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lewis m. grist, Proprietor, ^tt Jnkjieitiicnt J;ai!tihr ftetospper: .Jfor tjje |) motion of t(je political, Social, Agricultural antr Comuiertial Interests of tjje $erat{}. TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 19. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JIJLY 31, 1873. 31. Jrlcctcd ftoffrg. THE GOLDEN SIDE. There is many a rest on the road of life If we would only stop to take it; And many atone from the better land, ' If the querulous heart would wake it. To the suuuy soul that is full of hope, And whose beautiful trust never failoth, , The grass is green and flowers are bright, Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 1 Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, | ' And to keep the eyes still li fted; I For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, When the ominous clouds are rifted. There was never a night without a day. Nor an evening without a morning; I And the darkest hour, the proverb goes, Is the hour before the dawning. There is many a gem in the path of life, j Which we pass in our idle pleasure, That is richer far than the jeweled crown Or the miser's hoarded treasure; I | It may be the love ot'a little child, | Or a mother's prayer to Heaven, j 1 Or only a beggar's grateful thanks ;, For a cup of water given. Better to weave in the web of life A bright and golden tilling, ( And to do God's will with a ready heart, And hands that are swift and willing, I Than to snap the dolicate silver threads j I Of our curious lives asunder ; : , And then Heaven blame for the tangle ends, And sit and grieve and wonder. Origiual Jftng. ' Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. JOHN'S WIFE. ? BY E. VICTORIA LOMAX. s CHAPTER XXXVIII. j1 Owen took me over to see Henrietta. It j ^ was a bright sunshiny day, and though I was j going to pay a visit of condolence, my heart ' was as light as if I were sixteen, instead of be- 1 ing?well, I will not say how old. * On entering Henritta's room, I found her ! I as before, lyiug down, and looking, if possible, jc still more wretched. She was delighted to see >s me, and insisted upon my remaining all day. j * She asked a great many questions about the y Elmwood household, as if she took an interest I in all that belonged to it. and then said? "" O ' . "You must not think it idle curiosity on my , 4 part, Mattie. I never have any visitors now, * and, therefore, can hear nothing that is going j1 on in the outer world. Even Miss Nancy js Turner has given rae up lately, though I do , not known that it is to be regretted." ( "I thought she visited you quite often, i J Whenever she comes to Elmwood, she always . ? mentions you, and seems to have had recent jc information as to your welware." i1 "I should like to hear what she says of me. j I know, if you have seen her, Mattie, you j4 have heard the report which is in circulation ! r about Mr. Howard and myself." j4 "What report, Henrietta ?" !? "That we were about to be divorced." j 1 "Yes, I heard something of it; but, of jc course, I did not believe anything as improb-1 able." j 1 There was a pause after this remark, and I 4 was about to introduce anothersubject of con- 4 versation, when Henrietta said? 4 "You will be astonished, Mattie, when you j 0 hear we have been thinking of it." j 4 "Oh! Henrietta, it cannot be that you are in earnest. You do not think seriously of: committing such a wicked act." "I knew you would regard it in this light, ] but it seems to me it is the only thing we can j g do. There certainly can be no greater misery r than that I am enduring now." c "I am sorry to. hear you are not happy ; 1 but I cannot see how being unhappy, makes i it right to commit a sin." j 1 "If you knew all the circumstances, Mattie, t you would see that I am not so much to blame j I in this as you think. I never wished to be ; divorced from Mr. Howard ; but I do think it; t best for us to be separated." ! i "I cannot imagine any circumstances, Hen- j t rietta, which would render it right for a wife | i to separate from her husband." ! \ "Mattie, may I tell you about my married j life ? I should like to know what you would j do if you were in my place." | { For a moment I hesitated, remembering t Owen's remark; but then I thought I might j be able to influence her for good, and surely,' r with even a slight prospect of that, I ought: c not to decline advanciug an opinion. Seeing e that I remained silent, she looked at me en- i quiringly. I said? "I am afraid I am not capable of advising r you in this matter, Henrietta; but I would gladly help you in any way that I can. Only, j if you do ask my opinion, you must expect to hear my true sentiments, even though the ex-' f pression of them may give you pain." | j "Yes, I willingly agree to this. I must be- \ gin at the beginning, and tell you of the lime 1 when I first met Mr. Howard. I always liked < him very much, and I remember now how ( jealous I was of Mary when I saw his prefer- j y ence for her. I do not think he would have , asked me to marry him, if she had remained s single; but when he came home and found i her married, and saw that I was fond of him, I suppose he thought he would try to like i ^ me." j j "I hope he succeeded before he asked you j to marry him, Henrietta ?" j J "No, I do not think he did, and this is the only thing I blame myself for. He told me i that he had every reason to believe I loved t him, but it was impossible now for him to love?that he cared more for me than he did t for any one, and if I was willing to marry t him, trusting to that feeling, he would be very ] happy." | s "And you married him, knowing he did ; not love you!" I said in astonishment. i "Yes, but, Mattie, I did not really believe i that he did not love me. I thought he was ' mistaken in his feelings, and after we were once married, and