but were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete abasement of poor starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might i have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valour in the soul. men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. that immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. but this august dignity i treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from god; himself! the great god absolute! the centre and circumference of all democracy! his omnipresence, our divine equality!