Scarce had the general’s horse taken this strange freak into his head, when old Battle stumbled, fell full length upon the pavement, and launched the major head foremost to the ground some yards in advance. “I give my soul to my Maker, for now my end has come,” said he, “and I forgive all my enemies.” A groan followed this exclamation, his limbs seemed seized with spasms, and then for several minutes he remained speechless. With the assistance of two policemen and several sympathizing gentlemen, he was carried into the New York Hotel, where the landlord kindly provided for him, and made him as comfortable as it was possible until he called in a physician, one Miliano, who had great skill in mending battered skulls, and restoring life to half dead persons. As for the general’s horse, he dashed on until he reached Union Square, where he made a bolt into the thickest of the brigade, which he scattered in such confusion and dismay that they looked neither to the right nor the left, but, depending upon their heels to save their valuable lives, ran into the nearest open doors, leaving their muskets to whomsoever saw fit to carry them off. And when the horse had reached the Everett House, he, in evident malice, threw the general over his head upon the pavement, when several persons rushed out and picked him up for dead; but, instead of being dead, he proved to be the soberest of men, and when he was upon his feet ordered the bravest man to go in pursuit of his horse, who was proceeding up Fourth Avenue, a terror to all pedestrians.
Which relates how the major was restored to consciousness; and of the story of an eccentric critic.
Let me avail myself of your good nature, reader, for I am a man who would not artfully conceal truth to the injury of a friend; but I am, at the same time, conscious of the heavy penalty incurred in speaking the honest, unembroidered truth of some of our well tailored heroes, who open and shut like sunflowers under a vertical sun, and present an excellent object to attract the admiration of your fine ladies in Broadway. Heaven knows I appreciate the true hero, and am ready to favor an honest purpose with a joyful heart; but your political general of militia is a model of coxcombry, a creature ready to faint when you want service of him, and the best imposture known at this day. I, however, hold it not well to turn the wheel too far against men who are harmlessly inclined, and in whose marching and countermarching up Broadway (with the pomp and circumstance of men about to face blood and flames) the juvenile and other lighthearted portions of the community find an excellent fund of amusement. Indeed, I remember that others may love what I have no taste to appreciate; and that when fortune turns against me, which is the case at this moment, I had