he saw how much I loved s 7 # I him, that he would be obliged to care for me." "And you were mistaken!" i "Yes; instead of loving me more, lie seemed i to love me less ; and lately, his conduct to- < ward me has been almost cruel. When I i speak to him of his neglect, and my unhap- I piness, he tells me I must blame myself for it?marrying him as I did, I had no reason to i expect any thing more." 1 "But, still, 1 do not see, even if he treats you in this way, that you are justified in wish- i ing for a separation." "It is because I do not wish my actions con- 1 trolled by a man who acknowledges that he i is indifferent to me. I was anxious the other 1 day to visit aunt Lucy Travers, and after I had made all my arrangements to do so, he i told me he did not wish me to go. I did not < intend to regard his wishes ; but I was taken ill and could not leave home. This is hut; one of the many ways that he takes to show his power and to annoy rae." "I am glad you were prevented from going, Heurietta. I think I can understand why Mr. Howard did not wish you to visit Mrs. Travers. I do not know that my authority is very good, but Miss Nancy Turner mentioned that your aunt had not spoken very friendly of him. I suppose he did not wish you to go where he knew that all you would hear would only embitter your feelings toward hiiu. I ^o not wish to exonerate him from blame. He must have acted uukindly, or you would > never think of taking this step." "And you believe I should be doing wrong in desiring it even ?" "Yes, it must be a terrible thing to be trea- j ted unkindly by one's husband ; but I think i wife's duty is to try and bear it, even though she suffers in doing so. I do not see why he should wish for a separation. He could not jxpecthappiness under the circumstances.". "He has never said he wished for one ; but le is away from me almost all the time, so : ;hat it makes hut little difference to him. The only reason why I hesitate in taking this j Jtep is, that I think, in a short time, he will j ae free. I am not going to live much longer, i [ can feel that I am growing weaker every j lay." "I hope you exaggerate your symptoms, Henrietta. If your mind was at ease, I think pur health would improve." "No. All of our family have died of consumption, and I know I have it now; but I i lo not care to live. I met with a passage in eading, the other day, which expresses my : belings exactly. The writer says? " 'No one knows how to look upon the trou)les and vanishing dreams of this life, until the j ight of another falls upon it. No one knows iow mean every thing that is transient and lerishable appears unto me; how insignifi:ant the joys, nay, even the sufferings that < ire past, as I staud trembling on the verge of hat bright world of innocence and safety, j vhere I hope to appear with the child God ' las given me."' : "I never regret the death of my baby, Mat- j: ,ie. I am only too" thankful it was taken j i iway, before it had known sorrow and suffer- j ng. My only prayer now is, that we may j loon be together." ! j "Then you will give up this horrible idea ' >f being separated from your husband, will j 1 rou not, Henrietta ? I should leave you with , u much lighter heart, if I knew I could think ' >f you, in the future, as doing your duty i aithfully as an obedient and loving wife." j '> "I will promise you that I will take no fur- j ,her steps in the matter for the next six i nonths. Perhaps the 'end' will come before hen. I am sorry you are going to leave me, ' Vlattie; but glad that you are to be so happv < n your new home. Your married life is far lifferent from mine." i "You must remember our love was different, j i Tenrietta. If there is true love on both sides, here can be but little unhappiness. I will i ry to see you again before I leave. I shall ] hink of you very often, and pray daily that 1 iur good Lord may watch over and direct you or the future." CHAPTER XXXIX. |, The day appointed for our departure from Slmwood was fast drawing near, and I was be-1, jinning to realize that leaving the home of , ny childhood, even though it was to go to one j >f ray own, was a very painful occurrence. ( rhe place had never seemed so dear to me as low. I knew that Mary would miss me, and ] laving no children to occupy her time and i. houghts, I feared that she might, sometimes, j, >e lonely. j, On the morning of the day before we were j o leave Elm wood, Mary and John came j} nto the breakfast room, looking so happy,! hat I feared they were not sorry to give me ! lp. I was mistaken. Their bright looks j vere from some other cause. "Mattie, Mary insists upon my asking you j < f there is anything you would like to take I rora Elmwood to your new home?something 1 hat may remind you of 'old times.' " "It was very thoughtful in you, Mary, to ] nention it. I would like very much to have lunty's arm chair. You know it was moth- , :r's, John, and I have so many dear assoeia- j { ions conuected with it." I "Certaiulv, you shall have it. Is there , lothing else you would like to take?" "Nothing but your good wishes. I suppose ( ,'ou can both gratify me in that respect." Mary did not speak, but she came forward, I ind putting her arm around me, rested her lead on my shoulder. Her eyes were filled ] vith tears, but I saw the many blessings her j j leart wished me, shining through them. "But if we insisted upon your taking some )f the Elmwood goods and chattels with you, j rou would not refuse?" asked John, smiling. ! "No; but what are you after, John? I i ;ee, both from your looks and Mary's, there s something behind all this." "Let me have the pleasure of showing you ,vhat it is," he said ; and offering me his arm, n the most ceremonious manner, he escorted ne to the library door. Before opening it, . le called to Mary, saying? "Mary, I wish you would call Owen. I 1 im afraid Mattie will decline if he