Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ;|it |ni>cjpknt Jfamilg ftetospapcr: Jfor fjie promotion of t|e political, Social, ^gricultacal mit Commercial Interests of % Sontjj. {terms?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOD. 19. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JUDY 3, 1873. NO. 27. . * ' A I ' ^ T mt*a WAIl V?ia QV. Jlti ?tiginal jftfltg* Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. JOHN'S WIFE. BY E. VICTORIA IOMAX. CHAPTER XXII. After breakfast, nest morning, Nellie and Mary came directly to my room to give me an account of the wedding. "What do vou think, Mattie? Henrietta Lewis kissed John !" were the first words I heard from Nellie. "It is a fact, indeed," she continued, "and you never saw a man stand it better than he did." "Oh! Nellie, how can you say so? You know he looked as if he would have given anything not to have been there. I cannot imagine the cause of Henrietta's attentions to John last night." "It was not from any feeling of affection, you may rest assured," said Nellie ; "I never see her with that loving look on her face, but I know mischief is brewing somewhere." "How did the bride look ? Was she dressed r becomingly ?" I asked. "I think she looked better than I ever saw her," said Mary. "And the groom ?" "Something seemed to have gone wrong with cousin Richard ; he did not appear so happy as I think he ought to have been, considering the occasion." "How entirely wc differ in our opiniou, Mary," said Nellie ; "now I think he was in remarkably fine spirits, 'considering the occasion.' I am sure if I had just been married to Henrietta Lewis, the expression of my countenance and my feelings would have been decidedly Jacobinical, (if I may be allowed to use that term,) whereas he only looked as if his boots were too tight, or his collar did not set exactly right." "Ymi ftrfl a little too severe toward your cousin Richard and his wife, Nell," said I. "But here comes John; perhaps he can tell us the cause of the bride's apparent devotion to him last night." "She was talking on business most of the time," said John. "She is a good friend of mine, Nellie, whatever you may think of her. She'did me a great service last night." We all looked up in astonishment on hearing this speech. John took no notice of the impression his remark had made, but left the room hurriedly, as if to avoid the necessity of saying anything further on the subject. "What do you suppose John means ?" said Nellie, after we had somewhat recovered from our surprise. "If I were in your place, Mary, I would go sfter him and make him tell; but I hear the 'dulcet tones of the infant phenomenon,' so I must leave you." Mary came to the side of my lounge, and throwing herself on her knees, burst into tears. I kuew then the same idea had flashed through our minds; the service Henrietta had rendered John was to show him those letters! Mary ! was so much overcome that I thought it best to let her "have her cry out," as we say of little children, before discussing the matter. She soon recovered her composure, however, and said? '"Now Mattie, what must I do ?" "I should go directly to him, my darling, and tell him everything?he cannot doubt you then." "Doubt me! what do you mean ? Those letters were all written long before I saw John." "Perhaps he does not know this. It is au awful thing for a man to have cause to suspect that his wife does not love him. I think it would take the strongest proofs to make John doubt your affection, even for a moment." "But if he saw the letters, he must have noticed the dates of them." "The dates may have been altered." "Oh ! Mattie, do you think any one could act so dishonorably as that ?" "Yes, I know it." And then I told her what had occurred during my last interview with Henrietta, and added : "I thought the letters had been destroyed, or I should have told John and yourself about them then." "I wish you had ! How can he believe me, when he thinks he hast seen in my handwriting professions of love for some other person ?" "Never mind what he has seen; he ought to believe you, Mary. If you prefer it, I will send for him, and tell him all I know ; but it would be better for you to do this yourself, I think. It is your duty to clear yourself from this charge, Mary." She remained silent for several moments, aud then a look of calm resolution came over her face, as she said? "Yes, I know I ought to go to hira ; but if he does not believe me, I think it will kill me." "He will believe you, darling," said I, kissing her still pale face. I murmured a prayer that all doubtand suspicion might be removed forever; and love?such as I knew it to be? might be theirs for the future. While I was yet lying there! Nellie came in, bringing with her my little namesake, and also a letter. She said? "Mattie, will you let the baby stay with you for a little while ? Harry has sent for me. She is so good that I know she will not disturb you while you are rending your letter." "Certainly I will take care of her, Nell; ray letter can bear keeping. You need have no fear that I will neglect ray important duties as nurse for the pleasure of reading a few lines from a friend." "Not if that friend is Owen Morris?" said Nellie, with a meaning glance; hut before I could reply, she placed the baby in ray arras, and left the room. My heart was very light, though I did not know the contents of that letter. I felt that he had written he would soon be with me; and I believe the pleasant anticipations and daydreams were almost as charming as the future realization proved to be. It was sometime before I could quiet little Mattie sufficiently for me to read. She was in the habit of having a romp and play whenever she came to see me, and did not understand why it was to be denied her that morning. At