D’ ye s’pose, ef Jeff giv him a lick,
  Ole Hick’ry’d tried his head to sof’n
So’s ’twouldn’t hurt thet ebony stick
 Thet’s made our side see stars so of’n? 
‘No!’ he’d ha’ thundered, ’on your knees,
  An’ own one flag, one road to glory! 
Soft-heartedness, in times like these,
  Shows sof’ness in the upper story!’ 120

An’ why should we kick up a muss
  About the Pres’dunt’s proclamation? 
It ain’t a-goin’ to lib’rate us,
  Ef we don’t like emancipation: 
The right to be a cussed fool
  Is safe from all devices human,
It’s common (ez a gin’l rule)
  To every critter born o’ woman.

So we’re all right, an’ I, fer one,
  Don’t think our cause’ll lose in vally 130
By rammin’ Scriptur’ in our gun,
  An’ gittin’ Natur’ fer an ally: 
Thank God, say I, fer even a plan
  To lift one human bein’s level,
Give one more chance to make a man,
  Or, anyhow, to spile a devil!

Not thet I’m one thet much expec’
  Millennium by express to-morrer;
They will miscarry,—­I rec’lec’
  Tu many on ’em, to my sorrer: 
Men ain’t made angels in a day, 141
  No matter how you mould an’ labor ’em,
Nor ’riginal ones, I guess, don’t stay
  With Abe so of’n ez with Abraham.

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, 150
An’ Good can’t never come tu late,
  Though it does seem to try an’ linger.

An’ come wut will, I think it’s grand
  Abe’s gut his will et last bloom-furnaced
In trial-flames till it’ll stand
  The strain o’ bein’ in deadly earnest: 
Thet’s wut we want,—­we want to know
  The folks on our side hez the bravery
To b’lieve ez hard, come weal, come woe,
  In Freedom ez Jeff doos in Slavery. 160

Set the two forces foot to foot,
  An’ every man knows who’ll be winner,
Whose faith in God hez ary root
  Thet goes down deeper than his dinner: 
Then ’twill be felt from pole to pole,
  Without no need o’ proclamation,
Earth’s biggest Country’s gut her soul
  An’ risen up Earth’s Greatest Nation!

No.  VIII

KETTELOPOTOMACHIA

PRELIMINARY MOTE

[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.  ’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.