is not here ,o use his influence." In a few moments Owen and Mary arrived ; lie door was opened, and there, on a large ;able, I saw all of the old Elmwood silver. | [ could not speak. It brought to my mind, i ;o forcibly, the joy and sorrow of my early < routli; and then when I thought that this ,vas the present intended for me, I could not restrain my tears. As soon as I could com naiid myself sufficiently, I said? "How did you get it, John ? I thought I < should never see it again." "Well, I must say, Mattie, you arc receiv-' i ng our wedding present very differently from i tvhatyou did others which were made you. I lo not remember hearing you inquire of lien- i rietta Howard how she obtained possession of :hat cross she sent you." "But I thought you had sold this, John, ind I do not see where the money came from ;o re-purchase it." "Perhaps, Mary can tell you," said John, A-ith a significant smile. "No; I can tell you only this, that the silver belongs to you, Mattie, and I hope it will Dften remind you of your old home, and your brother and sister who love you so dearly." "I cannot consent to it, Mary. It is :is much yours as mine. Ought I to take it Owen ?" Before he could answer, Mary said? "Remember, brother Owen, if you use your I influence against me, I shall not grant the fa- [ voryou asked of me." "That settles the question, then. Mattie, you will have to accept it, though no doubt it is a very difficult thing to do. Still?" "That is sufficient, Owen. You need not I laugh at me any more." And so it was decided that the Elimvood silver was to grace our new home. Owen came in that alternoon while I was 1 packing, and said? "I am afraid you are taking all this trouble , for nothing, Mattie. It seems that Ellen's wedding did not take place last night, and that man Stone has not yet been arrested." "Why was the marriage postponed ?" "That 1 cannot tell. 1 would not nave me warrant served before, as I knew we were so certain of securing him at this time, but I shall wait no longer. We will have to delay our departure, as you are the only one who can identify him as being the person who committed the robbery." "Then we will not leave to morrow ?" "No ; are you very much disappointed ?" "You know I am not, Owen. I am anx- j ious for us to be settled in our new home, but j I cannot tell you how it distresses me to sever | all my old ties. You understand I am willing to go whenever you are ready, though, do j you not?" "Yes, darling. It is not likely I should j doubt your affection for me at this late day. I am sorry, however, we should be detained on j such disagreeable business." "Whatdo yon think will bedone with Stone?" ! "Sent to the penitentiary, I hope. At any | rate, he will no longer annoy you after he has j been arrested, and that is all I care for. But; have you heard of Henrietta Howard's ill-! ness ?" "No, I am not surprised at it. I considered j her very ill the last time I saw her. Poor : child, the freedom she longed for will soon be ; * lit .L:I J >> liers. i am giaa ner mue cimu uic?. j "Why ?" "She would have been so grieved at leaving ! it. Now I do not think she will have a single regret. I wonder, Owen, if you were to be unkind to me, if I should wish to leave you." ; "Shall I try it, Mattie?" Before I could answer, Nellie came in. She said? "Owen, did you know that Ellen's sweet- j heart has run off ?" "Are you sure of this, Nellie?" "Yes. I found her crying jist now, and itskcd her why she was so much distressed, j and she told me of his bad behavior to her." | "He did not leave a moment too soon, fori ( intended to have him arrested to-morrow." "I am glad he has escaped, Owen," said I. j "I could not bear to think that I would be the j cause of his being sent to the penitentiary. ' I think lie has had a lesson, and has been so j near suffering for his crime, that he will not j attempt it again." "Perhaps so, Mattie. But you can coutin- j ue your packing, for there is nothing now to i prevent our carrying out our original plan of I leaving Elm wood to-morrow." CHAPTER XL. We sat up until quite a late hour that: night. Just before retiring, I went to the I window, and on looking out saw a most mag-1 nificent display of the aurora. I called Owen to look at it, and he proposed, in order to have a better view, that we should all go out: 3n the lawn. It was so lovely that we remained out much ^ longer than we had intended. Ou looking j O? -- - _ - , round to say something to Nellie, I found thatj [ill had returned to the house except Owen j and myself. "I suppose they think they have been mar- | ried too long to be sentimental," said Owen, laughingly. "I hope we may never be like the generali-, ty of married people, Owen." , "How do you mean, Mattie ? I think the 'generality' of married people seem to get on very well." "Yes ; but they become so unlover-like.", "Aud do you wish roe always to be your lover, Mattie?" "I wish you to show me that love and attention that you always have done, and not,. one of these days, when we have been married twenty or thirty years, to treat me as if I was not everything to you." "Very well, I will try to please you. You certainly are everything to me now, darling. But it is getting late, and we must go in." As we approached the house, we had to ( pass by a thick hedge of box. As we drew | near it, I funcied I saw a slight movement! among the leaves, but thinking it mjght be a bird which had taken shelter there for the night, I did not notice it more particularly, i We had just reached the other side of it, when I heard the report of a pistol, and then Owen exclaimed? . "Great God! I am shot." I caught him in my arms as he fell, and when John and Maiy came out, they found him lying on the ground with his head in my lap. The first thing I remember was John saying? "Where was the shot fired from Mattie? Tell us, darliug, quickly." 