Towards external evil, man within his 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.

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 pettycalculations, and scornful of being scorned. It persists; it is of an undaunted boldness, and of a fortitude not to be wearied out.

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.

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.

Beowulf

Beowulf spake is (his burnie did glisten,

 

His armor seamed over by the art of the craftsman):

“Hail thou, Hrothgar! I am Higelac’s kinsman

 

And vassal forsooth; many a wonder

I dared as a stripling. The doings of Grendel,

In far-off fatherland I fully did know of:

 

Sea-farers tell us, this hall-building standeth,

Excellent edifice, empty and useless

 

To all the earlmen after evenlight’s glimmer

’Neath heaven’s bright hues hath hidden its glory.

 

This my earls then urged me, the most excellent of them,

Carles very clever, to come and assist thee,

 

Folk-leader Hrothgar; fully they knew of

The strength of my body. Themselves they beheld me

 

When I came from the contest, when covered with gore

Foes I escaped from, where five I had bound,

 

The giant-race wasted, in the waters destroying

The nickers by night, bore numberless sorrows,

 

The Wedger avenged 

Enemies ravaged; alone now with Grendel

 

I shall manage the matter, with the monster of evil,

The giant, decide it. Thee I would therefore

 

Beg of thy bounty, Bright-Danish chieftain,

Lord of the Scyldings, this single petition:

 

Not to refuse me, defender of warriors,

Friend-lord of folks, so far have I sought thee,

 

That I may unaided, my earlmen assisting me,

This brave-mooded war-band, purify Heorot.

 

I have heard on inquiry, the horrible creature

From veriest rashness recks not for weapons;

 

I this do scorn, so be Higelac gracious,

My liegelord belovèd, lenient of spirit,

 

To bear a blade or a broad-fashioned target,

A shield to the onset; only with hand-grip

 

I, too, shall disdain to use any.

The foe I must grapple, fight for my life then,

 

Foeman with foeman; he fain must rely on

The doom of the Lord whom death layeth hold of.

 

I ween he will wish, If he win in the struggle,

To eat in the war-hall earls of the Geat-folk,

 

Boldly to swallow them, as of yore he did often

The best of the Hrethmen!