Newspaper Page Text
a slowly apart, leaving
scarcely space lor tlvc boats to pass. The
dangersof the navigation can better lie irtta
gined than described,—for the utmost exer
tions could often just prevent the frail
Structures from being Crushed. Occasion
ally a stray fife \vtmld be heard shooting
shrilly over the waters, mingling feebly
with the fiercer piping of the winds, —and
nttOtt the deep roll of the drum would boom
across the night,the neigh ofthe horse would
iloat from the opposite shore, or the crash
of the jamming ice would be heard like far
off thunder. The cannoneers beneath me
were dragging n piece of artillery up the
ascent, and the men were rapidly forming
on the shore below as they landed. It was
a stirring scene. At this instant the band
of the regiment struck up an enlivening
air, and plunging my rowels into my steed.
I whirled him around into the road, and
went off on a gallop to overtake the gencr-l
al’s staff.
Tt was now four o'clock, and so much!
lime had been consumed that it becamcj
impossible to reach our destination before]
day break, and consequently all certainty]
of a surprise was over. A hasty council]
was therefore called on horseback to deter
mine whether to retreat or not. A few
minutes decided it. All were unanimous
to proceed at every peril.
“ Gentlemen,” said Washington, after
they had severally spoken, “then wc all
agree—the attack shall take place—gener
al,'’ he continued, turning to Sullivan,
“your brigade shall march the river road,
while I take that to Pennington—let us ar
rive as near eight o’clock as possible. Bui]
do not pause when you reach their outposts]
—drive them in before their ranks can form]
and pursue thorn to the very centre of the]
town. I shall be there to take them in the
flank—the rest wc must leave to the God
of battles. And now, gentlemen, to your
posts.” In five minutes wc were in mo
tion.
The eagerness ofour troops to come up
with the enemy was never more conspicuous
than on the morning of tfic eventful day.
We had scarcely lost sight of Sullivan’s
detachment across the intervening fields,
before the long threatened storm burst over
us. The night was intensely cold ; the
sleet and the rain rattled incessantly on the
men’s knapsacks ; and the wind shrieked,
howled and roared among the old pine trees
with terrific violence. At times the snow
fell perpendicularly downwards—then ii
beat horizontally into our faces with furi
ous impetuosity-and again it was hurled
wildly on high, eddying around and around
and sweeping away on the whistling tern
pest far down into the gloom. The tramp
of the men—the low orders of the officers
•—the occasional rattle of the musket were
almost lost in the shrill voice of the gale,
or the deep sullen roar of the tortured for
est. Even these sounds at length ceased ;
and we continued the march in profound
silence, increasing as we drew nearer to
the outposts of the enemy. The redoubled
violence of the gale, though it added to
the suffering ofour brave continentals, was
even hailed with joy, as it decreased the
change ofour discovery, and made us once
more hopo high for a surprise. Nor were*
those sufferings light. Through that dread!
ful night nothing but the lofty patriotism
of a freeman could have sustained them.
Half clothed: many without shoes, whole
companies destitute of blankets, they yet
pressed bravely on against the storm :
though drenched to the skin, shivering at
every blast, and too often marking their
footsteps with blood. Old as I am now.
the recollection is still vivid in my mind.
God forbid that such sufferings should ever
have to be endured again !
The dawn at last came : but the storm
still raged. The trees were borne down
with sleet, and the slush was ankle deep in
the roads. The few fields we passed were
covered with wet, spongy snow, —and the
half buried houses looked bleak and deso
late in the uncertain morning light. It has
been my lot to witness few such forbidding
scenes. At this instant a shot was heard
jn front, and a messenger, dashed furiously
up to announce that the outposts of the Bri
;sh were being driven in.
“ Forward—forward,” cried Washing
ton, himself galloping up to the head of the
column, “push on my brave fellows—on.”
The men started like hunters at the cry
of the pack, as their General’s voice was
seconded by a hasty fire from the riflemen
in the van, and forgetting every thing but
the foe, marched rapidly, with silent eager
ness, toward the sound of the conflict. As
they emerged trom the wood the scene burst
upon them.
