4. Lastly (and this will doubtless astonish some of our readers) since the half-breed, the grade—the mulatto—is the curse of any nation, whether white, black, red or yellow, every mulatto is a living misfit, whose making is the spoiling of two men—a white man and a black man. Either of these, in his ability to accomplish the ends for which he was made, is far greater than the cross-bred, this being true in Maine,[1] where there are no barriers between the social relations of the whites and blacks, about two per cent. of the population are negroes, but about 59 per cent. of her negroes are mulattoes, while in South Caroline, where 59 per cent. of her people are negroes, only 9.7 per cent. are mulattoes. And it runs about that way in the entire country, north, where negroes are permitted to intermarry with the whites. And if the sturdy white population of the grand old State of Maine—the State of such intellectual giants as Blaine, Hale and hosts of others—if this State becomes wholly mulatto, it might as well be wiped from the map of civilization and be added to Hayti, the Philippines and Cuba. This, to Trotwood’s, seems to be an unanswerable argument as to the superiority of the South’s social relations. But this is as we understand social relations. We welcome all communications of thought and progress, but we expect each correspondent to defend his position and if, on the other hand, our correspondent means to use social relations and civilization as synonymous, this is another proposition, and one which, doubtless, he is able to defend. There are other of his premises so painfully true that we repeat them for emphasis: 1. “In the realm of economics, most of us in the South have yet to learn some of the first principles.” For example, it is said that the thrifty Yankee can live on what the Southerner wastes. And 2. “As to our courts of justice,” etc.—e.g., where to-day is the old Southern lawyer, who held his profession above money, and his opinion beyond barter? [1] See page 16, Census Bulletin No. 8. EDMUND WINSTON PETTUS. It is seldom that any magazine may present to living readers the letter of a man who has seen four generations arise and pass away. And such a man!