There's money enough. No trouble about money. They've got a lot of first-class bank-note engravers at Washington (which place, I regret to say, is by no means safe) who turn out two or three cords of money a day--good money, too. Goes well. These bank-note engravers made good wages. I expect they lay up property. They are full of Union sentiment. There is considerable Union sentiment in Virginny, more especially among the honest farmers of the Shenandoah valley. My wife says so too.
Then it isn't money we want. But we do want men, and we must have them. We must carry a whirlwind of fire among the foe. We must crush the ungrateful rebels who are poundin' the Goddess of Liberty over the head with slung-shots, and stabbin' her with stolen knives! We must lick 'em quick. We must introduce a large number of first-class funerals among the people of the South. Betsy says so too.
This war hain't been too well managed. We all know that. What then?
We are all in the same boat--if the boat goes down, we go down with her. Hence we must all fight. It ain't no use to talk now about who caused the war. That's played out. The war is upon us--upon us all--and we must all fight. We can't "reason" the matter with the foe.
When, in the broad glare of the noonday sun, a speckled jackass boldly and maliciously kicks over a peanut-stand, do we "reason" with him? I guess not. And why "reason" with those other Southern people who are trying to kick over the Republic! Betsy, my wife, says so too.
The meeting broke up with enthusiasm.
We shan't draft in Baldinsville if we can help it.
SURRENDER OF CORNWALLIS.
It was customary in many of the inland towns of New England, some thirty years ago, to celebrate the anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis by a sham representation of that important event in the history of the Revolutionary War. A town meeting would be called, at which a company of men would be detailed as British, and a company as Americans--two leading citizens being selected to represent Washington and Cornwallis in mimic surrender.
The pleasant little town of W----, in whose schools the writer has been repeatedly "corrected," upon whose ponds he has often skated, upon whose richest orchards he has, with other juvenile bandits, many times dashed in the silent midnight; the town of W----, where it was popularly believed these bandits would "come to a bad end," resolved to celebrate the surrender. Rival towns had celebrated, and W---- determined to eclipse them in the most signal manner. It is my privilege to tell how W---- succeeded in this determination.
The great day came. It was ushered in by the roar of musketry, the ringing of the village church bell, the squeaking of fifes, and the rattling of drums.
People poured into the village from all over the county. Never had W----experienced such a jam. Never had there been such an onslaught upon gingerbread carts. Never had New England rum (for this was before Neal Dow's day) flowed so freely. And W----'s fair daughters, who mounted the house-tops to see the surrender, had never looked fairer.
The old folks came, too, and among them were several war-scarred heroes, who had fought gallantly at Monmouth and Yorktown. These brave sons of '76 took no part in the demonstration, but an honored bench was set apart for their exclusive use on the piazza of Sile Smith's store. When they were dry, all they had to do was to sing out to Sile's boy, Jerry, "a leetle New Englan' this way, if you please." It was brought forthwith.
At precisely 9 o'clock, by the schoolmaster's new "Lepeen" watch, the American and British forces marched on to the village green and placed themselves in battle array, reminding the spectator of the time when
"Brave Wolfe drew up his men In a style most pretty, On the Plains of Abraham Before the city."
The character of Washington had been assigned to 'Squire Wood, a well-to-do and influential farmer, while that of Cornwallis had been given to the village lawyer, a kind-hearted but rather pompous person, whose name was Caleb Jones.
'Squire Wood, the Washington of the occasion, had met with many unexpected difficulties in preparing his forces, and in his perplexity he had emptied not only his own canteen but those of most of his aids. The consequence was--mortifying as it must be to all true Americans--blushing as I do to tell it, Washington at the commencement of the mimic struggle was most unqualifiedly drunk.
The sham fight commenced. Bang! bang! bang! from the Americans--bang!
bang! bang! from the British. The bangs were kept hotly up until the powder gave out, and then came the order to charge. Hundreds of wooden bayonets flashed fiercely in the sunlight, each soldier taking very good care not to hit anybody.
"Thaz (hic) right," shouted Washington, who during the shooting had been racing his horse wildly up and down the line, "thaz right! GIN it to 'em! Cut their tarnal heads off!"
"On, Romans!" shrieked Cornwallis, who had once seen a theatrical performance and remembered the heroic appeals of the Thespian belligerents, "on to the fray! No sleep till mornin'."
"Let eout all their bowels," yelled Washington, "and down with taxation on tea!"
