of Industry retire into their own hearts, and ask solemnly, If
there is nothing but vulturous hunger, for fine wines, valet
reputation and gilt carriages, discoverable there? Of hearts
made by the Almighty God.

I will not believe such a thing. Deep-hidden under wretchedest
god-forgetting Cants, Epicurisms, Dead-Sea Apisms; forgotten as
under foulest fat Lethe mud and weeds, there is yet, in all
hearts born into this God's-World, a spark of the Godlike
slumbering. Awake, O nightmare sleepers; awake, arise, or be
forever fallen! This is not playhouse poetry; it is sober fact.
Our England, our world cannot live as it is. It will connect
itself with a God again, or go down with nameless throes and
fire-consummation to the Devils. Thou who feelest aught of such
a Godlike stirring in thee, any faintest intimation of it as
through heavy-laden dreams, follow it, I conjure thee. Arise,
save thyself, be one of those that save thy country.

Bucaniers, Chactaw Indians, whose supreme aim in fighting is that
they may get the scalps, the money, that they may amass scalps
and money: out of such came no Chivalry, and never will! Out of
such came only gore and wreck, infernal rage and misery;
desperation quenched in annihilation. Behold it, I bid thee,
behold there, and consider! What is it that thou have a hundred
thousand-pound bills laid up in thy strong-room, a hundred scalps
hung up in thy wigwam? I value not them or thee. Thy scalps and
thy thousand-pound bills are as yet nothing, if no nobleness from
within irradiate them; if no Chivalry, in action, or in embryo
ever struggling towards birth and action, be there.

Love of men cannot be bought by cash-payment; and without love,
men cannot endure to be together. You cannot lead a Fighting
World without having it regimented, chivalried: the thing, in a
day, becomes impossible; all men in it, the highest at first,
the very lowest at last, discern consciously, or by a noble
instinct, this necessity. And can you any more continue to lead
a Working World unregimented, anarchic? I answer, and the
Heavens and Earth are now answering, No! The thing becomes not
'in a day' impossible; but in some two generations it does.
Yes, when fathers and mothers, in Stockport hunger-cellars, begin
to eat their children, and Irish widows have to prove their
relationship by dying of typhus-fever; and amid Governing
'Corporations of the Best and Bravest,' busy to preserve the