WAR*
By Ralph Waldo Emerson
[Footnote: Many persons will remember listening to the present article, delivered as a lecture in
Boston, in March, 1838. It has been obtained for this publication at much solicitation,
not having been looked at by the author since that time.}
It has been a favorite study of modern
philosophy, to indicate the steps of human progress, to watch the rising of a thought in
one man's mind, the communication of it to a few, to a small minority, its expansion and
general reception, until it publishes itself to the world by destroying the existing laws
and institutions, and the generation of new. Looked at in this general and historical way,
many things wear a very different face from that they show near by, and one at a
time,—and, particularly, war. War, which, to sane men at the present day, begins to
look like an epidemic insanity, breaking out here and there like the cholera or influenza,
infecting men's brains instead of their bowels,—when seen in the remote past, in the
infancy of society, appears a part of the connection of events, and, in its place,
necessary.
As far as history has preserved to us the slow
unfoldings of any savage tribe, it is not easy to see how war could be avoided by such
wild, passionate, needy, ungoverned, strong-bodied creatures. For in the infancy of
society, when a thin population and improvidence make the supply of food and of shelter
insufficient and very precarious, and when hunger, thirst, ague, and frozen limbs
universally take precedence of the wants of the mind and the heart, the necessities of the
strong will certainly be satisfied at the cost of the weak, at whatever peril of future
revenge. It is plain, too, that, in the first dawnings of the religious sentiment, that
blends itself with their passions, and is oil to the fire. Not only every tribe has
war-gods, religious festivals in victory, but religious wars.
The student of history acquiesces the more
readily in this copious bloodshed of the early annals, bloodshed in God's name too, when
be learns that it is a temporary and preparatory state, and does actively forward the
culture of man. War educates the senses, calls into action the will, perfects the physical
constitution, brings men into such swift and close collision in critical moments that man
measures man. On its own scale, on the virtues it loves, it endures no counterfeit, but
shakes the whole society, until every atom falls into the place its specific gravity
assigns it. It presently finds the value of good sense and of foresight, and Ulysses takes
rank next to Achilles. The leaders, picked men of a courage and vigor tried and augmented
in fifty battles, are emulous to distinguish themselves above each other by new merits, as
clemency, hospitality, splendor of living. The people imitate the chiefs. The strong
tribe, in which war has become an art, attack and conquer their neighbours, and teach them
their arts and virtues. New territory, augmented numbers, and extended interests call out
new virtues and abilities, and the tribe makes long strides. And, finally, when much
progress has been made, all its secrets of wisdom and art are disseminated by its
invasions. Plutarch, in his essay "On the Fortune of Alexander," considers the
invasion and conquest of the East by Alexander as one of the most bright and pleasing
pages in history; and it must be owned, he gives sound reason for his opinion. It had the
effect of uniting into one great interest the divided commonwealths of Greece, and
infusing a new and more enlarged public spirit into the councils of their statesmen. It
carried the arts and language and philosophy of the Greeks into the sluggish and barbarous
nations of Persia, Assyria, and India. It introduced the arts of husbandry among tribes of
hunters and shepherds. It weaned the Scythians and Persians from some cruel and licentious
practices, to a more civil way of life. It introduced the sacredness of marriage among
them. It built seventy cities, and sowed the Greek customs and humane laws over Asia, and
united hostile nations under one code. It brought different families of the human race
together,—to blows at first, but afterwards to truce, to trade, and to intermarriage.
It would be very easy to show analogous benefits that have resulted from military
movements of later ages.
Considerations of this kind lead us to a true
view of the nature and office of war. We see, it is the subject of all history; that it
has been the principal employment of the most conspicuous men; that it is at this moment
the delight of half the world, of almost all young and ignorant persons; that it is
exhibited to us continually in the dumb show of brute nature, where war between tribes,
and between individuals of the same tribe, perpetually rages. The microscope reveals
miniature butchery in atomies and infinitely small biters, that swim and fight in an
illuminated drop of water; and the little globe is but a too faithful miniature of the
large.
What does all this war, beginning from the
lowest races and reaching up to man, signify ? Is it not manifest that it covers a great
and beneficent principle, which nature had deeply at heart? What is that
principle?—It is self-help. Nature implants with life the instinct of self-help,
perpetual struggle to be, to resist opposition, to attain to freedom, to attain to a
mastery, and the security of a permanent, self-defended being; and to each creature these
objects are made so dear, that it risks its life continually in the struggle for these
ends.
