{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_60951/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_60951","id":"gutenberg_60951","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60951","summary":null,"tags":["American essays -- 19th century","Category: American Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics"],"text":"The Service\n\nby Henry David Thoreau\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n I. Qualities of the Recruit\n II. What Music Shall We Have?\n III. Not How Many, But Where the Enemy Are\n\n\n\n\nI.\nQualities of the Recruit\n\n\n     _Spes sibi quisque._ Virgil\n     Each one his own hope.\n\nThe brave man is the elder son of creation, who has stept buoyantly\ninto his inheritance, while the coward, who is the younger, waiteth\npatiently till he decease. He rides as wide of this earth\u2019s gravity as\na star, and by yielding incessantly to all the impulses of the soul, is\nconstantly drawn upward and becomes a fixed star. His bravery deals not\nso much in resolute action, as healthy and assured rest; its palmy\nstate is a staying at home and compelling alliance in all directions.\nSo stands his life to heaven, as some fair sunlit tree against the\nwestern horizon, and by sunrise is planted on some eastern hill, to\nglisten in the first rays of the dawn. The brave man braves nothing,\nnor knows he of his bravery. He is that sixth champion against Thebes,\nwhom, when the proud devices of the rest have been recorded, the poet\ndescribes as \u201cbearing a full-orbed shield of solid brass,\u201d\n\n     \u201cBut there was no device upon its circle,\n     For not to seem just but to be is his wish.\u201d\n\nHe does not present a gleaming edge to ward off harm, for that will\noftenest attract the lightning, but rather is the all-pervading ether,\nwhich the lightning does not strike but purify. So is the profanity of\nhis companion as a flash across the face of his sky, which lights up\nand reveals its serene depths. Earth cannot shock the heavens, but its\ndull vapor and foul smoke make a bright cloud spot in the ether, and\nanon the sun, like a cunning artificer, will cut and paint it, and set\nit for a jewel in the breast of the sky.\n\nHis greatness is not measurable; not such a greatness as when we would\nerect a stupendous piece of art, and send far and near for materials,\nintending to lay the foundations deeper, and rear the structure higher\nthan ever; for hence results only a remarkable bulkiness without\ngrandeur, lacking those true and simple proportions which are\nindependent of size. He was not builded by that unwise generation that\nwould fain have reached the heavens by piling one brick upon another;\nbut by a far wiser, that builded inward and not outward, having found\nout a shorter way, through the observance of a higher art. The Pyramids\nsome artisan may measure with his line; but if he gives you the\ndimensions of the Parthenon in feet and inches, the figures will not\nembrace it like a cord, but dangle from its entablature like an elastic\ndrapery.\n\nHis eye is the focus in which all the rays, from whatever side, are\ncollected; for, itself being within and central, the entire\ncircumference is revealed to it. Just as we scan the whole concave of\nthe heavens at a glance, but can compass only one side of the pebble at\nour feet. So does his discretion give prevalence to his valor.\n\u201cDiscretion is the wise man\u2019s soul\u201d says the poet. His prudence may\nsafely go many strides beyond the utmost rashness of the coward; for,\nwhile he observes strictly the golden mean, he seems to run through all\nextremes with impunity. Like the sun, which, to the poor worldling, now\nappears in the zenith, now in the horizon, and again is faintly\nreflected from the moon\u2019s disk, and has the credit of describing an\nentire great circle, crossing the equinoctial and solstitial\ncolures,\u2014without detriment to his steadfastness or mediocrity. The\ngolden mean, in ethics, as in physics, is the centre of the system, and\nthat about which all revolve; and, though to a distant and plodding\nplanet it be the uttermost extreme, yet one day, when that planet\u2019s\nyear is complete, it will be found to be central. They who are alarmed\nlest Virtue should so far demean herself as to be extremely good, have\nnot yet wholly embraced her, but described only a slight arc of a few\nseconds about her; and from so small and ill-defined a curvature, you\ncan calculate no centre whatever; but their mean is no better than\nmeanness, nor their medium than mediocrity.