The Spirit Of Democracy

From the Ohio Statesman.

WIFE'S AFFECTION.

Under this head the Southern papers publish the following affecting letter from Mrs. Crist, to her unfortunate husband. Such a wife, surely, deserved a better fate. The heart must be made of stone that could read this letter without melting with the deepest agony. We had just read a private letter from Mobile, speaking of this and other letters from Mrs. C., that produced the deepest sympathy in her behalf, both for their devoted affection and the beauty and simplicity of style. It has been truly said that this letter affords a touching illustration of woman's love:

[From the Mobile Tribune.]

Cleveland, April 7, 1852.

My Dearest Husband—I have been very miserable since they took you away. When you were here, and I could have the happiness of seeing my own darling sometimes, I was better satisfied; but now my heart is almost crushed. They have torn you from me so suddenly and unexpectedly, that I can hardly realize my situation. Can it be possible that we are never to meet again on earth? Oh, my darling! it has been but two short years since we stood at the altar, surrounded by our friends, and we the happiest of the happy—and since that dearest, we have enjoyed each other's society so much! and now that this dreadful sorrow should descend upon our heads, to crush our future hopes—Oh, my God! no wonder I cannot realize my miserable situation. But I must not give way in this manner. I promised you that I would not give up until they proved you guilty. I hope they will never do that. I cannot believe that you would commit so horrible a crime as you are charged with. One who has always been so kind to his family and friends, and always so tender-hearted, could never raise his hand against his fellow-man, unless in self-defence. But the one who murdered "Nye" did not do that; so it cannot be my darling husband. No, never, never!

But, dearest; if you DID commit that crime, I beg of you, as a husband and father, to tell me, before you die, so that I can be better satisfied; for, Oh, God knows, that if they hang an innocent man, and I should be convinced of the fact, my reason would depart forever, and they would have the blood of two innocent persons to answer for. But if you are hung, and confess that you are guilty, then I would be better satisfied, because I could not blame them for doing their duty—although I shall never feel any different toward you than I do at present; for you have always been to me a kind, beloved husband. I cannot feel aught for you but love and respect, whether you live or die—but, as I said before, I can't believe you guilty, until they prove you such; and I hope you will convince them of your innocence, so that we may meet again and continue to live happily together in this world—and when we die, that we may be joined together in Heaven, is the prayer of your once happy but now really afflicted wife.

I presume Andrews did not go with you, but I presume he will go down immediately and do his best towards having the matter thoroughly investigated. I had no idea that McGibbony would leave so suddenly. He promised to let father know when he was going, but instead of doing as he should have done, he went off without one article of clothing for you. I presume he was afraid they would mob him for shooting Fuller. I intended sending your clothes down that morning, when the word came that you were gone. You left word to send them to Cincinnati, but McGibbony said he intended to stop at Cincinnati over Sunday, so there was no use in sending them there.

After Clarence had gone to sleep last night he opened his eyes and called papa, as though he had been dreaming of you. I told the dear little angel that papa had gone away. He went to sleep again, and presently he opened his eyes again, and called, papa! papa! It made me feel so sorrowfully I could not sleep. It almost kills me to think that perhaps we may never see you again. Dearest, I pray every night that God would forgive your sins, and receive you in Heaven, if it is to be your fate to die—which I also pray it may not be. I hope the jailor will be kind to you, and let you write to me often. I have not heard one word from you yet, but I presume it is not your fault. I know you will write to me if you can.

We are all well, and I hope you are the same. Mother and Maria do not believe you guilty. They send their love to you. Accept my whole love, dearest. I am so overcome with sorrow, that I can write no more to-day. Good night. May we meet again soon.

God bless you, and keep you safe.

From your dearest, faithful wife,

LUCRETIA CRIST.