"Honour and profit do not always lie in the same sack."--
GEORGE HERBERT.
"The government of one's self is the only true freedom for
the Individual."--FREDERICK PERTHES.
"It is in length of patience, and endurance, and
forbearance, that so much of what is good in mankind and
womankind is shown."--ARTHUR HELPS.
"Temperance, proof
Against all trials; industry severe
And constant as the motion of the day;
Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade
That might be deemed forbidding, did not there
All generous feelings flourish and rejoice;
Forbearance, charity indeed and thought,
And resolution competent to take
Out of the bosom of simplicity
All that her holy customs recommend."--WORDSWORTH.
Self-control is only courage under another form. It may almost be
regarded as the primary essence of character. It is in virtue of this
quality that Shakspeare defines man as a being "looking before and
after." It forms the chief distinction between man and the mere animal;
and, indeed, there can be no true manhood without it.
Self-control is at the root of all the virtues. Let a man give the reins
to his impulses and passions, and from that moment he yields up his
moral freedom. He is carried along the current of life, and becomes the
slave of his strongest desire for the time being.
To be morally free--to be more than an animal--man must be able to
resist instinctive impulse, and this can only be done by the exercise
of self-control. Thus it is this power which constitutes the real
distinction between a physical and a moral life, and that forms the
primary basis of individual character.
In the Bible praise is given, not to the strong man who "taketh a city,"
but to the stronger man who "ruleth his own spirit." This stronger
man is he who, by discipline, exercises a constant control over his
thoughts, his speech, and his acts. Nine-tenths of the vicious desires
that degrade society, and which, when indulged, swell into the crimes
that disgrace it, would shrink into insignificance before the advance of
valiant self-discipline, self-respect, and self-control. By the watchful
exercise of these virtues, purity of heart and mind become habitual, and
the character is built up in chastity, virtue, and temperance.
The best support of character will always be found in habit, which,
according as the will is directed rightly or wrongly, as the case may
be, will prove either a benignant ruler or a cruel despot. We may be its
willing subject on the one hand, or its servile slave on the other. It
may help us on the road to good, or it may hurry us on the road to ruin.
Habit is formed by careful training. And it is astonishing how much
can be accomplished by systematic discipline and drill. See how, for
instance, out of the most unpromising materials--such as roughs
picked up in the streets, or raw unkempt country lads taken from the
plough--steady discipline and drill will bring out the unsuspected
qualities of courage, endurance, and self-sacrifice; and how, in the
field of battle, or even on the more trying occasions of perils
by sea--such as the burning of the SARAH SANDS or the wreck of
the BIRKENHEAD--such men, carefully disciplined, will exhibit the
unmistakable characteristics of true bravery and heroism!
Nor is moral discipline and drill less influential in the formation of
character. Without it, there will be no proper system and order in the
regulation of the life. Upon it depends the cultivation of the sense of
self-respect, the education of the habit of obedience, the development
of the idea of duty. The most self-reliant, self-governing man is always
under discipline: and the more perfect the discipline, the higher will
be his moral condition. He has to drill his desires, and keep them in
subjection to the higher powers of his nature. They must obey the word
of command of the internal monitor, the conscience--otherwise they will
be but the mere slaves of their inclinations, the sport of feeling and
impulse.
"In the supremacy of self-control," says Herbert Spencer, "consists
one of the perfections of the ideal man. Not to be impulsive--not to
be spurred hither and thither by each desire that in turn comes
uppermost--but to be self-restrained, self-balanced, governed by the
joint decision of the feelings in council assembled, before whom every
action shall have been fully debated and calmly determined--that it is
which education, moral education at least, strives to produce." [151]
The first seminary of moral discipline, and the best, as we have already
shown, is the home; next comes the school, and after that the world, the
great school of practical life. Each is preparatory to the other, and
what the man or woman becomes, depends for the most part upon what has
gone before. If they have enjoyed the advantage of neither the home nor
the school, but have been allowed to grow up untrained, untaught, and
undisciplined, then woe to themselves--woe to the society of which they
form part!
The best-regulated home is always that in which the discipline is the
most perfect, and yet where it is the least felt. Moral discipline acts
with the force of a law of nature. Those subject to it yield themselves
to it unconsciously; and though it shapes and forms the whole character,
until the life becomes crystallized in habit, the influence thus
exercised is for the most part unseen and almost unfelt.
