The Choir Invisible

How fine a thing it would be if all the faculties of the mind could be

trained for the battles of life as a modern nation makes every man a

soldier. Some of these, as we know, are always engaged in active service;

but there are times when they need to be strengthened by others,

constituting a first reserve; and yet graver emergencies arise in the

marchings of every man when the last defences of land and hearth should be

ready to turn out: too often even then the entire disciplined strength of

his forces would count as a mere handful to the great allied powers of the

world and the devil.

But so few of our faculties are of a truly military turn, and these wax

indolent and unwary from disuse like troops during long times of peace. We

all come to recognize sooner or later, of course, the unfailing little band

of them that form our standby, our battle-smoked campaigners, our Old Guard,

that dies, neversurrenders. Who of us also but knows his faithful artillery,

dragging along his big guns--and so liable to reach the scene after the

fighting is over? Who when worsted has not fought many a battle through

again merely to show how different the result would have been, if his

artillery had only arrived in time! Boom! boom! boom! Where are the enemy

now? And who does not take pride in his navy, sweeping the high seas of the

imagination but too often departed for some foreign port when the coast

defences need protecting?

Beyond this general dismemberment of our resources do we not all feel the

presence within us of certain renegades? Does there not exist inside every

man a certain big, ferocious-looking faculty who is his drum major--loving

to strut at the head of a peaceful parade and twirl his bawble and roll his

eyes at the children and scowl back at the quiet intrepid fellows behind as

though they were his personal prisoners? Let but a skirmish threaten, and

our dear, ferocious, fat major--! not even in the rear--not even on the

field!

Then there is a rattling little mannikin who sleeps in the barracks

of the brain and is good for nothing but to beat the cerebral drum. There is

a certain awkward squad--too easily identified--who have been drafted again

and again into service only to be in the way of every skilled manoeuvre,

only to be mustered out as raw recruits at the very end of life. And,

finally, there is a miscellaneous crowd of our faculties scattered far and

near at their humdrum peaceful occupations; so that if a quick call for war

be heard, these do but behave as a populace that rushes into a street to

gaze at the national guard already marching past, some of the spectators not

even grateful, not even cheering.