length I was rewarded. The tender, blue eyes became less and less bright; the tiny hands and feet were still; the little head, with its wealth of golden curls, rested on my shoulder?and my darling was asleep! I opened my letter, and read as follows: "Dear Mattie:?I regret that I have not been able to acknowledge, before this, the receipt of your last letter, containing your mother's will. I rejoieu with you that it has been found, and think wo need have no further cause for uneasiness, so far as the machinations of that man, Walker, are concerned. Your letter found me I i suffering from a violent attack Of illness, which I must be my excuse for not having replied to it : sooner. I nave been pronounced convalescent by i my physician this morning, and I take advantage i of'it to write to you. I hope it is not necessary for me to say to you ' that I will come to Elmwood as soon as'l am al- j lowed to travel. You must know how anxious I I , am to see you, even though you do tell me I must | not expect to have my fondest wishes realized, j And you, too, have Vieen sick and sorrowful ! j Oh! darling, when I think of all you must have ! suffered within the last few months, my heart , yearns more than ever, to give you that rest and ; {'protection which I know you would find in my | ove. I shall never doubt your love for me again. 1 I see that it has been mine all along, and that it was only a mistaken sense of duty 011 your part, j that, sonaratcd us in the 'ohlen time.' ! "But I freelv forgive you for all that is past, if you will, for the future, do away with such fancies, ami let me say wherein your duty lies. Surely, no one will be more capable of deciding this than myself; for, like Jacob of old, I have nearly served my fourteen .years, and they have been to me, as they seemed to him?'but a few days for the love he had to her.' But they are over now, and there is no reason why you cannot be mine. At any rate, you will not object to my relieving the tedium of my sick-room with pleasant anticipations for the future. "I hope soon to heftr that you have recovered from your indisposition, and now, that vour mind is at ease on the subject of the Elmwoocf property, you may have no further cause for anxiety. I shall write again before I leave. May God bless and keep you, my darling! As ever, yours, Owen Morris." CHAPTER XXIII. The day wore slowly away, and still I heard nothing from John and Mary. She did not come into my room after dinner, as usual; and on inquiring after her, Nellie told me she was suffering from a headache. I longed to go up and comfort the child, but I was not able to leave ray room. All I could do was to try to wait patiently. It was about twilight when I heard her step approaching ray door. "Are you awake, Mattie'?" she asked. "Yes; come in. I was sorry to hear you had such a severe headache?is it better ?" "Oh! Mattie, it is not my head?it is my heart that is aching now." "Have you told John about those letters?" "Yes; but I see that he does not believe me. I don't know what Henrietta could have told him, though she seems to have proved to his satisfaction all that she said." "But he does not doubt your affection for him now ?" "No; he says that he believes I love him, but having deceived him, he can never have the same confidence in rne again." "Did you tell him all that occurred between ? ~ on/1 WAllMolf your UUUOIU lUUIiaiu auu jv/uiovit "No; I only told him I knew Henrietta had shown him some letters, which she pretended I had written after my marriage, and that it was not so." "What did he say ?" "Nothing, except when I asked him if he | believed me, he said?'I believe you love me i now ; but I also believe that you were engaged to Mr. Howard when you accepted me. You cannot deny this;' and then he left the room." i "And were you engaged to Mr. Howard, ; then, Mary?" "I did not think so; but for fear he might ] have that belief, I wrote him a letter before I J engaged myself to John, telling him that I no ! longer cared for him, and that the understanding between us was at an end ; but he says he never received this letter. I think John is acting very unjustly and cruelly toward me. I should suppose two years' devotion to him ought to have some weight in influencing his | opinion as regards me." "Hush ! Mary. You must not speak in this way of your husband. You do not know the | Leslie blood. It is slow to anger, and as slow j to forgive. There never was greater devotion j than John's to you ; but you must remember i he has, what any one in his place would think, 1 certain proofs that you have deceived him. He will require all these to be done away with before he can restore you to his confidence." "Why do you say there never was such love, j Mattie? Do you think he does not love me now ?" "I know he loves you ; and in the future, : when you have long forgotten this, it will be ! - - . I a 1 I a cause ot griet to him to reniemoer uiai ne , ! ever doubted you." j "His love is uot like mine. No one could j ; ever have made me thiuk that he did not love ; ! me. Oh! Mattie, how much better it would 1 have been for all of you, if I had not married 1 I John! You see I have only caused trouble, i i I begin to believe I am the 'stranger' in the prophecy aunt Patsy told us of. I sometimes j almost wish that I was dead." "No, you must not think that; nor you must not talk about dying, either. Don't yon know there are many times in this life, when j 1 the struggle is, uot to die, but to live ? I so , . often think of that verse in the Bible: 'Men I i | shall seek death, and shall not. find it, and , shall desire to die, and death shall flee from I ' : them.' You must make one more effort to \ convince John that you did not intend to do ! what was wrong; and then, if he will not be : ' conviuced, you