The importance of strict domestic discipline is curiously illustrated
by a fact mentioned in Mrs. Schimmelpenninck's Memoirs, to the following
effect: that a lady who, with her husband, had inspected most of the
lunatic asylums of England and the Continent, found the most numerous
class of patients was almost always composed of those who had been
only children, and whose wills had therefore rarely been thwarted
or disciplined in early life; whilst those who were members of large
families, and who had been trained in self-discipline, were far less
frequent victims to the malady.
Although the moral character depends in a great degree on temperament
and on physical health, as well as on domestic and early training and
the example of companions, it is also in the power of each individual to
regulate, to restrain, and to discipline it by watchful and persevering
self-control. A competent teacher has said of the propensities and
habits, that they are as teachable as Latin and Greek, while they are
much more essential to happiness.
Dr. Johnson, though himself constitutionally prone to melancholy, and
afflicted by it as few have been from his earliest years, said that "a
man's being in a good or bad humour very much depends upon his will."
We may train ourselves in a habit of patience and contentment on the
one hand, or of grumbling and discontent on the other. We may accustom
ourselves to exaggerate small evils, and to underestimate great
blessings. We may even become the victim of petty miseries by giving way
to them. Thus, we may educate ourselves in a happy disposition, as well
as in a morbid one. Indeed, the habit of viewing things cheerfully, and
of thinking about life hopefully, may be made to grow up in us like any
other habit. [152] It was not an exaggerated estimate of Dr. Johnson to
say, that the habit of looking at the best side of any event is worth
far more than a thousand pounds a year.
The religious man's life is pervaded by rigid self-discipline and
self-restraint. He is to be sober and vigilant, to eschew evil and do
good, to walk in the spirit, to be obedient unto death, to withstand
in the evil day, and having done all, to stand; to wrestle against
spiritual wickedness, and against the rulers of the darkness of this
world; to be rooted and built up in faith, and not to be weary of
well-doing; for in due season he shall reap, if he faint not.
The man of business also must needs be subject to strict rule and
system. Business, like life, is managed by moral leverage; success in
both depending in no small degree upon that regulation of temper and
careful self-discipline, which give a wise man not only a command over
himself, but over others. Forbearance and self-control smooth the road
of life, and open many ways which would otherwise remain closed. And so
does self-respect: for as men respect themselves, so will they usually
respect the personality of others.
It is the same in politics as in business. Success in that sphere of
life is achieved less by talent than by temper, less by genius than by
character. If a man have not self-control, he will lack patience, be
wanting in tact, and have neither the power of governing himself nor of
managing others. When the quality most needed in a Prime Minister was
the subject of conversation in the presence of Mr. Pitt, one of the
speakers said it was "Eloquence;" another said it was "Knowledge;" and
a third said it was "Toil," "No," said Pitt, "it is Patience!" And
patience means self-control, a quality in which he himself was superb.
His friend George Rose has said of him that he never once saw Pitt out
of temper. [153] Yet, although patience is usually regarded as a "slow"
virtue, Pitt combined with it the most extraordinary readiness, vigour,
and rapidity of thought as well as action.
It is by patience and self-control that the truly heroic character is
perfected. These were among the most prominent characteristics of the
great Hampden, whose noble qualities were generously acknowledged even
by his political enemies. Thus Clarendon described him as a man of rare
temper and modesty, naturally cheerful and vivacious, and above all, of
a flowing courtesy. He was kind and intrepid, yet gentle, of unblameable
conversation, and his heart glowed with love to all men. He was not a
man of many words, but, being of unimpeachable character, every word
he uttered carried weight. "No man had ever a greater power over
himself.... He was very temperate in diet, and a supreme governor over
all his passions and affections; and he had thereby great power over
other men's." Sir Philip Warwick, another of his political opponents,
incidentally describes his great influence in a certain debate: "We had
catched at each other's locks, and sheathed our swords in each other's
bowels, had not the sagacity and great calmness of Mr. Hampden, by a
short speech, prevented it, and led us to defer our angry debate until
the next morning."
A strong temper is not necessarily a bad temper. But the stronger the
temper, the greater is the need of self-discipline and self-control.
