Heroism

In the elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays Of Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a constant recognition of gentility, as if a noble behavior were as easily marked in the society of their age as color is in our American population. When any Rodrigo, Pedro or Valerio enters, though he be a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, ‘This is a gentleman,—and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest are slag and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages there is in their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue,—as in Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage,—wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional incident in the plot, rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts take the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athens,—all but the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames Martius, and he seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask his life, although assured that a word will save him, and the execution of both proceeds:—

In the older English playwrights, especially Beaumont and Fletcher, gentility is constantly recognized. Noble behavior seems as easy to identify in their society as skin color is in our American population. When a Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio enters, even as a stranger, the duke or governor exclaims, “This is a gentleman,” and showers him with courtesies. But everyone else is slag and refuse. Alongside this delight in personal advantages, their plays have a certain heroic quality in their characters and dialogue. Examples include Bonduca, Sophocles, the Mad Lover, and the Double Marriage. The speakers are so earnest and warm, and speak from such depth of character, that the slightest new event in the plot naturally raises their dialogue into poetry. Among many examples, consider the following. The Roman Martius has conquered Athens, but not the unconquerable spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. Dorigen’s beauty inflames Martius, and he tries to save her husband. But Sophocles will not ask for his life, although he is assured that a word will save him. The execution of both proceeds:

I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or oration that our press vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune. We have a great many flutes and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet, Wordsworth’s “Laodamia,” and the ode of “Dion,” and some sonnets, have a certain noble music; and Scott will sometimes draw a stroke like the portrait of Lord Evandale given by Balfour of Burley. Thomas Carlyle, with his natural taste for what is manly and daring in character, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites to drop from his biographical and historical pictures. Earlier, Robert Burns has given us a song or two. In the Harleian Miscellanies there is an account of the battle of Lutzen which deserves to be read. And Simon Ockley’s History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies of individual valor, with admiration all the more evident on the part of the narrator that he seems to think that his place in Christian Oxford requires of him some proper protestations of abhorrence. But if we explore the literature of Heroism we shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and historian. To him we owe the Brasidas, the Dion, the Epaminondas, the Scipio of old, and I must think we are more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers. Each of his “Lives” is a refutation to the despondency and cowardice of our religious and political theorists. A wild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools but of the blood, shines in every anecdote, and has given that book its immense fame.

I cannot readily recall any poem, play, sermon, novel, or speech published by our press in recent years that has the same spirit. We have plenty of flutes and flageolets, but we seldom hear a fife. Yet Wordsworth’s “Laodamia,” his ode “Dion,” and some of his sonnets have a noble music. Scott, too, sometimes draws a portrait like Balfour of Burley’s portrait of Lord Evandale. Thomas Carlyle has a natural taste for manly and daring character. In his biographies and histories, he has left out no heroic trait of the people he admires. Earlier, Robert Burns gave us a song or two. The Harleian Miscellanies contain an account of the battle of Lutzen that deserves to be read. Simon Ockley’s History of the Saracens also recounts extraordinary feats of individual courage. The narrator’s admiration is all the more evident because he seems to think his position in Christian Oxford requires him to declare his proper horror at them. But if we explore the literature of Heroism, we soon come to Plutarch, its learned authority and historian. We owe to him our knowledge of Brasidas, Dion, Epaminondas, and Scipio of old. I must think we owe him more than we owe all the ancient writers. Each of his “Lives” refutes the despair and cowardice of our religious and political theorists. Every anecdote shines with a wild courage and a Stoicism that comes from the blood, not the schools. That spirit has given the book its immense fame.

We need books of this tart cathartic virtue more than books of political science or of private economy. Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from the nook and chimney-side of prudence, it wears a ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the laws of nature by our predecessors and our contemporaries are punished in us also. The disease and deformity around us certify the infraction of natural, intellectual, and moral laws, and often violation on violation to breed such compound misery. A lock-jaw that bends a man’s head back to his heels; hydrophobia that makes him bark at his wife and babes; insanity that makes him eat grass; war, plague, cholera, famine, indicate a certain ferocity in nature, which, as it had its inlet by human crime, must have its outlet by human suffering. Unhappily no man exists who has not in his own person become to some amount a stockholder in the sin, and so made himself liable to a share in the expiation.