1 pointed to the hedge; but, of course, there ivas 110 one there. My husband had been shot through the lungs, and in attempting to raise him, the blood ilowed so profusely that I begged them to let him stay where he was until they could ?cnd for a physician. I remember now that I thought he was dying, and I did not wish them to take him from me. For three hours I sat there immovable. Harry had started directly for a doctor, and John was kneeling by Owen's side, with his hand on his wrist. Nellie and Mary were ^ near me; but I could see but one face, and that was the one resting on my lap, growing paler and paler, as the life-blood flowed from ! the wound in his side. How cool and calm I was then. It must have been that I was stunned, and did not realize the magnitude of my affliction, for I thought of everything in those three hours. I remember wondering if the aurora was shining ou such another scene, anywhere in the world; and if the day would break and find us all there. Such strange fancies as I had?and none about Owen ! I did not even watch his face to see if consciousness was returning. I only felt that he was dying. I should be with him to the last. Mary went in and brought me a glass of wine. I took it and thanked her. As I heard the sound of my own voice, it seemed to be- i long to some one else. I had never spoken i in that way before. Then I heard John ! say? "I think he is bleeding less freely now. ! His pulse is stronger." "Can I speak to him, John ?" I asked. "No, darling, not yet. He could not an-1 swer you, even if he heard." But I was watching him now. John's words. had given me hope. He was not worse, and | he might live to speak to me again. I said, i after a few moments? "Look, John, I see his lips are quivering.! Is lie trying to speaa r "No; but I think he will soon be conscious. Don't move." There was a faint moan, and then.I heard his dear voice once more. "Water?give tne some water." We could not raise him to give it to him, so they handed me a wine glass and told me to put it to his lips, that he might moisten them. I did so, and he was able to swallow one i mouthful. Then he said? "I am better now, Mattie ?" "What, darling?" I asked quietly. "Tell?John?to come." "He is here." "John?take?care of?my?darling?lit-! tie?wife." The wordscame slowly, and with difficulty. "Yes, I will take care of her," said John, cheerfully, and then added ; "but you are better now, Owen. Just keep quiet and do not talk ; you will be all right soon." "No, I have?a ball?of fire?in my lungs, j No?hope." "Don't say anything more, Owen," said I, and then I looked in his face and said, "Can you hear me ?" "Yes." I bent over and whispered something in his j ear. I told him good bye then. I knew it was J our last farewell on this earth. He heard me, j for his face lighted up, and he said? "God bless?and keep?ray darling." ! There was a long pause, and then he added? i "forever." He never spoke again. I raised my eyes to Heaven. The aurora was still there in all its silvery beauty; but it j shone on the face of my dead husband. One kiss on the cold, cold lips, and then i they took .my darling from me, leaving me in i utter darkness, while he had entered through j the pearly gates, into that city, which "had | need neither of sun, neither of moon, to shine 1 in it, for the Glory of God did lighten it." * * * * * "And is that all!" exclaimed Isabel, in a ; disappointed tone. "What more would you want ?" asked ! Tom. "I want to know what became of Mattie, j and of John's wife, and of John, and? "One at a time, cousin Isabel; but here comes Mrs. Worthington. Perhaps she can enlighten us." "I am so glad you have come in, aunt," said Isabel. "Do you know who wrote this, and is it true?" "Yes, ray child," said Mrs. Worthington, sadly; "but where did you find this?" "In an old desk upstairs. Please tell us what became of John's wife," said Isabel, impatiently. "You ought to know that, Isabel, for she was your grandmother." "My grandmother!" "Yes, the eldest daughter of John and Mary Leslie married your father." "Then, Mattie was my great aunt?" "Tes, and ray sister." "And are you Nellie," exclaimed the young people in astonishment. "Yes, lam Nellie. You can scarcely realize that I ever was young, can you? I little thought in those days that I would be the last of the family. I am an old woman now, and yet it seems but yesterday, that all this happened." "And what became of aunt Mattie ?" "She died of a broken heart. She only lived a year after Owen's death." "Did she die suddenly ?" Mrs. Worthington remained silent a moment ; and when she spoke again, tears were in her eyes. "We found her dead in her bed," she said; "but we could not mourn for her, for we all knew she so longed to go. We only grieved for ourselves." "And what became of Mr. Howard ?" "He left the country soon after his wife's death, and I have never heard of him since." "And Miss Nancy Turner?" Mrs. Worthington smiled as she answered? ! "Miss Nancy lived to a good old age, and was a curiosity to the end of her days. She visited John and Mary very often, and the last time I ever saw dear Mattie smile, was when Miss Nancy gave us an account of her last love affair." "Do tell us what she said, aunt." "It seems that after Henrietta Howard's death, Miss Nancy made a dead set at Mr. Howard. She followed him so closely that / j think she was the cause of his leaving the | country. In this respect she proved a public j benefactress. She spoke very feelingly of the j time he addressed her. This was after he was gone. The nearest approach he made to it was to ask her if she would lend him a hundred dollars. She said no man would make such a request of a woman if he did not in- j tend to marry her. For a long time she in-! sisted that he had been killed, and wished to j put on mourning for him, but her friends prevented this." "And what became of the