Civil War Short Stories and Poems

The Southern position on secession was that each state had the right to decide to belong or not to the Union. That the arguments linked to this position asserted a state’s “freedom” from “tyranny” while defending or ignoring the existence of slavery was pathetic. This poem was published in the Charleston Mercury. Thompson was an editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.

Who talks of Coercion? Who dares to deny

A resolute people their right to be free?

Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,

Or curb with his fetter one wave of the sea.

Who prates of Coercion? Can love be restored

To bosoms where only resentment may dwell;

Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,

Or good-will among men be established by shell?

Shame! shame that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,

Should have for a crisis no other recourse,

Beneath the fair day-spring of Light and of Truth,

Than the old brutum fulmen of Tyranny,—Force.

From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate slink away;

From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains;

This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,

And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.

Could you conquer us, Men of the North, could you bring

Desolation and death on our homes as a flood;

Can you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring

From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?

Could you brand us as villeins and serfs, know ye not

What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar?

How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot;

How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar!

But ’twere well to remember this land of the sun

Is a nutrix leonum, and suckles a race

Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one,

Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.

And well may the schemers in office beware

The swift retribution that waits upon crime,

When the lion, Resistance, shall leap from his lair,

With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.

Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,

Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends;

Nor join in a conflict accurst, that must fill

With ruin the country on which it descends.

But if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage

The gods give to all whom they wished to destroy,

You would act a new Iliad to darken the age,

With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy:

If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,

When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore,

You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes

Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar:

If there be to your malice no limit imposed,

And your reckless design is to rule with the rod

The men upon whom you have already closed

Our goodly domain and the temples of God:

To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,

And at once let the tocsin be sounded afar;

We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles the Bold,

With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!

For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,

Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide;

Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,

With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;

And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past,

In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain

While the sods of King’s Mountain shall heave at the blast,

And give up its heroes to glory again.

The firmament breaks up. In black eclipse

Light after light goes out. One evil star,

Luridly glaring through the smoke of war,

As in the dream of the Apocalypse,

Drags others down. Let us not weakly weep

Nor rashly threaten. Give us grace, to keep

Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap

On one hand into fratricidal fight,

Or, on the other, yield eternal right,

Frame lies of law, and good and fill confound?

What fear we? Safe on freedom’s vantage ground

Our feet are planted: let us there remain

In unrevengeful calm, no means untried

Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied,

The sad spectators of a suicide!

They break the links of Union: shall we light

The fires of hell to weld anew the chain

On that red anvil where each blow is pain?

Draw we not even now a freer breath,

As from our shoulders falls a load of death

Loathsome as that the Tuscan’s victim bore

When keen with life to a dead horror bound?

Why take we up the accursed thing again?

Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more

Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion’s rag

With its vile reptile blazon. Let us press

The golden cluster on our brave old flag

In closer union, and, if numbering less,

Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.

Davis (1808–1889), a former Secretary of War and Senator from Mississippi, was inaugurated as president of the Confederate States of America on February 18, 1861. He announced, to the derision of the poem’s author: “All we want is to be let alone.”

You’re a traitor convicted, you know very well!
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

You thought it a capital thing to rebel, Jefferson D.!

But there’s one thing I’ll say:

You’ll discover some day,

When you see a stout cotton cord hang from a tree,

There’s an accident happened you didn’t foresee, Jefferson D.!

What shall be found upon history’s page?
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

When a student explores the republican age! Jefferson D.!

He will find, as is meet.

That at Judas’s feet

You sit in your shame, with the impotent plea.

That you hated the land and the law of the free, Jefferson D.!

What do you see in your visions at night,
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.?

Does the spectacle furnish you any delight, Jefferson D.?

Do you feel in disgrace

The black cap o’er your face,

While the tremor creeps down from your heart to your knee,

And freedom, insulted, approves the decree, Jefferson D.?

Oh! long have we pleaded, till pleading is vain,
Jefferson D., Jefferson D.!

Your hands are imbrued with the blood of the slain, Jefferson D.!

