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6E0RG1A-P0RTF0UQ LAGRANGE HERALD. n > 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. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. THREE DOLLARS por annum, payable in llirco months from Iho timo of subscribing. No subscription received for a less period than ono year, unless paid in advance ; and no paper discontinued until all arrearages are paid, except nt the option of the proprietors. (TV Litters on business connected with the Ollire, and Communications, must be postpaid, to meet with attention. TERMS OF ADVERTISING. Advertisements conspicuously inserted at SI per square (13 lines or loss) for the first in sertion, and 50 fonts for every subsequent con tinuance. A Ms rii deduction made to yearly advertisers. Leoal Advertisements published at the usual rates. 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.