man who shot j Doctor Morris?" "He was caught and put in prison, but man- j aged to escape before his trial came on. We always thought that Ellen was the means of; his getting off, as she disappeared about the ! same time. Is there anything else you wish , to know ?" "Yes ma'am. Why is it you arc not living ! at Clifton now ?" "This place was loft to Harry by an old I ???w1 **?? lw>rn fr* l?trn csirm nftAl* UUUiU} U11U HC VdlliV i?v? v Kv i v ut/vtt mikwa i Mattie's death." "And it is your 'little Mattie' who is standing there?" "Yes; it is hard to realize it, is it not? If you care to look at it, I can show you the picture spoken of in "John's Wife." The young people expressed great anxiety to see it, and they followed Mrs. Worthington into a little boudoir, which adjoined her room. There they saw the picture?'Desolation.' It seemed more desolate than ever. The i contrast between the bright young faces, and the one on which was depicted such unuttera- i ble woo, was very striking. "How came you to have it ia your possess-! i ion, aunt ?" j' "Mr. sent it to Mattie as soon as he , ] heard of Owen's death, and she gave it to me. J But, come children, you have had enough sad- J ness for one day. Let us turn to something , more cheerful. Have you your dresses ar- , ranged for the play ?" ! i "No, aunt ; we have not thought of the ' ] play even, since we commenced 'John's wife.'!' Won't you tell us something of your young j1 days. We would much rather hear that." j" "My young days were very much like yours are now, Isabel; all spent in fun and frolic.! You know I have always told you, you re-1 minded me of myself, when I was at my best; j: so don't be offended." << T ^ AAmnllmnnt rvin'nm ! J. uuuaiuur it u gicai uuiu^uuivuvi mu u?u. . But, aunt, don't you think cousin Tom is very i1 like Mr. Howard ?" j! "Not a bit, not a bit. If I thought that, : he should never have my consent to a step I see he is about to take." The old lady gave i a meaning glance at Isabel as she spoke. The young girl's face flushed, as she turned away, saying? "I am going to be the 'Miss Nancy Turner' 1 of this county ; so, cousin Tom, you had better mend your ways, or I shall give the neighbor- j hood a 'benefit' with you for the subject." I, "I would much rather see you like John's wife," whispered Tom, as the rest of the party moved off*. And so it is. One generation cometh, and o > I another passeth away. In all, the same les- , sons are taught and learned. To some, knowledge bringeth sorrow; while to others, it is but i the foretaste of that joy unspeakable, which i is to be found alone in the presence of'God ! i' [the end.] i' UjtoHattcousi fading.! A STORY OF SENATOR NYE. BY J. W. FORNEY. When James W. Nye was a very young i mau, not more than thirty, he was appointed j one of the common pleas judges for his native ! county of Madison, New York, and gave I; great satisfaction by his popular manuers, J personal courage, and large humanities. Nye j was always a favorite with the old democrat- : ic leaders of the empire State, especially with Martin Van Buren and William L. Marcy. Although an extreme democratic partisan, his ( ready humor and instinctive generosity made 1. him the centre of a considerable following. | j Few men surpassed him in private conversa-! , tion or public speaking, as those who enjoyed j . his society and heard his speeches during the , war, need not be reminded. But to the inci- 1 dent I intended to relate : When he became ! judge of the Madison courts, he one day visit- , ed the county prison in the character of an in- , spector, and was surprised to find among the j' inmates a lad of twelve or thirteen years of J j age, sent there to await his trial on the charge j of theft. Struck by his youthful appearance, i he asked him whether he was guilty of the I charge laid against him, to which the boy at j j once replied in the affirmative. He said his j ( father and mother were miserably poor, and | that in desperation he had broken into a corn- j ( crib and supplied the family with corn. Be-1 ( lieving from the lad's manner that he was j ^ worthy of being reclaimed, he called on a j j neighborand had him bailed out to make his ( nnnnnvnn/io of OA11 A f fhfi f?nOni'n? nf* fllO I appcaimiV/C uu wutvi vuv v|/vu?*<jj v* v?*w j . sessious the lad and his surety were on hand, and the young judge appealed to the district attorney to enter a nol pros., which that officer sternly declined on the ground that the ac- ( cused had confessed his guilt, and that the j ends of justice must be vindicated. "Well, j then," said Judge Nye, "I will state the facts to the jury and take the responsibility." The ] jury was empanneled, and the case came on, , and the district attorney presented the facts i J with much feeling, after which the the judge j said that he would simply state what he kuew |, of the case without calling counsel for the de- ' fense. After relating what he had heard in j the jail from the lips of the boy (and you may be sure he did his best to correct the emphat- j ic presentation of the officer of the law) he turned to the jury box and declared that he did not believe there was a man of the twelve that would coolly vote to send this young crea- ( ture with a blasted reputation out upon a cold ' and heartless world. j It is needless to say that an instantaneous ! f acquittal followed. After the adjournment of the court the judge sent for the boy and found that he and his parents were very destitute, ( but that he was naturally bright and intelligent, ambitious to learn, in good health, and j had previously borne an excellent character. J Governor Marcy was at that time secretary of j ^ war under President James IC. Polk. To ! him, therefore, as one of his closest friends, j t whose lead he had followed in the democratic ; * party from his first vote, Judge Nye wrote a j j letter relating the