
attainment; or that, in the lives ot a for.
tiinate few, 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 the
grand transformation has only to look
on and admire. But men.do not become
great in intellect accidentally, and with
out effort. It is the 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 and tocom*
bine, to magnify and adorn; and to
infuse life and vigor into everything
which is subjected to its alchemy."
The ease with which master-minds
grasp difficult subjects, or throw.off
brilliant views 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. The mental 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 their 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
and, though destitute of the 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 ; such a sentiment
ought to be cherished in society toward
them ; and thus set apart by the homage
of public opinion to this hallowed work,
and consecrating to it their talents and
enthusiasm, they would soon find their
generous ardor and fruitful genius re
appearing in their pupils.
Let us not forget that higher motives
should inspire the soul of both teacher
and scholar than mere preparation for
the sordid duties of life. The depths
of the heart, where dwell the supreme
forces of thought and energy, where
the imagination finds 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 tbe call of sordid earth
liness. The higher and holier affections
must be stirred into aetion ere the beau
tiful flowers of youth can mature into
the generous fruits of thought and feel-
* • »
Thought, like the soul, is immortal.
If man be immortal, his thoughts must
be. Will be enter upon eternity with
the tracery which time has drawn upon
the 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 t.be
one he has constructed here below ?
And yet, all this must happen, if his
thoughts, the component elements of
his character, are not immortal.
Then, let us cultivate the power of
thought with assiduity as a preparation
for the grand scenes and glorious en
joyments of the future world.
The movements of thought exceed
the rapidity of lightning. The Tele
graph with all its boasted power, caD
not keep pace with the flight of thought.
It rests this moment on the sweet face
of a gestle 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,
thougli travelling with lightning speed,
for millions of years, has ever reached
our distant earth. Where shall bounds
bs placed to the stretch of thought ?
The wildest imagination can fix no limit
which it may not pass, no glory which
it may not compass. Compared with
its Herculean grasp, what is the spread*
of space, the sway of empire, or the
flight of time !
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 the columns of mundane
grandeur shall become corroded by the
tooth of time.
If weak, puny man possess such pow
ers, Oh ! what must be that God,
“ whose centre is everywhere, and
whose circumference is no where!”
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 cradle.—
What then, must be the strength and ex
altation of our manhood’s prime! We
think, purpose, live act,for eternity. This
is but the bfeginning 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, thatiu the hereafter, its diamonds,
treasured up in the casket of memory,
may shine with resplendant 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 eould see her painting the
sky; the broad belt of stars across the
heavens, they thought drops of milk
spilt by the infant goddesses ; the lava
spewed out from the Volcano’s Sum
mit, they considered the refuse iron from
Vulcan’s forge; mountain tops were the
home of the Gods ; silver lakes, sur
rounded by groves vocal with music,
were the abode of watermymphs, where
Naiads had bathed their beautiful limbs,
while their golden tresses floated on the
waves; 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 hill,
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 “Deter*
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; but, in
the last hours of his life, memory fondly
lingered about the ivy that grew on his
ancestral home.
The memories that linger about home,
and the old school-house 4 where we spent
our youth ennoble our feelings and create
beautiful thought.
These lines, as true as they are musi
cal, strike a tender chord in all our
hearts :
“Dear the school-boy spot
Which vve ne’er forget, though there we are ter
g°t-”
Fond memories of home, with all its
sweet endearments; of school-days, with
their wearisome studies and enrapturing
pleasures, will linger With us to the 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 The King; “the pen is
'mightier than the sword”; it has been
CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 9, 1870.
present,—it will be mightier still in the
future, while the sword loses more and
more of its power year by year, and
wiUpaltimately, be “beaten into plow
shares and reaping hooks,” and its do.
ion cease.
The pen, and not the sword, has been
the great conqneror. No great princi
ples have ever been finally settled by the
sword. Tt;utb has often been crushed
to the oarthlifjt for a time; but it has
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, but by thoughts
—by arguments, gently, sometimes it
may be almost imperoeptably, at other
times with power and force, flowing
from the pen point of some sturdy think
er in his closet.
thought**, tho powers, that ruled
the world in all ages, have always burst
up like a fountain in the quiet chamber
of some humble man ; and rolled on,
gathering volume and 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 iu
time, nor in eternity.
We need not glance at the old world
for examples ®f the power of the “pen.”
