Character — Ch 6b - Self-Control, cont.

The famous Earl of Strafford was of an extremely choleric and passionate nature, and had great struggles with himself in his endeavours to control his temper.

Referring to the advice of one of his friends, old Secretary Cooke, who was honest enough to tell him of his weakness, and to caution him against indulging it, he wrote: "You gave me a good lesson to be patient; and, indeed, my years and natural inclinations give me heat more than enough, which, however, I trust more experience shall cool, and a watch over myself in time altogether overcome; in the meantime, in this at least it will set forth itself more pardonable, because my earnestness shall ever be for the honour, justice, and profit of my master; and it is not always anger, but the misapplying of it, that is the vice so blameable, and of disadvantage to those that let themselves loose there-unto."

[154] Cromwell, also, is described as having been of a wayward and violent temper in his youth--cross, untractable, and masterless--with a vast quantity of youthful energy, which exploded in a variety of youthful mischiefs.

He even obtained the reputation of a roysterer in his native town, and seemed to be rapidly going to the bad, when religion, in one of its most rigid forms, laid hold upon his strong nature, and subjected it to the iron discipline of Calvinism.

An entirely new direction was thus given to his energy of temperament, which forced an outlet for itself into public life, and eventually became the dominating influence in England for a period of nearly twenty years.

The heroic princes of the House of Nassau were all distinguished for the same qualities of self-control, self-denial, and determination of purpose.

William the Silent was so called, not because he was a taciturn man--for he was an eloquent and powerful speaker where eloquence was necessary--but because he was a man who could hold his tongue when it was wisdom not to speak, and because he carefully kept his own counsel when to have revealed it might have been dangerous to the liberties of his country.

He was so gentle and conciliatory in his manner that his enemies even described him as timid and pusillanimous.

Yet, when the time for action came, his courage was heroic, his determination unconquerable.

"The rock in the ocean," says Mr. Motley, the historian of the Netherlands, "tranquil amid raging billows, was the favourite emblem by which his friends expressed their sense of his firmness."

Mr. Motley compares William the Silent to Washington, whom he in many respects resembled.

The American, like the Dutch patriot, stands out in history as the very impersonation of dignity, bravery, purity, and personal excellence.

His command over his feelings, even in moments of great difficulty and danger, was such as to convey the impression, to those who did not know him intimately, that he was a man of inborn calmness and almost impassiveness of disposition.

Yet Washington was by nature ardent and impetuous; his mildness, gentleness, politeness, and consideration for others, were the result of rigid self-control and unwearied self-discipline, which he diligently practised even from his boyhood.

His biographer says of him, that "his temperament was ardent, his passions strong, and amidst the multiplied scenes of temptation and excitement through which he passed, it was his constant effort, and ultimate triumph, to check the one and subdue the other."

And again: "His passions were strong, and sometimes they broke out with vehemence, but he had the power of checking them in an instant.

Perhaps self-control was the most remarkable trait of his character.

It was in part the effect of discipline; yet he seems by nature to have possessed this power in a degree which has been denied to other men."

[15*5] The Duke of Wellington's natural temper, like that of Napoleon, was irritable in the extreme; and it was only by watchful self-control that he was enabled to restrain it.

He studied calmness and coolness in the midst of danger, like any Indian chief.

At Waterloo, and elsewhere, he gave his orders in the most critical moments, without the slightest excitement, and in a tone of voice almost more than usually subdued.

[156] Wordsworth the poet was, in his childhood, "of a stiff, moody, and violent temper," and "perverse and obstinate in defying chastisement."

When experience of life had disciplined his temper, he learnt to exercise greater self-control; but, at the same time, the qualities which distinguished him as a child were afterwards useful in enabling him to defy the criticism of his enemies.

Nothing was more marked than Wordsworth's self-respect and self-determination, as well as his self-consciousness of power, at all periods of his history.

Henry Martyn, the missionary, was another instance of a man in whom strength of temper was only so much pent-up, unripe energy.

As a boy he was impatient, petulant, and perverse; but by constant wrestling against his tendency to wrongheadedness, he gradually gained the requisite strength, so as to entirely overcome it, and to acquire what he so greatly coveted--the gift of patience.

A man may be feeble in organization, but, blessed with a happy temperament, his soul may be great, active, noble, and sovereign.

Professor Tyndall has given us a fine picture of the character of Faraday, and of his self-denying labours in the cause of science--exhibiting him as a man of strong, original, and even fiery nature, and yet of extreme tenderness and sensibility.

"Underneath his sweetness and gentleness," he says, "was the heat of a volcano.

He was a man of excitable and fiery nature; but, through high self-discipline, he had converted the fire into a central glow and motive power of life, instead of permitting it to waste itself in useless passion."

There was one fine feature in Faraday's character which is worthy of notice--one closely akin to self-control: it was his self-denial.

By devoting himself to analytical chemistry, he might have speedily realised a large fortune; but he nobly resisted the temptation, and preferred to follow the path of pure science.

"Taking the duration of his life into account," says Mr. Tyndall, "this son of a blacksmith and apprentice to a bookbinder had to decide between a fortune of L. 150,000 on the one side, and his undowered science on the other.

He chose the latter, and died a poor man.

But his was the glory of holding aloft among the nations the scientific name of England for a period of forty years."

[157] Take a like instance of the self-denial of a Frenchman.

The historian Anquetil was one of the small number of literary men in France who refused to bow to the Napoleonic yoke.

