Ther''s critters yit thet talk an' act Fer wut they call Conciliation ; They 'd hand a buff'lo-drove a tract When they wuz madder than all Bashan. Conciliate? it jest means be kicked, No metter how they phrase an' tone it; It means thet we 're to set down licked, Thet we 're poor shotes an' glad to own it! A war on tick 's ez dear 'z the deuce, But it wun't leave no lastin' traces, Like them put out by Gov'nor Seymour. Last year, the Nation, at a word, When tremblin' Freedom cried to shield her, Flamed weldin' into one keen sword Waitin' an' longin' fer a wielder: A splendid flash! - but how'd the grasp With sech a chance ez thet wuz tally? Ther' warn't no meanin' in our clasp, Half this, half thet, all shilly-shally. More men? More Man! It's there we fail; Weak plans grow weaker yit by lengthenin': Wut use in addin' to the tail, When it's the head 's in need o' strengthen in'? We wanted one thet felt all Chief From roots o' hair to sole o' stockin', Square-sot with thousan'-ton belief In him an' us, ef earth went rockin'! Ole Hick'ry would n't ha' stood see-saw 'Bout doin' things till they wuz done with, He'd smashed the tables o' the Law In time o' need to load his gun with; He could n't see but jest one side, Ef his, 't wuz God's, an' thet wuz plenty An' so his "Forrards!" multiplied An army's fightin' weight by twenty. But this 'ere histin', creak, creak, creak, Fer one sharp purpose 'mongst the twitter, ye, it doos kind o' stunt I tell The peth and sperit of a critter. In six months where 'll the People be, Ef leaders look on revolution Ez though it wuz a cup o' tea, Jest social el'ments in solution? This weighin' things doos wal enough When war cools down, an' comes to writin'; But while it's makin', the true stuff Is pison-mad, pig-headed fightin'. Democ'acy gives every man The right to be his own oppressor; From them smart critters, the Seceders, - The 'fore-the-fust 's cast-iron leaders. But 'pears to me I see some signs Thet we 're a-goin' to use our senses: Jeff druv us into these hard lines, An' ough' to bear his half th' expenses ; Slavery's Secession's heart an' will, South, North, East, West, where'er you find it, An' ef it drors into War's mill, D'ye say them thunder-stones sha' n't grind it? D'ye s'pose, ef Jeff giv him a lick, Ole Hick'ry 'd tried his head to sof'n An' why should we kick up a muss Ef we don't like emancipation: The right to be a cussed fool Is safe from all devices human, So we 're all right, an' I, fer one, Not thet I'm one thet much expec' Tu many on 'em, to my sorrer : Men ain't made angels in a day, No matter how you mould an' labor 'em, « Nor 'riginal ones, I guess, don't stay The'ry thinks Fact a pooty thing, An' wants the banns read right ensuin'; But fact wun't noways wear the ring, "Thout years o' settin' up an' wooin': Though, arter all, Time's dial-plate Marks cent'ries with the minute-finger, An' Good can't never come tu late, Though it doos seem to try an' linger. An' come wut will, I think it's grand The strain o' bein' in deadly earnest: Set the two forces foot to foot, An' every man knows who 'll be winner, Thet goes down deeper than his dinner: No. VIII. KETTELOPOTOMACHIA PRELIMINARY NOTE In the month of February, 1866, the editors of the "Atlantic Monthly" received from the Rev. Mr. Hitchcock of Jaalam a letter enclosing the macaronic verses which follow, and promising to send more, if more should be communicated. 66 They were rapped out on the evening of Thursday last past," he says, "by what claimed to be the spirit of my late predecessor in the ministry here, the Rev. Dr. Wilbur, through the medium of a young |