Dr. Johnson says men grow better as they grow older, and improve with
experience; but this depends upon the width, and depth, and generousness
of their nature. It is not men's faults that ruin them so much as the
manner in which they conduct themselves after the faults have been
committed. The wise will profit by the suffering they cause, and eschew
them for the future; but there are those on whom experience exerts no
ripening influence, and who only grow narrower and bitterer and more
vicious with time.
What is called strong temper in a young man, often indicates a large
amount of unripe energy, which will expend itself in useful work if the
road be fairly opened to it. It is said of Stephen Gerard, a Frenchman,
who pursued a remarkably successful career in the United States, that
when he heard of a clerk with a strong temper, he would readily take him
into his employment, and set him to work in a room by himself; Gerard
being of opinion that such persons were the best workers, and that their
energy would expend itself in work if removed from the temptation to
quarrel.
Strong temper may only mean a strong and excitable will. Uncontrolled,
it displays itself in fitful outbreaks of passion; but controlled and
held in subjection--like steam pent-up within the organised mechanism
of a steam-engine, the use of which is regulated and controlled by
slide-valves and governors and levers--it may become a source of
energetic power and usefulness. Hence, some of the greatest characters
in history have been men of strong temper, but of equally strong
determination to hold their motive power under strict regulation and
control.
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.
There are, of course, times and occasions when the expression of
indignation is not only justifiable but necessary. We are bound to be
indignant at falsehood, selfishness, and cruelty. A man of true feeling
fires up naturally at baseness or meanness of any sort, even in cases
where he may be under no obligation to speak out. "I would have nothing
to do," said Perthes, "with the man who cannot be moved to indignation.
There are more good people than bad in the world, and the bad get the
upper hand merely because they are bolder. We cannot help being pleased
with a man who uses his powers with decision; and we often take his side
for no other reason than because he does so use them. No doubt, I have
often repented speaking; but not less often have I repented keeping
silence." [158]
One who loves right cannot be indifferent to wrong, or wrongdoing. If he
feels warmly, he will speak warmly, out of the fulness of his heart. As
a noble lady [159] has written:
"A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn--
To scorn to owe a duty overlong,
To scorn to be for benefits forborne,
To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong,
To scorn to bear an injury in mind,
To scorn a freeborn heart slave-like to bind."
We have, however, to be on our guard against impatient scorn. The best
people are apt to have their impatient side; and often, the very temper
which makes men earnest, makes them also intolerant. [1510] "Of all mental
gifts," says Miss Julia Wedgwood, "the rarest is intellectual patience;
and the last lesson of culture is to believe in difficulties which are
invisible to ourselves."
The best corrective of intolerance in disposition, is increase of wisdom
and enlarged experience of life. Cultivated good sense will usually save
men from the entanglements in which moral impatience is apt to involve
them; good sense consisting chiefly in that temper of mind which enables
its possessor to deal with the practical affairs of life with justice,
judgment, discretion, and charity. Hence men of culture and experience
are invariably, found the most forbearant and tolerant, as ignorant and
narrowminded persons are found the most unforgiving and intolerant. Men
of large and generous natures, in proportion to their practical wisdom,
are disposed to make allowance for the defects and disadvantages of
others--allowance for the controlling power of circumstances in the
formation of character, and the limited power of resistance of weak and
fallible natures to temptation and error. "I see no fault committed,"
said Goethe, "which I also might not have committed." So a wise and good
man exclaimed, when he saw a criminal drawn on his hurdle to Tyburn:
"There goes Jonathan Bradford--but for the grace of God!"
Life will always be, to a great extent, what we ourselves make it. The
cheerful man makes a cheerful world, the gloomy man a gloomy one. We
usually find but our own temperament reflected in the dispositions of
those about us. If we are ourselves querulous, we will find them so; if
we are unforgiving and uncharitable to them, they will be the same to
us. A person returning from an evening party not long ago, complained to
a policeman on his beat that an ill-looking fellow was following him: it
turned out to be only his own shadow! And such usually is human life to
each of us; it is, for the most part, but the reflection of ourselves.