We need books with this sharp, cleansing power more than books about politics or managing household finances. Life is a festival only for the wise. Viewed from the sheltered fireside of prudence, life looks ragged and dangerous. We too are punished when those before us and those living alongside us break nature’s laws. The disease and deformity around us show that natural, intellectual, and moral laws have been broken. Often, violation has followed violation, producing layers of misery. Lockjaw can bend a man’s head back to his heels. Rabies can make him bark at his wife and children. Insanity can make him eat grass. These afflictions, along with war, plague, cholera, and famine, reveal a certain ferocity in nature. Human wrongdoing lets that ferocity in, and human suffering must let it out. Sadly, every person has personally taken some share in the sin and has made himself liable for a share of the punishment.

Our culture therefore must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season that he is born into the state of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well-being require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self-collected and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his hand, and, with perfect urbanity dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his speech and the rectitude of his behavior.

Our education must therefore prepare a man for battle. He should learn early that he is born into a state of war. Both the common good and his own well-being require more than dancing through the weeds of peace. Instead, he should be alert and composed, neither defying nor fearing the thunder. He should be ready to risk both his reputation and his life. With perfect courtesy, he should face the gallows and the mob by speaking the absolute truth and acting rightly.

Towards all this external evil the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this military attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Its rudest form is the contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a self-trust which slights the restraints of prudence, in the plenitude of its energy and power to repair the harms it may suffer. The hero is a mind of such balance that no disturbances can shake his will, but pleasantly and as it were merrily he advances to his own music, alike in frightful alarms and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissoluteness. There is somewhat not philosophical in heroism; there is somewhat not holy in it; it seems not to know that other souls are of one texture with it; it has pride; it is the extreme of individual nature. Nevertheless we must profoundly revere it. There is somewhat in great actions which does not allow us to go behind them. Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always right; and although a different breeding, different religion and greater intellectual activity would have modified or even reversed the particular action, yet for the hero that thing he does is the highest deed, and is not open to the censure of philosophers or divines. It is the avowal of the unschooled man that he finds a quality in him that is negligent of expense, of health, of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows that his will is higher and more excellent than all actual and all possible antagonists.

Against all this external evil, the person within us takes a fighting stance. He claims he can face an endless army of enemies single-handedly. We call this fighting stance of the soul Heroism. In its roughest form, heroism scorns safety and comfort, making war attractive. It is a confidence in oneself that disregards caution. It does so because it has abundant energy and the power to repair any harm it may suffer. The hero has such a balanced mind that no disturbance can shake his will. He moves cheerfully, almost merrily, to his own music. He does so amid terrifying alarms and amid the drunken merriment of widespread moral abandon alike. There is something unphilosophical about heroism, and something unholy. It seems unaware that other souls are made of the same substance as its own. It is proud. It is individual nature at its extreme. Nevertheless, we must deeply honor it. There is something in great actions that does not allow us to look behind them. Heroism feels and never reasons, and therefore is always right. A different upbringing, a different religion, and greater intellectual activity might have changed or even reversed a particular action. Yet for the hero, what he does is the highest deed. Philosophers and theologians have no right to condemn it. His action declares that, though untrained, he finds a quality within himself that disregards cost, health, life, danger, hatred, and blame. He knows that his will is higher and better than all actual and all possible opponents.

Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind and in contradiction, for a time, to the voice of the great and good. Heroism is an obedience to a secret impulse of an individual’s character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as it does to him, for every man must be supposed to see a little farther on his own proper path than any one else. Therefore just and wise men take umbrage at his act, until after some little time be past: then they see it to be in unison with their acts. All prudent men see that the action is clean contrary to a sensual prosperity; for every heroic act measures itself by its contempt of some external good. But it finds its own success at last, and then the prudent also extol.

