I. Qualities of the Recruit
Spes sibi quisque.
Virgil
Each one his own hope.
The brave man is the elder son of creation, who has stept buoyantly into his
inheritance, while the coward, who is the younger, waiteth patiently till he
decease. He rides as wide of this earth’s gravity as a star, and by
yielding incessantly to all the impulses of the soul, is constantly drawn
upward and becomes a fixed star. His bravery deals not so much in resolute
action, as healthy and assured rest; its palmy state is a staying at home and
compelling alliance in all directions. So stands his life to heaven, as some
fair sunlit tree against the western horizon, and by sunrise is planted on
some eastern hill, to glisten in the first rays of the dawn. The brave man
braves nothing, nor knows he of his bravery. He is that sixth champion against
Thebes, whom, when the proud devices of the rest have been recorded, the
poet1 describes as “bearing a full-orbed
shield of solid brass,”
“But there was no device upon its circle,
For not to seem just but to be is his wish.”
He does not present a gleaming edge to ward off harm, for that will oftenest
attract the lightning, but rather is the all-pervading ether, which the
lightning does not strike but purify. So is the profanity of his companion as
a flash across the face of his sky, which lights up and reveals its serene
depths. Earth cannot shock the heavens, but its dull vapor and foul smoke make
a bright cloud spot in the ether, and anon the sun, like a cunning artificer,
will cut and paint it, and set it for a jewel in the breast of the sky.
His greatness is not measurable; not such a greatness as when we would erect
a stupendous piece of art, and send far and near for materials, intending to
lay the foundations deeper, and rear the structure higher than ever; for
hence results only a remarkable bulkiness without grandeur, lacking those
true and simple proportions which are independent of size. He was not builded
by that unwise generation that would fain have reached the heavens by piling
one brick upon another; but by a far wiser, that builded inward and not
outward, having found out a shorter way, through the observance of a higher
art. The Pyramids some artisan may measure with his line; but if he gives you
the dimensions of the Parthenon in feet and inches, the figures will not
embrace it like a cord, but dangle from its entablature like an elastic
drapery.
His eye is the focus in which all the rays, from whatever side, are collected;
for, itself being within and central, the entire circumference is revealed to
it. Just as we scan the whole concave of the heavens at a glance, but can
compass only one side of the pebble at our feet. So does his discretion give
prevalence to his valor. “Discretion is the wise man’s soul”
says the poet. His prudence may safely go many strides beyond the utmost
rashness of the coward; for, while he observes strictly the golden mean, he
seems to run through all extremes with impunity.
