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6E0RG1A-P0RTF0UQ
LAGRANGE HERALD.
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BY B. E. BENTON A F. S. BRONSON.
“ There is a medhjm in all things, and there are certain limits, on either side of which, rectitude cannot exist.” *
F. 9. BRONSON. Editor.
VOLUME ONE ]
LAGRANGE, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1843.
[ NUMBER ONE.
TIIE
LAGBAN6E HERALD,
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, Ill
BENTON &. BRONSON.
Office, one door East of R. Broom’s Store.
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POETICAL.
The following song was sung at the anniver
sary of the Albany N. Y. Female Academy.
It was written hy a young lady of the Academy,
and is full of beauty, innocence, and poetry.
We come, we come, a sister hand,
Joined by one holy tie.
Whose sphere of action has no bound
Itencath the vaulted sky ;
This motto graven on each heart—
An angel’s work is woman's part.
We meet, wo picet, like gath'ring drops,
Within the living spring.
That join to cheer the thirsty soul,
And lite and pleasure bring;
'1'hns meet wo here in hand and heart,
For an angel’s work is woman’s part.
We go, we go, like streams that glide
Far o’er the lowly plain,
We s •alter the wealth we gather hero
And meet in hope again ;
And beauty along our path shall start,
For an angel’s work is woman's part.
We go, we go, in the might of m ; nd,
A holy work to do;
To drive the clouds of Error far,
And show the Good and True,
To lure to Heaven the fainting heart.
For an angel’s work is woman’s part.
SIIF. LIVETIl p.y the VALLEY BROOK
She livelh by the valley brook,
Away from care and wrong,
Her heart a pure and open hook,
Her lip a mellow song.
A mother meek and old is all
The kindred that she knows :
And so they watch the waterfall,
And every flower that grows.
Shes-ngeth when the earth is spread
With green, and spring lias come ;
And weepeth when the flowers arc dead,
And her sweet brook is dumb.
And thus tlic gentle maiden s life
Steals quietly away,
Without a shade of pain or strife,
To cloud its summer day.
She liveth by llie valley brook.
Away from care and wrong.
Her heart a pure and open book,
Her lip a mellow song.
Ah ! never may the maiden dream
Of this sad world of ours.
Nor stray beyond her sister's stream,
Its valley and its flowers.
Acte Mirror.
From Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.
THE HUSBANDMAN.
Earth, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds lim still with corn and wine ;
He who jest would aid a brother,
Share: with him these gifts divine.
Many a | lower within her bosom
Noisel ;ss, hidden, works beneath ;
Hence a. e seed, and leaf, and blossom,
Golden ear and clustered wreath.
These t: swell with strength and beauty,
Is the royal task of mail ;
Man’s a king, bis throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage.
These, like man. are fruits of earth
Stamped in clay a heavenly mintage,
A!! from dust receive their birth.
Barn and mill, and winevat’s treasures,
Eaithly goods for earthly lives,
These are Nature’s ancient pleasures,
Which her child from her derives.
What the drc.im, but vain rebelling,
if from earth we sought to rise?
‘ Tis our stored and ample dwelling,
‘Tis from it we see the skies.
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these, ns bids thy reason.
For they work thy toil to aid.
LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED,
OR HYPOCRISY DETECTED.
EV COWPER.
Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
“ Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate’erhis inclination,
On pain of excommunication. ’
Such Mahomet’s mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at largo.
Had he the simple part expressed,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
F’rORi the whole hog to be debarred ;
And set their wit at v'ork to find
What joint tho prophet had in mind,
Much controversy straight arose,
These chose tho back—the belly those;
By some ‘ tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head ;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail,
Thus conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat np the hog.
You laugh—‘tis well—the tile applied,
May make you laugh on t’other side.
Renounce the world—the preacher cries,
Wc do—a multitude replies,
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can sec no evil in the play ;
Some love a concert, or a race;
And others shooting aud the chase
Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd.
Focli thinks his neighbor makes too free,
- as well as he ;
— —„ they sweeten,
1»I ISCELLAMEOUS.
From the Cleveland Herald.
THE PIONEER MOTHER.
