Harpagus suppresses his choler.-Anger a short madness.

Astyages came afterwards to understand, he invited Harpagus to a dish of meat; and when he had eaten his fill, he told him it was a piece of his son, and asked him how he liked the seasoning. "Whatever pleases your majesty," said Harpagus," must please me," and he made no more words of it. It is most certain that we might govern our anger if we would; for the same thing that galls us at home, gives us no offence at all abroad; and what is the reason of it, but that we are patient in one place and froward in another?

It was a strong provocation that which was given to Philip of Macedon, the father of Alexander:-the Athenians sent their ambassadors to him, and they were received with this compliment-"Tell me, gentlemen," says Philip, "what is there that I can do to oblige the Athenians?" Democharas, one of the ambassadors, told him, that they would take it for a great obligation, if he would be pleased to hang himself. This insolence gave an indignation to the by-standers, but Philip bade them not to meddle with him, but even to let that foulmouthed fellow go as he came. "And for you, the rest of the ambassadors," says he, "pray tell the Athenians, that it is worse to speak such things, than to hear and forgive them." This wonderful patience under contumelies was a great means of Philip's security.

IT IS A SHORT MADNESS AND A DEFORMED VICE.

He was much in the right, whoever it was, that first called anger a short madness, for they have both of them the same symptoms, and there is so wonderful a resemblance betwixt the transports of choler and those of

Anger a deformed vice.

phrensy, that it is a hard matter to know the one from the other. A bold, fierce, and threatening countenance, as pale as ashes, and in the same moment as red as blood; a glaring eye, a wrinkled brow, violent motions, the hands restless, and perpetually in action, wringing and menacing, snapping of the joints, stamping with the feet, the hair staring, trembling lips, a forced and squeaking voice, the speech false and broken, deep and frequent sighs, and ghastly looks; the veins swell, the heart pants, the knees knock, with a hundred dismal accidents that are common to both distempers. Neither is anger a bare resemblance only of that madness, but many times an irrevocable transition into the thing itself. How many persons have we known, read, and heard of, that have lost their wits in a passion, and never came to themselves again? it is therefore to be avoided, not only for moderation sake, but also for health. Now if the outward appearance of anger be so foul and hideous, how deformed must that miserable mind be that is harassed with it? for it leaves no place either for counsel or friendship, honesty, or good manners; no place either for the exercise of reason, or for the offices of life. If I were to describe it, I would draw a tiger bathed in blood, sharp set, and ready to take a leap at his prey; or dress it up as the poets represent the furies, with whips, snakes and flames: it should be sour, livid, full of scars, and wallowing in gore, raging up and down, destroying, grinning, bellowing and pursuing, sick of all other things, and most of all of itself. It turns beauty into deformity, and the calmest counsels into fierceness: it disorders our very garments, and fills the mind with horror. How abominable is it in the soul then, when it

It renders all terrible creatures more fierce.

appears so hideous even through the bones, the skin, and so many impediments? Is not he a madman, that has lost the government of himself, and is tossed hither and thither by his fury, as by a tempest; the executioner of his own revenge, both with his heart and hand, and the murderer of his nearest friends? The smallest matter moves it, and makes us insociable and inaccessible. It does all things by violence, as well upon itself as others, and it is, in short, the master of all passions.

There is not any creature so terrible and dangerous by nature, but it becomes fiercer by anger. Not that beasts have human affections, but certain impulses they have, which come very near thein. The boar foams, champs, and whets his tusks; the bull tosses his horns in the air, bounds, and tears up the ground with his feet; the lion roars, and swinges himself with his tail; the serpent swells, and there is a ghastly kind of fellness in the aspect of a mad dog. How great a wickedness is it now to indulge a violence, that does not only turn a man into a beast, but makes even the most outrageous of beasts themselves to be more dreadful and mischievous! a vice, that carries along with it neither pleasure nor profit, neither honour nor security, but, on the contrary, destroys us to all the comfortable and glorious purposes of our reasonable being. Some there are, that will have the root of it to be greatness of mind. And why may we not as well entitle impudence to courage: whereas the one is proud, the other brave; the one is gracious and gentle, the other rude and furious? At the same rate we may ascribe magnanimity to avarice, luxury, and ambition, which are all but splendid impotencies, without measure and without foundation. There

Anger is a wild impetuous blast.-It is insociable.

is nothing great but what is virtuous, nor indeed truly great, but what is also composed and quiet. Anger, alas is but a wild impetuous blast, and empty tumour, the very infirmity of women and children, a brawling clamorous evil: and the more noise the less courage; as we find it commonly, that the boldest tongues have the faintest hearts.

ANGER IS NEITHER WARRANTABLE, NOR USEFUL.

In the first place, anger is unwarrantable, as it is unjust for it falls many times upon the wrong person, and discharges itself upon the innocent, instead of the guilty; beside the disproportion of making the most trivial offences to be capital, and punishing an inconsiderate word perhaps with torments, fetters, infamy, or death. It allows a man neither time, nor means of defence, but judges a cause without hearing it, and admits of no mediation. It flies into the face of truth itself, if it be of the adverse party; and turns obstinacy in an error, into an argument of justice. It does every thing with agitation and tumult; whereas reason and equity can destroy whole families, if there be occasion for it, even to the extinguishing of their names and memories, without any indecency, either of countenance or action.

Secondly, it is insociable to the highest point, for it spares neither friend nor foe, but tears all to pieces, and casts human nature into a perpetual state of war. It dissolves the bond of mutual society, insomuch that our very companions and relations dare not come near us; it renders us unfit for the ordinary offices of life, for we can neither govern our tongues, our hands, nor any part

Anger is unprofitable.

of our body. It tramples upon the laws of hospitality and of nations, leaves every man to be his own carver, and all things, public and private, sacred and profane, suffer violence.

Thirdly, it is to no purpose. It is a sad thing, we cry, to put up these injuries, and we are not able to bear them; as if any man that can bear anger, could not bear an injury, which is much more supportable. You will say, that anger does some good yet, for it keeps people in awe, and secures a man from contempt; never considering, that it is more dangerous to be feared than despised. Suppose that an angry man could do as much. as he threatens; the more terrible, he is still the more odious, and, on the other side, if he wants power, he is the more despicable for his anger; for there is nothing more wretched than a choleric huff, that makes a noise, and nobody cares for it. If anger should be valuable, because men are afraid of it, why not an adder, a toad, or a scorpion as well? it makes us lead the life of gladiators; we live, and we fight together. We hate the happy, despise the miserable, envy our superiors, insult upon our inferiors, and there is nothing in the world which we will not do, either for pleasure or profit. To be angry at offenders, is to make ourselves the common enemies of mankind, which is both weak and wicked, and we may as well be angry that our thistles do not bring forth apples, or that every pebble in our ground is not an oriental pearl. If we are angry, both with young men and with old, because they do offend, why not with infants too, because they will offend? It is laudable to rejoice for any thing that is well done; but, to be transported for another man's doing ill, is narrow