Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 June 1878 — Mr. Bryant’s Cowhide. [ARTICLE]

Mr. Bryant’s Cowhide.

There are many stories told illustrative of Mr. Bryant’s strength and endurance, but orjy once did he use his powers as an athlete in a personal quarrel. A gentleman connected with the Commercial Advertiser, when Col. W. L. Stone was editor, told yesterday, with as much circumstantiality as the lapse of nearly or twice two score years would permit, of an encounter between the Colonel and Mr. Bryant. Col. Stone was an ardent Whig, while Mr. Bryant was a no-less-zealous Democrat. Their editorial disquisitions were correspondingly fierce and warlike, but Mr. Bryant uniformly preserved what he considered was due to professional courtesy, and never mentioned his antagonist except as editor of the Commercial Advertiser. Of all personalities, he considered men tioning an editor by name the most reprehensible.

One unlucky day Col. Stone so far forgot himself as to break the rule wliich he had heretofore observed, and referred to Mr. Bryant by name as the holder of the opinions he was contesting. The Commercial Advertiser, with the other newspapers at that time, had its office in Wall street, and, either in that thoroughfare or in William street, Mr. Bryant, who had provided himself with an old-fashioned cowhide, met Col. Stone. Few words passed between the editors, who were nearly equal in size, and Mr. Bryant laid on the cowhide with a will, until the passers by separated them. 11l feeling naturally followed the encounter. Col. Stone died a few years later. —New York Sun.

The Last Moments of a Philosopher. The following letter, descriptive of the last hours of William Ellery, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, who died at Newport, B. 1., in 1820, has never before been published. It was written by an intimate friend of the family, and has recently come to light. March 14, 1820.—01 d Mr. Ellery died like a philosopher. In truth, death in its common form never came near him. His strength wasted gradually for the last year, until he had not enough left to draw in his breath, and so he ceased to breathe. The day on which he died he got up as usual and dressed himself, took his old flag-bettomed chair, without arms, in which he had sat for more than half a century, and was reading “Tully’s Offices” in Latin, without glasses, though the print was as fine as that of the smallest pocket-Bible. Dr. W. stopped in on his way to the hospital, as he usually did, and, on perceiving that the old gentleman could scarcely raise his eyelids to look at him, he took his hand and found that his pulse was gone. After drinking a little wine and water, Dr. W. told him that his pulse beat stronger. “ Oh, jes, doctor, I have a charming pulse. But,” he continued, “it is idle to talk to me in this way. lam going off the stage, and it is a great blessing that I go free from sickness or pain or sorrow.” Some time after, his daughter, finding him becoming extremely weak, wished him to be put into bed, which he at first objected to, saying that he felt no pain, and there was no occasion for his going to bed. Presently after, however, fearing that he might possibly fall out of his chair, he told them they might set him upright in the bed, so that he could continue to read. They did so, ard he continued reading Cicero very quietly for some time. Presently they looked at him and found him dead, sitting in the same posture with the book under his chin, as a man who becomes drowsy and goes to sleep.