For the first he began to realize what an intense spirit of sectionalism had entered into this “revolutionary propaganda.” He spoke of his fears to none save to his wise and prudent helpmate. “I trust you, beloved,” she whispered, as she pressed the broad, strong hands that held her enclasped. “Ay, dear one, but does my country?” came in almost a groan from the lips of the youthful ruler. Most evident was it, that thus far the South had been the great gainer in this struggle for power. She had increased her strength in the Senate by six votes; she had regained her old time prestige in the House; one of her most trusted sons was in the Speaker’s chair, while another brilliant Southron led the administration forces on the floor. Born as she was for the brilliant exercise of intellectual vigor, the South was of that strain of blood which knows how to wear the kingly graces of power so as best to impress the “common people.” Many of the men of the North had been charmed and fascinated by this natural pomp and inborn demeanor of greatness and had yielded to it. Not a month had gone by that this now dominant section had not made some new demand upon the country at large. Early in the session, at its request, the internal revenue tax which had rested so long upon the tobacco crop of the South, and poured so many millions of revenue into the national treasury, was wiped from the statute books with but a feeble protest from the North. But now the country was thrown into a state bordering upon frenzy by a new demand, which, although couched in calm and decorous terms, nay, almost in the guise of a petition for long-delayed justice to hard-pressed and suffering brethren, had about it a suppressed, yet unmistakable tone of conscious power and imperiousness which well became the leader who spoke for “that glorious Southland to which this Union owes so much of its greatness and its prestige.”