story as I have tried to tell : it, and asking him to secure for the lad the appointment of cadet at the military academy. In answer Governor Marcy said that he j regretted his inability to comply with this re- ] quest; that the possible vacancies at West 1 Point had been filled in advance both by the ; j Congressmen and the President from the list j f at largo, but that he had it in his power to ; send him to the naval academy at Annapolis, j The lad was accordingly entered among the j acolytes of that admirable institution, and by j good conduct and close application rose rapid-1 ly in the service. During the war he was one I of the ablest of Admiral Farragut's captains, and it was always very agreeable to sit by j | and hear Nye, who himself grew rapidly iu ! { the esteem and confidence of his country, re-1 late this simple story, and especially the sue- j j cess which had crowned his efforts to save his j j protege from a life of shame and set him for- j | ward iu the path of honorable distinction. f The rescued boy became in after years a brave j and brilliant seamen, and Nye grew from a j nountrv iudge to be governor of Nevada in J 1861, and then a Senator iu Congress when | j the territory becate a State, beginning his ttrm ( in 1865, and closing it in 1873. So that it j may be said that in his case at least the best , way to help one's self is to help our fellow ;' creatures.? Washington Sunday Chronicle. | The Wife.?In comparison with the loss I of a wife, all other bereavements are trifles. j The wife, she who fills so large a space in the j domestic heaven, she who is so busied, so tin- i i wearied?bitter is the tear that falls on her > clay. You stand beside her grave and think 1 of the past; it seems au amber-colored path- j j way, where the sun shone upon flowers, or the ! i stars hung glittering overhead. Fain would I ] the soul linger there. No thorns are remem-1 { bered above that sweet clay, save those your : i own hands may have unwillingly planted, j ] Her noble, tender heart lies open to your in- i ? ~:~i.? v. .. i,?? ?D oil ?fln(l0. i IlJUSt Bl??llb. it'U in i ii rw wi Ubi cio un ness, all beauty and purity. But she is dead. i The dear head that so often laid upon your ? hosorn now rests upon a bosom of clay. The 1 * hands that ministered so untiringly are folded, white, and cold, beneath the gloomy portals. 1 The heart whose every beat measured an cter- 1 uity of love, lies under your feet. And there 1 is no white arm over your shoulder now ; no < speaking face to look up in the eye of love; i no trembling lips to murmur, "oh ! it is so ] sad." There is so strange a hush in every i room. No smile to meet you at nightfall. ' And the clock ticks and strikes and ticks?it was sweet music when she could hear it. Now it seems to knell only the hours when you ivatched the shadows of death gathering upon her sweet face. But many a tale it tclleth of joys past, sorrows shared, and beautiful words and deeds registered above. You feel that | the grave cannot keep her. You know that she is in a happier world, but feel that she is ! often by your side, an angel presence. Cherish these emotions; they will make you hap-1 pier. Let her holy presence be as a charm' to keep you from evil. In all new and pleas- j ant connections, give it a place in your heart. I Never forget what she has been to you?that she has loved you. Be teuder to her memory. ? . ? From the New Orleans Picayune. THE COTTON PROSPECT. FAVORABLE REPORT OF THE NEW ORLEANS ! COTTON EXCHANGE. Below we present the second crop report; of the New Orleans Cotton Exchange for this i 3easou. From this it appears that the condi-; tion of the crop is very assuring, notwithstand- j ing the unfavorable weather which planters have had to contend against. There is, however,-a very grave omission ' which greatly impairs the value of the report; | that is, the vague and indefinite statement con-1 cerning the quantity of land which has been I abandoned from inability to work it. The j matter is referred to, but in such a manner that uo estimate is possible from the report. Now inasmuch as the first report referred so definitely to the acreage put under cotton this season, stating the exact percentage of increase over last year, and as the general belief that a sufficient amount has been abandoned because the rains so interfered with plantation work that it was iraposible to regain the time lost, has been fully confirmed by the report of the agricultural bureau, it seems to us that it was incumbent upon the committee to give some definite information on this point; aud without this, the report is incomplete. If the planter is to be affected by a clear and 1 positive statement of increased acreage planted, when that increase has been lost by unfavorable weather, then he is entitled to the counter statemeut in as intelligible language, i and our Cottou ^Exchange should be the last I to shirk such a duty. New Orleans, July 15,1873. Te the President and Board of Directors of: the New Orleans Cotton Exchange. Gentlemen?We beg to submit the fol- j lowing report of information condensed from j letters received by us from June 29 to July 12, j in answer to our interrogatories sent out during the month of June: mississippi. Sixty-two reports received from forty-five counties. The condition of the crop is not as favorable as could be desired, the majority of the reports complaining of grass, owing to too much rain, the weather not having been as favorable as last year. A portion of the land planted had to be abandoned, but, how much we cannot say, as only a few reports state per centage. The labor continuing to be very satisfactory, a good stand has been secured. The answers to our inquries about caterpillars lead us to believe that but few have been seen. louisiana. Fifty-two reports received from thirty-eight parishes. The condition and