\n\nThe coward wants resolution, which the brave man can do without. He\nrecognizes no faith but a creed, thinking this straw, by which he is\nmoored, does him good service, because his sheet-anchor does not drag.\n\u201cThe house-roof fights with the rain; he who is under shelter does not\nknow it.\u201d In his religion the ligature, which should be muscle and\nsinew, is rather like that thread which the accomplices of Cylon held\nin their hands, when they went abroad from the temple of Minerva,\u2014the\nother end being attached to the statue of the goddess. But frequently,\nas in their case, the thread breaks, being stretched; and he is left\nwithout an asylum.\n\nThe divinity in man is the true vestal fire of the temple, which is\nnever permitted to go out, but burns as steadily, and with as pure a\nflame, on the obscure provincial altars as in Numa\u2019s temple at Rome. In\nthe meanest are all the materials of manhood, only they are not rightly\ndisposed. We say, justly, that the weak person is \u201cflat,\u201d\u2014for, like all\nflat substances, he does not stand in the direction of his strength,\nthat is, on his edge, but affords a convenient surface to put upon. He\nslides all the way through life. Most things are strong in one\ndirection; a straw longitudinally; a board in the direction of its\nedge; a knee transversely to its grain; but the brave man is a perfect\nsphere, which cannot fall on its flat side, and is equally strong every\nway. The coward is wretchedly spheroidal at best, too much educated or\ndrawn out on one side, and depressed on the other; or may be likened to\na hollow sphere, whose disposition of matter is best when the greatest\nbulk is intended.\n\nWe shall not attain to be spherical by lying on one or the other side\nfor an eternity, but only by resigning ourselves implicitly to the law\nof gravity in us, shall we find our axis coincident with the celestial\naxis, and by revolving incessantly through all circles, acquire a\nperfect sphericity. Mankind, like the earth, revolve mainly from west\nto east, and so are flattened at the pole. But does not philosophy give\nhint of a movement commencing to be rotary at the poles too, which in a\nmillennium will have acquired increased rapidity, and help restore an\nequilibrium? And when at length every star in the nebul\u00e6 and Milky Way\nhas looked down with mild radiance for a season, exerting its whole\ninfluence as the polar star, the demands of science will in some degree\nbe satisfied.\n\nThe grand and majestic have always somewhat of the undulatoriness of\nthe sphere. It is the secret of majesty in the rolling gait of the\nelephant, and of all grace in action and in art. Always the line of\nbeauty is a curve. When with pomp a huge sphere is drawn along the\nstreets, by the efforts of a hundred men, I seem to discover each\nstriving to imitate its gait, and keep step with it,\u2014if possible to\nswell to its own diameter. But onward it moves, and conquers the\nmultitude with its majesty. What shame, then, that our lives, which\nmight so well be the source of planetary motion, and sanction the order\nof the spheres, should be full of abruptness and angularity, so as not\nto roll nor move majestically!\n\nThe Romans \u201cmade Fortune sirname to Fortitude,\u201d for fortitude is that\nalchemy that turns all things to good fortune. The man of fortitude,\nwhom the Latins called _fortis_ is no other than that lucky person whom\n_fors_ favors, or _vir summae fortis_. If we will, every bark may\n\u201ccarry C\u00e6sar and C\u00e6sar\u2019s fortune.\u201d For an impenetrable shield, stand\ninside yourself; he was no artist, but an artisan, who first made\nshields of brass. For armor of proof, _mea virtute me involvo_,\u2014I wrap\nmyself in my virtue;\n\n     \u201cTumble me down, and I will sit\n     Upon my ruins, smiling yet.\u201d\n\nIf you let a single ray of light through the shutter, it will go on\ndiffusing itself without limit till it enlighten the world; but the\nshadow that was never so wide at first, as rapidly contracts till it\ncomes to naught. The shadow of the moon, when it passes nearest the\nsun, is lost in space ere it can reach our earth to eclipse it. Always\nthe System shines with uninterrupted light; for as the sun is so much\nlarger than any planet, no shadow can travel far into space. We may\nbask always in the light of the System, always may step back out of the\nshade. No man\u2019s shadow is as large as his body, if the rays make a\nright angle with the reflecting surface. Let our lives be passed under\nthe equator, with the sun in the meridian.