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.