—ln an humble tenement of the Quaker
City, a plain ordinary looking gentlemhn
is writing a document that will exert an
influence upon the world for all time.—
As chairman of the committee he has
just finished the original draft of the
“Declaration of Independence.” It is
submitted to his associates, with some
amendments approved, and a few days la
ter the Congress of the Confederation is
assembled, while a sea of heads outside
await in trembling suspense its action.
The bell-ringer is at his post, while a lit
tle boy is near to give tbe signal. Hours
pass away, but the signal is not made ;
the crowd grow weary, when all at once
the little urchin claps his hands and
shouts at the top of his voice—“ring R
—“ring 1” The old bellman pulls tbe
rope with a hearty good will; and the
cheerful tones of the old bell swell over
hill and dale tbe glad tidings of “liberty
to all the land.” The “Declaration of In
dependence” is signed ; the “pen” ha«
done its work, —and the colonies arc
free.
Thus, in the history of all govern
ments, the “pen” has proceeded the
“sword,” and the foundations have been
laid firm and deep by the pep of .the
thinker long 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 vvartare spring into being;
and, at its command, all these elements
subside, and the sciences, commerce, ag
riculture, and all the arts of peace pre
vail^
Tro “sword” is but one element of
power, while there are many others
equally potent, and the “pen” 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
conquerer, 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. The sceptre of the nominal king
upon his lofty throne falls and rises at
its command. The “Pen” is the poVer
that rules the world—it builds up and it
destroys;—it establishes kingdoms, and
forms republics, —and, at its magic
words, both pa6B away t<s give place to
something else. There is nothing too
high for its reach, or 100 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 after the holders have mould
ered in the grave. The grand epic of
“the blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle”
has more readers and admirers now than
three thousand years ago. The very
site of Troy is unknown ; but the names
of its heroes live in this work, and will
live forever. The beauty of Helen, the
exploits of Achilles, and
Hector and others, live in the immortal
“ Uliad,” while their weapons of war
and love have long since crumbled into
dust.
Horace and Cicero, Yirgil and Sal
lust, Plato and Socrates, aDd a host of
others of equal and of lesser glory;
poets, orators, philosophers, statesmen,
still live in their works, and exert an in
fluence upou the history of the world.
In the beginning, when the earth
swung in chaos, and darkness brooded
over the Universe, God said, “ Let there
be light, and there was light,” the di
vine fingers inscribed the rosy letters
in living light to creation’s utmost verge,
and mau and angel, since then, have
read the mighty words.. His matchless
Pen of power began the great work ;
suns, and stars, and moons were his
words; worlds and continents, oceans
and rivers his letters; and man, proud
man, but the dust that bbts the book.
His pen began the work, and when the
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, and then upon the heart will live
forever. The Sword rusts away, and
its point no longer can pierce—its mis
sion is done ; but the 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 you and your pen
may crumble into dust and be forgotten,
your works, will meet you in heaven, and
you will rejoice to greet the children of
your brain.
We are told- that ‘an honest
mao is the noblest work ov God,’ but
the demand for the work has been so
limited that I have thought a large share
ov the fust edisbun must still be in the
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 had gained tbe most enthusi
astic devotion and been the cause of
the most romantic deedaf and whose
coldness of heart made her a wonder
and a mystery to all. She had appear
ed suddenly upon the surface of Parisi
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
one received her unhesitatingly. Her
Dame was d’ Anvers but every one
called her ‘Madame,’ because no one
knew whether she was wife, widow, or
maid- Madame was very beautiful,
Jwd possessed that inexpressible charm
nt manner for which there are no words
of description; that fascination about
her whole being so dear and 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
nothing from others which interlered in
the slightest degree with her own com
fort. Thus bad she deceived so many.
Her lovers were endless in numtVf,
Madame was virtuous. It was ploas
ant to have someone always thinking
of her, always anticipating her wishes;
someone to bring bouqudll
someone to take her everywhere she
desired to go, and take her to a splended
supper afterwards. Someone to bring
her every new book, every new piece ot
music, and someone whom she could
make a lackey of when she had any
commissions to be doDe. This was
Madame’s idea, and many had she vie
timized, encouraging and leading them
on until 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
tyjTorever, and was dismissed and she
went.on to the next who eventually
shared the same fate.
Whatever might be said of Madame’s
want of heart, not one word against her
virtue had ever been breathed. In this
respect she thoroughly respected her
self, and thus compelled her victims to
respect her. It is strange how perverse
human nature is ! The very faults they
despised in her, tbe very danger ot “her
presence, seemed to lure men on more
than ever. No one had ever made such
a sensation in Paris; but of course at
last her conduct began to excite indig
nation. She had been the cause of tbe
ruin and death of more than one naan
whose hart boat high with the hopes
and joys of youth.
