squanders wealth upon the four winds, for wealth is in the smoke.

Not so long ago as a generation, there was no panting giant here, no
heaving, grimy city; there was but a pleasant big town of neighborly
people who had understanding of one another, being, on the whole, much
of the same type. It was a leisurely and kindly place--"homelike,"
it was called--and when the visitor had been taken through the State
Asylum for the Insane and made to appreciate the view of the cemetery
from a little hill, his host's duty as Baedeker was done. The good
burghers were given to jogging comfortably about in phaetons or in
surreys for a family drive on Sunday. No one was very rich; few were
very poor; the air was clean, and there was time to live.

But there was a spirit abroad in the land, and it was strong here as
elsewhere--a spirit that had moved in the depths of the American soil
and labored there, sweating, till it stirred the surface, rove the
mountains, and emerged, tangible and monstrous, the god of all good
American hearts--Bigness. And that god wrought the panting giant.

In the souls of the burghers there had always been the profound
longing for size. Year by year the longing increased until it became
an accumulated force: We must Grow! We must be Big! We must be
Bigger! Bigness means Money! And the thing began to happen; their
longing became a mighty Will. We must be Bigger! Bigger! Bigger!
Get people here! Coax them here! Bribe them! Swindle them into
coming, if you must, but get them! Shout them into coming! Deafen
them into coming! Any kind of people; all kinds of people! We must
be Bigger! Blow! Boost! Brag! Kill the fault-finder! Scream and
bellow to the Most High: Bigness is patriotism and honor! Bigness
is love and life and happiness! Bigness is Money! We want Bigness!