Port Gibson Herald

Lexington, Ky., July 3, 1844.

DEAR SIR:

Since my arrival in this state, until the present time, I have had nothing worthy your attention to communicate. Now I have much to say, but I cannot describe the half of that which is so vividly impressive upon my memory. Language can scarce do justice to the soul stirring scene presented to the Whigs of this true hearted and gallant state, to-day. This morning THIRTY THOUSAND Whigs met within half a mile of Ashland, and although its sage did not make his appearance, 30,000 true Whig voices told the "Old Coon" that Kentucky was true to him.

The meeting was called to order by Gen. Leslie Combs, the Marshal of the day, who first introduced to the audience Gov. Metcalfe, of Ky. A feeling of veneration doubtless warmed every breast, when this noble old patriot took the stand—he is extremely old, and I must confess that I felt fearful that he would fail to make himself heard by the immense concourse. But he had scarcely spoken ten words ere all my fears vanished, and this "old man eloquent" held his listeners entranced and enchained for more than one hour, by the magic spell of his glowing language.

Next came old Ben Hardin, that good Whig soldier who has never yet faltered or wavered, but in the darkest hour and in the thickest of the fight, drives everything before him, and slays Locofocoism on the right hand and on the left. Well might Randolph, of Roanoke, compare him to a kitchen knife—rough and sharp.

Just as Mr. Hardin concluded, it was announced that Tom Ewing, the self-taught Senator of Ohio, had arrived. Although Mr. E. had just travelled by stage about 80 miles, he immediately arose upon the stand and addressed the mass for about an hour.

Although Mr. E. is not perhaps a brilliant orator, there are few men to whom I have listened with so much pleasure.

Mr. Marshall, of Indiana, and Mr. Crittenden, of Ky., next spoke. I did not hear Mr. C., (much to my regret,) for this favorite son of Kentucky could not fail to be eloquent on such an occasion.

Upon that stand stood side by side, John J. Crittenden and Thomas Ewing. Those two untarnished patriots whom place and power could not make traitors, again fighting the great battle so nobly won in 1840, and a godly and cheering sight it was to see. Would that John Tyler had been there!

One of the orators, (Mr. Hardin, I think,) made a taunting allusion to Mississippi, which for a moment made my blood boil with indignation, but I soon felt that he told the truth, and the flush of anger was changed to that of shame when I remembered the tarnished honor of my native state. Of course the allusion was to repudiation. If you have not been from home lately, you can form no idea of the humiliations which a Mississippian encounters abroad. The innocent are confounded with the guilty, and the name of his once proud State excites a sneer of contempt on every honest countenance—let it be known from whence he came and he loses caste even in the social circle, and he is shunned as though a plague spot were upon him: It is however a consolation to reflect that even TWENTY THOUSAND incorruptible Whigs within her borders, who will yet hurl down Locofocoism from her high places and wipe out the stains that blot her once brilliant star.

What are the Whigs about? Why are not our orators, Prentiss, Guion, and others, traversing the State in every direction? Will they lay down their arms and surrender the contest without a struggle? I cannot believe it.

I had forgotten to mention one occurrence of the day, which was gratifying to the few Mississippians present. Mr. PRENTISS' name had been announced in the hand-bills of the day, but it was understood this morning that he would not be here. Some faint, lingering hope however was still entertained that he might arrive before the meeting was over, and when the last speaker had closed, there was one long, loud and soul stirring call for "S. S. PRENTISS, of Mississippi."

But alas, he did not respond, being doubtless a thousand miles away.

You might very naturally suppose that after the fatigue of a scorching hot day, the multitude would seek repose, but no—whilst I am now writing, some half dozen Whig orators are addressing immense concourses in different parts of the city, and from where I write I hear an hundred voices singing:

"We'll give them a touch of the same old tune
We'll show them a sight of the same old coon."

But for want of room I must conclude.

Yours,
OLD CLAIBORNE.