WAR

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 he

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.[119] 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 neighbors, 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.[120] 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 knowledge 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 seaman

shipped on the buccaneer’s bargain, “No prey, no pay.” 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 Esperança; 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,” etc. 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

forever.

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.[121] 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 farmhouse unbolted, rests on the perfect understanding

of all men that the musket, the halter and the jail stand behind there,

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 the men were the best

men, if all would agree to accept this rule. But it is absurd for one

nation to attempt it alone.’[122]

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, further, 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 reveille 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.[123] 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

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.[124]

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 a 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 built 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 ascendency 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 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.[125] 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 war,

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 swinging 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 anti-duelling 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 anything: 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.

Everything great must be done in the spirit of greatness. The manhood

that has been in war 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 behavior; 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 behooves

him to do.[126]

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.[127]

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

immovable 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?