Heroes and Hero Worship

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The text is taken from the printed "Sterling Edition" of Carlyle's Complete
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version: Italicized text is delimited by underscores, _thusly_. The
footnote (there is only one) has been embedded directly into text, in
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ON HEROES, HERO-WORSHIP, AND THE HEROIC IN HISTORY
By Thomas Carlyle

CONTENTS.

I. THE HERO AS DIVINITY. ODIN. PAGANISM: SCANDINAVIAN MYTHOLOGY.
II. THE HERO AS PROPHET. MAHOMET: ISLAM.
III. THE HERO AS POET. DANTE: SHAKSPEARE.
IV. THE HERO AS PRIEST. LUTHER; REFORMATION: KNOX; PURITANISM.
V. THE HERO AS MAN OF LETTERS. JOHNSON, ROUSSEAU, BURNS.
VI. THE HERO AS KING. CROMWELL, NAPOLEON: MODERN REVOLUTIONISM.

LECTURES ON HEROES.

[May 5, 1840.]
LECTURE I.
THE HERO AS DIVINITY. ODIN. PAGANISM: SCANDINAVIAN MYTHOLOGY.

We have undertaken to discourse here for a little on Great Men, their
manner of appearance in our world's business, how they have shaped
themselves in the world's history, what ideas men formed of them, what work
they did;--on Heroes, namely, and on their reception and performance; what
I call Hero-worship and the Heroic in human affairs. Too evidently this is
a large topic; deserving quite other treatment than we can expect to give
it at present. A large topic; indeed, an illimitable one; wide as
Universal History itself. For, as I take it, Universal History, the
history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the
History of the Great Men who have worked here. They were the leaders of
men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense
creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to
attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are
properly the outer material result, the practical realization and
embodiment, of Thoughts that dwelt in the Great Men sent into the world:
the soul of the whole world's history, it may justly be considered, were
the history of these. Too clearly it is a topic we shall do no justice to
in this place!

One comfort is, that Great Men, taken up in any way, are profitable
company. We cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without
gaining something by him. He is the living light-fountain, which it is
good and pleasant to be near. The light which enlightens, which has
enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only,
but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven; a flowing
light-fountain, as I say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic
nobleness;--in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them. On
any terms whatsoever, you will not grudge to wander in such neighborhood
for a while. These Six classes of Heroes, chosen out of widely distant
countries and epochs, and in mere external figure differing altogether,
ought, if we look faithfully at them, to illustrate several things for us.
Could we see them well, we should get some glimpses into the very marrow of
the world's history. How happy, could I but, in any measure, in such times
as these, make manifest to you the meanings of Heroism; the divine relation
(for I may well call it such) which in all times unites a Great Man to
other men; and thus, as it were, not exhaust my subject, but so much as
break ground on it! At all events, I must make the attempt.

It is well said, in every sense, that a man's religion is the chief fact
with regard to him. A man's, or a nation of men's. By religion I do not
mean here the church-creed which he professes, the articles of faith which
he will sign and, in words or otherwise, assert; not this wholly, in many
cases not this at all. We see men of all kinds of professed creeds attain
to almost all degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any of them.
This is not what I call religion, this profession and assertion; which is
often only a profession and assertion from the outworks of the man, from
the mere argumentative region of him, if even so deep as that. But the
thing a man does practically believe (and this is often enough _without_
asserting it even to himself, much less to others); the thing a man does
practically lay to heart, and know for certain, concerning his vital
relations to this mysterious Universe, and his duty and destiny there, that
is in all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively determines all
the rest. That is his _religion_; or, it may be, his mere scepticism and
_no-religion_: the manner it is in which he feels himself to be
spiritually related to the Unseen World or No-World; and I say, if you tell
me what that is, you tell me to a very great extent what the man is, what
the kind of things he will do is. Of a man or of a nation we inquire,
therefore, first of all, What religion they had? Was it
Heathenism,--plurality of gods, mere sensuous representation of this
Mystery of Life, and for chief recognized element therein Physical Force?
Was it Christianism; faith in an Invisible, not as real only, but as the
only reality; Time, through every meanest moment of it, resting on
Eternity; Pagan empire of Force displaced by a nobler supremacy, that of
Holiness? Was it Scepticism, uncertainty and inquiry whether there was an
Unseen World, any Mystery of Life except a mad one;--doubt as to all this,
or perhaps unbelief and flat denial? Answering of this question is giving
us the soul of the history of the man or nation. The thoughts they had
were the parents of the actions they did; their feelings were parents of
their thoughts: it was the unseen and spiritual in them that determined
the outward and actual;--their religion, as I say, was the great fact about
them. In these Discourses, limited as we are, it will be good to direct
our survey chiefly to that religious phasis of the matter. That once known
well, all is known. We have chosen as the first Hero in our series Odin
the central figure of Scandinavian Paganism; an emblem to us of a most
extensive province of things. Let us look for a little at the Hero as
Divinity, the oldest primary form of Heroism.