Heroism goes against the voice of humanity and, for a time, against the voice of the great and good. Heroism means obeying a private impulse rooted in one’s character. No one else can see the wisdom of that impulse as the individual does. For we must assume that everyone sees a little farther along their own path than anyone else. Therefore, just and wise people take offense at the heroic act at first. After a little time has passed, they see that it is in harmony with their own actions. All prudent people see that the action runs directly counter to material prosperity. For every heroic act is measured by its contempt for some external good. But the heroic act achieves its own success in the end, and then the prudent praise it too.

Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate objects are the last defiance of falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can be inflicted by evil agents. It speaks the truth and it is just, generous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calculations and scornful of being scorned. It persists; it is of an undaunted boldness and of a fortitude not to be wearied out. Its jest is the littleness of common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth is the butt and merriment of heroism. Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost ashamed of its body. What shall it say then to the sugar-plums and cats’-cradles, to the toilet, compliments, quarrels, cards and custard, which rack the wit of all society? What joys has kind nature provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no interval between greatness and meanness. When the spirit is not master of the world, then it is its dupe. Yet the little man takes the great hoax so innocently, works in it so headlong and believing, is born red, and dies gray, arranging his toilet, attending on his own health, laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a horse or a rifle, made happy with a little gossip or a little praise, that the great soul cannot choose but laugh at such earnest nonsense. “Indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to take note how many pairs of silk stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the peach-colored ones; or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other for use!”

Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the soul in a state of war. Its ultimate aims are to defy falsehood and wrong to the end and to endure all that evil people can inflict. Heroism speaks the truth. It is just, generous, hospitable, and self-controlled. It scorns petty calculations and does not care if others scorn it. It persists with fearless courage and tireless strength. Heroism laughs at the small concerns of ordinary life. It mocks the false caution that obsesses over health and wealth. Like Plotinus, heroism is almost ashamed of its body. What, then, can it say about the candies and string games, the grooming, compliments, quarrels, cards, and custard that occupy everyone in society? What joys kind nature has provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no middle ground between greatness and pettiness. When the spirit does not master the world, the world fools it. Yet the small-minded man falls for the great deception so innocently. He throws himself into it so eagerly and unquestioningly. Born red, he dies gray, still fussing over his appearance and health. He schemes to get sweet food and strong wine. He sets his heart on a horse or a rifle. A little gossip or praise makes him happy. The great soul cannot help laughing at such earnest nonsense. “Indeed, these humble concerns make me lose my love of greatness. How disgraceful it is for me to take note of how many pairs of silk stockings you have, including these and those peach-colored ones. Or to keep an inventory of your shirts, one for show and another for use!”

Citizens, thinking after the laws of arithmetic, consider the inconvenience of receiving strangers at their fireside, reckon narrowly the loss of time and the unusual display; the soul of a better quality thrusts back the unseasonable economy into the vaults of life, and says, I will obey the God, and the sacrifice and the fire he will provide. Ibn Hankal, the Arabian geographer, describes a heroic extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in Bukharia. “When I was in Sogd I saw a great building, like a palace, the gates of which were open and fixed back to the wall with large nails. I asked the reason, and was told that the house had not been shut, night or day, for a hundred years. Strangers may present themselves at any hour and in whatever number; the master has amply provided for the reception of the men and their animals, and is never happier than when they tarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in any other country.” The magnanimous know very well that they who give time, or money, or shelter, to the stranger,—so it be done for love and not for ostentation,—do, as it were, put God under obligation to them, so perfect are the compensations of the universe. In some way the time they seem to lose is redeemed and the pains they seem to take remunerate themselves. These men fan the flame of human love and raise the standard of civil virtue among mankind. But hospitality must be for service and not for show, or it pulls down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself by the splendor of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, and all it hath, but its own majesty can lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water than belong to city feasts.