But whilst this principle, necessarily, is
inwrought into the fabric of every creature, yet it is but one instinct; and though
a primary one, or we may say the very first, yet the appearance of the other instincts
immediately modifies and controls this; turns its energies into harmless, useful, and high
courses, showing thereby what was its ultimate design; and, finally, takes out its fangs.
The instinct of self-help is very early unfolded in the coarse and merely brute form of
war, only in the childhood and imbecility of the other instincts, and remains in that
form, only until their development. It is the ignorant and childish part of mankind that
is the fighting part. Idle and vacant minds want excitement, as all boys kill cats.
Bull-baiting, cockpits, and the boxer's ring, are the enjoyment of the part of society
whose animal nature alone has been developed. In some parts of this country, where the
intellectual and moral faculties have as yet scarcely any culture, the absorbing topic of
all conversation is whipping; who fought, and which whipped? Of man, boy, or beast, the
only trait that much interests the speakers is the pugnacity. And why? Because the speaker
has as yet no other image of manly activity and virtue, none of endurance, none of
perseverance, none of charity, none of the attainment of truth. Put him into a circle of
cultivated men, where the conversation broaches the great questions that besiege the human
reason, and he would be dumb and unhappy, as an Indian in church.
To men of a sedate and mature spirit, in whom is
any know. ledge or mental activity, the detail of battle becomes insupportably tedious and
revolting. It is like the talk of one of those monomaniacs, whom we sometimes meet in
society,—who converse on horses; and Fontenelle expressed a volume of meaning, when
he said, "I hate war, for it spoils conversation."
Nothing is plainer than that the sympathy with
war is a juvenile and temporary state. Not only the moral sentiment, but trade, learning,
and whatever makes intercourse, conspire to put it down. Trade, as all men know, is the
antagonist of war. Wherever there is no property, the people will put on the knapsack for
bread; but trade is instantly endangered and destroyed. And, moreover, trade brings men to
look each other in the face, and gives the parties the knowledge that these enemies over
sea or over the mountain are such men as we; who laugh and grieve, who love and fear, as
we do. And learning and art, and especially religion, weave ties that make war look like
fratricide, as it is. And as all history is the picture of war, as we have said, so it is
no less true that it is the record of the mitigation and decline of war. Early in the
eleventh and twelfth centuries, the Italian cities had grown so populous and strong, that
they forced the rural nobility to dismantle their castles, which were dens of cruelty, and
come and reside in the towns. The Popes, to their eternal honor, declared religious
jubilees, during which all hostilities were suspended throughout Christendom, and man had
a breathing space. The increase of civility has abolished the use of poison and of
torture, once supposed as necessary as navies now. And, finally, the art of war—what
with gunpowder and tactics—has made, as all men know, battles less frequent and less
murderous.
By all these means, war has been steadily on the
decline; and we read with astonishment of the beastly fighting of the old times. Only in
Elizabeth's time, out of the European waters, piracy was all but universal. The proverb
was,—"No peace beyond the line;" and the seamen shipped on the buccaneer's
bargain, "No prey, no pay." In 1588, the celebrated Cavendish, who was thought
in his times a good Christian man, wrote thus to Lord Hunsdon, on his return from a voyage
round the world:—"Sept. 1588. It hath pleased Almighty God to suffer me to
circumpass the whole globe of the world, entering in at the Strait of Magellan, and
returning by the Cape of Buena Esperanca; in which voyage, I have either discovered or
brought certain intelligence of all the rich places of the world, which were ever
discovered by any Christian. I navigated along the coast of Chili, Peru, and New Spain, where
I made great spoils. I burnt and sunk nineteen sail of ships, small and great. All
the villages and towns that ever I landed at, I burned and spoiled. And had I not been
discovered upon the coast, I had taken great quantity of treasure. The matter of most
profit to me was a great ship of the king's, which I took at California," &c. and
the good Cavendish piously begins this statement,—"It hath pleased Almighty
God."