will have to let the future i prove to him that you are not untrue." "It will be a hard life to lead ; but I sup- j pose I must try. I think I had rather you ; would not mention the subject to him, Mat- '< j tie. If he will not believe his wife's statement,! j it is not likely he will believe yours. I hear some one coming, so I will bid you good night." j j Ah ! how much better it would be, if those i words, "perfect confideuce," could be appreciated, and more fully understood ! I have , heard persons say that no husband or wife, ; had a right to know anything of the past of either party. IIow differently do I think ! But then, I am old-fashioned in my notions, j believing in one love, and all that sort of : thing. Times have changed since my day. | Now it is always the present love which is the 1 true, though there may have been five hun-, dred before. I am happy in my belief, and ; i I hope others are in theirs. I CHAPTER XXIV. 1 I I scarcely closed my eyes that night, and i when morning came, it found me still ponder: ing the momentous question?'What is to be ! the end ?' Soon after breakfast, John came into my i tT*~ p j room, ms moo was uhaiuus nuu wit-nwu, 1 and I could easily see that he was suffering j intensely. After bidding me good morning,! i he said? i "Mattie, do you think you are well enough ! to attend to the management of affairs here at home ?" | "As regards the house-keeping, do you mean, i ; John ?" "No. I spoke of out door matters. You know you would only have to see that the accounts with the hands are kept straight. Mr. j Edmunds, the overseer, will see to everything i else. Would it worry you too much for him I to make his report to you every Saturday night?" "Certainly not, John. I am only sorry I cannot go about as usual ; but if this is all you wish me to do, I think I can safely promise it shall be done. But why do you ask me this ?" He remained silent for a moment; then his pale face flushed with emotion, as he answered? "I thought I would like to leave home for a short time." "Where are you going ?" "I have not decided yet; in fact, I don't care much where I go." "Docs Mary know of your intention?" As I called her name, he rose and said, hastily? "Don't speak of her to me now, Mattie; I cannot bear it." And then I saw through it all. Mary and himself were not reconciled, as I had hoped, and he was going to leave home until he could better command his feelings. I knew this was the last opportunity I should have of sneaking to him on the subject, and after lifting my heart in silent prayer that God would bless my efforts, I said? "John, I know the cause of all your sorrow. It is a delicate subject for a sister to mention ; but I cannot let you be unjust to Mary and untrue to the nobler instincts of your own nature, without trying to prevent it You will believe what I tell you, will you not?" "Of course I will, Mattie; but it is not worth while for us to discuss the subject. I have been deceived, and all I have to do now is to try to bear the terrible life which is before me." "But if I can prove that you have not been deceived ?" "That is impossible." "Listen to what I have to say, at any rate, John. It is the last time I shall ever speak to you on the subject." And then I told him everything. I did not try to shield Mary from blame ; on the contrary, I said she had done wrong; but added that she acknowledged it also, and was truly sorry for her fault. He remained silent until I had finished, and then said? "You have not heard all, Mattie, or you would not think as you do. Henrietta .Lewis?" "Hush! John. I will not hear one word about that woman. If you believe her statement rather thau that of your own true and loviug wife, and your sister, I have nothing more to say. You cannot be more disappointed in Mary than I am in you." "Don't get anrgy with me, Mattie. I have suffered so much lately, that I am scarcely responsible for lohat I say or do." "Then, John, don't leave home. You will never cease to regret it if you do, my darling brother, /know Mary to be all that is pure and lovely and true; don't break our hearts by your unjust suspicions." "Iam not unjust, Mattie. You know how much I love Mary; but it is because I do love her that I cannot bear to be near her, believing that she has deceived me." "Very well, then; go if you think proper. But if I have to choose between Mary and yourself, I shall staud by her, for I know her to be in the right." I suppose my positive assertion must have had some effect, for he said? "I will wait a day or two, then," and after a raoraent't pause he added, sadly? "I thought nothing would ever part us, Mattie, but it seems very easy for you to give me up." I could only place my hand in his, and look in his face. His eyes filled with tears ; he bent over and kissed me, and then hurried from the room. I saw nothing of Mary that day; but the next morning, she came into my room on her way to breakfast. She had only time to ?t- ?11 nAni nflf? wmsper ; j.i 10 ?n ugim uun| u?