The fighting now ceased, the opposing forces were properly arranged, and Cornwallis, dismounting, prepared to present his sword to Washington according to programme. As he walked slowly towards the Father of His Country he rehearsed the little speech he had committed for the occasion, while the illustrious being who was to hear it was making desperate efforts to keep in his saddle. Now he would wildly brandish his sword and narrowly escape cutting off his horse's ears, and then he would fall suddenly forward on to the steed's neck, grasping the mane as drowning men seize hold of straws. He was giving an inimitable representation of Toodles on horseback. All idea of the magnitude of the occasion had left him, and when he saw Cornwallis approaching, with slow and stately step, and sword-hilt extended toward him, he inquired,
"What'n devil you want, any (hic) how!"
"General Washington," said Cornwallis, in dignified and impressive tones, "I tender you my sword. I need not inform you, Sir, how deeply--"
The speech was here suddenly cut short by Washington, who, driving the spurs into his horse, playfully attempted to ride over the commander of the British forces. He was not permitted to do this, for his aids, seeing his unfortunate condition, seized the horse by the bridle, straightened Washington up in his saddle, and requested Cornwallis to proceed with his remarks.
"General Washington," said Cornwallis, "the British Lion prostrates himself at the feet of the American Eagle!"
"Eagle? EAGLE!" yelled the infuriated Washington, rolling off his horse and hitting Cornwallis a frightful blow on the head with the flat of his sword, "do you call me a EAGLE, you mean, sneakin' cuss?" He struck him again, sending him to the ground, and said, "I'll learn you to call me a Eagle, you infernal scoundrel!"
Cornwallis remained upon the ground only a moment. Smarting from the blows he had received, he arose with an entirely unlooked for recuperation on the part of the fallen, and in direct defiance of historical example; in spite of the men of both nations, indeed, he whipped the Immortal Washington until he roared for mercy.
The Americans, at first mortified and indignant at the conduct of their chief, now began to sympathize with him, and resolved to whip their mock foes in earnest. They rushed fiercely upon them, but the British were really the stronger party and drove the Americans back. Not content with this they charged madly upon them and drove them from the field--from the village, in fact. There were many heads damaged, eyes draped in mourning, noses fractured and legs lamed--it is a wonder that no one was killed outright.
Washington was confined to his house for several weeks, but he recovered at last. For a time there was a coolness between himself and Cornwallis, but they finally concluded to join the whole county in laughing about the surrender.
They live now. Time, the "artist," has thoroughly whitewashed their heads, but they are very jolly still. On town meeting days the old 'Squire always rides down to the village. In the hind part of his venerable yellow wagon is always a bunch of hay, ostensibly for the old white horse, but really to hide a glass bottle from the vulgar gaze.
This bottle has on one side a likeness of Lafayette, and upon the other may be seen the Goddess of Liberty. What the bottle contains inside I cannot positively say, but it is true that 'Squire Wood and Lawyer Jones visit that bottle very frequently on town-meeting days and come back looking quite red in the face. When this redness in the face becomes of the blazing kind, as it generally does by the time the polls close, a short dialogue like this may be heard.
"We shall never play surrender again, Lawyer Jones."
"Them days is over, 'Squire Wood!"
And they laugh and jocustly punch each other in the ribs.
THINGS IN NEW YORK.
The stoodent and connyseer must have noticed and admired in varis parts of the United States of America large yeller hanbills, which not only air gems of art in theirselves, but they troothfully sit forth the attractions of my show--a show, let me here obsarve, that contains many livin' wild animils, every one of which has got a Beautiful Moral.
Them hanbills is sculpt in New York.
& I annoolly repair here to git some more on 'um;
&, bein' here, I tho't I'd issoo a Adress to the public on matters and things.
Since last I meyandered these streets, I have bin all over the Pacific Slopes and Utah. I cum back now, with my virtoo unimpaired; but I've got to git some new clothes.
Many changes has taken place, even durin' my short absence, & sum on um is Sollum to contempulate. The house in Varick street, where I used to Board, is bein' torn down. That house, which was rendered memoriable by my livin' into it, is "parsin' away! parsin' away!" But some of the timbers will be made into canes, which will be sold to my admirers at the low price of one dollar each. Thus is changes goin' on continerly.
In the New World it is war--in the Old World Empires is totterin' & Dysentaries is crumblin'. These canes is cheap at a dollar.
Sammy Booth, Duane street, sculps my hanbills, & he's artist. He studid in Rome--State of New York.
I'm here to read the proof-sheets of my hanbils as fast as they're sculpt. You have to watch these ere printers pretty close, for they're jest as apt to spel a wurd rong as anyhow.
But I have time to look around sum & how do I find things? I return to the Atlantic States after a absence of ten months, & what State do I find the country in? Why I don't know what State I find it in. Suffice it to say, that I do not find it in the State of New Jersey.
There air other cheerin' signs for Ameriky. We don't, for instuns, lack great Gen'rals, and we certinly don't brave sojers--but there's one thing I wish we did lack, and that is our present Congress.