And at last, for the right,

We arise in our might,

A people united, resistless, and free,

And declare that rebellion no longer shall be! Jefferson D.!

Rebels! ’tis a holy name!

The name our fathers bore,

When battling in the cause of Right,

Against the tyrant in his might,

In the dark days of yore.

Rebels! ’tis our family name!

Our father, Washington,

Was the arch-rebel in the fight,

And gave the name to us—a right

Of father unto son.

Rebels! ’tis our given name!

Our mother, Liberty,

Received the title with her fame,

In days of grief, of fear, and shame,

When at her breast were we.

Rebels! ’tis our sealed name!

A baptism of blood!

The war—aye, and the din of strife—

The fearful contest, life for life—

The mingled crimson flood.

Rebels! ’tis a patriot’s name!

In struggles it was given;

We bore it then when tyrants raved,

And through their curses ’twas engraved

On the doomsday-book of heaven.

Rebels! ’tis our fighting name!

For peace rules o’er the land,

Until they speak of craven woe—

Until our rights receive a blow,

From foe’s or brother’s hand.

Rebels! ’tis our dying name!

For, although life is dear,

Yet, freemen born and freemen bred,

We’d rather live as freemen dead,

Than live in slavish fear.

Then call us rebels, if you will—

We glory in the name;

For bending under unjust laws,

And swearing faith to an unjust cause,

We count a greater shame.

By the end of May 1861, the Confederacy was complete: eleven states had seceded from the Union; they rallied under “the Bonnie Blue Flag.”

We are a band of brothers, and natives to the soil,

Fighting for the property we gained by honest toil,

And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far:

Hurrah for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!

Chorus—Hurrah! hurrah! for the bonnie Blue Flag
that bears a single star.

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust,

Like friends and like brothers, kind were we and just;

But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar,

We hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand;

Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand;

Next, quickly, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida—

All raised the flag, the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right;

Texas and fair Louisiana join us in the fight.

Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesmen are;

Now rally round the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

And here’s to brave Virginia! the Old Dominion State

With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate.

Impelled by her example, now other States prepare

To hoist on high the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then here’s to our Confederacy; strong we are and brave,

Like patriots of old we’ll fight, our heritage to save;

And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer;

So cheer for the bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout,

For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out;

And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given,

The single star of the bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be eleven!

We’re fighting for our Union,

We’re fighting for our trust;

We’re fighting for that happy land,

Where sleeps our father’s dust.

It cannot be dissevered,

Though it cost us bloody wars,

We ne’er can give up the land

Where float the Stripes and Stars.

Chorus—Hurrah! hurrah!
For equal rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the good old flag
That bears the Stripes and Stars.

We treated you as brothers,

Until you drew the sword,

With wrong impious hand at Sumter

You cut the silver cord,

So now you hear our bugles,—

We come, the sons of Mars;

We’ll rally round that brave old flag,

Which bears the Stripes and Stars.

We do not want your cotton,

We care not for your slaves,

But rather than divide this land,

We’ll fill your Southern graves.

With Lincoln for our Chieftain,

We’ll wear our country’s scars;

We’ll rally round that brave old flag,

Which bears the Stripes and Stars.

We deem our cause most holy,

We know we’re in the right;

And twenty millions of free men

Stand ready for the fight.

Our bride is fair Columbia,

No stain her beauty mars;

O’er her we’ll raise that brave old flag,

Which bears the Stripes and Stars.

And when this war is over,

We’ll each resume our homes,

And treat you still as brothers,

Wherever you may roam.

We’ll pledge the hand of friendship

And think no more of wars;

But dwell in peace beneath that flag

Which bears the Stripes and Stars.
Hurrah! hurrah!
For equal rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for that brave old flag
Which bears the Stripes and Stars.

The Union author mockingly dedicates the poem to the Louisiana native General P. G. T. Beauregard, who commanded the Confederate troops at Fort Sumter, South Carolina, and then at First Bull Run in Virginia.