>jiu6, then she was gone. One glance would have convinced me of the fact, even if she had not spoken. Her whole face was beaming with happiness, and I could scarcely believe it was the same on which I had seen " The tint of grief? The settled shadow of an inward strife." John and Mary came in together to see me. They both kissed me, and John said, feelingly? "How cau I ever repay you, Mattie, for all your kindness to my little darling ?" "I am fully repaid now, John, by seeing you both so happy. She is very dear to me, and she ought to love me very much, for I never doubted her." "Yes; but then you had heard the denial from her own lips, betore the proof was produced. However, it is all over now. The letters have been burnt, and Mary and myself are going over to pay our bridal visit to Mrs. Howard this morning. I don't think it will take her long to see that her efforts to make us unhappy have proved fruitless." Are you going to say anything to her on the subject ?" "No, please do not," said Mary; "I never wish to hear those- letters mentioned again. We can forgive her now for all that she has done." "Do you intend to say, that if we had not 'made friends,' as the children say, you could not have done so ?" asked John, smiling. "I intend to say exactly what I do say, that neither Henrietta Howard nor any one else, can mnke us doubt each other again." She looked up in John's face, as she said this, and I was not surprised at his kissing the Imrl insf finished sneaking. "l"3 J? I- o CHAPTER XXV. It was the first day I had been able to ride out. The sun was shining brighter than I ever remembered seeing it before. The little birds were having their usual spring "choral service," and all nature seemed singing one mighty psalm of praise to the Almighty power which had created it. My own heart swelled with gratitude, as I counted over the many blessings I had to be thankful for, and among the first was the sense of returning health. I more thoroughly felt the pleasure of living; and if I had been asked ut what time of my life I had been most uuwilling to die, I should have said? that day. Nellie was driving with me. She held her baby in her lap, and as they sat facing me, I could not help thinking what a lovely picture of "Mother and Child" they made. We had driven some distance, when, on looking out of the window, I saw a farm-house which was not familiar to me. I "Do you kuow who lives there, Nellie?" I :asked. "That is Mr. Harris' place. Mr. English | lives there now, I believe." "He must have altered the house very much?I did not recognize it." i "I am afraid that looks as if he intended j remaining in the neighborhood, Mattie. Has he ever said anything more to you about ! me?" "No, nothing more than what I have told you. You kuow I have only seen him once , since I was taken sick." i Just as I finished speakiDg, I saw Mr. Walker approaching. I told Nellie not to notice him, and perhaps be would not recog niio no hut in nnr utter astonishment, he -.w, ! stopped the carriage and got in. "You do not seem very glad to see me, my I children ?" was his remark. My first impulse was to make the driver stop and put the man out; but I saw that the boy who was driving would be powerless in his hands, so we could do nothing but submit to his presence. Nellie remained silent, but I said? "No, we are not glad to see you." "Ah ! well, I can enjoy your society if you I caunot enjoy mine. Have you still that important document in your possession, Mattie ?" "No, I have sent it to a place of safety." "That is, you hope you have." "I know it; I have already heard of its safe arrival." He smiled at hearing this ; but continued ! his conversation by saying to Nellie? "And this is ray little grand-daughter is it? What is her name?" "Mattie." "I hope she may never have the same crime to answer for that her aunt has," lie said, looking at me. "What crime is that?" I asked, indifferently. "Murder 1" "The charge is so absurd that it would be ! useless to speak of it." "Perhaps you would not say so, if you i knew that the man you shot at Elrawood that night, has since died." "Not of that wound." . "Yes ; and it is in my power to have you nfinman* "Rut T Knne unil in tti icoicu aw auj iuvujwuw* a ^ v%. ... tend to do the fair part by your namesake, and leave her your share of the Elrawood estate." "I have formed no plans for the future," I replied. I have never "known why it was he ordered the carriage to stop just then. Perhaps it was because he saw some one coming, and he did not wish to be recognized. He was putting his foot to the ground, when a horse without a rider rushed by. In an instant our horses started, and Mr. Walker was dragged several yards, before the horses could be controlled by the driver. It was too late; the damage had all been done. He was frightfully cut, and his features were scarcely discernible from the injuries inflicted, his head having struck ! against the stones in the road. We were much nearer Elmwood than his home; so we decided to take him there. His i head rested against my knee, on the pillow which had been my support a few moments before. He seemed perfectly insensible after he was lifted from the ground, and we thought at one time he could not live to reach the house. What a ride that was ! I cannot think of it, even now, without a shudder ! Nellie sat on the front seat of the carriage, her face buried in her hands, her baby lying asleep on her lap, while before me was the ghastly face of the man who had been almost successful in bringing ruin and disgrace on our family. Fortunately, Harry and Johu were both at home. Mr. Walker was carried directly to a room, and a physician sent for. He gave j little hope of the ultimate recovery of his patient, but said he might linger for many months. Nellie came directly to me and said? i "Mattie, what did he mean by saying you j had committed murder ?" "Only to frighten me, Nellie. You know when the robbers came, I fired at them, and one of them was hurt; but I do not believe that wound caused his death. Try Dot to think any more about it, darliug; he can j never harm us again." The gentlemen cf the family sat up with ! the injured man, and I, being worn out in i mind and body, retired early. It was about midnight that I became coni sciou9 of a singular sensation about my head, ! reminding me of the passage in Scripture of i "the cound of many waters." I thought I j would call, but in attempting to do so, found ; I had no voice, and then? CHAPTER XXVI. I remember nothing more. They tell me : that for three weeks I was delirious; but I only know