A year of War.
The
North has been making war upon the
South for a year.
It begun the war at the wrong season — in the spring — although even then it promised itself entire success in sixty days. But the winter was the period when it had all to hope for, and when we had most to dread.
It had the whole
spring and
summer to make ready, to build its armadas, to disciplines its hosts.
It never doubted that by the end of the winter its power would be fairly established throughout the whole
South.
Its preparations and its efforts have been gigantic, its expenditures have been enormous.
But the winter has come and gone, and the
South remains as defiant as ever and indomitable.
Even
Virginia has not yet fallen in their hands.
The city of
Nashville is theirs, but they have met a Corinth.
McClellan's enormous host is not yet in
Richmond, which, if it fall into their hands, would be only a city of forty thousand inhabitants, not the Southern Confederacy.
Nor is
McClellan here yet. A lion is in his path.
He has changed his front from the
Potomac to the
Peninsula; he may have to change again before long.
Meantime the spring has come; the burning sun of the
South will soon spread havoc among the invaders of the
South, and the diseases of the climate will prove more terrible than an army with banners.