\n\nThere is no ill which may not be dissipated like the dark, if you let\nin a stronger light upon it. Overcome evil with good. Practice no such\nnarrow economy as they, whose bravery amounts to no more light than a\nfarthing candle, before which most objects cast a shadow wider than\nthemselves.\n\nNature refuses to sympathize with our sorrow; she has not provided\n_for_, but by a thousand contrivances _against_ it: she has bevelled\nthe margin of the eyelids, that the tears may not overflow on the\ncheeks. It was a conceit of Plutarch, accounting for the preference\ngiven to signs observed on the left hand, that men may have thought\n\u201cthings terrestrial and mortal directly over against heavenly and\ndivine things, and do conjecture that the things which to us are on the\nleft hand, the gods send down from their right hand.\u201d If we are not\nblind, we shall see how a right hand is stretched over all,\u2014as well the\nunlucky as the lucky,\u2014and that the ordering Soul is only right-handed,\ndistributing with one palm all our fates.\n\nWhat first suggested that necessity was grim, and made fate to be so\nfatal? The strongest is always the least violent. Necessity is my\neastern cushion on which I recline. My eye revels in its prospect as in\nthe summer haze. I ask no more but to be left alone with it. It is the\nbosom of time and the lap of eternity. To be necessary is to be\nneedful, and necessity is only another name for inflexibility of good.\nHow I welcome my grim fellow, and walk arm in arm with him! Let me too\nbe such a Necessity as he! I love him, he is so flexile, and yields to\nme as the air to my body. I leap and dance in his midst, and play with\nhis beard till he smiles. I greet thee, my elder brother! who with thy\ntouch ennoblest all things. Then is holiday when naught intervenes\nbetwixt me and thee. Must it be so,\u2014then is it good. The stars are thy\ninterpreters to me.\n\nOver Greece hangs the divine necessity, ever a mellower heaven of\nitself; whose light gilds the Acropolis and a thousand fanes and\ngroves.\n\n\n\n\nII.\nWhat Music Shall We Have?\n\n\n     Each more melodious note I hear\n     Brings this reproach to me,\n     That I alone afford the ear,\n     Who would the music be.\n\nThe brave man is the sole patron of music; he recognizes it for his\nmother tongue; a more mellifluous and articulate language than words,\nin comparison with which, speech is recent and temporary. It is his\nvoice. His language must have the same majestic movement and cadence\nthat philosophy assigns to the heavenly bodies. The steady flux of his\nthought constitutes time in music. The universe falls in and keeps pace\nwith it, which before proceeded singly and discordant. Hence are poetry\nand song. When Bravery first grew afraid and went to war, it took Music\nalong with it. The soul is delighted still to hear the echo of her own\nvoice. Especially the soldier insists on agreement and harmony always.\nTo secure these he falls out. Indeed, it is that friendship there is in\nwar that makes it chivalrous and heroic. It was the dim sentiment of a\nnoble friendship for the purest soul the world has seen, that gave to\nEurope a crusading era. War is but the compelling of peace. If the\nsoldier marches to the sack of a town, he must be preceded by drum and\ntrumpet, which shall identify his cause with the accordant universe.\nAll things thus echo back his own spirit, and thus the hostile\nterritory is preoccupied for him. He is no longer insulated, but\ninfinitely related and familiar. The roll-call musters for him all the\nforces of Nature.\n\nThere is as much music in the world as virtue. In a world of peace and\nlove music would be the universal language, and men greet each other in\nthe fields in such accents as a Beethoven now utters at rare intervals\nfrom a distance. All things obey music as they obey virtue. It is the\nherald of virtue. It is God\u2019s voice. In it are the centripetal and\ncentrifugal forces. The universe needed only to hear a divine melody,\nthat every star might fall into its proper place, and assume its true\nsphericity. It entails a surpassing affluence on the meanest thing;\nriding over the heads of sages, and soothing the din of philosophy.