that I found myself, at the end of ! that time, lying on ray lounge, too weak even i to raise my hand. My first question was? "How is Mr. Walker?" "He is better, darling," said Nellie. Her ] fullyvf tnnra T L'now nnf. t.hpn t.hfiV j CJW TTC.it tlill VI WWiU. A UUV1I mm--j ! were caused by the sound of my voice, which she had thought never to hear again in this ! world. "Have I been very ill ?" j "Yes; but you are much better now. The doctor says you must keep perfectly quiet and not talk, or you will make yourself ill aj?ain." o It seemed to me, after this conversation, j that I was sleeping all the time. I suppose it : was the effects of weakness, for whenever I awoke they would give me nourishment, and then I would sleep again. I had only pleas| ant dreams, and when I look back, I find I ' was happier, during those weeks, than I had ever been for many years before. I was lying, one morning, half asleep, half 1 awake, when Nellie and the doctor entered : the room. lie endeavored to wake me; but though I heard and understood all he said, I could not rouse myself sufficiently to answer him. At length he said? ; "This is certainly the most singular case I have ever met with in my practice. I cannot account for this continued apathy." Nellie asked : "Do you not think we ought to rouse her in some way, Doctor ?" i "Yes; but how is it to be done? We have tried everything I can think of." "Let me bring iu the baby. Perhaps she will take notice to the child." "Very well; you can try it." Nellie left the room, and in the meanwhile the doctor examined me critically. I felt him raise the lid and look at my eye ; then I! felt him pinch my hand; but still I could not i move. The door opened, and Nellie entered,, bringing my little namesake. She said? "Mattie, here is the baby; won't you speak to her?" j I could make no answer. I felt the dear j little hands stroke my pale sunken cheek, j : and heard Nellie tell her to kiss me, which she i j i did ; but it was all in vain?I could not no- j j tice her. As Nellie took Mattie in her arms j ' she burst into tears, and then I knew she | thought I would never be well again. "Can you think of nothing, Doctor?" asked Nellie. "No; we can only wait and see what the end will be." It was such a pleasant dream! I thought that Owen and myself were together once more. Even the remembrance of the loug and weary years we had been separated had vanished ; the freshness of youth was ours, with no thought of care and trouble in the future. I remember thinking I must be dying ; for I had heard, in such moments, the past became almost a reality, and then?I heard voices. "Has he come?" asked the doctor. "Yes," answered Nellie; "he is waiting down stairs to hear if he may see her." "It can do no harm, and it may benefit her. Ask him to come up; but you must prepare him for the change in her, and above all things, charge him to control himself." Nellie left the room, and whe^phe returned, I heard a man's footstep following her. They both came to my side, and then I heard a deep sigh. Not a word was spoken for several moments. At length Nellie said? "Mattie, darling, I have brought an old friend to see you. Will you speak to him ?" "Please don't weary rae,'M said feebly; "do let me die quietly." "It is to save your life dear, that we ask you to do this. Try and rouse yourself; only look and see who it is that has come." I opened ray eyes wearily, and saw?Owen Morris standing near me! My face must have expressed some of the happiness I felt, and his lighted up, as he bent over and kissed me, saying? "My darling! My darling!" "I put my hand in his, and said? "Please leave us alone; I have so much to say to him before I go." The doctor drew Nellie away, and as they left the room I heard him say? "Thank God ! She will be better now." \ aA ma mora f/inrotlmr florflin ! Ah ! hoW XXUU no llblV VA . ? happy it made me to know that I could tell him all the love that was in my heart; and when I felt the shadow of death closing around me, that his dear presence would brighten the dark and gloomy way. For I thought I should pass away from his arms to that eternal rest which has been promised to those that love God. But it was not to be, I do not know how long we remained there alone. It was nearly twilight when Nellie came in, and she found me sleeping quietly. She motioned Owen to give her his place beside me; but he would not consent to that. 80 together they waited for that awakening which was to bring either life or death to me. "I am glad I am so much better," were the first words I uttered. "It would be hard for me to leave you all now." "Which is a great compliment to us," said Nellie, smiling, "as you expressed no regrets until after Owen's arrival." "I appreciate the compliment,"said Owen ; "but, Nellie, I know you will agree with me, that the life I have been the means, through God's mercy,-of saving, ought to be mine in the future." "Yes, we will all agree to that." And so it was settled ; the engagement between Owen Morris and myself was recognized by the family from that time. My recovery was long and tedious, but was very pleasant. I had so many to love and care for me, that I was in a fair way of being petted too much. I do not think it hurt me, though. On inquiring after Mr. Walker, I found that the doctor pronounced his case hopeless, and Aver sinofi he had heard this, he had been asking every day to see rae. For a long time they would not tell me of this, thinking it might excite rae; but as soou as I heard of it, I insisted upon granting the poor man's request. I shall never forget his appearance, as I entered his room. His pale face was rendered still more ghastly by the white bandage around his head, and his eyes glistened with an unnatural brightness, fearful to'see. One of the most pitiful