prospects for a full yield are not flattering, the majority of the reports complaining of grass, the weather having been rainy and much less favorable than last season, though a change for the better is noticeable in our latest reports. A portion of the land planted had to be abandoned, hut we cannot say exactly how much, owing :o insufficient data. The labor is generally ;ood and an average stand has been secured. No reports of worms in any number. texas. Thirty-eight reports from thirty-four coun;ies. The weather is reported as having beeu less favorable than last year, excessive rains having promoted the growth of weeds and * ? ? * - /* A* A. 1_ _ caused me aoanaonmem or a poruon or me i lands planted. Our reports do not furnish us sufficient data to enable us to state actual per rentage, though we may say it is not inconsiderable. Labor continues to give very good i satisfaction, and stands are very generally re- | ported as good; though condition is only an Average one, owing to grass. Worms report-, ed in only three counties, and in limited numbers. ARKANSAS. Forty answers received from twenty-seven i counties. The condition of the crop in this i State is an average one, notwithstanding the ' prevalence of grass, caused by unfavorable I weather. Laborers continue to work well, j tnd the stands are reported as generally good md promising ; to secure the balance of the j jrop a small portion of the land planted had j ;o be abandoned. No reports of worms. TENNESSEE. We have thirty-four reports, twenty-six j counties heard from. Weather generally less I favorable ; some lands thrown out, percentage I lot stated. Stands nearly unanimously repre-! scnted as good. Laborers working well. No i .vorras. Prospects and condition of crop un-1 avorable. ALABAMA. Thirty-three letters received from thirty ' jounties. Weather generally spoken of as ess favorable than last year. Some land has 1 Deen abandoned, the exact percentage of | vhich we cannot give, principal reason being i leavy rains. The stand is represented as up | ;o a fair average owing to the good condition : >f labor, and the plant, though not entirely >ut of the grass, is reported in our latest com nunications as improving. The appcarence 1 )f the caterpillar is reported in Barbour, Hen- j -v. Lowndes. Macon and Perrv Counties. NORTH CAROLINA. We have received sixty-nine answers from pfty-two counties in this State. The condi- j iion of the crop is very generally reported as | jood, the stand being up to a full average,; )wing to the prevalence of fair weather, and i -o the efficiency of labor. Very little land las been abandoned, and only in a few coun- ! ,ies less favored by the weather. No worms cported iu this State. SOUTH CAROLINA. Twenty-three counties send in thirty-three etters. Weather reported as less favorable ;han last year, and some portions of the land iad to be abandoned. There is no complaint ibout labor, and the stands are generally represented as good. The general prospect, how-; ivcr, is not flattering, as cotton is late and not pet free from weeds. No worms reported. j GEORGIA. Eighty-eight answers received from sixtyniue counties. The great majority of our correspondents report the weather as much less ;avorable this year than last, generally com-' plaining of too much rain. However, our j reports of latest dates seem to show an improvement in that respect. The opinion is general that some lands were abandoned on iceount of wet weather and grass, but the reports are not precise enough to enable us to orm an estimate of the quantity abandoned, ivhich, however, docs not seem to amount to no eh. The staud is reported as fully up to in average, the majority of our letters repre renting it as "good, and even "very good. Laborers, with very few exceptions, continue Lo work as well as could be desired. Only four counties report the appearance of the caterpillar in small numbers. The complaint jf lice, however, is pretty general. Keports rbout condition arc very conflicting, and whilst it cannot be represented as very prom-1 ising, still, with the fine weather prevailing of late, crops are said to be improving rapidly. FLORIDA. Our reports from this State are very meagre 1 indeed. The prospects are rather flattering, the stands being generally very good, weather favorable, condition promising and labor satisfactory. Some mention, however, is made of caterpillars, but not in sufficient quantities to cause serious apprehensions. HARRISON WATTS, Cotton Broker. . R. DeGAS, Cotton Buyer. JOHN CHAFEE, Cotton Factor. J. V. RICHARDS, Cotton Factor. A. H. PEALE, Cotton Factor. A. E. BIGNON, Cotton Broker, Of Committee on Information and Statistics. RUSSIAN CAVALRY. Writing under date of May 1, of a review held in St. Petersburg, in honor of the visit of the Emperor of Germany, to the Czar, the correspondent of the London Daily News says: "The great attraction of the day was the cavalry, and that far surpassed anything which I have ever seen. The two elements of excellence, were of course, the horses themselves, and the horsemanship of the riders. Can anybody explain the peculiar charm about Russian horses ? Without presuming to answer my own questioa I think I may point out that one secret with trainers here seems to be to educate the horse ; to make it trustworthy, faithful, ambitious; and to dispense with all those contrivances, which in more civilized countries, crush the spirit out of the poor beast. In what other country can one see horses like those which dash along the Nveska, so free and fresh and graceful? In what other country do they have such a glossy skiu,such swan-like necks, such delicate limbs? And in what other country do they offer such material for cavalry ? One must reflect, too, that Russians of a certain class are born, like Arabs, in the saddle. The horse is a member of the family, a brother, a companion in