Indeed, our American annals have preserved the
vestiges of barbarous warfare down to more recent times. I read in Williams's History of
Maine, that "Assacombuit, the Sagamore of the Anagunticook tribe, was remarkable for
his turpitude and ferocity above all other known Indians; that, in 1705, Vaudreuil sent
him to France, where he was introduced to the king, When he appeared at court, he lifted
up his hand, and said, 'This hand has slain a hundred and fifty of your majesty's enemies
within the territories of New England.' This so pleased the king, that he knighted him,
and ordered a pension of eight livres a day to be paid him during life." This
valuable person, on his return to America, took to killing his own neighbors and kindred
with such appetite, that his tribe combined against him, and would have killed him, had he
not fled his country for ever.
The scandal which we feel in such facts
certainly shows, that we have got on a little. All history is the decline of war, though
the slow decline. All that society has yet gained is mitigation: the doctrine of the right
of war still remains.
For ages (for ideas work in ages, and animate
vast societies of men) the human race has gone on under the tyranny—shall I so call
it?—of this first brutish form of their effort to be men; that is, for ages they have
shared so much of the nature of the lower animals, the tiger and the shark, and the
savages of the water-drop. They have nearly exhausted all the good and all the evil of
this form: they have held as fast to this degradation, as their worst enemy could desire;
but all things have an end, and so has this. The eternal germination of the better has
unfolded new powers, new instincts, which were really concealed under this rough and base
rind. The sublime question has startled one and another happy soul in different quarters
of the globe. Cannot love be, as well as hate? Would not love answer the same end, or even
a better? Cannot peace be, as well as war?
This thought is no man's invention, neither St.
Pierre's nor Rousseau's, but the rising of the general tide in the human soul,—and
rising highest, and first made visible, in the most simple and pure souls, who have
therefore announced it to us beforehand; but presently we all see it. It has now become so
distinct as to be a social thought: societies can be formed on it. It is expounded,
illustrated, defined, with different degrees of clearness; and its actualization, or the
measures it should inspire, predicted according to the light of each seer.
The idea itself is the epoch; the fact that it
has become so distinct to any small number of persons as to become a subject of prayer and
hope, of concert and discussion,—that is the commanding fact. This having
come, much more will follow. Revolutions go not backward. The star once risen, though only
one man in the hemisphere has yet seen its upper limb in the horizon, will mount and
mount, until it becomes visible to other men, to multitudes, and climbs the zenith of all
eyes. And so, it is not a great matter how long men refuse to believe the advent of peace:
war is on its last legs; and a universal peace is as sure as is the prevalence of
civilization over barbarism, of liberal governments over feudal forms. The question for us
is only, How soon?
That the project of peace should appear
visionary to great numbers of sensible men; should appear laughable, even, to numbers;
should appear to the grave and good-natured to be embarrassed with extreme practical
difficulties,—is very natural. "This is a poor, tedious society of yours,"
they say: "we do not see what good can come of it. Peace! why, we are all at peace
now. But if a foreign nation should wantonly insult or plunder our commerce, or, worse
yet, should land on our shores to rob and kill, you would not have us sit, and be robbed
and killed? You mistake the times; you overestimate the virtue of men. You forget, that
the quiet which now sleeps in cities and in farms, which lets the wagon go unguarded and
the farm-house unbolted, rests on the perfect understanding of all men; that the musket,
the halter, and the jail stand behind there, perfectly ready to punish any disturber of
it. All admit, that this would be the best policy, if the world were all a church, if all
men were the best men, if all would agree to accept this rule. But it is absurd for one
nation to attempt it alone."
In the first place, we answer, that we never
make much account of objections which merely respect the actual state of the world at this
moment, but which admit the general expediency and permanent excellence of the project.
What is the best must be the true; and what is true—that is, what is at bottom fit
and agreeable to the constitution of man—must at last prevail over all obstruction
and all opposition. There is no good now enjoyed by society, that was not once as
problematical and visionary as this. It is the tendency of the true interest of man to
become his desire and steadfast aim.
But, farther, it is a lesson, which all history
teaches wise men, to put trust in ideas, and not in circumstances. We have all grown up in
the sight of frigates and navy yards, of armed forts and islands, of arsenals and militia.