sights to rae, is the incessant motion of the hands of those who are near death, when I reflect that in a few short hours they will be still forever; yet striving, apparently, to grasp something which always seems just beyond their reach. It appeared to me that the sick man was motioning away some spectre of his past life, which was haunting him, even to his grave. But I must tell of our interview. [to be continued next week.] Sardines.?There are few delicacies so well known and so highly esteemed as the sardine, and how very few know from whence they come. The delicious flavor of the fish when the tin is first opened, and the sweetness of the oil (always supposing a good brand), print their charms upon the memory. The fishery is carried on generally from July to November, all along the west coast of France. ! Two of the largest stations are at Douarennez ! onri CV?nf>nrnpiiu. Fleets of boats eo out some | few miles and spread out their nets, by the j i side of which some codroe is thrown to attract1 | the fish. The nets are weighted on one end,! ; and have corks attached to the other, so that | : they assumea vertical position, two nets being ' placed close to each other, that the fish trying | to escape may be caught in the meshes, j Brought to land, they are immediately of-: I fered for sale, for if stale by a few hours, i j they become seriously deteriorated in value,; , no first-class dealer daring to buy such. They ; are sold by the thousand. Thecurer employs i large numbers of women, who cut off the heads of the fish, wash and salt them. The ; fish are then dipped into boiling oil for a few minutes, arranged in various sized boxes, I filled with the finest oil, soldered down, then put in boiling water for some time. Women burnish the tin ; the labels are put on, or are ? sometimes enameled on the tin, and then they j are ready for export. It does not always seem to be remembered that the longer the ! tin is kept unopened the more mellow do the fish become; and, if properly prepared, age i improves them as it does good wine. But if they are too salt at first, age does not benefit, thera?they always remain tough. JST A school boy being asked by his teacher how he should flog him, replied, "if you please, sir, I should like to have it upon the Italian I system of penmanship, the heavy strokes upward, and the down ones light." IpsttllattMus grading. From the Woonnocket (R. I.) Patriot. MRS. WINSLOW'S "SOOTHING SYRUP. BY A MEMBER OF THE R. I. MEDICAL SOCIETY. | Such was the cause of a child's death in j Providence during the month of March, as re- j ported by the Superintendent of Health. He adds that no doubt a considerable number of deaths every year are due to the same cause. During a practice of six years I have seen at least two instances in which immediate loss of life could be traced to this syrup. The extent to which this powerful patent medicine is used in our community would be astonishing to any one who, unlike the physi-1 sician, is not brought in direct contact with | the fact. Apothecaries and the country storekeepers j testify to the immense amount of the article j sold by them. Frequently I find a mother giving it, and ] upon inquiry learn that the child was perfectly I well when the practice was begun, but that j some kind neighbor had told her that it j "helped teeth to come easy." Others begin I its use because baby, unable to digest some unnatural diet, keeps having colic or diarTn font ilinpo oro a Knnrlrpd nnd miA ailments, slight or otherwise, for which children are thus "soothed." Now what is it that mothers, who love their children better than themselves, give so lavishly? Its ingredients have been separated repeatedly by chemists, all of whom report that its soothing power rests in a large amount of the most active principles of opium. Such an examination made in San Francisco, of the remaining contents of a bottle from which two teaspoonfuls had been taken (which, by the way, had killed a child,) resulted in obtaining one grain of morphine. A grain of morphine is equal to six grains of pure opium, or one hundred and fifty drops of laudanum, or six tablespoonfuls of paregoric. So that when a mother administers a teaspoonful of Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup to her sick baby, it is just the same as giving two teaspoonfulsof paregoric, or fifteen dropsoflaudanura? a frightfully dangerous proceeding. Physicians are very careful in prescribing any form of opium to young children, and for fhe following reason: Opium possesses a quality of rvf" i\nr>a. W i.Jil/11 ugiuilgo IU iiU VtliVl UiUt) bllMV Wi VWM sionally acting with tremendous power upon infants. A dose, which is perfectly safe for one child of a year old, to another of the same age may be certainly fatal. It is on this account that doctors do not always relieve pain in infants as quickly and surely as they do in adults. They think it better to feel their way carefully with a small dose at first, rather than to give the full quantity at once at the risk of destroying life. Of the need of all this care parents know very little; indeed, they could not be expected to know, without special teaching, and the inference to be drawn is, that they should not use dangerous tools with which they are unacquainted. But they often tell us : "I have given it to all of ray children, and they are still alive." Well such persons are fortunate to play with razors and never f?el that they are cut. Perhaps, however, they have been injured without being killed outright. To my mind, a greater harm can be done than simply to take life. There is another point in the administration of opiates to which physicians pay the closest attention; that is, not to continue their use for a long time, if it can possibly be avoided. Most persons