Tile town lay but a short distance ahead
just discern able through the twilight, and
seemingly buried in repose. The streets
were wholly deserted ; and as yet the alarm
had not reached the main body of the ene
my. A single horseman was seen howe
ver fleeting a moment through the mist,
—he was lost behind a clump of trees—
and then reappeared, dashing wildly down
thamain street of the village. I had no
doubt ho was a messenger from the outposts
of a reinforcement; but if suffered to rally
one wo knew all hope was gone. To the
forces lie had left we now therefore turned
our attention.
The first charge of our gallant continen-
P O
tals had driven the outposts in like the
shock of an avalanche. Just aroused
from sleep, and taken completely by sur
prise, they did not at first pretend to make
a stand, but retreated rapidly and in disor
der, before our vanguard. A few moments,
however, bad sufficed to recall their reeling
faculties, and perceiving the insignificant
force opposed to them, they halted, hesita
ted, rallied, poured in a heavy fire, and ev
en advanced cheering to the onset. But
at this moment our main body emerged from
the wood, and when my eyes first fell upon
the Ilessian grenadiprs, they were begin
ning again to stagger.
“ On—on—push on, continentals of the
I ,” shouted the officer in command.
§1 The men with admirable discipline still
■forbore their shouts, and steadily pressed
Bon against the now flying outposts. In an
lotlier instant the Hessians were in full re
9treat upon the town.
“By heaven !” ejaculated an aid-dc
camp at my side, as a rolling fire of mus
ketry was all at once heard at the distance
if half a mile across the village, “ there
goes Sullivan’s brigade—the day’s our
own.”
“Charge that artillery with a detach
ment from the eastern regiment,” shouted
the general as the battery of the enemy was
seen a little to our right.
The men levelled their bayonets, march
lb and steadily’ up to the very mouths of the can
■ non, and before tiie artillerists could bring
raiheir pieces to bear, carried them witii a
■cheer. Just then the surprised enemy was
seen endeavoring to form in the main street,
ahead, and the rapidly increasing fire on
the side of Sullivan, told that the day in
that quarter, was fiercely maintained.—
A few moments of indecision would ruin
all.
“ Press on—press on there,” shouted
the commander-in-chief, galloping to the
front, and waving his sword aloft “ charge
them before they can form—follow me.”
The effect was electrical. Gallant as
had been their conduct before, our brave
troops now seemed to be carried away with
perfect enthusiasm. The men burst into
a cheer at the sight of the commander’s da
ring, and dashing rapidly into the town,
I carried every thing before them like a hui
ricanc. The half-formed Hessians opened
a desultory fire, fell in before our impetu
ous attack,wavered, broke, and in two min
utes were flying pell-mell through tli I
town; while our troops, with admirable
discipline, still maintaining their ranks
passed steadily up the street, driving the
foe before them. They had scarcely gone
a hundred yards, before the banners of the]
Sullivan’s brigade were seen floatin’ I
through the mist ahead—a cheer burst from]
our men—it was answered back from oml
approaching comrades, and perceiving]
themselves hemmed in on all sides, and]
that further retreat was impossible, the]
whole regiment he had routed laid down]
their arms. The instant victory’ was ours I
and the foe had surrendered, every unman M
ly exultation disappeared from the counte
nances of our brave troops. The fortune
of war had turned against their foes, it was
not tiie part of brave men to add insult to
misfortune.”
We were on the point of dismounting,
when an aid-de-camp wheeled around the
corner of the street bead, and checking
his foaming charger at the side of Wash
ington, exclaimed breathlessly—
“ A detachment has escaped—they are
in full retreat on the Princeton road.”
ii Quick as thought the commander-in
chief flung himself into the saddle again,
and looking hastily around the group of of
ficers, singled me out.
“ Lieutenant Archer—you know the
roads, Colonel , will march his regi
ment around, and prevent the enemy’s re
treat. You will take them by the shortest
route.”
I bowed in acknowledgment to the saddle
bow, and perceiving the colonel was some
distance ahead, went like an arrow down
the street to join liiin. It was but the work
of an instant to wheel the men into a neigh
boring avenue, and before five minutes the
muskets of the retiring foe could be seen
through the intervening trees. I had cho
sen a cross-path, which making as it were,
the longest side of a triangle, entered the
Princeton road a short distance above the
town, and would enable us to cut off com
pletely the enemy’s retreat. The struggle
to attain the desired point where the two
routes intersected was short, but fierce.—
We had already advanced half way before
we were discovered, and the enemy press
ed on with the eagerness of despair. Our
gallant fellows were fired on their part with
the enthusiasm of conscious victory. As
we drew rapidly nearer to the intersection,
we were cheered by finding ourselves
ahead—a bold, quick push, enabled us to
reach it some seconds before the foe—and
rapidly facing about as we wheeled into
the other road, we summoned the discomfit
ed enemy to surrender. In half an hour
I reported myself at head quarters as the
aid-de-camp of Colonel , to announce
our success.