The young Comte de L had fall
en in a duel on her account. M. de M
will*. tbe prospect of a brilliant marriage
before him, bad poisoned himself for
love qf her ; and a mere boy,
proud and sensitive, after lavishing his
soul’s Lpst feelings upon her in vain, as
solutely died of grief at her rejection.
When told of the feelings such thing
had created againßt her, she laughed and
said :
‘Well, why are they such fools? 1 am
Dot going to be held responsible for the
stupid acts of others. They have eyes
and 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 the consequences.
Madame’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 the
misfortune to ask her to become his
wife. Thi3 sealed his doom. Disap
pointed and heart-broken, he left her
presence a sad and aged never
more to appear upon the world’s gay
scene, and ever to shun thenceforth the
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 strange cold heart
been warmed into anything like love. —
She was a wonder and a mystery to all,
for she bad seemed to love bo many
whom she bad in everyway encouraged.
Yet why had she never married ?
justatthis time appeared upon the
scene anew admirer. This was M.
Victor de Roussel. He was a man of
about forty, handsome, rich, intellectual
and very dignified in bis manner. Some
times there was a stern, uncompromis
ing look upon his face. Such a look
'did he fix upon Madame as he saw her
for the first time in her life. Madame’s
-face flushed under the gaze of a man,
and a strange tremor thrilled her from
head to foot. M. de Roussel was es
■sOßtially different from any man she had
Vet before. All others had yielded to
her spell at once, or if they made a faint
effort to resist, it was soon abandoned.
She had been accustomed to see all men
bow to her 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 her and
made her indignant; but lie interested
her more than the most enthusiastic ol
her lovers had ever done. Madame met
M. de Roussel frequently in society.—
She felt piquid by bis indifference, for
he had asked permission to call upon
her, aDd had never availed himself of it.
There was design in this avoidance of
her which she little suspected.
M. de Roussell bad heard of her; he
had knowu M. de Lespierre, and his
whole nature revolted against a woman
who could make a wreck of such a man.
He bad asked himself, what right had
this woman to go on causing ruin and
misery to others and never suffering
herself ? Wby she not be taught a les
son that would eflectually cure her, and
why should he not teach that lesson ?
The first step was to gain her interest.
This he did by feigning utter indifler
ence. He had not availed himself of
her permission to come and see her on
purpose, aud it was what he wanted
when one evening she said to him :
‘Why have you not been to see
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 coming.’
‘Ah, Madame, I am afraid you flatter
me. Do you really desire me to come ?
I scarcely dare hope so much.’
He said the last words eagerly in an
undertone, and the effect of his manner
upon her did not escape him. He saw
the color rise in her cheeks, and the
-smile of pleasure which she tried in vain
to conceal.
‘You know I desire you to oon|p,’ she
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 music, and enumerate all my lavorile
composers as yours. We must have
tastes alike, for I love music, and will
give you plenty of it!’
‘You love music’ with such a cold na
ture as yours, he was about to but
be said ‘Love? Did you ever love,
Madame V
‘Why I have just told you that I love
music,’ she said with a forced laugh.
‘I am not jesting,’ he 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.
‘lt was their own mistake,’ she said.
‘But you certainly encouraged them,
and if you disliked them, 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 thiß man bad thus
to question her actions ? She was angry
with him for his audacity, yet she felt
herself utterly helpless in his hands.—
She felt compelled to answer him, and
to answer him truthfully.
‘And why have you never made up
your mind to marry any of them V
‘Because I have not seen the man I
could marry. Ido 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 the society of men,
listen to the pleasing words of love,
pleasing because they flattered, and ac> >
cept their attentions without binding
myself in any way. I have the natural
love of admiration and approbation be
longing to my sex, and like to have somd*
one always near to do my bidding, and
to gratify my love of pleasure by antici
pating my 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 be satisfied with his
and not always desired to be
come my husband. In fact, monsieur,
I liked them all in turn, as 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 desolate some honest
heart that loved you sincerely aDd earn
estly l’
‘These consequences were their care.
They should have guarded against
them. Ido not hold myself responsi
ble in any way/she said with a scorn
ful srdile. J
‘Did it .never cross your mind that
you might possibly share the fate of mpr
victims?’ he asked,
‘I am not afraid,’ she answered gaily,
rising to go as her carriage was an
nounced ;£l could never love any one
sufficiently to suffer.’
