prosperity and comfort is such as to astonish those who visit us from other countries.  What are war taxes to a nation which, as we are assured on good authority, has more men worth a million now than it had worth ten thousand dollars at the close of the Revolution,—­whose whole property is a hundred times, and whose commerce, inland and foreign, is five hundred times, what it was then?  But we need not study Mr. Still’s pamphlet and “Thompson’s Bank-Note Reporter” to show us what we know well enough, that, so far from having occasion to tremble in fear of our impending ruin, we must rather blush for our material prosperity.  For the multitudes who are unfortunate enough to be taxed for a million or more, of course we must feel deeply, at the same time suggesting that the more largely they report their incomes to the tax-gatherer, the more consolation they will find in the feeling that they have served their country.  But,—­let us say it plainly,—­it will not hurt our people to be taught that there are other things to be cared for besides money-making and money-spending; that the time has come when manhood must assert itself by brave deeds and noble thoughts; when womanhood must assume its most sacred office, “to warn, to comfort,” and, if need be, “to command,” those whose services their country calls for.  This Northern section of the land has become a great variety shop, of which the Atlantic cities are the long-extended counter.  We have grown rich for what?  To put gilt bands on coachmen’s hats?  To sweep the foul sidewalks with the heaviest silks which the toiling artisans of France can send us?  To look through plate-glass windows, and pity the brown soldiers,—­or sneer at the black ones? to reduce the speed of trotting horses a second or two below its old minimum? to color meerschaums? to flaunt in laces, and sparkle in diamonds? to dredge our maidens’ hair with gold-dust? to float through life, the passive shuttlecocks of fashion, from the avenues to the beaches, and back again from the beaches to the avenues?  Was it for this that the broad domain of the Western hemisphere was kept so long unvisited by civilization?—­for this, that Time, the father of empires, unbound the virgin zone of this youngest of his daughters, and gave her, beautiful in the long veil of her forests, to the rude embrace of the adventurous Colonist?  All this is what we see around us, now, now while we are actually fighting this great battle, and supporting this great load of indebtedness.  Wait till the diamonds go back to the Jews of Amsterdam; till the plate-glass window bears the fatal announcement, For Sale or to Let; till the voice of our Miriam is obeyed, as she sings,

    “Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms!”