The exultation of our countrymen on
learning the victory of Trenton, no pen
can picture. One universal shout of vic
tory rolled from Massachusetts to Georgia;
and we were hailed every where as the
saviours of our country. The drooping
spirits of the colonists wore re-animated
by the news ; the hopes for a successful
termination of the contest, once more were
aroused ; and the enemy, paralyzed by the
blow, retreated in disorder towards Prince
ton and New Brunswick. Years have
passed since then ; but I shall never for
get the battle of Trenton.
I’LL TRY SIR.”
An incident of the battle of Bridgewater
—On the 25th of July', 1841, the bloody!
battle of Bridgewater and Lundy’s Lane
took place near tlie banks ofthe Niagara.
It was 6 o’clock, and a sultry evening,
when the British forces under General
Drummond advanced to meet the Ameri
can columns ; and a more deadly cqhtest
never raged on the soil of our beloved Coun
try 1 han that which then commenced’; the
roar of the neighboring cataract lost itself
in the booming of the cannon ; the voice of
many waters, and the voices of battle sang
bass together—and the dead slept in sweet
forgetfulness upon the moonlit bill. The
first brigade under Gen. Scott, with Town’s
artillery and a body of cavalry, sustained
the attack of the British army for an hour
unaided. Gen. Ripley with fresh troops
now arrived, and relieved General Scott,
while the latter with his exhausted brigade]
formed a reserve in the rear. The British
artillery had taken poston an eminence at
the head of Lundy’s Lane, and were pour
ing forth a most deadly fire on the Amer
icans. General Brown, the commander of
the American forces, feeling the terrible
havoc made by the enemy’s cannon, conclu
ded that it was necessary to dislodge them
or retreat. It was a dreadful duly. The
troops that were to march up Lundy’s Lane
might well say their pray ers and make their
will before moving. It was certain death
to every second man ofthe forlorn hope.
As the commanding General rode along]
the foot of the hill, in a thoughtful mood,]
ho saw the brave Col. Miller advancing at]
ihe head of his newly-raised regiment for]
further orders. He rode up to him. “Will]
you advance and capture that battery'?”]
said the General. “I will try sir,” said the]
modest Colonel. The General rode on and
the regiment gallantly wheeled and moved
up Lundy’s Lane.
At every rod the artillery on the height
sent its messengers of death through the
dense column ; but still there was no flinch
ing. The voice of the noble Miller, as he
waved his sword before the bloody gap,
Hwas beard uttering the short and- expres-
Hsive orders, “steady men—close ranks—
Btnarch !” Around him the flower of his
■ regiment fell like withered leaves of au-
Btumn ; but he heeded not his loss ; he was
■ordered to take the battery on the hill, and
Hhe intended to do it. He advanced, tliere-
Bforc, coolly to his object. Amidst a tre-
Hmendous blaze of artillery, and at the point
the bayonet, he carried tire height. It
■was v. gallant deed. I have never heard of
gits equal exc. pt at the siege of San Sebastian,
lit was superior in temerity toßonaparte’s at-
Htack upon Little Gibraltar, at Toulon, bc-
Bcause Miller bad no covering for his troops]
■in case of a retreat. It was a dead march
■to glory I—yea, at every step the rear rank
■ trod upon the dead and the dying ; and the
groans of suffering humanity mingled in
with the hoarse rattle ofthe drum. When
the eonqu’r, with his remnant of a regiment
trod upon the heights at the head of Lundy’s
Lane, & turned the cannon upon the aston-
ished enemy, a death struggle ensued be
tween the American and British armies.
