eacher, Carlyle, has been telling us for many a year,
that the use of the Lords of a country is to _govern_ the country. If
they answer that use, the country will rejoice in keeping them; if not,
that will become of them which must of all things found to have lost
their serviceableness.

Here, therefore, is the one question, at this crisis, for them, and for
us. Will they be lords indeed, and give us laws--dukes indeed, and give
us guiding--princes indeed, and give us beginning, of truer dynasty,
which shall not be soiled by covetousness, nor disordered by iniquity?
Have they themselves sunk so far as not to hope this? Are there yet any
among them who can stand forward with open English brows, and say,--So
far as in me lies, I will govern with my might, not for Dieu et _mon_
Droit, but for the first grand reading of the war cry, from which that
was corrupted, "Dieu et Droit?" Among them I know there are some--among
you, soldiers of England, I know there are many, who can do this; and in
you is our trust. I, one of the lower people of your country, ask of you
in their name--you whom I will not any more call soldiers, but by the
truer name of Knights;--Equites of England. How many yet of you are
there, knights errant now beyond all former fields of danger--knights
patient now beyond all former endurance; who still retain the ancient
and eternal purpose of knighthood, to subdue the wicked, and aid the
weak? To them, be they few or many, we English people call for help to
the wretchedness, and for rule over the baseness, of multitudes desolate
and deceived, shrieking to one another this new gospel of their new
religion. "Let the weak do as they can, and the wicked as they will."

I can hear you saying in your hearts, even the bravest of you, "The time
is past for all that." Gentlemen, it is not so. The time has come for
_more_ than all that. Hitherto, soldiers have given their lives for
false fame, and for cruel power. The day is now when they must give
their lives for true fame, and for beneficent power: and the work is
near every one of you--close beside you--the means of it even thrust
into your hands. The people are crying to you for command, and you stand
there at pause, and silent. You think they don't want to be commanded;
try them; determine what is needful for them--honorable for them; show
it them, promise to bring them to it, and they will follow you through
fire. "Govern us," they cry with one heart, though many