Citizens who think like accountants consider the inconvenience of welcoming strangers into their homes. They count every minute lost and worry about the extra display expected of them. A finer soul pushes such ill-timed thrift into the depths of life and says, I will obey God, and he will provide the sacrifice and the fire. Ibn Hankal, the Arabian geographer, describes an extraordinary example of hospitality in Sogd, in Bukharia. “When I was in Sogd, I saw a great building like a palace. Its gates stood open, fastened back to the walls with large nails. I asked why and was told that the house had not been closed, day or night, for a hundred years. Strangers may arrive at any hour and in any number. The master has provided generously for the visitors and their animals. He is never happier than when they stay for some time. I have seen nothing like it in any other country.” Generous souls know very well that people who give strangers time, money, or shelter put God in their debt, so to speak. They know this is true if they give out of love and not for show, because the universe repays them so perfectly. Somehow, the time they seem to lose is made up to them, and the trouble they seem to take pays for itself. These people fan the flame of human love and raise the standard of civic virtue among humanity. But hospitality must serve others, not serve as a display, or it diminishes the host. A brave soul values itself too highly to measure its worth by a splendid table and fine draperies. It gives what it has, and all it has. Its own dignity can lend simple bread and clean water more grace than the grandest city feasts possess.

The temperance of the hero proceeds from the same wish to do no dishonor to the worthiness he has. But he loves it for its elegancy, not for its austerity. It seems not worth his while to be solemn and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or wine-drinking, the use of tobacco, or opium, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great man scarcely knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision his living is natural and poetic. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water, and said of wine,—“It is a noble, generous liquor and we should be humbly thankful for it, but, as I remember, water was made before it.” Better still is the temperance of King David, who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of his warriors had brought him to drink, at the peril of their lives.

The hero’s moderation comes from the same desire not to dishonor his own worth. But he loves moderation for its elegance, not its severity. He does not think it worthwhile to solemnly and bitterly condemn eating meat, drinking wine, or using tobacco, opium, tea, silk, or gold. A great man hardly notices what he eats or wears. Yet without condemning others or following strict rules, he lives naturally and poetically. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water and said of wine, “It is a noble, generous drink, and we should be humbly thankful for it. But, as I remember, water was made before it.” Better still is the moderation of King David. He poured out on the ground before the Lord the water that three of his warriors had risked their lives to bring him to drink.

It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword after the battle of Philippi, he quoted a line of Euripides,—“O Virtue! I have followed thee through life, and I find thee at last but a shade.” I doubt not the hero is slandered by this report. The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to dine nicely and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the perception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament. It does not need plenty, and can very well abide its loss.

It is said that Brutus quoted a line from Euripides when he fell on his sword after the battle of Philippi: “O Virtue! I have followed you through life, and I find you are nothing but a shadow.” I have no doubt that this story slanders the hero. A heroic soul does not sell its justice and nobility. It does not ask for fine food or a warm place to sleep. The essence of greatness is knowing that virtue is enough. Poverty is an adornment to greatness. Greatness does not need abundance and can bear losing it very well.

But that which takes my fancy most in the heroic class, is the good-humor and hilarity they exhibit. It is a height to which common duty can very well attain, to suffer and to dare with solemnity. But these rare souls set opinion, success, and life at so cheap a rate that they will not soothe their enemies by petitions, or the show of sorrow, but wear their own habitual greatness. Scipio, charged with peculation, refuses to do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for justification, though he had the scroll of his accounts in his hands, but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates’s condemnation of himself to be maintained in all honor in the Prytaneum, during his life, and Sir Thomas More’s playfulness at the scaffold, are of the same strain. In Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Sea Voyage,” Juletta tells the stout captain and his company,—

But what I admire most in heroic people is their good humor and high spirits. Ordinary people can rise to the duty of suffering and facing danger with solemnity. But these rare souls value public opinion, success, and life so little that they refuse to appease their enemies with pleas or shows of sorrow. Instead, they carry themselves with their usual greatness. Accused of embezzlement, Scipio refuses to disgrace himself by waiting to be cleared. Though he has the scroll of his accounts in his hands, he tears it to pieces before the tribunes. In the same spirit, Socrates sentences himself to be supported with full honors in the Prytaneum for the rest of his life. Sir Thomas More shows the same spirit in his playfulness at the scaffold. In Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Sea Voyage,” Juletta tells the brave captain and his company:

These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow of a perfect health. The great will not condescend to take any thing seriously; all must be as gay as the song of a canary, though it were the building of cities or the eradication of old and foolish churches and nations which have cumbered the earth long thousands of years. Simple hearts put all the history and customs of this world behind them, and play their own game in innocent defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world; and such would appear, could we see the human race assembled in vision, like little children frolicking together, though to the eyes of mankind at large they wear a stately and solemn garb of works and influences.

