The true wealth and glory of a nation consist not in its gold dust, nor in its commerce, nor in the grandeur of its palaces, nor yet in the magnificence of its cities,--but in the intellectual and moral energy of its people. Egypt is more glorious because of her carrying into Greece the blessings of civilization, than because of her pyramids, however wondrous, her lakes and labyrinths, however stupendous, or her Thebes, though every square marked a palace, or every alley a dome. Who hears of the moneyed men of Athens, of Rome? And who does _not_ hear of Socrates, of Plato, of Demosthenes, of Virgil, of Cicero? Are you in converse with him of the “Sea-girt Isle,” and would touch the chord that vibrates most readily in his heart?--then talk to him of Shakspeare, of Milton, of Cowper, of Bacon, of Newton; of Burns, of Scott. To the intelligent son of the “Emerald Isle,” talk of Curran, of Emmett, of O’Connell. Great men are a nation’s vitality. Nations pass away,--great men, never. Great men are not unfrequently buried in dungeons or in obscurity; but they work out great thoughts for all time, nevertheless. Did not Bunyan work out a great thought all-vital and vitalizing, when he lay twelve years in Bedford jail, weaving his tagged lace, and writing his Pilgrim’s Progress? The greatest man in all America is now in obscurity. It is he who is “_the Lord of his own soul_,” on whose brow wisdom has marked her supremacy, and who, in his sphere, moves “Stilly as a star, on his eternal way.” A great writer hath said, “Nature is stingy of her great men.” I do not believe it. God doeth all his work fitly and well; how, therefore, could he give us great men, not plentifully, but stingily? The truth is, there are great men, and they are plentiful,--plentiful for the times, I mean,--but we do not see them, because we will not come into the sun-light of truth and rectitude where, and where only, dwelleth greatness. Placido was a great man. He was a great poet besides. He was a patriot, also,--how could he be otherwise? Are not all poets patriots? “Adios Mundo,” cried he, as with tear-bedimmed eyes he looked up into the blue heavens above him, and upon the green earth beneath him; and upon the portals of the universe read wisdom, majesty, and power. Was there no poetry in this outburst of a full heart, and in this looking upward to heaven? “Adios Mundo,” cried he, as now beholding, for the last time, the home of his love,--he bared his bosom to the death-shot of the soldiers. Great was Placido in life,--he was greater still in death. His was the faith which fastens itself upon the EVERLASTING I AM.