“These guns will decide the battle : they
must be regained, or the army will be cut
to pieces, and if regained the Americans
will be conquered.” Such were the thot’s
of each General. Now came the iron
grip of war. A terrible conflict raged
upon the height : and, morning sun arose
upon Bridgewater, 1,600 soldiers, friends
and foes, lay sleeping in gory death upon
the hill side in Lundy’s Lane. Surely
ihe battle of Bridgewater will never be for
gotten by the patriot, the historian, or the
poet; and while the laurels of a Scott and
j. Ripley are green and unfading, let us not
forget that the gallant Miller is alive, and
that his country owes him a debt of grati
tude which she can never repay. She
however, can say with her children when
asked to aid him, as the hero said at Bridge
water to his commander when called upon
to render him service, “I will try, sir.”
ijet her try, for the sake of her honor: and
may the day never dawn when the hero of
Lundy’s Lane shall be forgotten by the
American citizen. We glory in the ser
vice ofthe brave. May the laurel circle
the victor’s brow in life, and at last hang
upon a broken column over a deathless
tomb ! Reader, the hero of Lundy’s Lane
is beside you !
THE HABITS OF A MAN OF BUSI
NESS.
A sacred regard to the principles of jus
tice, forms the basis of every transaction,
and regulates the conduct of the upright
man of business. He is strict in keeping
his engagements—does nothing carelessly
or in a hurry, employs nobody to do what
he can as easily do himself; keeps every
thing in its proper place ; leaves nothing
undone which ought to be done, and which
circumstances permitted him to do; keeps
his designs and business from the view of
others; is prompt and decisive with his
customers, and does not over trade for his
capital; prefers short credits to long ones,
and cash to credit transactions, at all times
when they can be advantageously made,
either in buying or selling, and'snralT gains
will) little risk, to the chance of better gains
with more hazard. He is clear and expli
cit in all his bargains—leaves nothing to
the memory which he can and ought to
commit to writing ; keeps copies of all im
portant letters which he sends away, and
has every letter, invoice, &c. belonging
to his business, titled, classed and put
away. Never suffers his desk to be con
fused by many papers lying upon it; is
always at the head of his business, well
knowing that if lie leaves it, it w ill leave
him ; bolds it as a maxim that ho whose
credit is suspected is not safe to be trusted,
and is constantly examining his books, and
sees through all his affairs as far as care
and attention enable him—balances regu
larly at stated times, and then makes oui
and transmits all his accounts current to
liis customers and constituents,both at home
and abroad ; avoids, as much as possible,
all sorts of accommodations in money mat
ters and law suits, where there is the leas!
hazard—is economical in his expenditures,
always living within his income ; keeps
a memorandum book, with a pencil in his
[pocket, in which lie notes every little par
ticular relative to appointments, addresses,
and petty cash matters—is cautious how
he becomes security for any person—and
is generous, only w hen urged by motives
of humanity.— Mass. Spy.
PISTOL SHOOTING EXTRA.
No little noise and alarm was created
in one ofour principal hotels early yester-l
day morning, by the loud report of a pistol!
in one of the passage ways of the third sto-|
rv. Some thought that a suicide had been!
committed, while others did not know wliatl
to think of an occurrence so unusual, bin!
their doubts were soon removed, as w c .shall!
show.
It seems that one of the Irish waiters at-8
tached to the hotel had taken a gentleman's!
overcoat from his room in order to brush!
it. Finding a pistol in one of the pockets,!
he drew it forth and began to examine it.l
At the juncture a darkey came into tliel
room, when the Irishman, having no ideal
the pistol W'as loaded, took sight at the sa-i
ble fellow and exclaimed—
“ I say me rowl of blacking, just straigb-j
ten yourself like a man, stand still, and Fill
plug ye as aisy as I’d kiss my hand.”
“ Wy’ wy, look heeah, massa,” said!
the darkey rolling his eyes & consequently!
turning a pale blue, from fright—[
“Look lieear, massa, don’t you do dat—s
■don’t aim dat pistol dis way. Wha-wha-i
iwhat for you shoot me ?”
“Jistfora bit of devarshun, that’s all.l
■Be aisy I say, and I’ll let a streak of blis-j
Isid daylight through that dark body of*
■yours.” i
No sooner said than done—Pat tookf
deliberate aim, pulled the trigger, and off-’
went the pistol with a tremendous x - eport.|
The ball—for it had a “blue pill” in it of-j
a lavge size—just grazed the darkey’s side|
and went smack through the door, but for-1
tunately it did not happen to come in con-5
tact with any “sure enough” flesh and!
blood. It is needless to say that the Irish-j
man was worse frightened than any mans
in the party, and has since declared that]
ho “will never tich one of the decateful]
tilings again.”— Picayune.
