The Daily Union

To the Editors of the Union!

Gentlemen: As I surmised in my last letter, the democracy of this congressional district have made that entry of which I spoke, and the eloquent, talented Andrew Ewing is the man to whom has been assigned the arduous duty of carrying by storm this strong fortress of whiggery. He has already drawn his sword; and on yesterday began the combat—

"Lay on MacDuff

And damn'd be he who first cries 'Hold, Enough.'"

Cullom led off, by saying that he was placed under different circumstances (I suppose he meant that he had a competitor worthy of his steel) from those under which he was when he first announced himself as a candidate; that then he had Barrow (a brother whig) as an opponent, but he (Barrow) had been so kind as to yield the track to him, and now he had one of those confounded democrats after him. He thanked the democratic party for the compliment which they had paid him by calling out such an honorable, courteous, and talented man as Mr. Ewing to oppose him. He grew quite grandiloquent, and indulged in warm expressions of his ardent admiration of and unequalled love for this great republic of ours and its happy form of government. He thought that it was a mighty great country; where there was so much freedom of thought and action that such men as himself were allowed the privilege of taking a chance to become a member of Congress. He had heard that some members of the whig party were opposed to him because he was not a regular nominee. This he thought was very ungenerous in them, as he had fought in the whig ranks; for lo! these many years he had fought just wherever he was ordered—now on the enemy's walls, then in the ditches (I am inclined to think that this last is his favorite position;) and now, because he would not pass through the ordeal of a convention, he was censured for it. He did not recollect of any convention ever being held since the creation of the district, and therefore he was going to run anyhow. He was a freeman, and he also wished to be a Congressman. He warned his party against the energetic movements evinced everywhere throughout the democratic ranks, and assured them that the coon was in danger of losing his tail; (and, Mr. General Cullom, "Tennessee assures you that the people will forge nine more links at the ballot-box before the first day of December, which will make the chain sufficiently long to place around Old Zack's neck, and thus hold him in check.) "Yes, my countrymen," shouted he with his stentorian voice, "there are sixty-five congressmen to be elected, and a gain of nine will ruin us—it will paralyze Taylor's power; and now be on your guard, for the edict has already gone forth from the Washington Union that one of this gain is to be made in Tennessee." Here he paused for a moment, and I imagined that the speaker appeared conscious that this one gain would be made in the very district in which he was then speaking, to wit: the 5th. And, Messrs. Union, if such proves to be the case in August, don't consider me a very skilful prophet; for I assure you, that no keen perception was necessary or requisite to observe the peculiar contortions of Cullom's countenance when he was uttering his warnings and belching forth his varied fulminations against the Union. The twitchings of his face were similar to those of a boy when he has stuck a nail in his foot. He became very much heated, and thrusting his distended hand through his hair, until it "stood like quills upon the fretful porcupine," with the other he held a copy of the "Democratic State Convention resolutions," and with a remarkably knowing wink of the left optic exclaimed, "But here comes the cream," (he is somewhat on the Dow order,) which was followed by his reading that resolution, in which the democracy of Tennessee, through their delegates in convention, unanimously resolve, "that although recently defeated, yet, undismayed, they determined not to abate their zeal in their endeavors to again resume power," &c. He descanted extensively on this most worthy resolution; and I have no doubt flattered himself with the consolation of having found a wonderful female horse's nest. His sole object was to unite the whig party on himself. He thought, that as the party had elected General Taylor they should now elect men to Congress who would support and smooth over the blunders of the self-styled "Second Washington." After dwelling on the bank, tariff, &c., he concluded by uncorking a demijohn of wrath against the late administration of Mr. Polk.

"Poor breathing orators of miseries!

Let them have scope; tho' what they do impart

Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart."

At 2 o'clock Mr. Ewing arose, and, after thanking his party for the honor conferred upon him by their call, he unlimbered his artillery, and such a broadside as he poured into Gen. Cullom, of Smith, was never before excelled as regards fatality and execution. Cullom had been shooting squibs for nearly two hours, which fell harmlessly at the feet of his competitor; but in less than half an hour the guns of argument in command of Mr. Ewing had completely silenced his pop-gun battery, burnt up his magazine of whig documents, "spirits of '76," &c., and it is whispered around that Cullom will evacuate some time in August. Strong hopes are entertained by his party of the election of Mr. Ewing. God grant that we may gain one of the nine.