IIow much is contained in this sim
ple title ! How much of woman’s
daring, woman’s trials, and woman’s
enduring and ennobling virtues ! The
pioneer mothers of ihc West! meet
companions of the bold Boones, the
Shclbys, the Harrisons, and llteir wor
thy compatriots in reclaiming, civil
izing, and peopling the great garden
valley. Most of the pioneer mothers
have given place to the “ olive branch
es” that in early times crowded around
the rude table of the still ruder home-
cabin, but their memories should be
cherished from generation to genera
tion by the millions of in-dwellers of
the goodly heritage that now “buds
and blossoms like the rose.” Few live
in written history, for much of the
early annals of the West is treasured
only in fading tradition, and seldom
even in this does the pioneer mother
hold that prominence merited by her
life of devoted sacrifice and self-denial.
We arc pleased to find in a recent
number of the Cincinnati Chronicle an
interesting account of one of these
mothers, which is thus introduced by
the editor:
The Pioneer Mother ; for so may
be called Mary Craig, whose story is
in this paper, was one of the first set
tlers of Cincinnati. The story is not
fiction, but fact; the romance of ver
itable history. If the reader is half
as much interested in it as we were he
will be glad that the writer has given
to the world one portrait, so vivid and
so beautiful of the “Pioneer Mothers.”
MARY CRAIG.
Early in the spring of 1843, and as
soon as the snow banks had well dis
appeared after the long and tedious
winter, a tall robust man, of middle
age, and melancholy countenance,
might have been seen, day after day,
examining the ancient tombstones in
the different cemeteries about New
York. He had come from the “Far
West,” the place of his nativity and
the active scenes of his life, and was
searching the graveyards of the city
for the tombstone of his maternal
grand parents—the father and mother
of Mary Craig.
To tho inquirer, the stranger’s story
was simple though interesting, and ex
hibits one of the many instances vyhere
real life surpasses in effecting incident
even romance itself.
“John Craig, the father of Mary
Craig, emigrated from Scotland to
New York about the year 1767.—
Mary, his youngest daughter, having
been born on the voyage to this coun
try. lie had barely become settled in
his new home, when he was called to
bid his family a.final adiue, Mary then
being but six years old. The widow
and her children remained in the city
of New York until the breaking out
of the revolutionary war, about three
years after, and when Mary had at
tained her ninth year. At this early
age, however, she had imbibed Whig
principles, and her whole soul was
embarked in the success of that strug
gle for liberty. Soon after, the city
fell into the hands of the British, and
her mother, being left among stran
gers in a distant land, and meeting
with an acquaintance and countryman
from Scotland, in the captain of a
British vessel of war then in harbor,
was induced to give him her hand in
marriage.
The captain was of course a devo
ted royalist, and his principles so op
posed to the politics of Mary, that she
could not brook the insults to which
her opinions were exposed, though
personally treated by her step-father
with great kindness and respect. Ma
ry therefore left home and took shelter
under the hospitable roof of Dr. Hal
stead, of Elizabethtown Point, where
she found a welcome home and con
genial political sentiments. Here, du
ring the remainder of that bloody war,
Mary was exposed to its dangers and
hardships. It is known that Eliza
bethtown was the theatre ol frequent
engagements between the contending
parties, and sometimes in the posses
sion of one, and sometimes the other.
Often the inhabitants, men especially,
were compelled to fly at midnight
from their homes, to escape capture
and imprisonment, if not death. Some
times all, male and female, on account
of the invasion of the Hessian hordes,
and when they had not the force to
oppose them, were under the necessity
of flying for safety to some place of
security. On such occasions, Mary
sometimes remained behind, to pre
vent, by her entreaties, the wanton de
struction of her patron’s property.
Here her life was frequently threa
tened for her importunity, and on one
occasion a sword was drawn to exe
cute that threat. At other times she
would drive her benefactor's gig, with
his wife and child in it, through the
darkness of midnight, to his retreat,
7 or 8 miles from Elizabethtown.
Often during engagements between
the contending armies, the Doctor’s
house was the hospital of the wounded
and dving patriots, and she was the
.urgeon’s assistant in staunching the
ounds, taking oft shattered limbs,
1 administering drink and food to
wounded and dying. Thus her
•j- was spent during that long and
bloody struggle. At its close she
found herself separated forever from
her friends. At the re-capture of
New York, her step-father had re
moved to Nova Scotia, whither he
took all of Mary’s family, and circum
stances prevented them from ever
meeting again.