The reference to any foreign register will inform us of the number of thousand or million
men that are now under arms in the vast colonial system of the British empire, of Russia,
Austria, and France; and one is scared to find at what a cost the peace of the globe is
kept. This vast apparatus of artillery, of fleets, of stone bastions and trenches and
embankments; this incessant patrolling of sentinels; this waving of national flags; this
reveillée and evening gun; this martial music, and endless playing of marches, and
singing of military and naval songs, seem to us to constitute an imposing actual, which
will not yield, in centuries, to the feeble, deprecatory voices of a handful of friends of
peace.
Thus always we are daunted by the appearances;
not seeing that their whole value lies at bottom in the state of mind. It is really a
thought that built this portentous war-establishment, and a thought shall also melt it
away. Every nation and every man instantly surround themselves with a material apparatus
which exactly corresponds to their moral state, or their state of thought. Observe how
every truth and every error, each a thought of some man's mind, clothes itself with
societies, houses, cities, language, ceremonies, newspapers. Observe how every truth and
every error, each a thought of some man's mind, clothes itself with societies,
houses, cities, language, ceremonies, newspapers. Observe the ideas of the present
day,—orthodoxy, skepticism, missions, popular education, temperance, anti-masonry,
anti-slavery; see how each of these abstractions has embodied itself in an imposing
apparatus in the community; and how timber, brick, lime, and stone have flown into
convenient shape, obedient to the master-idea reigning in the minds of many persons.
You shall hear, some day, of a wild fancy, which
some man has in his brain, of the mischief of secret oaths. Come again, one or two years
afterwards, and you shall see it has built great houses of solid wood and brick and
mortar. You shall see an hundred presses printing a million sheets; you shall see men and
horses and wheels made to walk, run, and roll for it: this great body of matter thus
executing that one man's wild thought. This happens daily, yearly about us, with half
thoughts, often with flimsy lies, pieces of policy and speculation. With good nursing,
they will last three or four years, before they will come to nothing. But when a truth
appears,—as, for instance, a perception in the wit of one Columbus, that there is
land in the Western Sea; though he alone of all men has that thought, and they all
jeer,—it will build ships; it will build fleets; it will carry over half Spain and
half England; it will plant a colony, a state, nations, and half a globe full of men.
We surround ourselves always, according to our
freedom and ability, with true images of ourselves in things, whether it be ships or
books, or cannons or churches. The standing army, the arsenal, the camp, and the gibbet do
not appertain to man. They only serve as an index to show where man is now; what a bad,
ungoverned temper he has; what an ugly neighbor he is; how his affections halt; how low
his hope lies. He who loves the bristle of bayonets, only sees in their glitter what
beforehand he feels in his heart. It is avarice and hatred; it is that quivering lip, that
cold, hating eye, which builded magazines and powder-houses.
It follows, of course, that the least change in
the man will change his circumstances; the least enlargement of his ideas, the least
mitigation of his feelings, in respect to other men; if, for example, he could be inspired
with a tender kindness to the souls of men, and should come to feel that every man was
another self, with whom he might come to join, as left hand works with right. Every degree
of the ascendancy of this feeling would cause the most striking changes of external
things: the tents would be struck; the men-of-war would rot ashore; the arms rust; the
cannon would become street-posts; the pikes, a fisher's harpoon; the marching regiment
would be a caravan of emigrants, peaceful pioneers at the fountains of the Wabash
and the Missouri. And so it must and will be: bayonet and sword must first retreat a
little from their present ostentatious prominence; then quite hide themselves, as the
sheriff's halter does now, inviting the attendance only of relations and friends; and
then, lastly, will be transferred to the museums of the curious, as poisoning and
torturing tools are at this day.
War and peace thus resolve themselves into a
mercury of the state of cultivation. At a certain stage of his progress, the man fights,
if he be of a sound body and mind. At a certain higher stage, he makes no offensive
demonstration, but is alert to repel injury, and of an unconquerable heart. At a still
higher stage, he comes into the region of holiness; passion has passed away from him; his
warlike nature is all converted into an active medicinal principle; he sacrifices himself,
and accepts with alacrity wearisome tasks of denial and charity; but, being attacked, he
bears it, and turns the other cheek, as one engaged, throughout his being, no longer to
the service of an individual, but to the common soul of all men.
