Drafting in the North.
We are not at all surprised to see the reluctance manifested to drafting by the ‘"solid men"’ of the North. Now, for the first time, in deadly apprehension of being compelled to face the music of the Southern bullets, they begin to feel that they are at war, and in many a trembling heart the whisper is heard, ‘"My thoughts, I must confess are turned on peace."’ It was all very well so long as Germans and Irish and the adventurous spirits of their seaports and frontiers, could carry on the battle for them in a distant clime, whilst the defensive policy of the Southern Government secured them at the same time from the horrors of invasion; but this pleasurable pastime is ended, and hereafter the gaps that have been made in the ranks of the mercenaries by, Southern ball and bayonet must be filled up by the native, live Yankee.If it is any consolation to Yankee Doodle, let us assure him that the pleasure is as great in the South at the prospect of his being drafted as the horror at the North is intense. Killing off the miserable foreign bloodhounds they have upon us in a pastime below Southern ambition. The game it has always craved has been the genuine Yankee. Doodle, the author of all our woes, who has been sitting comfortably at home and selling his dogs on us, and threatening us with rubbery, rapine, and the halter. The prospect of catching these ‘"solid"’ codfish upon Southern steel has whetted to frenzy every Southern appetite. To bring three hundred thousand genuine Yankees against us — fellows who talk through their noise, and are redolent of abolitionism and Westerfield onions — would inspire the Southern arm with vigor equal to a reinforcement of half a million. Come on, Doodle, and be quick about it. The Southern sun is warm, but not half as warm as the hospitality which pants to embrace you in the hug of battle, and lead you ly down the dance of death.