The sun’s hot rays were falling fast,

As through a Southern city passed

A man who bore, ‘midst rowdies low,

A banner with the strange motto—
Secession!

His brow was sad; his mouth beneath

Smelt strong of fire at every breath:

And like a furious madman sung

The accents of that unknown tongue—
Secession!

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright;

Above, the spectral gallows shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan—
Secession!

“Try not that game!” Abe Lincoln said,

“Dark lower the thunders overhead;

The mighty North has been defied.”

But still that drunken voice replied—
Secession!

“Oh! pause!” the Quaker said, “and think

Before thee leaps from off the brink!”

Contempt was in his drunken leer;

And still he answered, with a sneer—
Secession!

“Beware the pine-tree’s bristling branch!

Beware the Northern avalanche!”

And that was Scott’s restraining voice;

But still this was the traitor’s choice—
Secession!

At close of war, as toward their homes

Our troops as victors hurried on,

And turned to God a thankful prayer,

A voice whined through the startled air—
Secession!

A traitor by a soldier keen,

Suspended by the neck was seen,

Still grasping in his hand of ice

That banner, with this strange device—
Secession!

There, to the mournful gibbet strung,

Lifeless and horrible he hung;

And from the sky there seemed to float

A voice like angel’s warning note —
Secession!

Among the first Union soldiers to die in battle was Major Theodore Winthrop on June 10, 1861.

Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover;

He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,

Where the sun may shine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches.

Where the whippoorwill shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,

Where the bee will dine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;

Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier’s pillow over:

Where the rain may rain upon it,

Where the sun may shine upon it,

Where the lamb hath lain upon it,

And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often

Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;

He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,

Where the wind may sigh upon it,

Where the moon may stream upon it,

And Memory shall dream upon it.

“Captain or Colonel,”—whatever invocation

Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—

On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it

Shall grow the goodly pine upon it,

Long as the stars do gleam upon it

Shall Memory come to dream upon it.

The composer George Frederick Root said he was inspired to write the words and music of this famous song when he read President Lincoln’s call for troops in June 1861.

Melville reflects on the same disastrous battle as the previous two Confederate poems.

(July, 1861)

Did all the lets and bars appear

To every just or larger end,

Whence should come the trust and cheer?

Youth must its ignorant impulse lend—

Age finds place in the rear.

All wars are boyish, and are fought by boys,

The champions and enthusiasts of the state:

Turbid ardors and vain joys

Not barrenly abate—

Stimulants to the power mature,

Preparatives of fate.

Who here forecasteth the event?

What heart but spurns at precedent

And warnings of the wise,

Contemned foreclosures of surprise?

The banners play, the bugles call,

The air is blue and prodigal.

No berrying party, pleasure-wooed,

No picnic party in the May,

Ever went less loth than they

Into that leafy neighborhood.

In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate,

Moloch’s uninitiate;

Expectancy, and glad surmise

Of battle’s unknown mysteries.

All they feel is this: ’tis glory,

A rapture sharp, though transitory,

Yet lasting in belaureled story.

So they gayly go to fight,

Chatting left and laughing right.

But some who this blithe mood present,

As on in lightsome files they fare,

Shall die experienced ere three days are spent—

Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;

Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,

The throe of Second Manassas share.

The comic letters and stories of Charles Farrar Browne (1834–1867), written under the pen name of “Artemus Ward” amused Abraham Lincoln to no end. These two stories, published in July of 1861, relate Artemus’s attempt to recruit a volunteer company of Union soldiers, “composed excloosively of offissers,” in the fictional backwater of Baldinsville, Ohio.

As soon as I’d recooperated my physikil system, I went over into the village. The peasantry was glad to see me. The skoolmaster sed it was cheerin to see that gigantic intelleck among ’em onct more. That’s what he called me. I like the skoolmaster, and allers send him tobacker when I’m off on a travelin campane. Besides, he is a very sensible man. Such men must be encouraged.