Surely it seems a very strange-looking thing this Paganism; almost
inconceivable to us in these days. A bewildering, inextricable jungle of
delusions, confusions, falsehoods, and absurdities, covering the whole
field of Life! A thing that fills us with astonishment, almost, if it were
possible, with incredulity,--for truly it is not easy to understand that
sane men could ever calmly, with their eyes open, believe and live by such
a set of doctrines. That men should have worshipped their poor fellow-man
as a God, and not him only, but stocks and stones, and all manner of
animate and inanimate objects; and fashioned for themselves such a
distracted chaos of hallucinations by way of Theory of the Universe: all
this looks like an incredible fable. Nevertheless it is a clear fact that
they did it. Such hideous inextricable jungle of misworships, misbeliefs,
men, made as we are, did actually hold by, and live at home in. This is
strange. Yes, we may pause in sorrow and silence over the depths of
darkness that are in man; if we rejoice in the heights of purer vision he
has attained to. Such things were and are in man; in all men; in us too.

Some speculators have a short way of accounting for the Pagan religion:
mere quackery, priestcraft, and dupery, say they; no sane man ever did
believe it,--merely contrived to persuade other men, not worthy of the name
of sane, to believe it! It will be often our duty to protest against this
sort of hypothesis about men's doings and history; and I here, on the very
threshold, protest against it in reference to Paganism, and to all other
_isms_ by which man has ever for a length of time striven to walk in this
world. They have all had a truth in them, or men would not have taken them
up. Quackery and dupery do abound; in religions, above all in the more
advanced decaying stages of religions, they have fearfully abounded: but
quackery was never the originating influence in such things; it was not the
health and life of such things, but their disease, the sure precursor of
their being about to die! Let us never forget this. It seems to me a most
mournful hypothesis, that of quackery giving birth to any faith even in
savage men. Quackery gives birth to nothing; gives death to all things.
We shall not see into the true heart of anything, if we look merely at the
quackeries of it; if we do not reject the quackeries altogether; as mere
diseases, corruptions, with which our and all men's sole duty is to have
done with them, to sweep them out of our thoughts as out of our practice.
Man everywhere is the born enemy of lies. I find Grand Lamaism itself to
have a kind of truth in it. Read the candid, clear-sighted, rather
sceptical Mr. Turner's _Account of his Embassy_ to that country, and see.
They have their belief, these poor Thibet people, that Providence sends
down always an Incarnation of Himself into every generation. At bottom
some belief in a kind of Pope! At bottom still better, belief that there
is a _Greatest_ Man; that _he_ is discoverable; that, once discovered, we
ought to treat him with an obedience which knows no bounds! This is the
truth of Grand Lamaism; the "discoverability" is the only error here. The
Thibet priests have methods of their own of discovering what Man is
Greatest, fit to be supreme over them. Bad methods: but are they so much
worse than our methods,--of understanding him to be always the eldest-born
of a certain genealogy? Alas, it is a difficult thing to find good methods
for!--We shall begin to have a chance of understanding Paganism, when we
first admit that to its followers it was, at one time, earnestly true. Let
us consider it very certain that men did believe in Paganism; men with open
eyes, sound senses, men made altogether like ourselves; that we, had we
been there, should have believed in it. Ask now, What Paganism could have
been?

