There is a heroism in crime as well as in virtue. Vice and infamy

William Hazlitt, the fiery essayist of the nineteenth century, declared with unsettling clarity: “There is a heroism in crime as well as in virtue. Vice and infamy have their altars and their religion.” In these words, he reveals a truth both dangerous and profound—that mankind, in its hunger for greatness, does not only revere the noble and the good, but often bows before the daring of the wicked. For courage, cunning, and audacity inspire awe, whether harnessed for justice or for destruction. Thus crime can wear the mask of heroism, and vice itself can gather worshippers, building altars where dark passions are enthroned as gods.

The meaning of Hazlitt’s words is not that virtue and crime are equal, but that human beings are drawn to power in all its forms. Greatness of action—whether noble or vile—has the ability to stir admiration. The conqueror and the liberator both inspire loyalty, though one enslaves and the other frees. The outlaw and the saint both live in memory, though one is cursed and the other blessed. Hazlitt unmasks this paradox: that heroism lies not only in virtue, but also in the boldness of vice, and that men, blinded by passion, may mistake infamy for glory.

History offers countless examples. Consider the figure of Napoleon Bonaparte. To some he was a hero, reshaping Europe with genius and courage; to others he was a tyrant, drowning nations in blood. He had altars erected to his name, devotion akin to religion, even as his ambition brought ruin. Or think of the pirate Blackbeard, whose cruelty was legendary, yet who still stands in stories as a figure of awe. Even in crime, people saw a kind of dark heroism—a man who defied empires, who lived and died by his own ferocity. These are the altars Hazlitt spoke of, built not of stone, but of memory and myth.

Yet the ancients knew this as well. The Greeks sang not only of noble Achilles, but also of cunning Odysseus, whose deceit was praised as much as valor. Rome celebrated its Caesars, some virtuous, others vile, but all remembered with reverence for their daring. Even in scripture, the golden calf rose as an altar of vice, proof that mankind is ever ready to worship power, even when it leads astray. Hazlitt, with modern eyes, saw in this a dangerous truth: that infamy has its religion, and that people will sometimes kneel before evil if it dazzles with strength.

But, O listener, this truth is also a warning. For though crime may be admired in its boldness, it cannot endure. The empire built on blood crumbles; the outlaw’s glory fades into dust. The altars of vice do not last, though they may gleam for a season. Only virtue builds temples that endure, for it is rooted not in fear or desire, but in love and justice. Hazlitt’s words remind us that while men may worship infamy, the wise must discern its hollowness and turn their hearts instead to what is eternal.

The lesson is clear: do not be deceived by the false heroism of crime. Do not mistake daring for goodness, nor audacity for truth. Admire courage, but ask: “To what end is it used? To build or to destroy? To heal or to wound?” For even the most glittering altar of vice will fall, but the altar of virtue will stand forever. True heroism is not merely in bold action, but in righteous action—action that serves others, not self.

Practical wisdom flows from this: in your own life, seek courage, but anchor it in virtue. Use your strength not to dominate, but to uplift. Be wary of idols—those in history, in politics, or in culture—who are worshipped for their power while lacking goodness. Remember that mankind will always build altars; make sure the altar of your heart is given not to infamy, but to truth, justice, and love.

So remember, O children of tomorrow: crime may dazzle with heroism, vice may build altars, infamy may claim its own religion—but only virtue endures. Choose the path that lasts, not the one that burns brightly and perishes. For in the end, the only heroism worth eternal honor is the heroism of goodness.