Every rebel's slave is free. Free on paper, if you will--theoretically free; but is _that_ nothing? How many years will slavery, or the Southern system in its integrity, exist side by side with a rapidly growing free country no longer recognizing the existence of 'the institution?' How many months, in fact, _when_ we shall have and hold--as we are absolutely determined to do--the whole west bank of the Mississippi and the confederate ports; which, by the way, _should_ have all been secured at the outset at _any cost_? Let us win or lose in the field, we shall still, thanks to our fleet, hem them in. And will not _that_, with mere waiting, prove a complete victory? Whatever financial crises may be before the North, it will ever possess, in spite of the most terrible sufferings, its enormous recuperative power, and its old ability for hard work. But how is the exhausted, ruined South to arise, save through Northern aid? Will its poor whites labor in factories? They are expected to form a permanent standing army. The negroes? The day of slavery is passing away rapidly. Let the South gain battles, if it will--they are only defeats in disguise; and in the long run it will be found that God willed this war to be long and bitter, that by it the last stronghold of the wrongs of man might be the more thoroughly exhausted. * * * * * THE GOLDEN ROD. Upon the waves that rise and die Along the banks of Severn's river, Amidst the blue of broken sky, I saw thy half-drawn image quiver In changing gleams of golden light, Now broadly spread, now vanished quite. Late Golden Rod! in thought I deem I still shall find thee swaying there, As if some naiad of the stream Gave to the wind her yellow hair, Or, leaning o'er the margin, sought The restless shape the waters wrought. Though swaying, yet in quietude, Thy beauty touched my very soul, Like the calm eye of womanhood, In stillness keeping all control. And lo! as under sudden spell, Thy presence shadowed all the dell. The valley took October's crown, I found thy glory still the same; The sumach flung his red leaves down, And lit his winter crest of flame; The early elm and maple gave Their burden to the patient wave. I sought thee in the later year, I sought, but found thee there no more; Only a rigid stalk and sere A withered head in silence bore, Or swung, responsive to the sigh Of the stray wind that passed it by. Now Severn's banks in snow are still, And Severn's stream is hushed and pale; The sun shines on the whitened hill, And glows like summer in the dale; And yet I come, and half in gloom And half in joy recall thy bloom. * * * * * Reader--do you want SOMETHING NEW FOR DINNER?