He sank into great poverty, living on bread-and-milk, and limiting his expenditure to only three sous a day.

"I have still two sous a day left," said he, "for the conqueror of Marengo and Austerlitz."

"But if you fall sick," said a friend to him, "you will need the help of a pension.

Why not do as others do?

Pay court to the Emperor--you have need of him to live."

"I do not need him to die," was the historian's reply.

But Anquetil did not die of poverty; he lived to the age of ninety-four, saying to a friend, on the eve of his death, "Come, see a man who dies still full of life!"

Sir James Outram exhibited the same characteristic of noble self-denial, though in an altogether different sphere of life.

Like the great King Arthur, he was emphatically a man who "forbore his own advantage."

He was characterised throughout his whole career by his noble unselfishness.

Though he might personally disapprove of the policy he was occasionally ordered to carry out, he never once faltered in the path of duty.

Thus he did not approve of the policy of invading Scinde;

yet his services throughout the campaign were acknowledged by General Sir C. Napier to have been of the most brilliant character.

But when the war was over, and the rich spoils of Scinde lay at the conqueror's feet, Outram said: "I disapprove of the policy of this war--I will accept no share of the prize-money!"

Not less marked was his generous self-denial when despatched with a strong force to aid Havelock in fighting his way to Lucknow.

As superior officer, he was entitled to take upon himself the chief command; but, recognising what Havelock had already done, with rare disinterestedness, he left to his junior officer the glory of completing the campaign, offering to serve under him as a volunteer.

"With such reputation," said Lord Clyde, "as Major-General Outram has won for himself, he can afford to share glory and honour with others.

But that does not lessen the value of the sacrifice he has made with such disinterested generosity."

If a man would get through life honourably and peaceably, he must necessarily learn to practise self-denial in small things as well as great.

Men have to bear as well as forbear.

The temper has to be held in subjection to the judgment; and the little demons of ill-humour, petulance, and sarcasm, kept resolutely at a distance.

If once they find an entrance to the mind, they are very apt to return, and to establish for themselves a permanent occupation there.

It is necessary to one's personal happiness, to exercise control over one's words as well as acts: for there are words that strike even harder than blows; and men may "speak daggers," though they use none.

"UN COUP DE LANGUE," says the French proverb, "EST PIRE QU'UN COUP DE LANCE."

The stinging repartee that rises to the lips, and which, if uttered, might cover an adversary with confusion, how difficult it sometimes is to resist saying it!

"Heaven keep us," says Miss Bremer in her 'Home,' "from the destroying power of words!

There are words which sever hearts more than sharp swords do; there are words the point of which sting the heart through the course of a whole life."

Thus character exhibits itself in self-control of speech as much as in anything else.

The wise and forbearant man will restrain his desire to say a smart or severe thing at the expense of another's feelings; while the fool blurts out what he thinks, and will sacrifice his friend rather than his joke.

"The mouth of a wise man," said Solomon, "is in his heart; the heart of a fool is in his mouth."

There are, however, men who are no fools, that are headlong in their language as in their acts, because of their want of forbearance and self-restraining patience.

The impulsive genius, gifted with quick thought and incisive speech--perhaps carried away by the cheers of the moment--lets fly a sarcastic sentence which may return upon him to his own infinite damage.

Even statesmen might be named, who have failed through their inability to resist the temptation of saying clever and spiteful things at their adversary's expense.

"The turn of a sentence," says Bentham, "has decided the fate of many a friendship, and, for aught that we know, the fate of many a kingdom."

So, when one is tempted to write a clever but harsh thing, though it may be difficult to restrain it, it is always better to leave it in the inkstand.

"A goose's quill," says the Spanish proverb, "often hurts more than a lion's claw."

Carlyle says, when speaking of Oliver Cromwell, "He that cannot withal keep his mind to himself, cannot practise any considerable thing whatsoever."

It was said of William the Silent, by one of his greatest enemies, that an arrogant or indiscreet word was never known to fall from his lips.

Like him, Washington was discretion itself in the use of speech, never taking advantage of an opponent, or seeking a shortlived triumph in a debate.

And it is said that in the long run, the world comes round to and supports the wise man who knows when and how to be silent.

We have heard men of great experience say that they have often regretted having spoken, but never once regretted holding their tongue.

"Be silent," says Pythagoras, "or say something better than silence."

"Speak fitly," says George Herbert, "or be silent wisely."

St. Francis de Sales, whom Leigh Hunt styled "the Gentleman Saint," has said: "It is better to remain silent than to speak the truth ill-humouredly, and so spoil an excellent dish by covering it with bad sauce."

Another Frenchman, Lacordaire, characteristically puts speech first, and silence next.

"After speech," he says, "silence is the greatest power in the world."

Yet a word spoken in season, how powerful it may be!

As the old Welsh proverb has it, "A golden tongue is in the mouth of the blessed."

It is related, as a remarkable instance of self-control on the part of De Leon, a distinguished Spanish poet of the sixteenth century, who lay for years in the dungeons of the Inquisition without light or society, because of his having translated a part of the Scriptures into his native tongue, that on being liberated and restored to his professorship, an immense crowd attended his first lecture, expecting some account of his long imprisonment; but Do Leon was too wise and too gentle to indulge in recrimination.

He merely resumed the lecture which, five years before, had been so sadly interrupted, with the accustomed formula "HERI DICEBAMUS," and went directly into his subject.