every adventure. The Russian Government had, therefore, good material; but it has employed it well, and the proof is the superb horsemen who, to-day, galloped along by Kaiser Wilhelm and his German officers. The Russian cavalry has the ordinary divisions found in all Continental armies?namely: hussars, dragoons,cuirasseirs, uhlans, etc.?as well as some species peculiar to itself. I pass over the former, and only call attention to the horses. These sleek aud muscular beasts had evidently been selected as carefully as the men themselves. ti L ? ~ii r or L'uun unutuiuu wiey were on ut unc color, now a glossy black, now a rich brown, now a light gray, and the uniformity seemed (o extend even to their size, shape and motion. The effect was singularly striking. The Tcheck and Cossack cavalry have been so often described that there is nothing new to be said about their appearance. The detachment which took part in the ceremonies of today, wore bright red jackets, aud a sort of fur hats of the same color, aud rode chestnut ponies. On their backs carbines were strapped, and in their hands they carried long red lances. They led the cavalry division. The first circuit of the cavalry was merely for in-. spection; the second for evolutions. How impatiently the Cossacks went through the first, and how eagerly they entered on the second ! The ponies even trembled with enthusiasm. As the cavalcade approached the Emperors, the riders settled firmly in their saddles, loosened the reins a little, and the word is given. Like a flash of lightning, and simultaneously the horses shoot off, and before the spectators have caught their breath, are half-way around the square. What an astounding pace. If a horse should stumble, the rider would never mount again. The Cossacks crouch low in the saddle, and shout like fiends; while their long, glittering lances stretched out horizontally far beyond the horses, are terrifying even to friends and non-combatants. The Germans do not spare their plaudits. After the secoud turn around the field the whole body formed at the rear, opposite the Emperors and the amphitheatre. The front stretched out the whole length of the field ; somewhat longer, to use a comparison which very many English readers will appreciate?that from the Seine to the barracks at the foot of the Champs de Mars, and several regiments deep. There were probably 15,000 in all?the cuirassiers with their white coats and heavy black horses, the hussars with their pikes, the mounted grenadiers and the dragoons, and at the wings the reckless Cossacks again. The Grand Duke Nicholas waved his sword, and the entire force moved toward the Emperors and the spectators. At first it was a light trot, then an easy gallop, then faster and faster, till one could only see thousands of glittering uniforms, and superb horses, dashing madly toward the crowd. Suddenly the Grand Duke's sword flies up again in the air; the officers pass the word along; still the 15,000 horsemen shake the earth. The Grand Duke's sword falls, and the mighty mass comes to a stop as if transfixed by an electric shock. Perfect silence reigns. The long line of cavalry is as calm and steady as the marble palace itself, and far back through the centre all is tranquil. That was a glorious sight, and worth a journey to St. Petersburg to see. I shall never look upon such a spectacle again. ? * Citour.?Croup is one of the most dreaded complaints to which children are liable. It is an inflammation of that delicate membrane which, continued from the mouth, lines the whole inner surface of the larynx and windpipe, and finally of the bronchial tubes, or air passages. Both from the importance of its situation and the rapidity with which it runs its course, croup is one of the most dreaded and fatal affections in the range of juvenile diseases. The symptoms begin with restlessness, which in a few hours is followed by wheezing in the throat and hoarseness,most heard during sleep, while a short, dry cough soon after sucrepds ntf.pnflcd with a tightness and constric tion in the throat, indicated by the child frequently raising its hands to the parts as if to remove some obstruction. The difficulty of breathing becomes rapidly more distressing, and the face assumes an aspect of great anxiety ; the veins in the neck become swollen and knotted, or varicose, and the voice, every time the child speaks or coughs, has a sharp, metalic ring, which soon settles in a steady sound, like the crow or croupy noise made by fowls when caught and held in the hand? that character, in fact, which has given to the disease the popular name which it bears. The cough, at first dry, is after a time attended by a thick, ropy expectoration, which, clinging like glue to the fauces, and extremely difficult to remove, causes the child great suffering to expel, the patient appearing half suffocated in its abortive attempts to void the adhering whitish phlegm. With these symptoms come on thirst, heat and considerable fever; the pulse is quick and vibrating, while the efforts of the child to obtain air, causes it to arch the neck back in a manner most distressing to witness, till the anxiety of countenance and difficulty of inspiration increasing, the little patient expires about the third day, strangulated from the interruption of air to ilin liinrrs v..~ ?eThe paroxysms of this disease usually come on in the eveuiug, and become intensified about midnight, the patient seeming free and better during the day. All efforts should be lent to induce the reabsorption of the false membrane, loosen it from its hold on the windpipe, and cause it to he expelled. Warm bathing or sprinkling with hot water may be resorted to, and moderate vomiting produced until the services of a physician can be secured, a matter which should never be neglected, unless one has had much experience in such cases.? Western Hural.