cked of wars. They called it a second Revolutionary War, the
scoundrels! When my father and your father, Tom Hulzman,' said he,
addressing one of his hearers, 'fought in the Revolution, they fought
against a tyrannical monarchy that was founded upon a landed
aristocracy--that is, rich big feeling people, that owned very big
farms. The Government stands in this war, if any thing, better than our
fathers stood. We fight against what is far worse than a landed
aristocracy, meaner in the sight of God and more hated by honest men,
this accursed slave aristocracy, that will, if they whip us--(Can't do
that, yell the crowd.) No, they can't. If they should, we would be no
better than the poor whites that are permitted to live a dog's life on
some worn-out corner of a nigger-owner's plantation. Would you have your
children, Joe Dixon, insulted, made do the bidding of some long-haired
lank mulatto nabob? (Never, says Joe.) Then, boys, look to your arms,
fire low, and don't hang on the aim. We must fight this good fight out,
and thank God we can do it. If we die, blessed will be our memory in the
hearts of our children. If we live and go to our firesides
battle-scarred, our boys can say, 'See how dad fought, and every scar in
front,' and we'll be honored by a grateful people.' And he'd tell of the
sufferings of their parents, wives, and children, if we didn't succeed,
till the water courses on the dirty faces of his crowd would be as plain
as his preaching.

"And pray! he'd pray with hands and eyes both open, in such a way that
every one believed it would have immediate attention; that God would
damn the Rebellion; and may be next day he'd have Long Tom doing its
full share in hurrying the rebels themselves to damnation.

"And kind hearted! why old Tim Larkins, who had a wound on the shin that
wouldn't heal, told me with tears in his eyes that he had been mother,
wife, and child to him. He went about doing good.

"And now I recollect," and the Captain's eye glistened as he spoke, "how
he acted when young Snowden was wounded. Snowden was a slender,
pale-faced stripling of sixteen, beloved by every body that knew him,
and if ever a perfect Christian walked this earth, he was one, even if
he was in service in Western Virginny. The chaplain was fond of company,
and, as was his duty, mixed with the men. Snowden was reserved, much by
himself, and had little or no chance to learn bad habits; that is the
only way I can account for his g