They don’t git news very fast in Baldinsville, as nothin but a plank road runs in there twice a week and that’s very much out of repair. So my nabers wasn’t much posted up in regard to the wars. Squire Baxter sed he’d voted the dimicratic ticket for goin on forty year, and the war was a dam black republican lie. Jo. Stackpole, who kills hogs for the Squire, and has got a powerful muscle into his arms, sed he’d bet $5 he could lick the Crisis in a fair stand-up fight, if he wouldn’t draw a knife on him. So it went—sum was for war, and sum was for peace. The skoolmaster, however, sed the Slave Oligarky must cower at the feet of the North ere a year had flowed by, or pass over his ded corpse. “Esto perpetual,” he added. “And sine qua non also!” sed I, sternly, wishing to make a impression onto the villagers. “Requiescat in pace!” sed the schoolmaster. “Too troo, too troo!” I anserd, “it’s a scanderlus fack!”

The newspapers got along at last, chock full of war, and the patriotic fever fairly bust out in Baldinsville. Squire Baxter sed he didn’t b’lieve in Coercion, not one of ’em, and could prove by a file of Eagles of Liberty in his garrit, that it was all a Whig lie got up to raise the price of whisky and destroy our other liberties. But the old Squire got putty riley when he heard how the rebels was cuttin up, and he sed he reckoned he should skour up his old muskit and do a little square fitin for the Old Flag, which had allers bin on the ticket he’d voted and he was too old to Bolt now. The Squire is all right at heart, but it takes longer for him to fill his venerable Biler with steam than it used to when he was young and frisky. As I previsly informed you, I am Captin of the Baldinsville Company. I riz gradooally but majesticly from drummer’s Secretary to my present position. But I found the ranks wasn’t full by no means, and commenced for to recroot. Havin notist a ginral desire on the part of young men who are into the Crisis to wear eppylits, I detarmined to have my company composed excloosively of offissers, everybody to rank as Brigadeer-Ginral. The follerin was among the varis questions which I put to recroots:

If I trust you with a real gun, how many men of your own company do you speck you can manage to kill durin the war?

Hav you ever heard of Ginral Price of Missouri, and can you avoid simler accidents in case of a battle?

The company filled up rapid, and last Sunday we went to the meetin house in full uniform. I had a seris time gittin into my military harness, as it was bilt for me many years ago; but I finally got inside of it, tho it fitted me putty clost. Howsever, onct into it, I lookt fine—in fact, aw-inspirin. “Do you know me, Mrs. Ward?” sed I, walkin into the kitchin.

I started for the meetin house, and I’m afraid I tried to walk too strate, for I cum very near fallin over backards; and in attemptin to recover myself my sword got mixed up with my legs, and I fell in among a choice collection of young ladies, who was standin near the church door a-seein the sojer boys come up. My cockt hat fell off, and sumhow my coat tales got twisted round my neck. The young ladies put their handkerchers to their mouths and remarked: “Te he,” while my ancient female single friend, Sary Peasley, bust out into a loud larf. She exercised her mouth so vilently that her new false teeth fell out onto the ground.

“Miss Peasley,” sed I, gittin up and dustin myself, “you must be more careful with them store teeth of your’n or you’ll have to gum it agin!”

Methinks I had her. I’d bin to work hard all the week, and I felt rather snoozy. I’m fraid I did git half asleep, for on hearin the minister ask, “Why was man made to mourn?” I sed, “I giv it up,” havin a vague idee that it was a conundrum. It was a onfortnit remark, for the whole meetin house lookt at me with mingled surprise and indignation. I was about risin to a pint of order, when it suddenly occurd to me whare I was, and I kept my seat, blushin like the red, red rose—so to speak.

The next mornin I ‘rose with the lark (N. B.—I don’t sleep with the lark, tho. A goak.)

My little dawter was execootin ballids, accompanyin herself with the Akordeon, and she wisht me to linger and hear her sing: “Hark, I hear a angel singin, a angel now is onto the wing.”

“Let him fly, my child!” said I, a-bucklin on my armer, “I must forth to my Biz.”