have read the experience of opium eaters. They invariably describe the hold acquired by the habit as far greater than that of drunkenness. A writer in the Atlantic Monthly, a few years ago, made a remark to the following enect: "urunKaras aia nave some help, some feeble points of support, in returning to a life of sobriety; but to the opium eater, reform was like crawling over burning coals of fire on bare hands and knees." Thousands of mothers make just such opium eaters of their darling offspring, for whom they would shed the last drop of their blood. They constantly notice how the child is wakeful, tossing and wailing, when the habitual draught of soothing syrup is withheld. Such agony is not caused by any localized pain, but by the distress of a craving appetite, worse even than the drunkard feels when denied his daily dram. Thus the first few doses are often given for colic, while the hundreds which follow are to cure the disease produced by the medicine, and the longer the habit continues the more difficult and even dangerous is its cessation. But this is not all. For a time the effect of the drug is to constipate the bowels, to overcome which castor oil or some other health destroying cathartic is frequently forced upon the unwilling child. By and by a reaction occurs, the opiate now relaxes the bowels, a prolonged diarrhoea sets in, which, especially if it be the hot season of the year, frequently terminates fatally. Any attempt of the family physician to check such a disease is resisted by various causes. The general health has been seriously impaired by the imperfect digestion which is invaflfcfoly produced by anodyne medication ; again, opium, the sheet-anchor of the physician in diarrhoea, is now useless. So an- j other blossom fades while it is but a tender bud, and the registrar's death-list has another ! victim charged to summer complaint, when it should be written, "Poisoned by Mrs. Wins- j low's Soothing Syrup." And in those cases where the children do ! nnf flip frnm thp hnhit. t.hfl efffifits UDOU the system long remain. If a human being be half stupefied for the earliest months of his existence, when growth is most rapid, may we not expect an indelible impression to be made upon the constitution ? Would it be strange if the appetite for narcotics thus early formed, should, in riper years, develop into a love for opium or alcohol ? But time does not allow of ray tracing all of the ills which accrue from j the use of this one pateut medicine. Now what is to be said in its favor? It j must be valuable, else people would not use it1 to any such alarming extent. . Certainly | opium is the most important of all drugs, as ; well as one of the most dangerous. Knowing ! this, if mothers still persist in making use of j it, why not obtain one of the regular opium mixtures used by physicians, which possess the advantage of having a known strength, ; and therefore known dose, are cheaper, and, ! what is of real importance, are declared to be and to possess all the powers and none of the dangers of opium. Perhaps, however, the good women of the ! Blackstone valley have a sort of sympathy j with kind Mrs. Winslow, whom they look upou as a large hearted grandma, trying to ! eke out a precarious existence by the sale of her comfort bearing "syrup." "Ah!" you think, "what a dear old soul she must be ; how the milk of human kindness overflows, as she beams upon us through her gold-bowed i specs." Go to New York. Observe that splendid ! turn-out in Central Park, driven by a stylish young man who owns a residence to corres pond; that is the benevolent Mrs. Winslow! j Each bottle that you buy is put up by his employes at less than the following cost: Morphine, about 1 cent. Syrup, " 1 " Bottle, " 1 " Stamp, " 2 ? 5 cents. For this you pay 35 cents, which leaves to him a profit of near 30 cents on each bottle. Not knowing how many thousand bottles he puts up every uay, x unuuuii jvu ...? act income, but it is evident you need not waste any sympathy upon him lest he die in the poor house. In concluding, I would state my conviction, that no form of opium should ever be given to children except in accordance with the instruction of the family physician. If this rule were followed, one of the greatest injuries that fond mothers unwittingly inflict upon their unresisting babes would cease, and no more would the registrar be forced to make the record, "Poisoned by Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup."' ? "THE SPIRIT OF THE SOUTH." To the Editors of the Boston Advertiser: Will you permit a few words on the subject of your article entitled "The Spirit of the South," and the series of extracts from Richmond newspapers ? Three months passed in the South during the winter and spring entitle me to speak with some confidence of the situation there, and I may add that my own observations and opinions have been shared and confirmed by hundreds of thoughtful people from the North, out of twenty-five thousand who have visited Florida and the South this last winter. These persons, intelligent men and women from all parts of our country, have been largely Republicans in politics, anxious for the education and elevation of the colored people, and most tenacious of what are called the results of the war. I do not care to offer your readers any South-side views or "copperhead" comments, nor even the political fault-findings of the Democracy. I would have this question understood at the North as it has been seen by Republicans?and Republicans only. It is a tedious matter to discuss the measures adopted for the reconstruction of the South, or to apportion the blame upon exPresident Johnson or the South, or the failure to adopt the wise recommendations of Governor Andrew's farewell address. Whatsoever the cause of the