The fall and winter of 1864-'5 were especially gloomy to our people. The hopes that had so long delusively buoyed up the Southern States in their desperate struggle against overwhelming odds were beginning to flag very perceptibly in every part of the Confederacy where people were capable of appreciating the facts of the situation. More especially, then, in North-Carolina, situated so near to the seat of war that false rumors, telegrams, and "reliable gentlemen" from the front had never had more than a very limited circulation here, and whose sober people never had been blinded or dazzled by the glare of false lights; more especially here were there only gloomy outlooks for the year 1865, as it dawned. In September, 1864, our representative Governor had written thus confidentially to his oldest and most warmly attached personal friend, a gentleman of the highest consideration in the State--a letter that needs neither introduction nor comment to secure it attention: "RALEIGH, September 22, 1864. "I would be glad if I could have a long talk with you. I never before have been so gloomy about the condition of affairs. Early's defeat in the valley I consider as the turning-point in this campaign; and, confidentially, I fear it seals the fate of Richmond, though not immediately. It will require our utmost exertions to retain our footing in Virginia till '65 comes in. McClellan's defeat is placed among the facts, and abolitionism is rampant for four years more. The army in Georgia is utterly demoralized; and by the time President Davis, who has gone there, displays again his obstinacy in defying public sentiment, and his ignorance of men in the change of commanders, its ruin will be complete. They are now deserting by hundreds. In short, if the enemy pushes his luck till the close of the year, we shall not be offered any terms at all. "The signs which discourage me more than aught else are the utter demoralization of the people. With a base of communication five hundred miles in Sherman's rear, through our own country, not a bridge has been burned, not a car thrown from its track, nor a man shot by the people whose country he has desolated. They seem everywhere to submit when our armies are withdrawn. What does this show, my dear sir? It shows what I have always believed, that _the great popular heart_ is not now, and never has been in this war. It was a revolution of the _Politicians_, not the _People_; and was fought at first by the natural enthusiasm of our young men, and has been kept going by State and sectional pride, assisted by that bitterness of feeling produced by the cruelties and brutalities of the enemy.