We air progressin pretty well with our drill. As all air commandin offissers, there ain’t no jelusy; and as we air all exceedin smart, it tain’t worth while to try to outstrip each other. The idee of a company composed excloosively of Commanders-in Chiefs, orriggernated, I spose I skurcely need say, in these Brane. Considered as a idee, I natter myself it is putty hefty. We’ve got all the tackticks at our tongs’ ends, but what we particly excel in is restin muskits. We can rest muskits with anybody.

Our corpse will do its dooty. We go to the aid of Columby—we fight for the stars!

We’ll be chopt into sassige meat before we’ll exhibit our coat tales to the foe.

We’ll fight till there’s nothin left of us but our little toes, and even they shall defiantly wiggle!

Deeply grateful for the onexpected honor thus confered upon me, I shall feel compeld to resign the position in favor of sum more worthy person. Modesty is what ails me. That’s what’s kept me under.

I meanter-say, I shall hav to resign if I’m drafted everywheres I’ve bin inrold. I must now, furrinstuns, be inrold in upards of 200 different towns. If I’d kept on travelin I should hav eventooaly becum a Brigade, in which case I could have held a meetin and elected myself Brigadeer-ginral quite unanimiss. I hadn’t no idee there was so many of me before. But, serisly, I concluded to stop exhibitin, and made tracks for Baldinsville.

My only dawter threw herself onto my boosum and said, “It is me, fayther! I thank the gods!”

“Tip us yer bunch of fives, old faker!” said Artemus, Jr. He reads the Clipper.

My wife was to the sowin circle. I knew she and the wimin folks was havin a pleasant time slanderin the females of the other sowin circle (which likewise met that arternoon, and was doubtless enjoyin their-selves ekally well in slanderin the fustnamed circle), and I didn’t send for her. I allus like to see peple enjoy theirselves.

Orgustus is a ethereal cuss. The twins was bildin cob-houses in a corner of the kitchin.

It’ll cost some postage stamps to raise this famly, and yet it ‘ud go hard with the old man to lose any lamb of the flock.

An old bachelor is a poor critter. He may have hearn the skylark or (what’s nearly the same thing) Miss Kellogg and Carlotty Patti sing; he may have hearn Ole Bull fiddle, and all the Dodworths toot, an yet he don’t know nothin about music—the real, ginuine thing—the music of the laughter of happy, well-fed children! And you may ax the father of sich children home to dinner, feelin werry sure there’ll be no spoons missin when he goes away. Sich fathers never drop tin five-cent pieces into the contribution box, nor palm shoe-pegs of onto blind hosses for oats, nor skedaddle to British sile when their country’s in danger—nor do anything which is really mean, I don’t mean to intimate that the old bachelor is up to little games of this sort—not at all—but I repeat, he’s a poor critter. He don’t live here; only stays. He ought to pologize, on behalf of his parients, for bein here at all. The happy marrid man dies in good stile at home, surrounded by his weeping wife and children. The old bachelor don’t die at all—he sort of rots away, like a pollywog’s tail.

My townsmen were sort o’ demoralized. There was a evident desine to ewade the Draft, as I obsarved with sorrer, and patritism was below Par—and Mar, too. I hadn’t no sooner sot down on the piazzy of the tarvun than I saw sixteen solitary hossmen, ridin four abreast, wendin their way up the street.

“That,” said the landlord, “is the stage. Sixteen able-bodied sitterzens has lately bot the stage line tween here and Scotsburg. That’s them. They’re stage-drivers. Stage-drivers is exempt!”

“The mail is hevy, to-day,” said the landlord. “Ginrally they don’t have more’n half a dozen letters tween em. To-day they’ve got one apiece! Bile my lights and liver!”

“There ain’t any, skacely, nowdays,” said the landlord, “and what few there is, very much prefier to walk, the roads is so rough.”

“And how ist with you?” I inquired of the editer of the Bugle-Horn of Liberty, who sot near me.

“I can’t go,” he sed, shakin his head in a wise way. “Ordinarily I should delight to wade in gore, but my bleedin country bids me stay at home. It is imperatively necessary that I remain here for the purpuss of announcin, from week to week, that our Govment is about to take vigrous measures to put down the rebellion!”

