The Fourth of July—General Washington in Tears—The Decline of American Integrity and Patriotism.
There was a formidable mutiny in the Army of the Revolution, arising from the inability of the Government to pay the officers and soldiers, who assure Washington that, in order to provide food and raiment for their wives and children, they should return to their homes, and cultivate their neglected fields, and pursue their various peaceful avocations, if their salaries were not paid on a stated day. Washington invites the prominent leaders to meet him, and they accept his cordial invitation. The Hall is filled at an early hour with the bravest officers of the American camp, whom the village bell summons to hear an Address from their great Commander, and as its doleful reverberations expire on the evening air, Washington enters with unwonted dignity and gloom, and ascends the rostrum, and seats himself, and unfolds his Address to his noble and impoverished comrades. He sits, with one hand on his heart, and the other over his temples and unearthly eyes, and is apparently absorbed in grief and prayer. The silence of the tomb pervades the martial audience, and all seem to regard the hour as the most momentous in human history, as the return of the officers and soldiers to their homes, at this solemn crisis of the Revolution, might prove to be the funeral of liberty, and of patriots throughout the World. Washington approaches the desk, and stands like a statue, when neither whisper nor respiration can be heard, throughout the mournful throng. With haggard cheeks, and without repose for three successive nights, he wipes the copious tears from his blood-shot eyes, and moistens his parched mouth with water, and strives hard to articulate, but his big heart is so full, and his lips quiver so rapidly, and his tears fall so fast, that his speech is paralysed, and his vision blinded. The officers regret their rashness, and breathe heavy sighs, and recline their heads in silent grief, and some weep aloud, which kindles their feelings into a general lamentation, and the patriotic ladies thrill the entire assemblage with their piercing ejaculations. Washington strives to summon his wonderful self-possession, (which never deserted him till now,) and he rallies his resources like the dead of the resurrection, when he breathes these figurative truths, in the voice of a celestial being: “My beloved Companions: You know that I have grown gray in your service, and now you perceive that I am growing blind.” And while he utters these touching words, his iron nerve again succumbs, and he moistens his manuscript with the waters of his supernatural heart. He seats himself, and buries his face, and weeps as in his spotless childhood. The valiant officers, (who had never faltered amid the carnage and thunders of battle,) are utterly overwhelmed by Washington’s tears, and they depart for their respective quarters, and relate what has transpired, which infuses new fortitude and patriotism and unconquerable valor in the breasts of the desponding and mutinous soldiers, who rush to arms with the wild and irresistible impetuosity of Greene and Putnam, and the liberties of America are soon achieved. What a withering rebuke is this to the public thieves and traitors of the present generation. The only hope of our country is in the early appearance of a race of men like Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Madison, Adams, Hamilton, Jackson, Calhoun, Clay, and Webster. With such corrupt and brainless wretches at the head of the American Press as Bennett, Greeley, and Raymond, with their gangs of mercenary scribblers in collusion with official robbers in the Municipal, State, and National Capitols, may the Good Being who heard the prayers of Washington (amid the snow, and blood, and hunger, and nakedness of the Revolution) have mercy on the great body of our people, who are threatened with general pillage and despotism by the vampires whom editors—in collusion with bands of thieves and assassins—fraudulently elect to the highest posts of emolument and honor. The official robbers of a nation’s treasury are the uncompromising foes of the toiling millions, and of human freedom. O then let the virtuous and industrious classes rally, and drive back the pernicious burglars of their firesides. And on the coming National Sabbath, let the pure and patriotic youth and meritorious age go up to the Altars of our Fathers and our common God, and swear a ceaseless crusade against the plunderers of our country, and the dastard monsters who would distract, and divide, and alienate the affections of our countrymen, on whose fidelity to Washington and the Union impend the hopes and happiness and liberty of the human race for eternal years.
