“She is equal to Madame Le Normand!” said Major Favraud, aside, nodding approvingly at me.

“If one waits long enough, most prophecies may be fulfilled,” I ventured; “but, madame, your words point to results too terrible—­too unnatural, it seems to me, ever to be realized in these enlightened times or in this land of moderation.”

“Child,” she responded, “blood asserts itself to the end of races.  There are two separate civilizations in this land, destined some day to come in fearful conflict; and the wars of Scylla, of the Jews themselves, shall be outdone in the horror and persistence of that strife of partners—­I will not say brothers—­for there is no brotherhood of blood between South and North, of which Clay and Calhoun stand forth to my mind as distinct types.  No union of the red and white roses possible.”

“But you forget, madame, that Mr. Clay is a Western man, a Virginian, a Kentuckian, and the representative of slave-holders,” I remonstrated.  “His interests are coincident with those of the South.  His hope of the presidency itself vests in his constituents, and the wand would be broken in his hand were he to lend himself to partiality of any kind.  Mr. Clay is a great patriot, I believe, Jacksonite though I am—­he knows no South nor North, nor East nor West, but the Union alone, solid and undivided.”

“All this is true,” she answered, “in one sense.  It is thus he speaks, and, like all partial parents, even thinks he feels toward his offspring; but observe his acts narrowly from first to last.  He has a manufacturer’s heart, with all his genius.  He loves machinery—­the sound of the mill, the anvil, the spinning-jenny, the sight of the ship upon the high-seas, or steamboat on the river, the roar of commerce, far more than the work of the husbandman.  We are an agricultural people, we of the South and West—­and especially we Southerners, with our poverty of invention, our one staple, our otherwise helpless habits, incident to the institution which, however it may be our curse, is still our wealth, and to which, for the present time, we are bound, Ixion-like, by every law of necessity.  What does this tariff promise?  Where will the profit rest?  Where will the loss fall crushingly?  The slow torture of which we read in histories of early times was like to this.  Each day a weight was added to that already lying on the breast of a strong man, bound on his back by the cords of his oppressors, until relief and destruction came together, and the man was crushed; such was the peine forte et dure.”

“Calhoun is patriarchal,[4] and is now placing all his individual strength to the task of heaving off this incubus from the breast of our body politic, but with small avail, for he has no lever to assist him—­no fulcrum whereon to rest it; otherwise he might say with Archimedes, ‘With these I could move a world.’  He is unaided, this eagled-eyed prophet of ours, looking sorrowfully, sagaciously