Being an essay on temper in general, and a hazardous experiment on the
reader's in particular.
There, the window is open! how instinctively the eye rests upon the
green! How the calm colour lures and soothes it! But is there to the
green only a single hue? See how infinite the variety of its tints!
What sombre gravity in yon cedar, yon motionless pine-tree! What lively
but unvarying laugh in yon glossy laurels! Do those tints charm us like
the play in the young leaves of the lilac,--lighter here, darker there,
as the breeze (and so slight the breeze!) stirs them into checker,--into
ripple? Oh, sweet green, to the world what sweet temper is to man's
life! Who would reduce into one dye all thy lovely varieties? who
exclude the dark steadfast verdure that lives on through the winter day;
or the mutinous caprice of the gentler, younger tint that came fresh
through the tears of April, and will shadow with sportive tremor the
blooms of luxuriant June?
Happy the man on whose marriage-hearth temper smiles kind from the eyes
of woman! "No deity present," saith the heathen proverb, "where absent
Prudence;" no joy long a guest where Peace is not a dweller,--peace, so
like Faith that they may be taken for each other, and poets have clad
them with the same veil. But in childhood, in early youth, expect not
the changeless green of the cedar. Wouldst thou distinguish fine temper
from spiritless dulness, from cold simulation,--ask less what the temper
than what the disposition.
Is the nature sweet and trustful; is it free from the morbid self-love
which calls itself "sensitive feeling" and frets at imaginary offences;
is the tendency to be grateful for kindness, yet take kindness meekly,
and accept as a benefit what the vain call a due? From dispositions thus
blessed, sweet temper will come forth to gladden thee, spontaneous and
free. Quick with some, with some slow, word and look emerge out of the
heart. Be thy first question, "Is the heart itself generous and tender?"
If it be so, self-control comes with deepening affection. Call not that
a good heart which, hastening to sting if a fibre be ruffled, cries, "I
am no hypocrite." Accept that excuse, and revenge becomes virtue. But
where the heart, if it give the offence, pines till it win back the
pardon; if offended itself, bounds forth to forgive, ever longing to
soothe, ever grieved if it wound; then be sure that its nobleness will
need but few trials of pain in each outbreak to refine and chastise its
expression. Fear not then; be but noble thyself, thou art safe!
Yet what in childhood is often called, rebukingly, "temper" is but the
cordial and puissant vitality which contains all the elements that make
temper the sweetest at last. Who amongst us, how wise soever, can
construe a child's heart? who conjecture all the springs that secretly
vibrate within, to a touch on the surface of feeling? Each child, but
especially the girl-child, would task the whole lore of a sage deep as
Shakspeare to distinguish those subtle emotions which we grown folks have
outlived.
"She has a strong temper," said the Mayor, when Soppy snatched the doll
from his hand a second time, and pouted at him, spoiled child, looking so
divinely cross, so petulantly pretty! And how on earth could the Mayor
know what associations with that stupid doll made her think it profaned
by the touch of a stranger? Was it to her eyes as to his,--mere waxwork
and frippery; or a symbol of holy remembrances, of gleams into a fairer
world, of "devotion to something afar from the sphere of her sorrow?"
Was not the evidence of "strong temper" the very sign of affectionate
depth of heart? Poor little Sophy! Hide it again,--safe out of sight,
close, inscrutable, unguessed, as childhood's first treasures of
sentiment ever are!