times or in this land of moderation."

"Child," she responded, "blood asserts itself to the end of races. There
are two separate civilizations in this land, destined some day to come
in fearful conflict; and the wars of Scylla, of the Jews themselves,
shall be outdone in the horror and persistence of that strife of
partners--I will not say brothers--for there is no brotherhood of blood
between South and North, of which Clay and Calhoun stand forth to my
mind as distinct types. No union of the red and white roses possible."

"But you forget, madame, that Mr. Clay is a Western man, a Virginian, a
Kentuckian, and the representative of slave-holders," I remonstrated.
"His interests are coincident with those of the South. His hope of the
presidency itself vests in his constituents, and the wand would be
broken in his hand were he to lend himself to partiality of any kind.
Mr. Clay is a great patriot, I believe, Jacksonite though I am--he knows
no South nor North, nor East nor West, but the Union alone, solid and
undivided."

"All this is true," she answered, "in one sense. It is thus he speaks,
and, like all partial parents, even thinks he feels toward his
offspring; but observe his acts narrowly from first to last. He has a
manufacturer's heart, with all his genius. He loves machinery--the sound
of the mill, the anvil, the spinning-jenny, the sight of the ship upon
the high-seas, or steamboat on the river, the roar of commerce, far more
than the work of the husbandman. We are an agricultural people, we of
the South and West--and especially we Southerners, with our poverty of
invention, our one staple, our otherwise helpless habits, incident to
the institution which, however it may be our curse, is still our wealth,
and to which, for the present time, we are bound, Ixion-like, by every