\nWhen we listen to it we are so wise that we need not to know. All\nsounds, and more than all, silence, do fife and drum for us. The least\ncreaking doth whet all our senses, and emit a tremulous light, like the\naurora borealis, over things. As polishing expresses the vein in\nmarble, and the grain in wood, so music brings out what of heroic lurks\nanywhere. It is either a sedative or a tonic to the soul.\n\nI read that \u201cPlato thinks the gods never gave men music, the science of\nmelody and harmony, for mere delectation or to tickle the ear; but that\nthe discordant parts of the circulations and beauteous fabric of the\nsoul, and that of it that roves about the body, and many times for want\nof tune and air, breaks forth into many extravagances and excesses,\nmight be sweetly recalled and artfully wound up to their former consent\nand agreement.\u201d\n\nA sudden burst from a horn startles us, as if one had rashly provoked a\nwild beast. We admire his boldness; he dares wake the echoes which he\ncannot put to rest. The sound of a bugle in the stillness of the night\nsends forth its voice to the farthest stars, and marshals them in new\norder and harmony. Instantly it finds a fit sounding-board in the\nheavens. The notes flash out on the horizon like heat lightning,\nquickening the pulse of creation. The heavens say, Now is this my own\nearth.\n\nTo the sensitive soul the Universe has her own fixed measure, which is\nits measure also, and as this, expressed in the regularity of its\npulse, is inseparable from a healthy body, so is its healthiness\ndependent on the regularity of its rhythm. In all sounds the soul\nrecognizes its own rhythm, and seeks to express its sympathy by a\ncorrespondent movement of the limbs. When the body marches to the\nmeasure of the soul, then is true courage and invincible strength. The\ncoward would reduce this thrilling sphere-music to a universal\nwail,\u2014this melodious chant to a nasal cant. He thinks to conciliate all\nhostile influences by compelling his neighborhood into a partial\nconcord with himself; but his music is no better than a jingle, which\nis akin to a jar,\u2014jars regularly recurring. He blows a feeble blast of\nslender melody, because Nature can have no more sympathy with such a\nsoul than it has of cheerful melody in itself. Hence hears he no\naccordant note in the universe, and is a coward, or consciously outcast\nand deserted man. But the brave man, without drum or trumpet, compels\nconcord everywhere, by the universality and tunefulness of his soul.\n\nLet not the faithful sorrow that he has no ear for the more fickle and\nsubtle harmonies of creation, if he be awake to the slower measure of\nvirtue and truth. If his pulse does not beat in unison with the\nmusician\u2019s quips and turns, it accords with the pulse-beat of the ages.\n\nA man\u2019s life should be a stately march to an unheard music; and when to\nhis fellows it may seem irregular and inharmonious, he will be stepping\nto a livelier measure, which only his nicer ear can detect. There will\nbe no halt, ever, but at most a marching on his post, or such a pause\nas is richer than any sound, when the deeper melody is no longer heard,\nbut implicitly consented to with the whole life and being. He will take\na false step never, even in the most arduous circumstances; for then\nthe music will not fail to swell into greater volume, and rule the\nmovement it inspired.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\nNot How Many, But Where the Enemy Are\n\n\n     \u2014What\u2019s brave, what\u2019s noble,\n     Let\u2019s do it after the high Roman fashion.\n\n          Shakespeare\n\nWhen my eye falls on the stupendous masses of the clouds, tossed into\nsuch irregular greatness across the cope of my sky, I feel that their\ngrandeur is thrown away on the meanness of my employments. In vain the\nsun, thro\u2019 morning and noon rolls defiance to man, and, as he sinks\nbehind his cloudy fortress in the west, challenges him to equal\ngreatness in his career; but, from his humbleness he looks up to the\ndomes and minarets and gilded battlements of the Eternal City, and is\ncontent to be a suburban dweller outside the walls. We look in vain\nover earth for a Roman greatness, to take up the gantlet which the\nheavens throw down. Idomeneus would not have demurred at the freshness\nof the last morning that rose to us, as unfit occasion to display his\nvalor in; and of some such evening as this, methinks, that Grecian\nfleet came to anchor in the bay of Aulis. Would that it were to us the\neve of a more than ten years\u2019 war,\u2014a tithe of whose exploits, and\nAchillean withdrawals, and godly interferences, would stock a library\nof Iliads.