The war ended, but not Mary’s
hardships and exposures. Soon alter
the revolution she was married to a
young man who had accompanied
Judge Symmes in his first tower to
the Miamcs, with which he was so de
lighted that he determined to omigratc
to the new country. In 1788, accom
panied by a little colony, Mary and
her husband bent their course for their
new home; lived the first winter on
the Kentucky side, and in the spring
of 17W9, settled at Columbia, five miles
above Cincinnati, where the little col
ony erected a block house and garri
son. Here they remained, living in a
cabin some three or four hundred
yards from the block house,until 1791,
when Mary’s companion was taken
from her, and she was left a widow in
an Indian country, with two babes,
the eldest but two years old, the otligr
an infant of only a few days.
Before the loss of her husband, sho
had frequently in times of more im
minent danger, retired with him into
the garrison; but in her bereaved con
dition, her lonely and wounded heart
could not brook the boisterous mirth
and constant confusion to which she
must be exposed. The feeling heart
seeks solitude in afHiction. She there*
fore remained with her babes in the
cabin. In vain did her neighbors de
pict the danger of massacre from the
Indians. She knew not what fear
was. Her trust was in that God who
alone could protect her and her little
ones. For her children she provided
a bed under the puncheon floor of the
cabin, in a small hole usually prepared
by the first settlers to preserve vegeta
bles in winter from frost. Here every
night, week after week, would she
place her children, after putting them
to sleep, while she watched through
the chinks of the cabin during the
greater part of each night, the ap
proach of the savages.
The plan was, if the Indians enter
ed at one door to fly out at the other,
and give the alarm at the gariison be-
fero her children could ho tonnd in
their concealment under the floor.—
Often, thus watching, she saw the In
dians enter the little settlement, tra
verse the grounds in the vicinity of
the block house; sometimes they came
to her very door, but never did they
enter. Horses were stolen, settlers
were killed and taken prisoners, but
Mary and her babes were protected.
Delicate as a flower, and with all the
tender sensibility of the most feeling
heart, it was the faith of the Christian
whieh sustained her under all trials,
and enabled her to triumph over all
fear. There, day after day, might be
heard, in that rude hut, Mary’s soft
voice, rendered plaintive and melan
choly by her lonely condition, hymn
ing her favorite psalm.
“After Mary had lived in this deso
late and perilous condition for some
fifteen months, her character and
history became known to a young
man of kindred spirit. He too, from
the age of twelve, had been exposed
to the perils of war. He had served
in many campaigns against the Indi
ans, and had engaged with them in
the battle-field when quite a boy. He
had traversed the Indian wilds from
the Allcghanies to the mouth of the
Ohio, and from the Kentucky river to
the lakes. Fear he never felt, and had
imbibed a feeling of pity and con
tempt for any being who manifested
that childish emotion. Mary’s bold
and fearless bearing attracted his no
tice; and though he had travelled
much, seen and known many females,
his heart had never beiore felt the in
fluence of love and admiration com
bined. Mary’s exquisite sensibility
and tenderness, added to her undaunt
ed courage, qualities so rarely found
to meet in the same woman, induced
him at once to offer himself as her
protector and her husband. They
were married—and Mary’s second
husband proved himself to be what
she had taken him for, a man of true
worth.
He was one of the first pioneers of
Ohio—contributed much to her con
stitution and.laws their broad princi
ples of liberty and equality—lived long
to see and enjoy Iter prosperity, and
died in good old age, not “unhonored”
though “unsung.” But Mary had lett
him years beiore, for a better home.
She lived to rear to maturity all her
children, eight in number, and to them
was attached with an intensity of af
fection which nothing could moderate.
She bore all the privations of fourteen
vears of war, British and Indian, ex
posed to the most imminent dangers,
and her heart and nerves never failed
her. But when one, and then another,
and yet another of her children were
taken from her by the stern hand of
death, her “heart was smitten and
withered like glass;" life lost its at
tractions—eaith its loveliness and
home its endearments. She sank un
der the loss of her children, and died
of a broken heart.”
