The little quarrel with the cotton agent being over, the planters on board fell to discussing the labor question, as we slowly steamed down the Tombigbee. “You’re all going crazy,” said a top-booted personage, who turned out to be a Rebel mail contractor that had recently transferred his allegiance to Governor Dennison. “You’re crazier even than I thought you. First you lost your slaves, and now you propose to give away your plantations! Give them away, I say,” he continued dogmatically. “Lands that are worth sixty and eighty dollars an acre, you’re selling for ten and twelve. Why, you can rent them for half of that.” “But what’s the use of lands when you can’t work them?” “We’ve got to change our whole system of labor,” said another planter. “Let the Yankees take the niggers, since they’re so fond of them. Why, I was talking, down to Selma, the other day, with Jim Branson, up from Haynesville. We figured up, I don’t know how many millions of coolies there are in China, that you can bring over for a song. It will take three of ’em to do the work of two niggers; but they’ll live on next to nothing and clothe themselves, and you’ve only got to pay ’em four dollars a month. That’s our game now. And if it comes to voting, I reckon we can manage that pretty well!” But they all agreed that, unless the Yankees raised it, there would be no cotton crop grown in these States next year. Dinner was announced, on the boat, and we all went in, belligerent cotton agent and cotton-planter among the friendliest. There were on the table water, soggy corn-bread, raw onions, sweet-potatoes, and beans, and that was absolutely all. The bill was a dollar. “At them licks a man must be made o’ money, to stand it long.” Thus said a plethoric planter. Between Selma and Demopolis we passed through the garden lands of Alabama. A little cotton could still be seen, standing in the fields. Fine houses appeared occasionally along the road. The fences were standing, cornstalks showed the extent of last year’s cultivation, and not many traces of war were perceptible in the face of the country. After we returned to the cars, beyond the Tombigbee, the appearance of the country was somewhat changed. The cane-brake and prairie were exchanged for pine barrens, and we had passed the most desirable cotton lands. A Georgian, emigrating to Texas, with his whole family, had seats in our car. One of the children grew noisy. “General,” said the father, reprovingly, “General, if you don’t behave yourself I won’t call you General Beauregard any longer. I’ll call you some Yankee name.” Cigars were freely smoked, it being taken for granted that the ladies had no objections. Pistols and Bowie-knives were shown, and one had a comparison of views as to the proper mode of using these weapons to the best advantage. It was in a county not very far from here, that sundry wise resolutions were adopted, as,