\n\nBetter that we have some of that testy spirit of knight errantry, and\nif we are so blind as to think the world is not rich enough nowadays to\nafford a real foe to combat, with our trusty swords and double-handed\nmaces, hew and mangle some unreal phantom of the brain. In the pale and\nshivering fogs of the morning, gathering them up betimes, and\nwithdrawing sluggishly to their daylight haunts, I see Falsehood\nsneaking from the full blaze of truth, and with good relish could do\nexecution on their rearward ranks, with the first brand that came to\nhand. We too are such puny creatures as to be put to flight by the sun,\nand suffer our ardor to grow cool in proportion as his increases; our\nown short-lived chivalry sounds a retreat with the fumes and vapors of\nthe night; and we turn to meet mankind, with its meek face preaching\npeace, and such non-resistance as the chaff that rides before the\nwhirlwind.\n\nLet not our Peace be proclaimed by the rust on our swords, or our\ninability to draw them from their scabbards; but let her at least have\nso much work on her hands as to keep those swords bright and sharp. The\nvery dogs that bay the moon from farmyards o\u2019 these nights, do evince\nmore heroism than is tamely barked forth in all the civil exhortations\nand war sermons of the age. And that day and night, which should be set\ndown indelibly in men\u2019s hearts, must be learned from the pages of our\nalmanack. One cannot wonder at the owlish habits of the race, which\ndoes not distinguish when its day ends and night begins; for, as night\nis the season of rest, it would be hard to say when its toil ended and\nits rest began. Not to it\n\n     \u2014returns\n     Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,\n     Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer\u2019s rose,\n     Or flocks or herds, or human face divine;\n     But cloud instead, and ever-during dark\n     Surrounds.\n\nAnd so the time lapses without epoch or era, and we know some\nhalf-score of mornings and evenings by tradition only. Almost the night\nis grieved and leaves her tears on the forelock of day, that men will\nnot rush to her embrace, and fulfill at length the pledge so forwardly\ngiven in the youth of time. Men are a circumstance to themselves,\ninstead of causing the universe to stand around, the mute witness of\ntheir manhood, and the stars to forget their sphere music and chant an\nelegiac strain, that heroism should have departed out of their ranks\nand gone over to humanity.\n\nIt is not enough that our life is an easy one; we must live on the\nstretch, retiring to our rest like soldiers on the eve of a battle,\nlooking forward with ardor to the strenuous sortie of the morrow. \u201cSit\nnot down in the popular seats and common level of virtues, but endeavor\nto make them heroical. Offer not only peace-offerings but holocausts\nunto God.\u201d To the brave soldier the rust and leisure of peace are\nharder than the fatigues of war. As our bodies court physical\nencounters, and languish in the mild and even climate of the tropics,\nso our souls thrive best on unrest and discontent. The soul is a\nsterner master than any King Frederick; for a true bravery would\nsubject our bodies to rougher usage than even a grenadier could\nwithstand. We too are dwellers within the purlieus of the camp. When\nthe sun breaks through the morning mist, I seem to hear the din of war\nlouder than when his chariot thundered on the plains of Troy. The thin\nfields of vapor, spread like gauze over the woods, form extended lawns\nwhereon high tournament is held;\n\n     Before each van\n     Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears,\n     Till thickest legions close.\n\nIt behoves us to make life a steady progression, and not be defeated by\nits opportunities. The stream which first fell a drop from heaven,\nshould be filtered by events till it burst out into springs of greater\npurity, and extract a diviner flavor from the accidents through which\nit passes. Shall man wear out sooner than the sun? and not rather dawn\nas freshly, and with such native dignity stalk down the hills of the\nEast into the bustling vale of life, with as lofty and serene a\ncountenance to roll onward through midday, to a yet fairer and more\npromising setting? In the crimson colors of the west I discover the\nbudding hues of dawn. To my western brother it is rising pure and\nbright as it did to me; but only the evening exhibits in the still rear\nof day, the beauty which through morning and noon escaped me. Is not\nthat which we call the gross atmosphere of evening the accumulated deed\nof the day, which absorbs the rays of beauty, and shows more richly\nthan the naked promise of the dawn? Let us look to it that by earnest\ntoil in the heat of the noon, we get ready a rich western blaze against\nthe evening.