But the War is not less manifest. Assuming all the functions of an independent government, the Confederacy has undertaken to declare war against the United States. In support of this declaration it has raised armies, organized a navy, issued letters of marque, borrowed money, imposed taxes, and otherwise done all that it could in waging war. Its armies are among the largest ever marshalled by a single people, and at different places throughout a wide-spread territory they have encountered the armies of the United States. Battles are fought with the varying vicissitudes of war. Sieges are laid. Fortresses and cities are captured. On the sea, ships bearing the commission of the Rebellion, sometimes as privateers and sometimes as ships of the navy, seize, sink, or burn merchant vessels of the United States; and only lately an iron-clad steamer, with the flag of the Rebellion, destroyed two frigates of the United States. On each side prisoners are made, who are treated as prisoners of war, and as such exchanged. Flags of truce pass from camp to camp, and almost daily during the winter this white flag has afforded its belligerent protection to communications between Norfolk and Fortress Monroe, while the whole Rebel coast is by proclamation of the President declared in a state of blockade, and ships of foreign countries, as well as of our own, are condemned by courts in Washington, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, as prize of war. Thus do all things attest the existence of war, which is manifest now in the blockade, upheld by judicial tribunals, and now in the bugle, which after night sounds truce, indubitably as in mighty armies face to face on the battle-field. It is war in all its criminal eminence, challenging all the pains and penalties of war, enlisting all its terrible prerogatives, and awaking all its dormant thunder.