If we would be at peace with others, and ensure their respect, we must
have regard for their personality. Every man has his peculiarities of
manner and character, as he has peculiarities of form and feature; and
we must have forbearance in dealing with them, as we expect them to
have forbearance in dealing with us. We may not be conscious of our own
peculiarities, yet they exist nevertheless. There is a village in South
America where gotos or goitres are so common that to be without one is
regarded as a deformity. One day a party of Englishmen passed through
the place, when quite a crowd collected to jeer them, shouting: "See,
see these people--they have got NO GOTOS!"
Many persons give themselves a great deal of fidget concerning what
other people think of them and their peculiarities. Some are too much
disposed to take the illnatured side, and, judging by themselves, infer
the worst. But it is very often the case that the uncharitableness of
others, where it really exists, is but the reflection of our own want of
charity and want of temper. It still oftener happens, that the worry we
subject ourselves to, has its source in our own imagination. And even
though those about us may think of us uncharitably, we shall not mend
matters by exasperating ourselves against them. We may thereby only
expose ourselves unnecessarily to their illnature or caprice. "The ill
that comes out of our mouth," says Herbert, "ofttimes falls into our
bosom."
The great and good philosopher Faraday communicated the following piece
of admirable advice, full of practical wisdom, the result of a rich
experience of life, in a letter to his friend Professor Tyndall:-
"Let me, as an old man, who ought by this time to have profited by
experience, say that when I was younger I found I often misrepresented
the intentions of people, and that they did not mean what at the time I
supposed they meant; and further, that, as a general rule, it was better
to be a little dull of apprehension where phrases seemed to imply pique,
and quick in perception when, on the contrary, they seemed to imply
kindly feeling. The real truth never fails ultimately to appear;
and opposing parties, if wrong, are sooner convinced when replied to
forbearingly, than when overwhelmed. All I mean to say is, that it is
better to be blind to the results of partisanship, and quick to see
goodwill. One has more happiness in one's self in endeavouring to follow
the things that make for peace. You can hardly imagine how often I have
been heated in private when opposed, as I have thought unjustly and
superciliously, and yet I have striven, and succeeded, I hope, in
keeping down replies of the like kind. And I know I have never lost by
it." [1511]
While the painter Barry was at Rome, he involved himself, as was
his wont, in furious quarrels with the artists and dilettanti, about
picture-painting and picture-dealing, upon which his friend and
countryman, Edmund Burke--always the generous friend of struggling
merit--wrote to him kindly and sensibly: "Believe me, dear Barry,
that the arms with which the ill-dispositions of the world are to be
combated, and the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and
we reconciled to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence
to others, and a great deal of distrust of ourselves; which are not
qualities of a mean spirit, as some may possibly think them, but virtues
of a great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much
as they contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so
unworthy of a well-composed soul as to pass away life in bickerings and
litigations--in snarling and scuffling with every one about us. We must
be at peace with our species, if not for their sakes, at least very much
for our own." [1512]
No one knew the value of self-control better than the poet Burns, and
no one could teach it more eloquently to others; but when it came to
practice, Burns was as weak as the weakest. He could not deny himself
the pleasure of uttering a harsh and clever sarcasm at another's
expense. One of his biographers observes of him, that it was no
extravagant arithmetic to say that for every ten jokes he made himself
a hundred enemies. But this was not all. Poor Burns exercised no control
over his appetites, but freely gave them rein:
"Thus thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained his name."
Nor had he the self-denial to resist giving publicity to compositions
originally intended for the delight of the tap-room, but which continue
secretly to sow pollution broadcast in the minds of youth. Indeed,
notwithstanding the many exquisite poems of this writer, it is not
saying too much to aver that his immoral writings have done far more
harm than his purer writings have done good; and that it would be better
that all his writings should be destroyed and forgotten provided his
indecent songs could be destroyed with them.
The remark applies alike to Beranger, who has been styled "The Burns
of France." Beranger was of the same bright incisive genius; he had
the same love of pleasure, the same love of popularity; and while he
flattered French vanity to the top of its bent, he also painted the
vices most loved by his countrymen with the pen of a master. Beranger's
songs and Thiers' History probably did more than anything else to
reestablish the Napoleonic dynasty in France. But that was a small evil
compared with the moral mischief which many of Beranger's songs are
calculated to produce; for, circulating freely as they do in French
households, they exhibit pictures of nastiness and vice, which are
enough to pollute and destroy a nation.
