ose who wish to 'realize'
at once on them, owing to temporary embarrassments, will urge it; and
dissension of the most formidable character will be at once
organized,--precisely such dissension as the Southern press has long
hoped to see between the dough-faces and patriots of the North, or
between its labor and capital, or in any other disastrous dissension.

Be it borne in mind that the price of slaves is at present greatly
depressed in the South. Those who would sell would speedily acquire
more, in the hope of a profit by selling to government. Those too who
would willingly act as brokers between those who wished to sell, but who
would not dare to openly do so, would be very numerous. Between these
and the leaders of the ultra pro-slavery party there would be bitter
feud. Let a counter-revolutionary party once succeed in holding its own
in the South, and the days of secession would speedily be numbered. In a
land where all rushes so rapidly to extremes, we should soon see the war
carried on for us with a bitterness fully equal to that now manifested
towards the North.

It is with no pleasant feelings that we thus commend counter-revolution.
It is the worst of war that it drives us to such considerations. But
what is to be done when our existence as a nation is at stake, and when
we are opposed by a remorseless foe which would gladly ruin us
irretrievably? There is no halting half-way. It was these endless
scruples which interfered with the prevention of the war under the
imbecile or traitorous Buchanan; it is lingering scruple and timidity
which still inspires in thousands of cowardly hearts a dislike to face
the grim danger and prevent it.

* * * * *

WESTWARD!

How the pink-hued morning clouds
Go sailing into the west!
And the pearl-white breath of noon,
Or the mists round the silver moon,
In silent, sheeny crowds
Go sailing into the west!

The glowing, fire-eyed sun
In glory dies in the west;
And the bird with dreamy crest,
And soft, sun-loving breast,
When throbbing day is done,
Floats slowly into the west.

Oh, everything lovely and fair
Is floating into the west.
'Tis an unknown land, where our hopes must go,
And all things beautiful, fluttering slow;
Our joys all wait for us there,--
Far out in the dim blue west.

* * * * *

IS COTTON OUR KING?

BY A COTTO