I strolled into the village oyster-saloon, where I found Dr. Schwazey, a leadin sitterzen, in a state of mind which showed that he’d bin histin in more’n his share of pizen.

“Hello, old Beeswax,” he bellered. “How’s yer grandmams? When you goin to feed your stuffed animils?”

“This,” he said; “this is what’s the matter. I’m a habitooal drunkard! I’m exempt!”

“Do you see them beans, old man?” and he pinted to a plate before him. “Do you see em?”

“Well,” said he, “I hain’t eat anything since last week. I eat beans now because I eat beans then”

“It’s quite proper you should eat a little suthin once in a while,” I said. “It’s a good idee to occasionally instruct the stummick that it mustn’t depend excloosively on licker for its sustainance.”

“A blessin,” he cried; “a blessin onto the hed of the man what in-wented beans. A blessin onto his hed!”

A few was true blue. The skoolmaster was among em. He greeted me warmly. He said I was welkim to those shores. He said I had a massiv mind. It was gratifyin, he said, to see that great intelleck stalkin in their midst onct more. I have before had occasion to notice this skoolmaster. He is evidently a young man of far more than ordnary talents.

The skoolmaster proposed we should git up a mass meetin. The meetin was largely attended. We held it in the open air, round a roarin bonfire.

The skoolmaster was the first orator. He’s pretty good on the speak. He also writes well, his composition bein seldom marred by ingrammatticisms. He said this inactivity surprised him. “What do you expect will cum of this kind of doins? Nihil fit—”

“Hooray for Nihil!” I interrupted. “Feller sitterzens, let’s giv three chears for Nihil, the man who fit!”

“Our venerable frend,” said the skoolmaster, smilin pleasantly, “isn’t posted in Virgil.”

“No, I don’t know him. But if he’s a able-bodied man he must stand his little draft.”

I said the crisis had not only cum itself, but it had brought all its relations. It has cum, I said, with a evident intention of makin us a good long visit. It’s goin to take off its things and stop with us. My wife says so too. This is a good war. For those who like this war, it’s just such a kind of war as they like. I’ll bet ye. My wife says so too. If the Federal army succeeds in takin Washinton, and they seem to be advancin that way pretty often, I shall say it is strategy, and Washinton will be safe. And that noble banner, as it were—that banner, as it were—will be a emblem, or rather, I should say, that noble banner—as it were. My wife says so too. (I got a little mixed up here, but they didn’t notice it.) Feller sitterzens, it will be a proud day for this Republic when Washinton is safe. My wife says so too.

There’s money enough. No trouble about money. They’ve got a lot of first-class bank-note engravers at Washinton who turn out two or three cords of money a day—good money, too.

Then it isn’t money we want. But we do want men, and we must have them. We must carry a whirlwind of fire among the foe. We must crush the ungrateful rebels who are poundin the Goddess of Liberty over the hed with slung-shots, and stabbin her with stolen knives! We must lick em quick. We must introduce a large number of first-class funerals among the peple of the South. Betsy says so too.

This war hain’t been too well managed. We all know that. What then? We are all in the same boat—if the boat goes down, we go down with her. Hence we must all fight. It ain’t no use to talk now about who caused the war. That’s played out. The war is upon us—upon us all—and we must all fight. We can’t “reason” the matter with the foe. When, in the broad glare of the noonday sun, a speckled jackass boldly and maliciously kicks over a peanut-stand, do we “reason” with him? I guess not. And why “reason” with those other Southern people who are tryin to kick over the Republic? Betsy, my wife, says so too.

The meetin broke up with enthusiasm. We shan’t draft in Baldinsville if we can help it.

“These lines were written when General Beauregard appealed to the people of the South to contribute their bells, that they might be melted into cannon,” noted the editor Frank Moore. The South had many more limitations in its ability to produce weaponry than the North. See the following poem, “What the Village Bell Said,” as well.