The gubernatorial candidates are now in Middle Tennessee. General Trousdale is received everywhere with warm applause. His earnest manner and unassuming delivery are admired by all who hear him, and by his open, frank, and fearless exposition of his principles, he enchains his audiences. He is for the Union, yet he urges the necessity of promptly hurling back into their teeth the insults of northern fanatics, and is now, as he has ever been, the same pure patriot—patriot not in word alone, but in deed. Neil S. Brown became quite skittish when the whig convention were harnessing him for, and were about to hitch him to, the "southern whig car;" and he not liking the appearance of his grooms, would not receive the bit of resolutions, but broke loose, and has been running at large through Middle and West Tennessee, vox et praeterea nihil. He will soon become jaded and be patiently led into the stable of obscurity.

How work the wheels of the no-party guillotine?—as glibly as ever? Methinks I now see the executioners dragging forth some poor, wounded, crippled soldier, or some gray-headed father, whose only son died bleeding before the mouth of an enemy's cannon, (I cannot realize that they treat females in the same manner,) and with gritted teeth and knitted brows, hurling him into the shambles, there to await his hour of decapitation; and all this under the supervision of the "butcher king," who had "no friends to reward, no enemies to punish"—a "Second Washington." Washington, indeed! The comparison is a libel upon the Father of his Country. Proscription proscribed! Spare our risibilities and our scorns, oh ye Taylor whigs, who thus descant—

"Let us to it pell-mell,

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell."

There is no news in Nashville; some few cases of cholera reported, but no deaths. The news of the death of General Worth spread a great gloom over our whole community, especially over those who had seen him upon the tented field, and who had shared with him the honors and the hardships of the late campaign in Mexico. His spirit hath flown from earth, yet the star of his glory will never set as long as the proud bird of liberty perches amid the stars and stripes which now adorn our escutcheon, nor will the "wave of oblivion" roll over the name of Worth as long as there remains an American heart which can appreciate honor, chivalry, and true patriotism, or whose bosom would swell with mingled pride and enthusiasm, when reflection whispers in his ear that he, "too, is an American."

'Tis hard

That he, whose valiant arm hath carved a name

High and distinct within the top-most niche of Fame—

That he, about whose brow a nation's grateful hand

Hath twined a laurel chaplet, a never jading wreath,

A token of their devotion, gratitude, and love,

Should be the "shining mark" shot at by Death:

That he, whose manly breast had borne untouched, unharmed, the battle's strife,

When death, if ever, is sweet—yea, more to be desired than life;

That now that dauntless heart, which once beat proud

and quick

Amid the clash of arms and cannon's deafening roar,

Upon the blood-stained battle-grounds of Mexico,

Should now be chill'd, gone from our midst forevermore;

That one so great, so noble as the gallant Worth,

Should thus be prematurely snatched from earth.

The weather has been quite warm, and much sickness may be anticipated from the frequent rains and high stages of the river.

Yours, &c.,

TENNESSEE

THE FALSEHOOD ACKNOWLEDGED.—The Republic—the real organ, par excellence, of this pretended no-party President—comes out boldly and claims Gen. Taylor as the whig President, and says, in plain terms, that all he said in his letters and his inaugural about honesty, fidelity, and capacity, was idle ridiculous gammon—palpably absurd and false—that he has put out the incumbents of office for opinion's sake, and that he will continue to do so.

Thus at the very outset, does the new organ stamp upon Gen. Taylor the burning brand of falsehood and hypocrisy and consign him to the merited scorn and contempt of every honest man. What will the whig press say now to removals for cause? Will they, after this, dare to blacken with their foul insinuations the characters of their pre-determined victims? If so, we would place a whip in the hand of every man, "to lash the rascals naked through the land."—Baltimore Argus.