The stranger paused-^-the big tear
stood in his eve, and with quivering
lip he added—“The first daughter
born to me after my mother’s death, 1
called Mary Craig, though my eldest
had been partly named for her years
before. It was a most lovely child,
but it had an unearthly beauty and
sweetness about it. The neighbors
noticed this and whispered to each
oilier, “little Mary will not live—she
belongs not to earth—her home is
heaven.” She died at an early age;
and still when I think of that sweet
child, and its sainted grand-mother,
my heart involuntarily exclaims—
“will the earth ever be blessed with
another Mary Craig ?”
RULES FOR HOUSE WIVES.
1. When you rise in the morning,
never bo particular about pinning
your clothes so very nicoly ; you can
do that at any time.
2. Never comb your hair, or take
off your night cap till after breakfast.
It is your bui&ncss to take time by the
forctop and not let him take you so ;
therefore keep all right in that quarter
till ten o’clock at least.
3. When you begin the business of
your toilet, you may do it beiore the
window or in the front entry ; but
the most proper place is in the kitch
en.
4. Never have any particular place
for any thing in your house; and then
you may rest assured that nothing
will ever be out of place ; and that is
a great comfort in a family.
5. Never sweep your floor, until
you know some person is coming in;
lie will then see how near you are ;
and, besides, in such cases, even your
enemies cannot shake off the dust off
their feet, against you, though they
may the dust of their clothes with
which you have covered them by
your sweeping.
6. When you have done sweeping,
leave your broom on the floor, it will
then be handy ; and being always in
sight, and in the way, it will be con
stantly reminding’your husband, when
he is in the house, what a smart, nice,
pains-taking wife he has.
7. Never follow the barbarous
practice of brushing down cobwebs.
A man’s house is his castle; and so
is a spider’s. It is a violation of right,
and a shameless disrespect to the fine
arts.
8. Keep your parlor and bedroom
windows shut as ctaso as possible
in dog days; this will keep the hot
air out—and you will have excellent
fixed air inside.
9. Keep your summer cheeses in
your bed chambers;—they enrich
the qalities of the atmosphere ; and if
a stranger should lodge in one of your
beds, if he could not sleep, lie could
eat for his refreshment.
10. Never teach your daughters to
mend or make any of their own clothes;
it is “taking the bread from the mouth
of labor” besides it will make them
crooked and give them sore fingers.
11. But if they should insist on
mending their own garments, they
should do it while they are on; this
will mako them ft better; and girls
can’t leave their work—if they should
attempt it, their work would follow
them.
12. If your husband’s coat is out
at one of the elbows, don’t mend it
until it is out at the other ; then the
patches will make it appear uniform,
and show that you are impartial.
13. Never spoil a joke for a rela
tion's sake ; nor surpress the truth for
any bjdy's sake. Therefore, if you
don’t like your husband as you ought,
out with it, and convince him you
are not a respecter of persons.
14. You should endeavor not to
keep your temper; let it off'as soon
and as fast as you can; and you will
then be calm and quiet as a bottle ol
cider after the cork had been drawn
half a day.
15. If, on any particular occasion,
you arc at a loss as to the course you
are to pursue, in the management of
yourself or family affairs, take down
the paper which contains these rules,
and read them over and over till you
have satisfied your mind—and then go
on.—Mzthuen Gazette.
Bustles.—Wc understand a conv
mitteo of thirteen ladies have held a
consultation in this city, touching an
improvement in summer bustles.
The great desideratum seems to be
the substitution of ice, in some form,
in the place of the divers writer arti
cle now used. It was resolved that
Indian rubber life-preservers, of the
proper length, to surround the body,
should be adopted, and be made to
contain 35 gallons of ice -water.
IN. Y. paper.
Wc would not impertinently ob
trude our opinions, but respectfully
suggest to the ladies, that as comfort
is the object of this improvement, they
can very easily carry it still farther,
and make their bustles portable luxu
ries. Let them be filled with ice le
monade, with a flexible pipe leading
therefrom, and gracefully twined a-
round the neck of the fair bustle-
wearer. When fatigued, she has but
to apply the pipe to her mouth and
quaff the cool beverage as she pro-
minades ; and if she has a favorite
beau with her, she may let him suck
a little; it would bring their faces
near enough for a soft whisper, and
look so interesting.
f Carolina Planter
ADDRESS OF JUDGE EARL,
To John Adams, convicted of the murder of Mrs.
MeVoy, on the rejection, by the Court ol Ap-'
penis, of the motion for u new trial.
f Published by le/jucst of the S. C. Bar.']