From the JSciv York Express.
THOMAS RITCHIE OF THE EN
QUIRER.
I met this man, whom I have long con
sidered one of the most extraordinary men
in Virginia, for the second or third time in
Imy life ; but now for the first time in the
■social circle, with a determination, howev j
■er, to avoid a personal introduction, though
often solicited by my friends, because !
wanted to be now untrammelled in what 1
consider as a just sketch of him as a pub
lie character. When one knows men, on
cannot often speak what one thinks. I con
sidcr then, Mr. Ritchie one of the able”
Editors in this, or any other country. II
has vivacity, tact, the power of command
ing attention, and something of self-respee
much dignity, and above all, perseverin',
unremitting industry. lie is but a bo
with his pen. though over CO, perhaps 65
years of age. “ There is old Tom,” is th
remark, whenever he appears in public.—
“ Old Tom, who ?” says I. “Old Tom
Ritchie—Don’t you know old Tom Rit
chie ?” “Old Tom,” then as they cal 1
him, is a relic of old Virginia. “ Old
Tom” has mingled for fifty years in th.
best circles of Virginia, among her ablesl
men, and old Tom is ari “ Old Mortality ; ”
the spare, lean, lank, embodyment of somr
fifty-years-ago, Virginian. “ Old Torn”
is a gaunt, hungry-looking gentleman, his
teeth gone, his nose prominent, liis eye
bright, of a quick, frisky, tremulous gait
nervous some, but nerves of cat-gut though,
that will never wear out, —a man that
won’t die, but that will blow off in some
windy day,—who don’t belong now and has
not belonged for half a century, to this
earth of ours, but whom Heaven, for some
unknown purpose has, as it were, kept as a
spectre, flitting over other people’s graves
—the bone and muscle mark of what things
and men were in 1790. “ Old Tom” has
no blood in his veins. I dare say, though
I never asked, he is never ill. His soul—
and a bright soul it is—does what motion is
in him. His bones and muscles carry that
about. I doubt whether a pin would prick
him more than a Salem Witch. In short,
“ Old Tom” died fifty years ago, all except
his spirit, in which he differs from all men
I ever saw—for other people’s spirits go
off first, and their body dies afterwards.
To be understood though, in this draw
ing of the bones and muscles of “ old Tom,”
I must follow it out with some sketches
of his character. Ho works like a dog.
yet I believe he never sweats—(perspires
I might say)—even under a hot Virginia
sun. He frisks about in society with his
white silk gloves on, hiding his long fin
gers,—l dare say, as spirited, as lively as
a girl of sixteen. He takes a seat at the
Clerk’s desk in the Capitol, writes a little,
and chatters much, clearly the observed of
all observers. There he gives orders to
his partizans, consults and is consulted, but
animates and directs the spirits of all. In
deed, no Representative is needed from his
political companions but him. He is their
Executive, their Senate; their House, their
every tiling. He is old Virginia too—“the
old Virginny nevertire.” If there be trou
ble in the camp : if the Philistines gather
their armies together : if there be a long
ing to know the future from the past, some
witch of Flndor rouses this “ Old Mortali
ty” up. His family is large ; all highly
educated ; his daughters married in richest,
and among the most respectable families in
Virginia. lie lives in style, it is said, a
man of the ton. He is Flditor, President
and Secretary of Conventions, Correspond
ing Committee, Orator, Writer, a man of
all work, and on polities all tongue. The
last summer lie w ould work all day, and at
•• the Sweat House,” as is called the Tam
many Hall of his party, harangue and
read to his friends half the night. The
probability is, he never sleeps. Did any
body ever see him eat ? I should like to
(know. Once he discovered there was a|
North, —that People breathed and walked
on the Eastern side of the Potomac river
and he went on a voyage of discovery there.
He visited Quincy, the residence of J. Q.