Since the peace question has been before the
public mind, those who affirm its right and expediency have naturally been met with
objections more or less weighty. There are cases frequently put by the curious,—moral
problems, like those problems in arithmetic, which in long winter evenings the rustics try
the hardness of their heads in ciphering out. And chiefly it is said,—Either accept
this principle for better, for worse, carry it out to the end, and meet its absurd
consequences; or else, if you pretend to set an arbitrary limit, a "Thus far, no
farther," then give up the principle, and take that limit which the common sense of
all mankind has set, and which distinguishes offensive war as criminal, defensive war as
just. Otherwise, if you go for no way, then be consistent, and give up self-defence in the
highway, in your own house. Will you push it thus far ? Will you stick to your principle
of non-resistance, when your strong-box is broken open, when your wife and babes are
insulted and slaughtered in your sight? If you say yes, you only invite the robber and
assassin; and a few bloody-minded desperadoes would soon butcher the good.
In reply to this charge of absurdity on the
extreme peace doctrine, as shown in the supposed consequences, I wish to say, that such
deductions consider only one half of the fact. They look only at the passive side of the
friend of peace, only at his passivity; they quite omit to consider his activity. But no
man, it may be presumed, ever embraced the cause of peace and philanthropy, for the sole
end and satisfaction of being plundered and slain. A man does not come the length of the
spirit of martyrdom, without some active purpose, some equal motive, some flaming love. If
you have a nation of men who have risen to that height of moral cultivation that they will
not declare war or carry arms, for they have not so much madness left in their brains, you
have a nation of lovers, of benefactors, of true, great, and able, men. Let me know more
of that nation; I shall not find them defenceless, with idle hands springing at their
sides. I shall find them men of love, honor, and truth; men of an immense industry; men
whose influence is felt to the end of the earth; men whose very look and voice carry the
sentence of honor and shame; and all forces yield to their energy and persuasion. Whenever
we see the doctrine of peace embraced by a nation, we may be assured it will not be one
that invites injury; but one, on the contrary, which has a friend in the bottom of the
heart of every man, even of the violent and the base; one against which no weapon can
prosper; one which is looked upon as the asylum of the human race, and has the tears and
the blessings of mankind.
In the second place, as far as it respects
individual action in difficult and extreme cases, I will say, such cases seldom or never
occur to the good and just man; nor are we careful to say, or even to know, what in such
crises is to be done. A wise man will never impawn his future being and action, and decide
beforehand what he shall do in a given extreme event. Nature and God will instruct him in
that hour.
The question naturally arises, How is this new
aspiration of the human mind to be made visible and real? How is it to pass out of
thoughts into things?
Not, certainly, in the first place, in the
way of routine and mere forms,—the universal specific of modern politics; not by
organizing a society, and going through a course of resolutions and public manifestoes,
and being thus formally accredited to the public, and to the civility of the newspapers.
We have played this game to tediousness. In some of our cities, they choose noted
duellists as presidents and officers of antiduelling societies. Men who love that bloated
vanity called public opinion, think all is well if they have once got their bantling
through a sufficient course of speeches and cheerings, of one, two, or three public
meetings, as if they could do any thing: they vote and vote, cry hurrah on both
sides, no man responsible, no man caring a pin. The next season, an Indian war, or an
aggression on our commerce by Malays; or the party this man votes with, have an
appropriation to carry through Congress: instantly he wags his head the other way, and
cries, Havoc and war!
This is not to be carried by public opinion, but
by private opinion, by private conviction, by private, dear, and earnest love. For the
only hope of this cause is in the increased insight, and it is to be accomplished by the
spontaneous teaching, of the cultivated soul, in its secret experience and
meditation,—that it is now time that it should pass out of the state of beast into
the state of man; it is to hear the voice of God, which bids the devils, that have rended
and torn him, come out of him, and let him now be clothed and walk forth in his right
mind.
Nor, in the next place, is the peace principle
to be carried into effect by fear. It can never be defended, it can never be executed, by
cowards. Every thing great must be done in the spirit of greatness. The manhood that has
been in wax must be transferred to the cause of peace, before war can lose its charm, and
peace be venerable to men.