John Adams: The series of events
which mark the latter period of your
life, with an interest so awful to your
self, and so painful to others, is rapidly
drawing to a close. Tito verdict of
a jury, selected by yourself, from
whatever motives of expected kind
ness or favor, have heard your cause,
and have established your guilt. It
only remains, that I, as the organ of
the law, should pronounce its judg
ment, and that another of its officers
should perform Lis final duty, and you
will cease to be numbered among the
living.
The tragedy, of which you have
been the author and actor, has few
parallels. The whole course of the
narrative, from your first appearance,
to your last deed presents a succession
ot debauchery and crime, revolting to
the moral sense of mankind, which,
for the honor of our nature, is seldom
met with, in any Christian country.
The unhappy being, who has come to
a violent death by your hands, has
been sent to her long account, with all
her sins upon her head, reeking with
her rices, which you had aided to fos
ter and confirm ; without time for re
pentance, and it may be, without
ground of hope. Whatever may be
thought of the unholy connection be
tween you, she deserved other treat
ment at your hands. You came here
a friendless stranger, and she took you
in. She afforded you shelter, and
lodging, and food. You not only par
took of her hospitality and kindness,
but enjoyed the last prools of her at
tachment. In return for all this, she
seems only to have expected, or de
sired, the comfort of your society, and
the assurance of your protection. By
no honest labor, did you add to the
scanty stoics of subsistence, which
she allowed you to share; by no kind
offices, did you endeavor to shield her
from harm. Humble as were the ac
commodations she afforded you, they
were equal to your wishes, and be
yond your deserts. How was she re
warded ? You shared her lowly roof
and lodging; you ate of her bread;
you drank of her cup ; and you slew
her ! In the very moment of fancied
security, and of expected kindness,
when she was icposing, or about to
repose her head upon the same pillow
with your own, and supposed, howev
er sinful in the eyes of heaven, and
degrading in the eyes of the world,
was the connection between you, that
from you, at least, she would meet
with favor and regard,—in that mo
ment, you raised your hand against her!
By repeated and long continued vio
lence, in the midst of her shrieks, and
cries for mercy, you wottnded her
unto death 1 To this picture, sketched
with the severity of truth, fancy can
add no coloring; to this plain narra
tive of facts, fiction can add no inci
dent that would enhance your guilt.
In the darkness and silence of that
night, so full of present evil to her, so
fraught with future woe to you, could
you suppose that such a deed would
escape detection ? Perhaps you im
agined, as nature was at rest, and a
deep sleep had fallen upon all around
you, that there was no eye to witness
the deed ; no car to hear the shrieks
of pain, and cries for mercy, vainly
addressed to a heart, and to human
feeling. How frail are the hopes ol
the wicked ! Even then, there was
upon you, the eye of one, never to be
named without reverence and awe!
whoso vigilance never sleeps for the
evil doer. That eye was upon you,
for detection here, and tor punishment
hereafter. Had not a train ol circum
stances, which always tracks the guil
ty, exposed your crime on earth, be
fore that other tribunal of your final
judge, there could be no escape.—
From the instant of committing the
fatal act, your punishment began.—
Were you to live a thousand years,
you would carry within you, the worm
that dieth not, the fire that is not
quenched, that guilty conscience, that
would bring before you, at all times,
and in all places, the image of your
murdered paramour. It would haunt
your visions by day, and your dreams
by night. On the ocean, and the land;
in the field and forest; in the crowded
street, and in lonely places, the image
ol that murdered being would be pre
sent with you ; her eyes would glare
upon you ! And if, by drunkenness,
you were to sleep*your senses in for
getfulness, yon 'would only wake to
keener remorse, and sink to deeper
despair, from which you could only
be saved, by an Almighty hand,
prompted by a spirit of love, equal to
his power. It is not for us, feeble and
sinful, to speculate on the structure of
God’s government, or the principles on
which his punishments arc awarded.