Adams, and hold his horse out of doors,
while his family satisfied their curiosty
within. Van Bttren found him out at Al
bany, and wooed and won the spirit, with
all the coquetry that he would court a
maiden in her teens. But did he ever hear
[from tiie West ? The Ohio, I daresay, he
[knows, —loves the shores of Western Vir
ginia, but docs he know that People live
[and breathe on the Wabash, the Miami,
[and the Illinois ? The real faetthough is,
[he knows no world but what sketches from
[the base of ihe Blue Ridge to the Lower
[James River. The Ocean is all Poetry to
[him. llis eye, his mind, his spirit are left
[on this earth, only on condition that it for
bids all other creation but the Lowlands of
[Virginia. Ilis geography is not four hun
[dred miles inclusive. The world, if ho
[were to write a book, would be hounded on
[the East by the Potomac, on the South by
[the Dismal Swamp, on the West by the
[Roanoke, and on the North by the Blue
[Ridge. Ho was an Usher once ; he began
[life thus in Richmond. In his day, it is
[probable, geography was only learnt by
[travelling over it, and the early impression,
[that Richmond was the Capitol of Europe.
[Asia, and Africa, as well as America, he
[never has probably got over.
| I speak of Mr. Rite hie thus in no disn
[sped of Richmond, or the lowlands of Vir
Jginia—but because I believe him to be a
[bigot and a fanatic of the most mischievous
[class, —palsying, by bis pen and tongue,
[the energies and resources of that great
[Commonwealth, whoso history, (for fifty
.’years standing) whose great men, whose
|famc (all past though) I love, I cherish so
rt he brightest of this, or any other country
; I believe this man, Ritchie, to have been th
|Dr. Francia, who has made a sort of Paru
|guay ofold Virginia. Controlling a pow
lerful press, with great talent 100 among an
people, in a sparse populi
st ion, he lias been able for thirty years, as
Iseems to me, to exercise as much power o
gver Virginia as over Washington, or Jeflfer
gson, or Madison had ; the master spirits of
Virginia,—and, alas, it has been a power
ail for ill ! He is a bigot, for ho learns no h
ing, and is no wiser now', than he was half
a century ago. He is a fanatic, for he has
no liberality, no charity, no enlarged arid
national comprehension of the movements
and doings of the world. Never was there
an instance of the more triumphant domi
nation ofthe Press than this case. For 30
years he has kept Virginia standing still. —
Ui'latc the most powerful minds of'Virglnirtj
from Leigh to Rives, and so on, have tru\-
rsed hill and dale, mountain and valley,
I > break him down, illuminating by their
ioquenco the tenants of the Log Cabins
>f she Alloghanies, as well as the stately
Mansions of East Virginia,—but Ritchie’s
Enquirer was after them, week after week,
moothing over what they said, parrying
heir blows, extinguishing their logic, and
making at last the minds of all his hearers
darker than ever.
In the cavern of the mountains, on th
island of the swamp, on the peek of the hill,
in the recesses of the valleys, where orator
never trod, or eloquence never entered, —
vet there—even there —was the spirit of
Ritchie, —a spirit that seems never to die.
In spite of truth, in spite of justice, in spitr
-“’local pride, and even self-respect, Vir
ginia threw away her own son, born of her
and her’s too, and took up, and adopted
the cast-off offspring of New York, —an-l
Ritchie did it all, in spite, I was going to
say, of almost every body! Ritchie has
got Virginia in chains, the people there will
not own it, but it is a fact. They fret and
worry in then), it is true, but they can t
break out, as long as there is any thine
left of him on earth. Now he tightens
up, and now lie loosens out a
non the road is rough and terrible, as it
has been for the few years past,—but he
keeps his seat, —Virginia in his bits—prob
ably to the end. It is therefore, my sincere
and deliberate conviction that his death
will be of more benefit to Virginia than was
the invention of the cotton gin by Whitney
or the application of steam to Navigation
by Fulton ; to the world.
NEW PROCESS OF COPYING STAT
UTES.
An ingenious instrument, ascribed to M.
Collas, has been invented in France, which
professes to copy, without the assistance of
an artist, and with extreme correctness, a
ny medal, has relief, whether of wax, plas
ter, wood, marble, or metal; to reduce or
enlarge its dimensions without impairing
the harmony of its proportions, and to copy
it on wood, stone, ivory or marble, with an
accuracy such that the artist himself could
not distinguish the original from the copy.
