The little garrison of twelve sustained this protracted siege, from about 7 o'clock in the morning until 10 or 11 o'clock at night, when the savages were finally repulsed and obliged to retreat, without having killed or wounded a single individual in the fort. The loss on the part of the Indians was variously estimated from twenty to one hundred, but their dead were principally carried off or concealed, and a conjecture of the number of the killed, could only be formed from the great appearance of blood, which was observable for many days after the battle. The day was fair, and the most of the garrison were called "sharp shooters," all of whom had a great number of "fair shots:" it is therefore not improbable that some 30 or 40 of the enemy were killed, and perhaps many more; for there was a continued firing during the whole time of the engagement. Every man did his duty, and all were entitled to an equal meed of praise and thanks from the commander. But our informant particularly distinguished one person, who, he said, contributed more to the successful termination of the issue than any other. This was Mrs. Zane, wife of Ebenezer, and mother of the late Noah Zane, Esq., who rendered much actual service to the men, by running bullets, cutting patches, making cartridges, and hurrying from post to post, cheering and encouraging by her presence, exhortations and assistance, the sometimes almost exhausted efforts of the brave defenders of the fort. By her example, zeal and presence of mind, much assistance was also afforded, by a number of the other "blessed women" in the fort, (as our informant termed them.) A rapid fire was continued from the fort, from the commencement of the assault, until the Indians retired. Their rifles were used until they become too much heated to handle, when they were obliged to exchange them for muskets, which were fortunately found in the magazine. This more than Spartan band of patriots, had no time to take any sustenance from Sunday, the last day of August, until the 2d September, after the retreat of the Indians.
When it is considered that the Indians were led to the attack by the noted Simon Girty, a man who had much experience in the art of savage warfare, that he mustered more than 500 veteran warriors, and that the fort was defended by 12, and those chiefly old men and boys; the successful and glorious defence of the fort, by that little band of western pioneers; their names will richly merit a place in the page of history, with the most renowned heroes of the "olden time."
We much regret, that from a want of acquaintance with the localities of the place, as well as from other circumstances, we have been unable to do full justice to this subject; but we are not without a hope, that some more experienced pen will take a hint from these crude remarks, and redeem from oblivion this memorable event.
The Editor of the New York Evening Star is so well known and so highly estimated as a political writer, that we believe there is no party which does not feel the stronger for his friendship—or does not experience some dread from his opposition. His genius, however, does not exclusively delight in the carte and tierce of political strife. He has an infinite fund of strong common sense and racy humor, and withal an uncommon power of description, which he employs with great effect in hitting off the manners of the age, and rebuking those pernicious innovations which are making such sad havoc with our antient simplicity. In the following article, he depicts with admirable force the evil consequences which, in our large cities especially, are likely to flow from an unrestrained indulgence in the follies and extravagancies of fashion.
FASHIONABLE PARTIES AND LATE HOURS.
BY M. M. NOAH.
We are killing ourselves in this country by inches, and that for a tall man or an amazonian woman, is a dreadful reflection. In sooth, our late hours break in terribly on real comfort, sound health, and that refreshing sleep which "seals up the eyelids" in calm and soft repose, and ministers to our real enjoyments. We marvel why fashion, instead of being represented in bewitching and attractive colors, is not drawn with a Medusa's head, fiery eyes and snaky crest—or, under the silken cowl and wreaths of roses, a skeleton head peeping out as a warning—a caution in time—a memento mori. In this country we eat and dance ourselves to death with much more rapidity than they do at the Sandwich Islands.
I met a friend on the pave last week, who said, "Will you come to our party to-morrow night?" "A party? How? Comfortable dish of tea, game of whist, glass of whiskey-punch, and a sandwich, eh." "Oh, no—a real tearer—a regular turnout—been preparing a fortnight. I must give a couple every year for the sake of the world you know." "The world, ha! Well, I'll come, and if I don't, you won't miss me in the squeeze. Tell me, for old acquaintance sake, how much will the party cost?" "Why, about fifteen hundred dollars." "Fifteen hundred dollars! Prodigious! How many charming tertulias in Spain, converzaziones in Italy, and soirees in France, would fifteen hundred dollars procure?—and all this sum swallowed up in one dancing frolic!"
I determined to go, and a friend promised to call for me in his carriage. I was ready at seven, and sat quietly until nine—half past nine—ten; when, just as I was ringing for my slippers, and preparing, as Monsieur Morbleu says, for my night-caps, rat-tat-tat goes the coachman, and in walked my friend—pumps and tight pants on—white gloves and perfumed handkerchief. "So, sir, a pretty time you have called for me; why I have been ready since seven o'clock." "Seven o'clock! why bless you, the company only begin to assemble at ten; and even now we are rather early." "Early, do you call it? Go out to spend the evening at half past ten o'clock! Well, well, I suppose we must not be out of the fashion—so come along."