‘Do not say this,’ lie replied in an un
dertone, giving her his arm;‘l like to
hope that there is someone in this world
whom you might one day love.’
He mlt her arm tremble, and knew
she understood him as he wished her to
do. As be handed her into the carriage,
he pressed her hand and said:
‘May I ask again to come ?’
‘Yes; come to-morrow.’
‘I will.’
‘I shall wait for you with impatience,’
she said ungurdedly.
‘1 will come. Good-night.’
‘A demain,’ she said.
‘A demain !’ he replied as he walked
away.
For the first time in her 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
next day. In tbe mornieg she arose
with a flushed face, and looking more
beautiful and interesting than usual
from the gentle languor produced by
fatigue ? As the hour approached for
M. de Roussel’s visit, she began to
tremble. What was this strange emo
tion ? What mysterious power had this
man over her ? Until now she had al
ways ruled, now she felt herself mas
tered. Madame knew nothing of the
simple power of love.
In the most becoming of toilettes M.
de Roussel found Madame waiting for
him. Her heart throbbed wildly and
she trembled so that she could scarcely
rise to greet him, all of which M. de
Roussel observed, but of course ap.
peared not to notice. She was begin
ning to love him as he wished she should
He knew how wildly, how passionately
she would love once the ice was broken.
He took .both her bands, and stood
gazing at her for a long time in silence.
Her eyes fell before bis, and she tried
in vain to release herself.
‘You are very beautiful!’ he saod se
riously.
‘I have been told that very often, mon
sieur.’
‘But 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.’
‘And eo I desire to be,’ he said point
edly, and then fearing to go too far at
first, he changed the subject.
M. de Roussel left her two hours later
in a state of happiness and hope, which
was pew to her. She bad first almost
unconscious!}' wished that he might love
her, now she hoped it, and began to be
lieve that he did. Many had loved her
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 heard him express his contempt and
scorn for her, now they ridiculed him.—-
But be only replied : ‘Do not be too
hasty. Wail*’ *
lizod madme’s society, and she was nev
er seen aDywhere with any one else.—•
But a change had come over her. She
bad no more the haughty, disdainful
and coquettish manner of former days.
A subdued, calm, happy look had set
tled upon her face, lighting it up with
a wonderful beauty. All her smiles, all
her dangerous little speeches that might
mean so much or so little, were lavished
upon 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, and
she resolved when he offered himself as
her husband, as she had 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
never speak ? His attentions and devo
lions never ceased or lessened for a mo
ment, during all this time, yet he 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
him to the contrary ? How let him know
that he was the one dear exception ?
Often before madame had not scrupled
to affect love when no real feeling exis
ted in her heart; but now that it was
filled with an intense, real love, anew
feeling of delicacy, a natural, womanly
shrinking, made her timid and reserved.
Such thoughts and feelings began to
torment her.
She became pale and anxious. Mr.
de Roussel affected not to understand
the cause, and added to her annoyance
by constantly asking her 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 came as usual, and after
a few words of greeting he said ;
‘Arc you going to be alone?’
‘Am I not always aloDe, except -wheo
you come V she said, her heart the while
beating high with hope. He was going
to speak at last !
‘I have something to say to yon. I
have come to say adieu 1’
‘Adieu ? What do you msan ?’ she
exclaimed, her face growing ghastly.
‘I am going away.’
‘But you are coming back ? You
could not be so cruel, so heartless as to
abandon me when you know ’
‘How much you love me; is that what
you would say V he asked, interrupting
her. *
‘Yes ! yes !’ she said, buryiog her face
in her 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 angiily, seizing her
band ; ‘you k*ve me as they who came
before me loved you. You spurned
them from you. Now share their fate.
Suffer asyou made them suffer. Your
time has come. Know at last what it is
you have been doing all your life.—
Learn by your own misery the 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 the floor
utterly humbled aud crushed, and said
in despairing voice :
‘But 1 have never wronged you, Vic
tor. I was earnest and sincere in my
love for you. I should never have
spurned you. Even now I will be your
wife.’
‘My wife!’ he exclaimed, with scorn
ful emphasis; ‘I am married already,
and were I not, never should you have
been my wife. I have never loved your
I made love a trap to catch you in, and
I have caught and conquered you, as
we put out of the way a wild animal
that has been devouring our compan
ions. You will devour no more. I
despise and loathe you, ana could so
contemptible a being excite so much
leeling, I would add hate. Igo now to
my good, roy 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 the lesson I have taught, and may it
be a warning to all other coquettes and
adventuresses. Thanking you for your
society and many 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 of 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,
‘ltaly’—those dreadful words of M. de
Roussel’s—had made an idelible impres
sion on her mind. The world wearied
her; it’s sights and sounds tortured
her. Life had become almost intolera
ble as 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. Sbe still lives but
whether she has found the peace and rest
she sought, she best knows.