One of Burns's finest poems, written, in his twenty-eighth year, is
entitled 'A Bard's Epitaph.' It is a description, by anticipation, of
his own life. Wordsworth has said of it: "Here is a sincere and solemn
avowal; a public declaration from his own will; a confession at once
devout, poetical and human; a history in the shape of a prophecy." It
concludes with these lines:--
"Reader, attend--whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit;
Know--prudent, cautious self-control,
Is Wisdom's root."
One of the vices before which Burns fell--and it may be said to be
a master-vice, because it is productive of so many other vices--was
drinking. Not that he was a drunkard, but because he yielded to the
temptations of drink, with its degrading associations, and thereby
lowered and depraved his whole nature. [1513] But poor Burns did not stand
alone; for, alas! of all vices, the unrestrained appetite for drink was
in his time, as it continues to be now, the most prevalent, popular,
degrading, and destructive.
Were it possible to conceive the existence of a tyrant who should compel
his people to give up to him one-third or more of their earnings,
and require them at the same time to consume a commodity that should
brutalise and degrade them, destroy the peace and comfort of their
families, and sow in themselves the seeds of disease and premature
death--what indignation meetings, what monster processions there
would be! 'What eloquent speeches and apostrophes to the spirit
of liberty!--what appeals against a despotism so monstrous and so
unnatural! And yet such a tyrant really exists amongst us--the tyrant
of unrestrained appetite, whom no force of arms, or voices, or votes can
resist, while men are willing to be his slaves.
The power of this tyrant can only be overcome by moral means--by
self-discipline, self-respect, and self-control. There is no other way
of withstanding the despotism of appetite in any of its forms. No
reform of institutions, no extended power of voting, no improved form
of government, no amount of scholastic instruction, can possibly elevate
the character of a people who voluntarily abandon themselves to sensual
indulgence. The pursuit of ignoble pleasure is the degradation of true
happiness; it saps the morals, destroys the energies, and degrades the
manliness and robustness of individuals as of nations.
The courage of self-control exhibits itself in many ways, but in
none more clearly than in honest living. Men without the virtue of
self-denial are not only subject to their own selfish desires, but they
are usually in bondage to others who are likeminded with themselves.
What others do, they do. They must live according to the artificial
standard of their class, spending like their neighbours, regardless of
the consequences, at the same time that all are, perhaps, aspiring after
a style of living higher than their means. Each carries the others
along with him, and they have not the moral courage to stop. They cannot
resist the temptation of living high, though it may be at the expense
of others; and they gradually become reckless of debt, until it enthrals
them. In all this there is great moral cowardice, pusillanimity, and
want of manly independence of character.
A rightminded man will shrink from seeming to be what he is not, or
pretending to be richer than he really is, or assuming a style of living
that his circumstances will not justify. He will have the courage to
live honestly within his own means, rather than dishonestly upon the
means of other people; for he who incurs debts in striving to maintain a
style of living beyond his income, is in spirit as dishonest as the man
who openly picks your pocket.
To many, this may seem an extreme view, but it will bear the strictest
test. Living at the cost of others is not only dishonesty, but it is
untruthfulness in deed, as lying is in word. The proverb of George
Herbert, that "debtors are liars," is justified by experience.
Shaftesbury somewhere says that a restlessness to have something which
we have not, and to be something which we are not, is the root of all
immorality. [1514] No reliance is to be placed on the saying--a very
dangerous one--of Mirabeau, that "LA PETITE MORALE ETAIT L'ENNEMIE DE LA
GRANDE." On the contrary, strict adherence to even the smallest details
of morality is the foundation of all manly and noble character.
The honourable man is frugal of his means, and pays his way honestly. He
does not seek to pass himself off as richer than he is, or, by running
into debt, open an account with ruin. As that man is not poor whose
means are small, but whose desires are uncontrolled, so that man is rich
whose means are more than sufficient for his wants. When Socrates saw a
great quantity of riches, jewels, and furniture of great value, carried
in pomp through Athens, he said, "Now do I see how many things I do NOT
desire." "I can forgive everything but selfishness," said Perthes. "Even
the narrowest circumstances admit of greatness with reference to 'mine
and thine'; and none but the very poorest need fill their daily life
with thoughts of money, if they have but prudence to arrange their
housekeeping within the limits of their income."
