"Halt!" exclaimed this dusky man and brother, bringing down his bayonet,
"de countersign not correck."

Now the magic word, in this case, was "Vicksburg," in honor of a
rumored victory. But as I knew that these hard names became quite
transformed upon their lips, "Carthage" being familiarized into
Cartridge, and "Concord" into Corn-cob, how could I possibly tell what
shade of pronunciation my friend might prefer for this particular
proper name?

"Vicksburg," I repeated, blandly, but authoritatively, endeavoring, as
zealously as one of Christy's Minstrels, to assimilate my speech to any
supposed predilection of the Ethiop vocal organs.

"Halt dar! Countersign not correck," was the only answer.

The bayonet still maintained a position which, in a military point of
view, was impressive.

I tried persuasion, orthography, threats, tobacco, all in vain. I could
not pass in. Of course my pride was up; for was I to defer to an
untutored African on a point of pronunciation? Classic shades of
Harvard, forbid! Affecting scornful indifference, I tried to edge away,
proposing to myself to enter the camp at some other point, where my
elocution would be better appreciated. Not a step could I stir.

"Halt!" shouted my gentleman again, still holding me at his bayonet's
point, and I wincing and halting.