he necessity of even trying! The
Feudal Baron had a Man's Soul in him; to which anarchy, mutiny,
and the other fruits of temporary mercenaries, were intolerable:
he had never been a Baron otherwise, but had continued a Chactaw
and Bucanier. He felt it precious, and at last it became
habitual, and his fruitful enlarged existence included it as a
necessity, to have men round him who in heart loved him; whose
life he watched over with rigour yet with love; who were
prepared to give their life for him, if need came. It was
beautiful; it was human! Man lives not otherwise, nor can live
contented, anywhere or anywhen. Isolation is the sum-total of
wretchedness to man. To be cut off, to be left solitary: to
have a world alien, not your world; all a hostile camp for you;
not a home at all, of hearts and faces who are yours, whose you
are! It is the frightfulest enchantment; too truly a work of
the Evil One. To have neither superior, nor inferior, nor equal,
united manlike to you. Without father, without child, without
brother. Man knows no sadder destiny. 'How is each of us,'
exclaims Jean Paul, 'so lonely, in the wide bosom of the All!'
Encased each as in his transparent 'ice-palace;' our brother
visible in his, making signals and gesticulations to us;--
visible, but forever unattainable: on his bosom we shall never
rest, nor he on ours. It was not a God that did this; no!

Awake, ye noble Workers, warriors in the one true war: all this
must be remedied. It is you who are already half-alive, whom I
will welcome into life; whom I will conjure in God's name to
shake off your enchanted sleep, and live wholly! Cease to count
scalps, gold-purses; not in these lies your or our salvation.
Even these, if you count only these, will not long be left. Let
bucaniering be put far from you; alter, speedily abrogate all
laws of the bucaniers, if you would gain any victory that shall
endure. Let God's justice, let pity, nobleness and manly valour,
with more gold-purses or with fewer, testify themselves in this
your brief Life-transit to all the Eternities, the Gods and
Silences. It is to you I call; for ye are not dead, ye are
already half-alive: there is in you a sleepless dauntless
energy, the prime-matter of all nobleness in man. Honour to you
in your kind. It is to you I call: ye know at least this, That
the mandate of God to His creature man is: Work! The future
Epic of the World rests not with tho