Another theory, somewhat more respectable, attributes such things to
Allegory. It was a play of poetic minds, say these theorists; a shadowing
forth, in allegorical fable, in personification and visual form, of what
such poetic minds had known and felt of this Universe. Which agrees, add
they, with a primary law of human nature, still everywhere observably at
work, though in less important things, That what a man feels intensely, he
struggles to speak out of him, to see represented before him in visual
shape, and as if with a kind of life and historical reality in it. Now
doubtless there is such a law, and it is one of the deepest in human
nature; neither need we doubt that it did operate fundamentally in this
business. The hypothesis which ascribes Paganism wholly or mostly to this
agency, I call a little more respectable; but I cannot yet call it the true
hypothesis. Think, would _we_ believe, and take with us as our
life-guidance, an allegory, a poetic sport? Not sport but earnest is what
we should require. It is a most earnest thing to be alive in this world;
to die is not sport for a man. Man's life never was a sport to him; it was
a stern reality, altogether a serious matter to be alive!

I find, therefore, that though these Allegory theorists are on the way
towards truth in this matter, they have not reached it either. Pagan
Religion is indeed an Allegory, a Symbol of what men felt and knew about
the Universe; and all Religions are symbols of that, altering always as
that alters: but it seems to me a radical perversion, and even inversion,
of the business, to put that forward as the origin and moving cause, when
it was rather the result and termination. To get beautiful allegories, a
perfect poetic symbol, was not the want of men; but to know what they were
to believe about this Universe, what course they were to steer in it; what,
in this mysterious Life of theirs, they had to hope and to fear, to do and
to forbear doing. The _Pilgrim's Progress_ is an Allegory, and a
beautiful, just and serious one: but consider whether Bunyan's Allegory
could have _preceded_ the Faith it symbolizes! The Faith had to be already
there, standing believed by everybody;--of which the Allegory could _then_
become a shadow; and, with all its seriousness, we may say a _sportful_
shadow, a mere play of the Fancy, in comparison with that awful Fact and
scientific certainty which it poetically strives to emblem. The Allegory
is the product of the certainty, not the producer of it; not in Bunyan's
nor in any other case. For Paganism, therefore, we have still to inquire,
Whence came that scientific certainty, the parent of such a bewildered heap
of allegories, errors and confusions? How was it, what was it?

Surely it were a foolish attempt to pretend "explaining," in this place, or
in any place, such a phenomenon as that far-distant distracted cloudy
imbroglio of Paganism,--more like a cloud-field than a distant continent of
firm land and facts! It is no longer a reality, yet it was one. We ought
to understand that this seeming cloud-field was once a reality; that not
poetic allegory, least of all that dupery and deception was the origin of
it. Men, I say, never did believe idle songs, never risked their soul's
life on allegories: men in all times, especially in early earnest times,
have had an instinct for detecting quacks, for detesting quacks. Let us
try if, leaving out both the quack theory and the allegory one, and
listening with affectionate attention to that far-off confused rumor of the
Pagan ages, we cannot ascertain so much as this at least, That there was a
kind of fact at the heart of them; that they too were not mendacious and
distracted, but in their own poor way true and sane!

You remember that fancy of Plato's, of a man who had grown to maturity in
some dark distance, and was brought on a sudden into the upper air to see
the sun rise. What would his wonder be, his rapt astonishment at the sight
we daily witness with indifference! With the free open sense of a child,
yet with the ripe faculty of a man, his whole heart would be kindled by
that sight, he would discern it well to be Godlike, his soul would fall
down in worship before it. Now, just such a childlike greatness was in the
primitive nations. The first Pagan Thinker among rude men, the first man
that began to think, was precisely this child-man of Plato's. Simple, open
as a child, yet with the depth and strength of a man. Nature had as yet no
name to him; he had not yet united under a name the infinite variety of
sights, sounds, shapes and motions, which we now collectively name
Universe, Nature, or the like,--and so with a name dismiss it from us. To
the wild deep-hearted man all was yet new, not veiled under names or
formulas; it stood naked, flashing in on him there, beautiful, awful,
unspeakable. Nature was to this man, what to the Thinker and Prophet it
forever is, preternatural. This green flowery rock-built earth, the trees,
the mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas;--that great deep sea of azure
that swims overhead; the winds sweeping through it; the black cloud
fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now hail and rain; what
_is_ it? Ay, what? At bottom we do not yet know; we can never know at
all. It is not by our superior insight that we escape the difficulty; it
is by our superior levity, our inattention, our _want_ of insight. It is
by _not_ thinking that we cease to wonder at it. Hardened round us,
encasing wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of traditions,
hearsays, mere _words_. We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud
"electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out
of glass and silk: but _what_ is it? What made it? Whence comes it?
Whither goes it? Science has done much for us; but it is a poor science
that would hide from us the great deep sacred infinitude of Nescience,
whither we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere
superficial film. This world, after all our science and sciences, is still
a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, _magical_ and more, to whosoever will
_think_ of it.

