And yet, mother, I believe the North wrong,—and the South right, but so generous a people are we, that all we ask now, is for you to _let us alone_; and if the Lincolnites won’t do that, why, then we must stoop to fight the mud-sills. It’s all humbug, too, about the negroes being on the verge of insurrection. A more faithful, devoted set, I never saw. They’ll fight for their masters until they die, every man of them. Tom will tell you that. What are his politics? Bell and Everett, I dare say, so there’s no danger of my meeting him in battle, and I’m glad of it, for to tell the truth, I should feel rather ticklish raising my gun against old Tom. May be, though, he is humbugged like the rest, and forms a part of that unit said to exist at the North. What sort of a thing is that, mother? What does it look like? Democrats and Republicans, Abolitionists and Garrisonites, all melted in one crucible and bearing _Abraham’s_ image and superscription! I wish I could see it. Must have changed mightily round Boston from what they used to be when they quarreled so, some against and some for Southern rights and Southern people. But strange things happen nowadays, and it may be Tom, too, has turned his coat, and taken sides with the Federals. If so, all I can say, is, Tommie, oh, Tommie, beware of the day, when Southern bloods meet thee in battle array; for a field of weak cowards rushes full on my sight, and the ranks of the Yankees are scattered in flight. Won’t we rout them, though! I shall fight next time. I’ve played pollywog long enough. I am regularly enlisted now. Am a _Rebel_, as you call us at home. Nothing very bad about that, either, as I can prove to you, if you’ll take the trouble to hunt up my old dog-eared History of the United States, where Washington is styled by the British the _Rebel Chief_.