These replies are sound and complete. Play is the blossom and glow of perfect health. Great people will not lower themselves to take anything seriously. Everything must be as cheerful as a canary’s song. This is true even when they build cities or uproot old, foolish churches and nations that have burdened the earth for thousands of years. People with simple hearts leave all the world’s history and customs behind them. They play their own game, innocently defying the world’s Blue Laws. If we could see the whole human race assembled in a vision, these people would appear like little children playing together. Yet to most people, their works and influence give them a dignified and solemn appearance.

The interest these fine stories have for us, the power of a romance over the boy who grasps the forbidden book under his bench at school, our delight in the hero, is the main fact to our purpose. All these great and transcendent properties are ours. If we dilate in beholding the Greek energy, the Roman pride, it is that we are already domesticating the same sentiment. Let us find room for this great guest in our small houses. The first step of worthiness will be to disabuse us of our superstitious associations with places and times, with number and size. Why should these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia and England, so tingle in the ear? Where the heart is, there the muses, there the gods sojourn, and not in any geography of fame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River and Boston Bay you think paltry places, and the ear loves names of foreign and classic topography. But here we are; and, if we will tarry a little, we may come to learn that here is best. See to it only that thyself is here, and art and nature, hope and fate, friends, angels and the Supreme Being shall not be absent from the chamber where thou sittest. Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus to die upon, nor the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well where he is. The Jerseys were handsome ground enough for Washington to tread, and London streets for the feet of Milton. A great man makes his climate genial in the imagination of men, and its air the beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is the fairest which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which fill the imagination in reading the actions of Pericles, Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden, teach us how needlessly mean our life is; that we, by the depth of our living, should deck it with more than regal or national splendor, and act on principles that should interest man and nature in the length of our days.

The key fact for our purpose is how much these fine stories interest us. Think of the power of a romance over a boy clutching a forbidden book under his school bench, and our delight in the hero. All these great and extraordinary qualities are ours. If we feel ourselves grow as we contemplate Greek energy and Roman pride, it is because we are already making those feelings our own. Let us make room for this great guest in our small houses. The first step toward being worthy is to free ourselves from superstitious associations with places and times, numbers and size. Why should the words Athenian, Roman, Asia and England thrill us so? Wherever the heart is, the muses and the gods dwell too, not in some celebrated place. You think Massachusetts, Connecticut River and Boston Bay are insignificant places. Your ears prefer the names of foreign and classical places. But here we are, and if we stay a little while, we may come to learn that here is best. Just make sure that you yourself are here. Then art and nature, hope and fate, friends, angels and the Supreme Being will all be present in the room where you sit. Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus as a place to die, or the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well where he is. The Jerseys were fine enough ground for Washington to walk on, and London streets were fine enough for Milton's feet. A great man makes the climate of his home seem pleasant in people's imaginations. He makes its air a beloved element for all sensitive spirits. The most beautiful country is the one inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures that fill our imaginations as we read of the deeds of Pericles, Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney and Hampden teach us how needlessly poor our lives are. They teach us that the depth of our living should give our lives more splendor than royalty or nationhood can provide. They teach us to act on principles that should engage both humanity and nature throughout our lives.