That great mystery of TIME, were there no other; the illimitable, silent,
never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like
an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the Universe swim like
exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are _not_: this is
forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb,--for we have
no word to speak about it. This Universe, ah me--what could the wild man
know of it; what can we yet know? That it is a Force, and thousand-fold
Complexity of Forces; a Force which is _not_ we. That is all; it is not
we, it is altogether different from us. Force, Force, everywhere Force; we
ourselves a mysterious Force in the centre of that. "There is not a leaf
rotting on the highway but has Force in it; how else could it rot?" Nay
surely, to the Atheistic Thinker, if such a one were possible, it must be a
miracle too, this huge illimitable whirlwind of Force, which envelops us
here; never-resting whirlwind, high as Immensity, old as Eternity. What is
it? God's Creation, the religious people answer; it is the Almighty God's!
Atheistic science babbles poorly of it, with scientific nomenclatures,
experiments and what not, as if it were a poor dead thing, to be bottled up
in Leyden jars and sold over counters: but the natural sense of man, in
all times, if he will honestly apply his sense, proclaims it to be a living
thing,--ah, an unspeakable, godlike thing; towards which the best attitude
for us, after never so much science, is awe, devout prostration and
humility of soul; worship if not in words, then in silence.

But now I remark farther: What in such a time as ours it requires a
Prophet or Poet to teach us, namely, the stripping-off of those poor
undevout wrappages, nomenclatures and scientific hearsays,--this, the
ancient earnest soul, as yet unencumbered with these things, did for
itself. The world, which is now divine only to the gifted, was then divine
to whosoever would turn his eye upon it. He stood bare before it face to
face. "All was Godlike or God:"--Jean Paul still finds it so; the giant
Jean Paul, who has power to escape out of hearsays: but there then were no
hearsays. Canopus shining down over the desert, with its blue diamond
brightness (that wild blue spirit-like brightness, far brighter than we
ever witness here), would pierce into the heart of the wild Ishmaelitish
man, whom it was guiding through the solitary waste there. To his wild
heart, with all feelings in it, with no _speech_ for any feeling, it might
seem a little eye, that Canopus, glancing out on him from the great deep
Eternity; revealing the inner Splendor to him. Cannot we understand how
these men _worshipped_ Canopus; became what we call Sabeans, worshipping
the stars? Such is to me the secret of all forms of Paganism. Worship is
transcendent wonder; wonder for which there is now no limit or measure;
that is worship. To these primeval men, all things and everything they saw
exist beside them were an emblem of the Godlike, of some God.

And look what perennial fibre of truth was in that. To us also, through
every star, through every blade of grass, is not a God made visible, if we
will open our minds and eyes? We do not worship in that way now: but is
it not reckoned still a merit, proof of what we call a "poetic nature,"
that we recognize how every object has a divine beauty in it; how every
object still verily is "a window through which we may look into Infinitude
itself"? He that can discern the loveliness of things, we call him Poet!
Painter, Man of Genius, gifted, lovable. These poor Sabeans did even what
he does,--in their own fashion. That they did it, in what fashion soever,
was a merit: better than what the entirely stupid man did, what the horse
and camel did,--namely, nothing!

But now if all things whatsoever that we look upon are emblems to us of the
Highest God, I add that more so than any of them is man such an emblem.
You have heard of St. Chrysostom's celebrated saying in reference to the
Shekinah, or Ark of Testimony, visible Revelation of God, among the
Hebrews: "The true Shekinah is Man!" Yes, it is even so: this is no vain
phrase; it is veritably so. The essence of our being, the mystery in us
that calls itself "I,"--ah, what words have we for such things?--is a
breath of Heaven; the Highest Being reveals himself in man. This body,
these faculties, this life of ours, is it not all as a vesture for that
Unnamed? "There is but one Temple in the Universe," says the devout
Novalis, "and that is the Body of Man. Nothing is holier shall that high
form. Bending before men is a reverence done to this Revelation in the
Flesh. We touch Heaven when we lay our hand on a human body!" This sounds
much like a mere flourish of rhetoric; but it is not so. If well
meditated, it will turn out to be a scientific fact; the expression, in
such words as can be had, of the actual truth of the thing. We are the
miracle of miracles,--the great inscrutable mystery of God. We cannot
understand it, we know not how to speak of it; but we may feel and know, if
we like, that it is verily so.