A man may be indifferent to money because of higher considerations, as
Faraday was, who sacrificed wealth to pursue science; but if he would
have the enjoyments that money can purchase, he must honestly earn it,
and not live upon the earnings of others, as those do who habitually
incur debts which they have no means of paying. When Maginn, always
drowned in debt, was asked what he paid for his wine, he replied that he
did not know, but he believed they "put something down in a book." [1515]
This "putting-down in a book" has proved the ruin of a great many
weakminded people, who cannot resist the temptation of taking things
upon credit which they have not the present means of paying for; and it
would probably prove of great social benefit if the law which enables
creditors to recover debts contracted under certain circumstances
were altogether abolished. But, in the competition for trade, every
encouragement is given to the incurring of debt, the creditor relying
upon the law to aid him in the last extremity. When Sydney Smith once
went into a new neighbourhood, it was given out in the local papers that
he was a man of high connections, and he was besought on all sides for
his "custom." But he speedily undeceived his new neighbours. "We are not
great people at all," he said: "we are only common honest people--people
that pay our debts."
Hazlitt, who was a thoroughly honest though rather thriftless man,
speaks of two classes of persons, not unlike each other--those who
cannot keep their own money in their hands, and those who cannot keep
their hands from other people's. The former are always in want of money,
for they throw it away on any object that first presents itself, as if
to get rid of it; the latter make away with what they have of their own,
and are perpetual borrowers from all who will lend to them; and their
genius for borrowing, in the long run, usually proves their ruin.
Sheridan was one of such eminent unfortunates. He was impulsive and
careless in his expenditure, borrowing money, and running into debt
with everybody who would trust him. When he stood for Westminster, his
unpopularity arose chiefly from his general indebtedness. "Numbers of
poor people," says Lord Palmerston in one of his letters, "crowded round
the hustings, demanding payment for the bills he owed them." In the
midst of all his difficulties, Sheridan was as lighthearted as ever, and
cracked many a good joke at his creditors' expense. Lord Palmerston was
actually present at the dinner given by him, at which the sheriff's in
possession were dressed up and officiated as waiters
Yet however loose Sheridan's morality may have been as regarded
his private creditors, he was honest so far as the public money was
concerned. Once, at dinner, at which Lord Byron happened to be present,
an observation happened to be made as to the sturdiness of the Whigs
in resisting office, and keeping to their principles--on which Sheridan
turned sharply and said: "Sir, it is easy for my Lord this, or Earl
that, or the Marquis of t'other, with thousands upon thousands a
year, some of it either presently derived or inherited in sinecure or
acquisitions from the public money, to boast of their patriotism, and
keep aloof from temptation; but they do not know from what temptation
those have kept aloof who had equal pride, at least equal talents, and
not unequal passions, and nevertheless knew not, in the course of their
lives, what it was to have a shilling of their own." And Lord Byron
adds, that, in saying this, Sheridan wept. [1516]
The tone of public morality in money-matters was very low in those days.
Political peculation was not thought discreditable; and heads of parties
did not hesitate to secure the adhesion of their followers by a free
use of the public money. They were generous, but at the expense of
others--like that great local magnate, who,
"Out of his great bounty,
Built a bridge at the expense of the county."
When Lord Cornwallis was appointed Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland,
he pressed upon Colonel Napier, the father of THE Napiers, the
comptrollership of army accounts. "I want," said his Lordship, "AN
HONEST MAN, and this is the only thing I have been able to wrest from
the harpies around me."
It is said that Lord Chatham was the first to set the example of
disdaining to govern by petty larceny; and his great son was alike
honest in his administration. While millions of money were passing
through Pitt's hands, he himself was never otherwise than poor; and he
died poor. Of all his rancorous libellers, not one ever ventured to call
in question his honesty.
In former times, the profits of office were sometimes enormous. When
Audley, the famous annuity-monger of the sixteenth century, was asked
the value of an office which he had purchased in the Court of Wards,
he replied:--"Some thousands to any one who wishes to get to heaven
immediately; twice as much to him who does not mind being in purgatory;
and nobody knows what to him who is not afraid of the devil."