All this the Collas process is slated to ac
complish easily, and at an inconsiderable
cost. “We have already admired,” says a
Paris Journal, “ the bass reliefs ofthe Par
thoeon, the originals of which are in Lon
don ; the Venus of Milo, still so beautiful,
despite of her mutilation ; and several oth
er precious models, reduced to proportions
of two-fifths or a half, with a truth scarcely
conceivable. The Porthocon metope’
those venerable monuments of art at its oi -
gin, are moulded in plaister, with
parts worn by time and their mutilated pro
jectures. Wc have also remarked several
large has reliefs reduced on steatite to the
proportions of a cameo. Nothing is want
ing in them. The most fugitive deiails are
seen with a lens in those beautiful copies.
✓
NEWS ANB 6AZETTE.
pßiNcin.r.s and mi:n
WASHINGTON, A.
THURSDAY. APRIL ’5. 1841.
Ds&tfc oi -the President.
The truth of the sad intelligence contain
ed in our postscript of last week, and whi I
we then feared to believe, lias been C’ m
firmed. HE who rules the destiny of na™
tions, has summoned to himself, the most
illustrious citizen of this republic, the mail
whom the people had so lately honored, ere
he had scarcely began to move in the new
and enlarged sphere of usefulness to which
he had been exalted, and which he gave
assurance of filling with honor to himself
and liis country. The sun of his fame is
not set, its glory is not diminished, but the
dread messenger, Death, lias arrested its
progress and the increase of its lustre, yet
his name shall shine on the page of his
country’s history, and live in the memory
of liis fellow-citizens, while respect for pat
riotism and love of virtue exist among
them.
Like the shock of an earthquake, the in
telligence came upon us, unexpected and
astounding. Some intimation of his slight
illness had scarcely reached us, before it
was followed by the news of his death. We
could not believe it possible that he, who
but a few days since, with a vigor and en
etgy that seemed to set age and disease at
defiance, was giving utterance to the wis
dom gathered from the experience of years;
shouid be so soon cut off. Yet so it is, and j
the nation must bow in resignation to thatj
Providence by wiiose decree so great a ca
lamity lias atllieted her.
His last thought was for his country. His
last words show that the venerable patriaj
o. s heart was filled with solicitude for heil
welfare, forgetful of himself, of the painfull
disease that tortured him, and of the mc-|
mentous change that awaited him. With!
his dying breath lie added one more testi
monial to the evidences of his patriotism,
which a long life in the public service had
accumulated.
The whole people, regardless of party,l
mourn for him. Political animosity, tow
ards him, is dead for a season. On all
s.ucs, and from every party, nothing is
heard but expressions of regret for his de
cease. The good and generous of the op
position unite with his friends, in public
meetings at almost every town and village
of the country, showing for an old and
well-tried public servant and the Chief Ma
gistrate of tiie nation, a respect honorable
noth to them and to him. So may it ever
bo ; let all who love their country, iionor
the memory of the patriot soldier, & states
man ; let the minor distinctions of opinion
between them be what they may. Death the
great sanctifier of error, should erase from
the memories of the living, what they may
deem blemishes in the dead, the remeiW
btance of their crimes alone should not be
buried with them. Who can wonder then,
that all should unite to do honor to one as
pure from error as fallible man can be and
whom crime came not near ?
The country has, however, an alleviation
for this calamity, insomuch that the admin
istration of its affairs has fallen into the
hands of one so able, so honest and inflexi
ble as JOHN TYLER, who, by the death
of President Harrison, becomes according
to the provisions of the Constitution, acting
President for the remainder of the term of
four years. To him we must look to exe
cute the wish expressed in the last words
of the President, and we are confident wc
shall not be disappointed.
Tiie National Intelligencer of the sth
inst says : —lmmediately after the decease
of the President, Mr. Webster, jr. Chief
Clerk in the Department of State, accom
panied by Mr. Beall, an officer of the Sen
ate, sat out for the residence of the Vice
President, in Virginia, bearing to him the
following letter :
“ Washington, April 4, 1841.
“ To John Tyler,
“ Vice President of the United SttgLes.
“Sir :—lt has become our most sunfW
duty to inform you lhat William Hen \ (
Harrison, late President of the Uts?j!ifc
States has departed this life.
“This distressing event took place this da}',
at the President’s Mansion in this city, at
thirty minutes before one in the’morning.