\n\nNor need we fear that the time will hang heavy when our toil is done;\nfor our task is not such a piece of day-labor, that a man must be\nthinking what he shall do next for a livelihood,\u2014but such, that as it\nbegan in endeavor, so will it end only when no more in heaven or on\nearth remains to be endeavored. Effort is the prerogative of virtue.\nLet not death be the sole task of life,\u2014the moment when we are rescued\nfrom death to life, and set to work,\u2014if indeed that can be called a\ntask which all things do but alleviate. Nor will we suffer our hands to\nlose one jot of their handiness by looking behind to a mean recompense;\nknowing that our endeavor cannot be thwarted, nor we be cheated of our\nearnings unless by not earning them. It concerns us, rather, to be\nsomewhat here present, than to leave something behind us; for, if that\nwere to be considered, it is never the deed men praise, but some marble\nor canvas, which are only a staging to the real work. The hugest and\nmost effective deed may have no sensible result at all on earth, but\nmay paint itself in the heavens with new stars and constellations. When\nin rare moments our whole being strives with one consent, which we name\na yearning, we may not hope that our work will stand in any artist\u2019s\ngallery on earth. The bravest deed, which for the most part is left\nquite out of history,\u2014which alone wants the staleness of a deed done,\nand the uncertainty of a deed doing,\u2014is the life of a great man. To\nperform exploits is to be temporarily bold, as becomes a courage that\nebbs and flows,\u2014the soul, quite vanquished by its own deed, subsiding\ninto indifference and cowardice; but the exploit of a brave life\nconsists in its momentary completeness.\n\nEvery stroke of the chisel must enter our own flesh and bone; he is a\nmere idolater and apprentice to art who suffers it to grate dully on\nmarble. For the true art is not merely a sublime consolation and\nholiday labor, which the gods have given to sickly mortals; but such a\nmasterpiece as you may imagine a dweller on the tablelands of central\nAsia might produce, with threescore and ten years for canvas, and the\nfaculties of a man for tools,\u2014a human life; wherein you might hope to\ndiscover more than the freshness of Guido\u2019s Aurora, or the mild light\nof Titian\u2019s landscapes,\u2014no bald imitation nor even rival of Nature, but\nrather the restored original of which she is the reflection. For such a\nmasterpiece as this, whole galleries of Greece and Italy are a mere\nmixing of colors and preparatory quarrying of marble.\n\nOf such sort, then, be our crusade,\u2014which, while it inclines chiefly to\nthe hearty good will and activity of war, rather than the insincerity\nand sloth of peace, will set an example to both of calmness and\nenergy;\u2014as unconcerned for victory as careless of defeat,\u2014not seeking\nto lengthen our term of service, nor to cut it short by a reprieve,\u2014but\nearnestly applying ourselves to the campaign before us. Nor let our\nwarfare be a boorish and uncourteous one, but a higher courtesy attend\nits higher chivalry,\u2014though not to the slackening of its tougher duties\nand severer discipline. That so our camp may be a pal\u00e6stra, wherein the\ndormant energies and affections of men may tug and wrestle, not to\ntheir discomfiture, but to their mutual exercise and development.\n\nWhat were Godfrey and Gonsalvo unless we breathed a life into them and\nenacted their exploits as a prelude to our own? The Past is the canvas\non which our idea is painted,\u2014the dim prospectus of our future field.\nWe are dreaming of what we are to do. Methinks I hear the clarion\nsound, and clang of corselet and buckler, from many a silent hamlet of\nthe soul. The signal gun has long since sounded, and we are not yet on\nour posts. Let us make such haste as the morning, and such delay as the\nevening.\n\n     Henry D. Thoreau\n\n\n_July, 1840_.","title":"The Service","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":4672}