The South is its husband, the South is not quite its master. It has a soul while Washington is a symbol, Beautiful, witty, feminine, narrow and valiant, Unwisely-chosen, perhaps, for a king of the game, But playing the part with a definite air of royalty Until, in the end, it stands for the South completely And when it falls, the sword of the South snaps short.

At present, the war has not yet touched it home. McClellan has landed, on the Peninsula, But his guns are still far away. The ladies go To Mrs. Davis’s parties in last year’s dresses. Soon they are to cut the green and white chintz curtains That shade their long drawing-rooms from the lazy sun To bandage the stricken wounded of Seven Pines.