ves;--not with the cause of a nation resting on his act, but helpless
to save so much as a child from among the lost crowd with whom he
resolves to be lost,--yet goes down quietly to his grave, rather than
break his faith to these few emigrants. But your captain by divine
right,--your captain with the hues of a hundred shields of kings upon
his breast,--your captain whose every deed, brave or base, will be
illuminated or branded for ever before unescapable eyes of men,--your
captain whose every thought and act are beneficent, or fatal, from
sunrising to setting, blessing as the sunshine, or shadowing as the
night,--this captain, as you find him in history, for the most part
thinks only how he may tax his passengers, and sit at most ease in his
state cabin!

For observe, if there had been indeed in the hearts of the rulers of
great multitudes of men any such conception of work for the good of
those under their command, as there is in the good and thoughtful
masters of any small company of men, not only wars for the sake of mere
increase of power could never take place, but our idea of power itself
would be entirely altered. Do you suppose that to think and act even for
a million of men, to hear their complaints, watch their weaknesses,
restrain their vices, make laws for them, lead them, day by day, to
purer life, is not enough for one man's work? If any of us were absolute
lord only of a district of a hundred miles square, and were resolved on
doing our utmost for it; making it feed as large a number of people as
possible; making every clod productive, and every rock defensive, and
every human being happy; should we not have enough on our hands think
you? But if the ruler has any other aim than this; if, careless of the
result of his interference, he desire only the authority to interfere;
and, regardless of what is ill-done or well-done, cares only that it
shall be done at his bidding,--if he would rather do two hundred miles'
space of mischief, than one hundred miles' space of good, of course he
will try to add to his territory; and to add inimitably. But does he add
to his power? Do you call it power in a child, if he is allowed to play
with the wheels and bands of some vast engine, pleased with their murmur
and whirl, till his unwise touch, wandering where it ought not, scatters
beam and wheel into ruin? Yet what machine is so vast, so incognisable,
as the working of the mind of a nation what child's touch so wanton,