Well; these truths were once more readily felt than now. The young
generations of the world, who had in them the freshness of young children,
and yet the depth of earnest men, who did not think that they had finished
off all things in Heaven and Earth by merely giving them scientific names,
but had to gaze direct at them there, with awe and wonder: they felt
better what of divinity is in man and Nature; they, without being mad,
could _worship_ Nature, and man more than anything else in Nature.
Worship, that is, as I said above, admire without limit: this, in the full
use of their faculties, with all sincerity of heart, they could do. I
consider Hero-worship to be the grand modifying element in that ancient
system of thought. What I called the perplexed jungle of Paganism sprang,
we may say, out of many roots: every admiration, adoration of a star or
natural object, was a root or fibre of a root; but Hero-worship is the
deepest root of all; the tap-root, from which in a great degree all the
rest were nourished and grown.

And now if worship even of a star had some meaning in it, how much more
might that of a Hero! Worship of a Hero is transcendent admiration of a
Great Man. I say great men are still admirable; I say there is, at bottom,
nothing else admirable! No nobler feeling than this of admiration for one
higher than himself dwells in the breast of man. It is to this hour, and
at all hours, the vivifying influence in man's life. Religion I find stand
upon it; not Paganism only, but far higher and truer religions,--all
religion hitherto known. Hero-worship, heartfelt prostrate admiration,
submission, burning, boundless, for a noblest godlike Form of Man,--is not
that the germ of Christianity itself? The greatest of all Heroes is
One--whom we do not name here! Let sacred silence meditate that sacred
matter; you will find it the ultimate perfection of a principle extant
throughout man's whole history on earth.

Or coming into lower, less unspeakable provinces, is not all Loyalty akin
to religious Faith also? Faith is loyalty to some inspired Teacher, some
spiritual Hero. And what therefore is loyalty proper, the life-breath of
all society, but an effluence of Hero-worship, submissive admiration for
the truly great? Society is founded on Hero-worship. All dignities of
rank, on which human association rests, are what we may call a _Hero_archy
(Government of Heroes),--or a Hierarchy, for it is "sacred" enough withal!
The Duke means _Dux_, Leader; King is _Kon-ning_, _Kan-ning_, Man that
_knows_ or _cans_. Society everywhere is some representation, not
insupportably inaccurate, of a graduated Worship of Heroes--reverence and
obedience done to men really great and wise. Not insupportably inaccurate,
I say! They are all as bank-notes, these social dignitaries, all
representing gold;--and several of them, alas, always are _forged_ notes.
We can do with some forged false notes; with a good many even; but not with
all, or the most of them forged! No: there have to come revolutions then;
cries of Democracy, Liberty and Equality, and I know not what:--the notes
being all false, and no gold to be had for _them_, people take to crying in
their despair that there is no gold, that there never was any! "Gold,"
Hero-worship, _is_ nevertheless, as it was always and everywhere, and
cannot cease till man himself ceases.

I am well aware that in these days Hero-worship, the thing I call
Hero-worship, professes to have gone out, and finally ceased. This, for
reasons which it will be worth while some time to inquire into, is an age
that as it were denies the existence of great men; denies the desirableness
of great men. Show our critics a great man, a Luther for example, they
begin to what they call "account" for him; not to worship him, but take the
dimensions of him,--and bring him out to be a little kind of man! He was
the "creature of the Time," they say; the Time called him forth, the Time
did everything, he nothing--but what we the little critic could have done
too! This seems to me but melancholy work. The Time call forth? Alas, we
have known Times _call_ loudly enough for their great man; but not find him
when they called! He was not there; Providence had not sent him; the Time,
_calling_ its loudest, had to go down to confusion and wreck because he
would not come when called.

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