muddle which now exists, the result is simply horrible. In our desire to protect the colored people from a real or supposed hostility of their former masters we have given the suffrage to them all?most of them hopelessly ignorant; we have organized them into political leagues; elevated-them into positions of high trust, for which they are deplorably unsuited; and then handed them over in the helplessuess to the most corrupt and incompetent set of shysters, called carpet-baggers, from the North, of which it is possible to ! conceive. I have yet to learn of a single man who has gone from the North to better his political fprtunes (who is "on the make," as they themselves tell you,) who has any real, earnest desire to help the colored people or the community in which he lives. One of these carpet-bag politicians, in reply to a question of mine upon investments, remarked that he "wasn't fool enough to invest in the South ; when he had made his pile he should leave the d?d concern." It is impossible for Northern people to understand the terrible corruption at the South, which is still kept alive by a careless or designed use of the patronage and political influence at Washington. We have organized society at the South upside down. Ignorance and crime override intelligence and decency. The great educational, financial, commercial, charitable and political interests of the States are entrusted to our common field hands of the South and unprincipled adventurers from the North ! Can you wonder that these people desire to free themselves of this tyranny and corruption ? Such a state of things is contrary to nature, God's laws, and all the teachings and the wisdom of mankind. Such governments are the most grotesque travesties; they command no respect from black or white; they are a scandal and disgrace to them and to us. And does it help us of the North in any way, to have a lot of men, the natural nrndnnt nf this condition of things, sent into the halls of Congress to legislate for us, there to become the tools of bad men, and ready to combine with vicious elements from the North and West? It certainly is of some consequence to us that the twenty-four senators and eighty or more representatives from the South should be cl$an and intelligent men. We can have them reasonably so if we desire; but not by sustaining the present state of things. It may seem singular that the colored roan should go, as he invariably does, to the native whites for advice in the care of his family, his money, and all his temporal concerns, except his politics. He won't vote with the whites because, like the Indian, he worships the great father at Washington, and minds the orders of his political league. Gradually and surely these oppressed people are finding out, amidst their weary search for true friends, that the politicians who have settled among them "on i the make" are not the wisest and best ofguides. | There is no hostility?at least the writer has never seen any?between the former masters and their farmer slaves. The blacks go to these men for advice; they even, in many instances, support their old masters or mistresses who have been stripped of their all by the war. I know that the leading gentlemen of Charleston, old and young, are studying the | problems of race and government with an earnest desire for the welfare of its blacks, i They feel that their own prosperity, for weal or woe, is iudissolubly bound up with that of the colored race, and that^race must be educated and trained to citizenship. The general satisfaction with the colored police of Charleston, and the favorable comments from old resideqts, are a proof that the whites are willing and anxious to have the colored people do whatever they can do well. To make judges, adjutant and major-generals, State and congressional legislators of them in their present ignorance, and in league with bad whites from the T^orth, is simply reducing society and government to chaos, and creating a state of things which augurs no good for the colored race. A oV?e\A "XTT?onnklinon fnlrl UIOllligUik711CU XI V/l II xvvj/uwiiVMu vv?v? roe that he could Dot possibly reconcile the conservation of public morals and the public welfare with this deluge of ignorance and corruption let loose upon us by the measures of reconstruction; he thought every step in the process since 1865 had been a' terrible blunder, from which there seemed no escape. It would beeasy to quote high political and military authority in support of these statements; and many influential business men and capitalists, and persons interested in philanthropic movements, and students of social problems, have returned to their homes from their Southern visit determined to do something to enlighten the public as to the outrageous state -* ^ ~ ? C7nl,ll? A ?/1 n? V* o f okoll Vva U1 LlllUgS 1U LUC QUUL1J. AUU. TTiiOb uuuu uv the remedy ? It is difficult to say; but one thing can be done, and that is create a public sentiment which shall enable the Southern States to rid themselves of their present political rulers, white and black ; and secondly, withhold all government and political patronage from men known to be connected with the "rings" in the South; and we can safely leave the rest to time. A. J. C. S. Bfeg- A friend says : Going to Cape May the other day, we saw a man leaning over the railing of the upper deck, and with violence giving to the winds the contents of his stomach. Just at this juncture, one of the boat's officials walking briskly by, asked in a patronizing manner-*-"Sick, sir ?" "You don't suppose I am doing this for fun, do you ?" said the poor fellow indignantly, as soon as he could recover his breath. BH&T The Rev. Dr. Rutledge, of Illinois, has lost not only his watch, but his pulpit, by betting at "three-card monte." #