The Daily Dispatch: September 9, 1861., [Electronic resource]

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Gen. Wool.

--We cannot imagine a more uncomfortable death-bed than has fallen to the lot of the venerable sinner, the late Lieutenant General of the U. S. forces. It was not enough that the ‘"Grand Army"’ which he had raised and disciplined with such labor and care should be routed and demoralized; that the thunderbolt he imagined himself hurling from high Olympus should prove a mere flash in the pan; that Gen. McClellan, not half his age, should be placed in chief command; that the North should detect him as an impostor and humbug, every way worthy to take a place beside Joyce Heth, the Woolly Horse, and the Mermaid in Barnum's Museum, but; to crown all, old Wool, whom he hates worse than he ever did the devil, is resuscitated placed in command at Old Point, and actually captured several sand-banks in North Carolina. It is only a little while ago that Scott, aged 75, ordered Wool, also 75, to retire from New York to Troy, on account of his great age and infirmities. The Lieutenant General, who is excessively vindictive and malignant, chuckled hugely over the manner in which he had snuffed out the aspirations of his youthful rival; but whose turn is it to laugh now? The successful foray got up by Wool upon the sand-banks cannot possibly afflict the North Carolinians as much as it hurts Gen. Scott.--We unite with him in the cordial hope that the equinoctial storm may soon throw sand in Wool's eyes, and sprinkle a drop or two of water on the parched tongue of the Lieutenant General.