M. de Roussel is happy with his wife,
whom be idolizes. He never thinks of
madame, and has 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.
A fellow, having a spite at a sau.
sage-maker, rushed into his shop, when
crowded with customers, threw a large,
dead cat upon the counter, and said :
‘That maxes nineteen 1 We’ll settle
when you’re not so busy 1’ and made
his exit. He was, of course, followed
by the sausage amateurs, empty handed.
Give the devil his due is well
enough in a proverb but, my friend,
what will become of you and me if this
VOL. IV—NO. 34.
A
HEROIC REMEDY.
HENRY’S
CARBOXiIti
Constitution
RENOVATOR!
BASED ON SCIENCE,
PREPARED WITE SKILL ,
and all the available ingenuity and expetiti#*i f
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And Combining in Concentrated Form the most
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Known in the History of Medicines for
PURIFYING THE BLOOD,
Imparting
NURTURE TO THE SYSTEM*
Tone to the Stomach,
And a Healthy Action at the liver, Kidney*,
Secretive and Excretive Organs-
A DYING ZOUAVE
Lay breathing his last on the battlefield, hi*
compauions surged on and left him alone,—
They knew the cause of his approaching end—
it was the deadly bullet. No friendly voiee
could cheer*bim to life—no human skill could
save him.
Thousands of Precious Lives
are to-day as rapidly sinking, and as surely
tottering on to an untimely end, in Suffering,
Agony, wretchedness, aud Ignorance of the
cause which.
Science can arrest and assuage,
Nourish into new Life and Vigor,
And cause the Bloom of Health
To dance once more upon their withered Cheeks
DISEASE, LIKE A THIEF,
Steals upon its victims unawares, add before
they are aware of its attack, plants itself firm
ly in tbe system, and through neglect or inat
tention becomes seated, and defies all ordinary
or tempoiary treatment to relinquish its mer
ciless grasp.
Do You Know tHe Cause of
The wasted form -the hollow cheek 1
The withered face—the sallow complexion t
The feeble voice—the sunken, glassy eye 1
The emaciated fOrm—the trembling frame f
The treacherous pimple—the torturing sore t
The repulsive eruption—the inflamed eye t
The rimpled face—the rough colorless skin 1
and debilitating ailments of the present age ?
Tbe answer is simple, and covers the whole
ground in all its phazes viz: the
FANGS OF DISEASE
AND
HEREDITARY TAINT
Are firmly fixed in the
Fountain of Life—the Blood,
t£e v
Indiscriminate Vaccination
during tbe late war, with diseased Lymph has
TAINTED THE BEST BLOOD
In the entire land. It has planted (he germ of
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nothing short of
A HEROIC REMEDY
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Such a Remedy is
HENRY’S
CARBOLIC
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The tubercules of Scrofula that sometimes
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Its action upon the blood, fluids of the body,
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TONIC, POBIFYING AND DISINFECTANT,
At its touch, disease droops, dies, and the vic
tim of its violence, as it were,
LEAPS TO NEW LIFE.
It Relieves the entire system of Pains and
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A ruby tiige to the Lip,
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A brightness to the Complexion,
A buoyancy to the Spirits.
And happiness on all sides.
Thousands have been rescued from the vergi
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This Remedy is now offered to the publi
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For old Affections of the
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Nervous Prostration, XVeakness, General Lassi
tude, and Loss of Appetite, it is unsurpassed
It extinguishes
Affections of the Bones, Habitual Costiveness
Diseases of the Kidneys, Dyspepsia,
Erysipelis, Female Irregularities, fis
tula. all Skin Liver
sumption, Scrofula
or King's Eyil,
8 y p hillis.
Prepared by
Prof. M. E HENRY,
DIRECTOR-GENERAL
O* RHE
BERLIN HOSPITAL.
M. A, L. L. D., F. R. S.
HENRY & CO,, Proprietors,
Laboratory, 278 Pearl Street
* Post-Office Box, 621-2, New York,
cr constitute renovalor is $
per bottle, e--x bottles fsr |5. Sent ai.vwher
on receipt of prion. Patients ere requested t
correspond confidentially and h
made by following mail.
Sold by all respectable Druggists