'We must bring these unfranchised slaves—the Yankees—back to their true condition. They have long, very probably, looked upon themselves as our social inferiors—as our serfs; their mean, niggardly lives—their low, vulgar, and sordid occupations, have ground this conviction into them. But of a sudden, they have come to imagine that their numerical strength gives them power—and they have burst the bonds of servitude, and are running riot with more than the brutal passions of a liberated wild beast. Their uprising has all the characteristics of a ferocious, fertile insurrection.... They have suggested to us the invasion of their territory, and the robbery of their banks and jewelry-stores. We may profit by the suggestion, so far as the invasion goes—for that will enable us to restore them to their normal condition of vassalage, and teach them that cap in hand is the proper attitude of a servant before his master.'

These extracts are from the Richmond Whig—a paper beyond all comparison the most respectable and moderate in the whole South, and by no means of so little weight or character that its remarks can be passed by as mere Southern vaunt and idle bluster signifying nothing. It speaks the deep-seated belief and heartfelt conviction of even the most intelligent secessionists—for the editor of the Whig is not only one of these, but one of the most honest and upright men to be found in Dixie.

'But,' the reader may ask, 'if the man really believes that Yankees are serfs, slaves, vassals of the South, where are his eyes, ears, and common-sense?' Gently, dear reader. When we reflect on the toadying to the South by Northern doughface Democrats in by-gone years—when we recall the abominable and incredible servility with which every thing Southern has been hymned, homaged and exalted—when we remember how vulgar, arrogant, ignorant Southrons have been adored in doughface society where gentlemen whom they were not worthy of waiting on were of but secondary account—when we think of the shallow, pitiful meanness which induces Northern men to rant in favor of that 'institution' which they, at least, know is a curse to the whole country—when we see even now, how, with a baseness and vileness beyond belief, 'democratic' editors continue to lick the hands which smite them, we do not wonder that the Southerner, taking the doughface for a type of the whole North, characterizes all Yankees as serf-like, servile cap-in-hand crawlers and beggars for patronage. For if we were all of the pro-slavery Democracy, and especially of those who even now continue to yelp for Southern rights and grinningly assure patriots that 'under the Constitution they can do nothing to the South,' we should richly deserve all the scorn heaped on us by the 'chivalry.'

We doubt not that, during this bitter war, many incidents have occurred, or will occur, quite like that described in the following simple but life-true ballad:

FRANK WILSON

'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun Shot his last red arrow up in the west; Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth, And chased the flush from the mountain's crest. Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold, And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost, As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold. The chores were finished; and farmer West, As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug, Toasted his feet in calm content, And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug. Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms, And softly humming a love refrain; With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose, Washed and warbled his daughter Jane. She was the gift that his dear wife left, When she died, some nineteen Mays before; The light and the warmth of the old farm-home, And cherished by him to his great heart's core. A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much The fashion of feature that made her so; 'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes, And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow. Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed; Then from the mantle she took some work, 'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed. Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts Than ever were bodied in word or sound, Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes, As she knit in the dark yarn round and round. A neighbor's rap at the outer door Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!' And he came, with stamping of heavy boots, Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin. Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night. What news do you get from the village to-day? Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged. What news do you get from our Company K?' 'Bad news!—bad news!' He slowly unwinds His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes. 'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night, And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.' O God! give strength to that writhing heart! Fling the life back to that whitening cheek! Let not the pent breath forever stay From the lips, too white and dumb to speak! 'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad—too bad, The finest young man, by far, in this town; Such are the offerings we give to war, Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.' Neither did notice her faltering step; Neither gave heed to her quivering hand, That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door, And spilled the cider upon the stand. But the father dreamed, as he slept that night, That his darling had met some fearful woe; And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans, And her slow steps pacing to and fro.

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