Let the Supervisors watch the operations of Richard B. Connolly, who has prowled around the Aldermen and Councilmen and Supervisors for several years, from whom he has had not a farthing less than $1,000,000 since he has been County Clerk. The Supervisors alone voted him $316,000 for the printing of his musty and worthless Records, which no paper manufacturer would have purchased, nor even carted to their factories as a donation. And they are of less value to the public in their printed form, than to the paper makers. It is a study, and a sad one for the tax payers, to see Dick Connolly and George H. Purser sitting in the Boards of Aldermen and Councilmen and Supervisors at almost every session, for many years past, watching and nudging and coaxing the members to vote for their plundering enactments. These two scamps have never been naturalised, and have perjured themselves, since they cast their first ballots. But they don’t perjure themselves any more in that way, as they don’t dare vote, and have not voted since I exposed their alienage, three years since. They have packed more Grand and Petit Juries, and condemned and imprisoned and hung more innocent men, and robbed the City and Albany Treasuries to a greater extent than any other two public thieves and precocious monsters who walk the streets of New York. And both of these precious rascals now announce themselves as candidates for Comptroller! And they intend to buy their nomination and election with the very money they have stolen and are stealing daily from the people. O that there was a Brutus or Cincinnatus to rebuke these villains, and to stab them down, and to thus shame and scourge the people for permitting such villains to go unpunished.
I will soon show some of the mysterious currents of the Metropolis, and establish the friendly relations of Horace Greeley and Dana with Dick Connolly and Simeon Draper, in reference to the Alms House Spoils, and other extensive pickings and stealings. It is amusing to me to often see Greeley’s Tribune whitewash the rakish and thievish Ten Governors. I will also show how Connolly and Draper hold their influence with the Courier and Enquirer, Evening Post, and Commercial Advertiser. And how Dick and Sim silence the mercenary growls of the Herald. Fred Hudson and Galbraith and Bennett and Fire Marshal Baker could disclose these little matters, but as they could not do it without implicating themselves in stupendous villainy, I shall have to show how the black mail growls of the Herald are quickly silenced. The Institution of Death is a clincher to these devils. O, if such scoundrels as Connolly and Draper and Hudson and Bennett could only live always, they would have a nice time, but when they see a funeral, or have a deadly gripe in the direction of their wicked livers, they shudder with horror, and pray harder and louder than a stout noisy Methodist darkey minister, until the gripe has passed away, and they have a fresh hold on dear life again, when their nerve returns, and they steal more, and oppress the tax payers and poor consumers with less remorse than before they had almost a fatal gripe. But the worms and the devil will soon grab their thievish flesh and bones, and then, O Moses! what a precious feast they will have.
O the grave! the grave!
Mourns for the poor slave;
But for public thieves,
The grave never grieves.
The Lives of Peter Cooper and James Gordon Bennett are omitted this week. My Journal is so small, and my advertisements increase so rapidly, that I shall not be able to continue the lives of these distinguished men in every issue. But in my next number, the Lives of Cooper and Bennett will appear. These men have silenced those who have threatened to publish their wicked antecedents, but they will never silence me, only through imprisonment, or poison, or assassination, which I have reason to believe they contemplate. All the wholesale dealers stopped selling the Alligator three weeks since, lest Bennett would not let them have the Heralds for their country agents. I strove to fasten the fact upon him, that he directed the wholesale dealers to stop selling the Alligator, and if I had nailed upon his forehead his Napoleonic edicts to suppress the liberty and circulation of the American Press, I would have deliberately gone into his office, and shot him dead. No foreign unnaturalised scab like Bennett, shall trample with impunity the precious rights, and the glorious liberty that George Washington and my Grandfather bequeathed to me. So, Mr. Bennett, and Fred. Hudson, just have a care, and I implore you in your persecution, to keep your keen eyes strongly riveted on the last feather that broke the poor camel’s back.
It is very strange what has become of the stereotype plates containing James Gordon Bennett’s curious relations with Fanny Elssler, during her famous sojourn in America. Can you inform me, Ross & Tousey, where they are? If you will tell me, I will not tell Bennett that you told me, which will not give him a pretext to stop your supply of Heralds again, by which you told me you lost several thousand dollars. Besides, if he does, you can get rich fast enough by selling the Ledger and Alligator. So tell us where these mysterious plates can be found. Perhaps they are on storage in Philadelphia. “Who knows?” as the amiable Dr. Wallace very often says at the close of his abrupt and hurried Herald editorials, when he is thirsty or hungry, or wants to go to the Theatre or Opera.
Mr. Erben, the Trinity Church Organ Grinder, will please inform me if he owns a house in Baxter street, and if the character of the inmates are as respectable as himself, and especially the females. James Gordon Bennett will also please go into Baxter street, and ascertain and inform me if Mr. Erben’s house is as reputable as Helen Jewett’s old residence, at No. 41 Thomas street. Speak out, Satans Numbers One and Two.
I had to omit the continuation of my Life this week, which will appear in the next number of the “Alligator.”