The attractiveness of war shows one thing
through all the throats of artillery, the thunders of so many sieges, the sack of towns,
the jousts of chivalry, the shock of hosts,—this namely, the conviction of man
universally, that a man should be himself responsible, with goods, health, and life, for
his behaviour; that he should not ask of the State, protection; should ask nothing of the
State; should be himself a kingdom and a state; fearing no man; quite willing to use the
opportunities and advantages that good government throw in his way, but nothing daunted,
and not really the poorer if government, law, and order went by the board; because in
himself reside infinite resources; because he is sure of himself, and never needs to ask
another what in any crisis it behoves him to do.
What makes to us the attractiveness of the Greek
heroes? of the Roman? What makes the attractiveness of that romantic style of living,
which is the material of ten thousand plays and romances, from Shakspeare to Scott; the
feudal baron, the French, the English nobility, the Warwicks, Plantagenets? It is their
absolute self-dependence. I do not wonder at the dislike some of the friends of peace have
expressed at Shakspeare. The veriest churl and Jacobin cannot resist the influence of the
style and manners of these haughty lords. We are affected, as boys and barbarians are, by
the appearance of a few rich and wilful gentlemen, who take their honor into their own
keeping, defy the world, so confident are they of their courage and strength, and whose
appearance is the arrival of so much life and virtue. In dangerous times, they are
presently tried, and therefore their name is a flourish of trumpets. They, at least,
affect us as a reality. They are not shams, but the substance of which that age and world
is made. They are true heroes for their time. They make what is in their minds the
greatest sacrifice. They will, for an injurious word, peril all their state and wealth,
and go to the field. Take away that principle of responsibleness, and they become pirates
and ruffians.
This
self-subsistency is the charm of war; for
this self. subsistency is essential to our idea of man. But another age comes, a truer
religion and ethics open, and a man puts himself under the dominion of principles. I see
him to be the servant of truth, of love, and of freedom, and immoveable in the waves of
the crowd. The man of principle, that is, the man who, without any flourish of trumpets,
titles of lordship, or train of guards, without any notice of his action abroad, expecting
none, takes in solitude the right step uniformly, on his private choice, and disdaining
consequences,—does not yield, in my imagination, to any man. He is willing to be
hanged at his own gate, rather than consent to any compromise of his freedom, or the
suppression of his conviction. I regard no longer those names that so tingled in my ear.
This is a baron of a better nobility and a stouter stomach.
The cause of peace is not the cause of
cowardice. If peace is sought to be defended or preserved for the safety of the luxurious
and the timid, it is a sham, and the peace will be base. War is better, and the peace will
be broken. If peace is to be maintained, it must be by brave men, who have come up to the
same height as the hero, namely, the will to carry their life in their hand, and stake it
at any instant for their principle, but who have gone one step beyond the hero, and will
not seek another man's life;—men who have, by their intellectual insight, or else by
their moral elevation, attained such a perception of their own intrinsic worth, that they
do not think property or their own body a sufficient good to be saved by such dereliction
of principle as treating a man like a sheep.
If the universal cry for reform of so many
inveterate abuses, with which society rings,—if the desire of a large class of young
men for a faith and hope, intellectual and religious, such as they have not yet found, be
an omen to be trusted; if the disposition to rely more in study, and in action on the
unexplored riches of the human constitution,—if the search of the sublime laws of
morals and the sources of hope and trust in man, and not in books,—in the present,
and not in the past,—proceed; if the rising generation can be provoked to think it
unworthy to nestle into every abomination of the past, and shall feel the generous darings
of austerity and virtue; then war has a short day, and human blood will cease to flow.
It is of little consequence in what manner,
through what organs, this purpose of mercy and holiness is effected. The proposition of
the Congress of Nations is undoubtedly that at which the present fabric of our society and
the present course of events do point. But the mind, once prepared for the reign of
principles, will easily find modes of expressing its will. There is the highest fitness in
the place and time in which this enterprise is begun. Not in an obscure corner, not in a
feudal Europe, not in an antiquated appanage where no onward step can be taken without
rebellion, is this seed of benevolence laid in the furrow, with tears of hope; but in this
broad America of God and man, where the forest is only now falling, or yet to fall, and
the green earth opened to the inundation of emigrant men from all quarters of oppression
and guilt; here, where not a family, not a few men, but mankind, shall say what shall be;
here, we ask, Shall it be War, or shall it be Peace?
A
Note on the Text:
-
1st
published in Æsthetic Papers (1849) pp. 36-50.
-
Source:
Æsthetic Papers (1849) pp. 36-50.
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