We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men who never ripened, or whose performance in actual life was not extraordinary. When we see their air and mien, when we hear them speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire their superiority; they seem to throw contempt on our entire polity and social state; theirs is the tone of a youthful giant who is sent to work revolutions. But they enter an active profession and the forming Colossus shrinks to the common size of man. The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which always make the Actual ridiculous; but the tough world had its revenge the moment they put their horses of the sun to plough in its furrow. They found no example and no companion, and their heart fainted. What then? The lesson they gave in their first aspirations is yet true; and a better valor and a purer truth shall one day organize their belief. Or why should a woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think, because Sappho, or Sévigné, or De Staël, or the cloistered souls who have had genius and cultivation do not satisfy the imagination and the serene Themis, none can,—certainly not she? Why not? She has a new and unattempted problem to solve, perchance that of the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the maiden, with erect soul, walk serenely on her way, accept the hint of each new experience, search in turn all the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm of her new-born being, which is the kindling of a new dawn in the recesses of space. The fair girl who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of influences, so careless of pleasing, so wilful and lofty, inspires every beholder with somewhat of her own nobleness. The silent heart encourages her; O friend, never strike sail to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in vain you live, for every passing eye is cheered and refined by the vision.

We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men who never matured, or whose achievements in life were not extraordinary. We admire their superiority when we see how they carry themselves and hear them speak about society, books, and religion. They seem to look down on our entire political and social order. They speak like young giants sent to bring about revolutions. But when they enter a profession, the giant in the making shrinks to ordinary human size. Their magic came from their ideal aspirations, which always make reality look ridiculous. But the tough world had its revenge as soon as they put their horses of the sun to work plowing its fields. They found no example to follow and no companion, and they lost heart. What then? The lesson of their early aspirations is still true. One day, greater courage and a purer truth will give form to their belief. Or why should a woman compare herself to any woman in history? Sappho, Sévigné, and De Staël do not satisfy the imagination or the serene Themis. Nor do the cloistered souls who had genius and learning. Why should a woman think that, because none of them satisfies these ideals, no one can, and certainly not she? Why not? She has a new problem to solve, one no one has tried before. Perhaps she must discover the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the young woman walk calmly on her way, with an upright spirit. Let her take a hint from each new experience and examine everything that catches her eye. In doing so, she may learn the power and charm of her new existence. Her existence is like a new dawn breaking in the depths of space. A lovely girl may resist interference by choosing her influences with pride and determination. She may care little about pleasing others and be strong willed and lofty. Such a girl inspires everyone who sees her with something of her own nobility. The silent heart encourages her: O friend, never lower your sails out of fear! Sail gloriously into port, or sail the seas with God. You do not live in vain, for everyone who sees you is cheered and refined by the sight.

The characteristic of heroism is its persistency. All men have wandering impulses, fits and starts of generosity. But when you have chosen your part, abide by it, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the sympathy of people in those actions whose excellence is that they outrun sympathy and appeal to a tardy justice. If you would serve your brother, because it is fit for you to serve him, do not take back your words when you find that prudent people do not commend you. Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person,—“Always do what you are afraid to do.” A simple manly character need never make an apology, but should regard its past action with the calmness of Phocion, when he admitted that the event of the battle was happy, yet did not regret his dissuasion from the battle.

The defining quality of heroism is persistence. All people have passing impulses and bursts of generosity. But once you have chosen your course, stick to it. Do not weakly try to make peace with the world. The heroic cannot be ordinary, nor can the ordinary be heroic. Yet we are weak enough to expect people’s sympathy for actions whose excellence lies in going beyond sympathy. Such actions appeal to a justice that is slow to come. If you would serve your brother because it is right for you to serve him, do not take back your words when you find that cautious people do not praise you. Stand by what you have done. Congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a proper age. I once heard a young person given a noble piece of advice: “Always do what you are afraid to do.” A person of simple, manly character need never apologize. Instead, he should look back on his actions with the calm of Phocion. Phocion admitted that the battle had turned out well, yet did not regret having advised against it.

There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot find consolation in the thought—this is a part of my constitution, part of my relation and office to my fellow-creature. Has nature covenanted with me that I should never appear to disadvantage, never make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity as well as of our money. Greatness once and for ever has done with opinion. We tell our charities, not because we wish to be praised for them, not because we think they have great merit, but for our justification. It is a capital blunder; as you discover when another man recites his charities.

There is no weakness or vulnerability for which we cannot find comfort in this thought: it is part of my nature, part of my relationship and duty to my fellow human beings. Has nature promised me that I will never look bad or make a fool of myself? Let us be as generous with our dignity as we are with our money. True greatness has put concern for others’ opinions behind it once and for all. We tell people about our charitable acts, not because we want praise or think those acts are especially worthy, but to justify ourselves. This is a serious mistake, as you discover when someone else lists his charitable acts.