In that apartment, where your crime
was committed, there was a sacred
volume—alas! that it was so disre
garded—which would have shewn
you that that murder is stamped with
the divine wrath, in all time. 1 ou
would have seen, Irom the curse of
the first born son of sin, that there is
no rest on earth for the shedder ot
blood. Had your eye dwelt upon
those precepts ol piety and godliness,
which impress the volume with the
seal of Ms divinity, the wrath of the
angry man might have been turned
■oway, and the arm of the slaver been
stayed. But Providence, for its own
inscrutable purposes, ordaihed other
wise. As a signal proof of its displea
sure agflinst a course of l :r e so inde
cent and immoral, it seemed fit, that
your paramour and yourself should
both close a life of riot, lewdness, and
debauchery, by a sudden and violent
death; she, by your hand; and you,
by the hands of the executioner. It
was fit, alter being your companion in
sin, that she should become the victim
of your anger; and that, for taking
her file, you should pay the forfeit ot
your own. God grant, that the warn
ing may prove effectual, to those who
survive !
On earth you hove now, no hope.
You may be assured, with the certain
ty of tiuih, that, on this side of the
grave, the gates of mercy are closed
against you. I beseech you, there
fore, to employ the brief space of lime
which will be left you, in an earnest
and unceasing effort to obtain pardou
from the Divine Being, into whose
hands the tribunals of this world now
consign you.
The Wife.—That woman de
serves not a husband’s generous love
who will not greet him with smiles
as he returns from the labors of the
day; who will not try to charm him
to his home by the sweet enchant
ment of achcetful heart. There is
not one in a thousand that is so un
feeling as to withstand such an in
fluence, and break away from such a
home.
Boisterous Preaching.—A celc
brated divine, who was remarkable
in the first period of his ministry for
a loud and boisterous mode of pleach
ing, suddenly changed his whole man
ner in the pulpit, and adopted a mild
and dispassionate mode of delivery.
One of his brethren observing it, in
quired of him what had induced him to
make the change. He answered,
“When I was young I thought it was
the thunder that killed the people:
but when I grew wiser I discovered
that it was the lightning, so I deter
mined to thunder less and lightning
more in future.” It is a pity all
preachers had not made the same dis
covery.
An awful Beacon When the
New York landloids warn their ten
ants out, and put up a bill “to be let,’’
the tenants, if they do not wish to
move, write under the bill—“small
pox here,” which operates as a veto on
all who might wish to examine the
premises.
A hint to the Ladies.—If you
wish to improve your flower gardens,
water your plants with a solution of
Ammonia; about three grains to a
gallon of water. It is said to produce
an astonishing improvement in a very
short time; imparting vigor to deli,
cate plants that seem likely to wither,
and adding luxuriance to the foliage
of all. Some of our fair Catnden
friends have tried it, wc understand,
with great success-—Planter.
Glad he’s gone.—The Belmont
(Md.) Repository narrates the histo
ry of a miser, named Michael Baird
who hanged himself at his farm near
York, because some clover seed, for
which he had refused, brought only
§11 at Philadelphia, where he had
sent it to be sold. He had amassed a
fortune of four hundred thousand dol
lars, not one cent of which was ever
invested. His strong boxes, on being
opened by his heirs, turned out two
hundred and thirty thousand dollars
in gold and silver. Death, like other
random shots, docs sometimes make
a lucky hit 1
A Useful Citizen in a new coun
try A gentleman engaged in taking
the census of Louisville, informs the
editor of the Kentuckian, that became
across a man who is fifty-five years
old; he has been married three times ;
by his first wife he had eleven, by his
second wife he had ten, by his last
wife twelve; making in all thirty-
three children !—and his wife at the
visitation was in a most interesting
state—23 of his children were boys
and 10 girls; 18 boys and 6 girls are
living. He married'in his 18th year,
and remained in a state ol widowed
three years.
An Old Maid.—La Senora Maria
de la Cruz Carvallo was born at San
Rafael dc las Gandas, Canton ot Gu-
anare, province of Borinas in Vene
zuela. She was born in the year 1699,
was confirmed by the Arch Bishop
Rincon at the age of 16 ; she has ne
ver been married, nor never bad a
child ; her hair turned entirely grey,
and at the age of 136 returned to its
original color, black, commencing at
the back of the neck to the forehead,
but it is now turning grev again.
She lost her sight entirely at the age
of 118, and recovered it naturally at
the agcol 133, in such a manner that
she can thread a common needle ; she
is at present a little deaf. Her prin
cipal occupation is spinning and sew
ing. Uptothe 31stof January, 1813,
she vrtts still alive.