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BY SAWTELL & JONES, ®I)C €utt)bert Appeal. Terms of Subscription: Ora Yea* $3 00 I Six Months.... .|2 00 invariably in advance. Rates of Advertising : One iaoar«, (tea lines or less,) $1 00 for the Bi for each subsequent insertion, rtising as follows: 3 Months 6 Months 12 Months $25 00 $45 00 $75 00 40 00 75 00 100 00 50 00 90 Oo 150 00 pB~ Obituaries, $1 Qp per square. 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 Notice to debtors and, Creditors of an estate must be published 40 days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for jleave -to sell land, must be published tor oae/tiiontb. Citations for letters of Administration, Guard ianship, *o., musfc be published 30 days—for dis mission from Administration, three months ; for dismission from Guardianship, 40 days. Rules tori foreclosure of Mortgages must be published monthly tor four months —for estab lishing lost papers, for the full space ot three months—for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where bond has been given by 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 that the art of pharmacy of the present day can contriuute And Combining in Concentrated Form the most Valuable Vegetable Juices 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 the most melancholy disease in tbe veins of men, women and children on all sides, and nothing short of A HEROIC REMEDY will Eradicate it root and branch, forever. Such a Remedy is HENRY’S CARBOLIC CONSTITUTION RENOVATOR. On reaching the Stomach, it assimulates at ooce with the food and liquids therein, and from the moment it passes into the Blood, it at tacks disease at its fountain head, in its gem and maturity, and dissipates it through the av enues of the organs with uneriing certainty, and sends new and pure Blood bounding through every artery and vein. The tubercules of Scrofula that sometimes flourish and stud the inner coating of the ab domen. like kernels of corn, are withered, dis solved and "eradicated and the diseaeed pacts nourished into life. The Torpid Liver and In active Kidneys are stimulated to a healthy se cretion, and their natural functions restored to renewed health and activity. Its action upon the blood, fluids of the body, and Glandular System,'are 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 Aches, enlivens the spirits, and imparts a Sparkling brightaess to the Eye, A rosy glow to the Cheek, A ruby tiige to the Lip, A clearness to th 6 Head, A brightness to the Complexion, A buoyancy to the Spirits. And happiness on all sides. Thousands have been rescued from the vergi of tl e grave by its timely use. This Remedy is now offered to the publi with the most solemn assurance of its intrinei medicinal virtues, aud powerful Healing prop< erties. For old Affections of the Kidneys, Retention of Urine, And Diseases of Women and Children, 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