Sir Walter Scott was a man who was honest to the core of his nature and
his strenuous and determined efforts to pay his debts, or rather the
debts of the firm with which he had become involved, has always appeared
to us one of the grandest things in biography. When his publisher and
printer broke down, ruin seemed to stare him in the face. There was
no want of sympathy for him in his great misfortune, and friends came
forward who offered to raise money enough to enable him to arrange with
his creditors. "No! "said he, proudly; "this right hand shall work it
all off!" "If we lose everything else," he wrote to a friend, "we will
at least keep our honour unblemished." [1517] While his health was already
becoming undermined by overwork, he went on "writing like a tiger," as
he himself expressed it, until no longer able to wield a pen; and
though he paid the penalty of his supreme efforts with his life, he
nevertheless saved his honour and his self-respect.
Everybody knows bow Scott threw off 'Woodstock,' the 'Life of
Napoleon' [15which he thought would be his death [1518]], articles for the
'Quarterly,' 'Chronicles of the Canongate,' 'Prose Miscellanies,' and
'Tales of a Grandfather'--all written in the midst of pain, sorrow,
and ruin. The proceeds of those various works went to his creditors.
"I could not have slept sound," he wrote, "as I now can, under the
comfortable impression of receiving the thanks of my creditors, and the
conscious feeling of discharging my duty as a man of honour and
honesty. I see before me a long, tedious, and dark path, but it leads
to stainless reputation. If I die in the harrows, as is very likely, I
shall die with honour. If I achieve my task, I shall have the thanks of
all concerned, and the approbation of my own conscience." [1519]
And then followed more articles, memoirs, and even sermons--'The Fair
Maid of Perth,' a completely revised edition of his novels, 'Anne of
Geierstein,' and more 'Tales of a Grandfather'--until he was suddenly
struck down by paralysis. But he had no sooner recovered sufficient
strength to be able to hold a pen, than we find him again at his desk
writing the 'Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft,' a volume of Scottish
History for 'Lardner's Cyclopaedia,' and a fourth series of 'Tales of a
Grandfather' in his French History. In vain his doctors told him to give
up work; he would not be dissuaded. "As for bidding me not work," he
said to Dr. Abercrombie, "Molly might just as well put the kettle on the
fire and say, 'Now, kettle, don't boil;'" to which he added, "If I were
to be idle I should go mad!"
By means of the profits realised by these tremendous efforts, Scott saw
his debts in course of rapid diminution, and he trusted that, after a
few more years' work, he would again be a free man. But it was not to
be. He went on turning out such works as his 'Count Robert of Paris'
with greatly impaired skill, until he was prostrated by another and
severer attack of palsy. He now felt that the plough was nearing the end
of the furrow; his physical strength was gone; he was "not quite himself
in all things," and yet his courage and perseverance never failed. "I
have suffered terribly," he wrote in his Diary, "though rather in
body than in mind, and I often wish I could lie down and sleep
without waking. But I WILL FIGHT IT OUT IF I CAN." He again recovered
sufficiently to be able to write 'Castle Dangerous,' though the cunning
of the workman's hand had departed. And then there was his last tour to
Italy in search of rest and health, during which, while at Naples, in
spite of all remonstrances, he gave several hours every morning to the
composition of a new novel, which, however, has not seen the light.
Scott returned to Abbotsford to die. "I have seen much," he said on his
return, "but nothing like my own house--give me one turn more." One of
the last things he uttered, in one of his lucid intervals, was worthy of
him. "I have been," he said, "perhaps the most voluminous author of my
day, and it IS a comfort to me to think that I have tried to unsettle
no man's faith, to corrupt no man's principles, and that I have written
nothing which on my deathbed I should wish blotted out." His last
injunction to his son-in-law was: "Lockhart, I may have but a minute to
speak to you. My dear, be virtuous--be religious--be a good man. Nothing
else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here."
The devoted conduct of Lockhart himself was worthy of his great
relative. The 'Life of Scott,' which he afterwards wrote, occupied him
several years, and was a remarkably successful work. Yet he himself
derived no pecuniary advantage from it; handing over the profits of the
whole undertaking to Sir Walter's creditors in payment of debts which
he was in no way responsible, but influenced entirely by a spirit of
honour, of regard for the memory of the illustrious dead.