To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with some rigor of temperance, or some extremes of generosity, seems to be an asceticism which common good-nature would appoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign that they feel a brotherhood with the great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and exercise the soul by assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, of unpopularity,—but it behooves the wise man to look with a bold eye into those rarer dangers which sometimes invade men, and to familiarize himself with disgusting forms of disease, with sounds of execration, and the vision of violent death.

To tell the truth, even a little sternly, and to live with some strict self-restraint or extreme generosity seems like a form of self-denial. Ordinary kindness would ask this of those who live in comfort and abundance. It would show that they feel a sense of brotherhood with the great multitude of people who suffer. We need to give the soul room to breathe and exercise by accepting the hardships of self-denial, debt, solitude, and unpopularity. But a wise person should also look boldly at the rarer dangers that sometimes strike people. He should become familiar with the repulsive forms of disease, the sounds of curses, and the sight of violent death.

Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but the day never shines in which this element may not work. The circumstances of man, we say, are historically somewhat better in this country and at this hour than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists for culture. It will not now run against an axe at the first step out of the beaten track of opinion. But whoso is heroic will always find crises to try his edge. Human virtue demands her champions and martyrs, and the trial of persecution always proceeds. It is but the other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob, for the rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was better not to live.

Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but heroism can show itself on any day. We say that human circumstances in this country, at this time, are historically somewhat better than perhaps ever before. There is more freedom to develop one’s mind and character. Today, a person will not face an axe for taking the first step away from accepted opinion. But anyone who is heroic will always find crises that test their strength. Human virtue demands champions and martyrs, and persecution continues to test them. Only recently, the brave Lovejoy faced a mob’s bullets for the rights of free speech and opinion. He died when it was better not to live.

I see not any road of perfect peace which a man can walk, but after the counsel of his own bosom. Let him quit too much association, let him go home much, and stablish himself in those courses he approves. The unremitting retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that temper which will work with honor, if need be in the tumult, or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages have happened to men may befall a man again; and very easily in a republic, if there appear any signs of a decay of religion. Coarse slander, fire, tar and feathers and the gibbet, the youth may freely bring home to his mind and with what sweetness of temper he can, and inquire how fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving such penalties, whenever it may please the next newspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbors to pronounce his opinions incendiary.

I see no path to perfect peace except following the guidance of one’s own heart. Let a man spend less time in company, stay home often, and commit himself to the ways he approves. Holding steadily to simple and noble convictions in humble duties strengthens his character. It prepares him to act honorably, if necessary, amid turmoil or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages people have suffered may happen to a man again. They may happen very easily in a republic if there are signs that religion is declining. A young man may freely imagine himself facing vicious slander, fire, tar and feathers, and the gallows. He may contemplate these threats as calmly as he can. And he may ask how firmly he can hold to his sense of duty in defiance of such punishments. For the next newspaper and enough of his neighbors may choose to declare his opinions inflammatory.

It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the most susceptible heart to see how quick a bound Nature has set to the utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly approach a brink over which no enemy can follow us:—

Even the most sensitive heart may feel less afraid of disaster when it sees how quickly Nature limits the worst harm malice can inflict. We quickly approach a brink beyond which no enemy can follow us:

In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful endeavor? Who that sees the meanness of our politics but inly congratulates Washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who are no more to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being.

In the darkness of our ignorance about the future, we sometimes cannot hear the higher voices. At such times, who does not envy those who have seen their brave efforts safely through to the end? Who can see the pettiness of our politics without silently congratulating Washington? He has long been wrapped in his burial shroud and is safe forever. He was laid peacefully in his grave before the hope of humanity had been defeated in him. Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who have died? They no longer suffer from the turmoil of the natural world. Who does not sometimes await with curious calm the approaching end of their own life in the finite world? And yet love would sooner be destroyed than betray. Such love has already made death impossible. It declares that it is not mortal, but belongs to the depths of absolute and undying being.