The weakness of the nation was not intellectual, but moral. The 'selfish pursuit of material advantages' had conquered, in the slaveowner of the South, and in the mercantile community of the North, the love of equity and the desire of right. Political ambition was stronger among the statesmen of the North, than the instincts of mercy or the sense of religious responsibility. Love of gain weighed heavier with the people of the United States than the love of God or of their fellowmen. In vain the voice of warning has been sounded. In vain has the republic been urged to love mercy and to do justice. The country lay in a moral lethargy, from which no gentle means could rouse it, and the dread thunderbolt of war was launched to smite it into action. Through humiliation and suffering; amid widows' tears and orphans' grief; through struggle and privation; by the stern baptism of blood, the nation is being awakened to its deficiencies, is being called to the development of higher virtues. This latest lesson of history is solemn and impressive. Fruitlessly shall communities teem with material advantages and wealth; in vain shall peoples increase their industrial resources; futile the universality of education and the liberalizing results of intellectual growth; these shall endure but for a season, as the glitter on the waves, unless the national life is grounded on religious devotion to the highest truth, and is practically active in securing the social welfare of the brotherhood of man. TREASURE-TROVE. A day in the heart of summer, A sky of that glorious hue That dazzles and melts like the ocean, In its fathomless, infinite blue! The topmost leaves of the maple Are stirred by a wondrous song, That swells, and dies; then rising, Still clearer floats along. Oh, where have I heard that music? Whence its familiar tone? The beauty that thrills it, trembles Not in the song alone: It dwells in sunsets, that deepen In the glory and gloom of night; In waters that glance and sparkle, In the hush of the lingering light. Like the waves of a springing river, That from silver fountains wells; Higher, and fuller, and sweeter That liquid melody swells. Oh, the haunting, dim-shadowed expression, That sighs on the breathless air! If ever a soul were in music, A soul is thrilling there! That song, with its burden immortal, I heard it long ago! I know its every cadence, That quivers and pulses so: I claim it, bird of summer! That wondrous song of thine; Though thine its tuneful utterance, Its melody is mine. Then sing till, tranced in rapture, The day forgets to wane; And the winds of heaven are silent, To hear that magic strain. Sing till the pain of thy transport O'erpowers each dying tone! Thou canst not warble a measure That is not all mine own. MATTER AND SPIRIT.