"So you will fly out! Why can't you be cool like me? What good can passion do? Passion's of no use, you impudent, obstinate, overbearing reprobate."—Sir Anthony Absolute.

Of all the evils, all the injuries, all the calamities, by which passionate people are liable to be visited, none are so perilous, so overwhelming, as the encounter with a meek, cool, patient, unanswering adversary—if adversary such a wretch can be called. There is no trial in life like this. The bare idea of it puts one out of temper. To be placed, when in the full swing of a violent fit of rage, when indulging to an excess in the wildest transports of the soul, when giving loose to the most riotous emotions of our nature; to be placed at such a juncture right opposite some cold calm personification of indifference, some compound of sadness and tranquillity, with an air of entire submission, with drooping lids, and perhaps a smile not entirely free from pity; to see some such person sitting there imperturbably philosophical, putting the best construction possible upon one's violence, and evidently making silent excuses for one's ungovernable fury! I put it to any rational madman—that is to say to any man I know—whether this be not a species of exasperation too great to be borne, and quite enough to make one start off for Niagara, to enjoy the intense satisfaction, the indispensable relief, of jumping down.

I wouldn't give one drop of ink for a man who never goes into terrific passions, who never lets his blood boil over, at least now and then; but I should feel peculiar pleasure in hurling any inkstand—the writing-desk would be better—at the head of him whose fury did not instantly become ten thousand times more inflamed by the mere presence of that smooth oily virtue, that "ostentatious meekness," which at once sighs in submissiveness and smiles in superiority.

All the mischiefs that arise from the excesses of anger and rage must be conscientiously set down to the account of that provoking passiveness, that calmness which irritates the fiery beholder past endurance. Let the physician, who would minister to the mind diseased, take any shape but that. Who is there that cannot bear testimony to its galling effects from his own observation or experience! Only say to a man in a pet, "Now don't lose your temper," and he falls naturally into a rage; say to one already exasperated, and on the verge of a fit of fury, "Pray don't put yourself into a passion, it's all a mistake, there's nothing to be angry about;" and what so sure to set him off at a pace past stopping!

The image of "Patience on a monument smiling at Grief" has been greatly admired, but as a design it would hardly hold together for five minutes. Shakspeare was a little out for once. Patience smiling at Grief! How could Grief stand it! She would be transformed into Rage in no time. If at all in earnest, she must necessarily be provoked to jump down in a paroxysm, or to pitch Patience off the monument.

To the truly irritable, and I confess that I am one of them, all such irritation, to say the least of it, is superfluous. To us who have "free souls" no such provocation is wanting at any time. We are always ready to go ahead without this high pressure; our quick blood renders the spur unnecessary. We never wait for "the motive and the cue for passion" that Hamlet speaks of.

The real relish and enjoyment of it consists in going into a rage about nothing. The next pleasure to that consists in being roused to fury about other people's affairs; in lashing oneself into madness about some grievance borne by a person who seems perfectly indifferent to it. There are numbers of people who may be thus said to go into passions by proxy. They have experienced a slight, of which they give a cool account to some susceptible friend, who stamps and raves at every word of the narrative. They calmly inform you that they have been shamefully ill-used; upon which they stroke their chins complacently, and leave you to tear your hair. The man who has been cruelly wronged describes with a glib tongue, while the uninjured auditor disinterestedly gnashes his teeth. I have always admired that passage in one of George Colman's plays, where a warm-hearted fellow, giving an account of some flagrant act of oppression to which he had been a witness, observes,—"Well, you know, that wasn't no affair of mine; no—and so I felt all my blood creeping into my knuckles"—and the result shows that he fell, with exemplary promptitude, into a glorious passion in behalf of the oppressed but uncomplaining stranger.

This bit of fiction calls to mind a fact which may with no impropriety be here related. It is an anecdote of a distinguished writer now no more, W. G. He had complained to me of some ungracious conduct, by which he felt hurt and insulted; he was helpless, and this made the sense of injury more acute. He spoke with bitterness, though in gentle tones. I did not echo those tones; for he was illustrious by his intellect, and venerable by his years; and, as the phrase is, I at once "rapped out"—pouring a torrent of reproach, and heaping a mountain of invectives, on the heads of those, who, to use his own words, "had dared to put an indignity upon him." He heard me, very quietly, until the full burst of indignation with which his more moderate complaint had inspired me was exhausted, and then said with an ejaculation short, sharp, and peculiar to him,—"I'm afraid you've been picking up some queer doctrines of late; the principle of them is, as far as I can understand, to be discontented with everything!" Now as he had taught me just then to be discontented, and as I was moreover only discontented on his account, I did not immediately leap out of my fit of passion into one of philosophy; and I believe he was upon that occasion much struck with certain metaphysical phenomena, on which I left him to brood; with the curious distinction, that is to say, between one fellow-creature undergoing the punishment of the knout without exhibiting a symptom of distress, and another fellow-creature looking on, all grief and anguish, shuddering at the spectacle, and feeling every lash on his own heart.

These are the most generous bursts of rage that can be indulged in; and, next to those that are altogether destitute even of the shadow of a cause, are the most delicious to the irritable. The wrongs, troubles, and perversities of individuals, from near relatives to total strangers, generally form a plentiful supply; in fact, the smallest offence will be thankfully received, as the history of irascible people amply shows. Very good grounds for anger occur, as we can all remember, when a fellow-traveller at an inn refuses to take mustard with his pork-chop; or when another, in spite of every hint, persists in breaking his eggs at the small end, or lighting his cheroot at the large end; or when a sturdy fellow walks just before you through a smart shower of rain, and won't put his umbrella up, though you obligingly tap him on the shoulder, and remind him that it's pouring; or when an obstinate one declines the adoption of somebody else's opinion, merely because he has not been convinced of its reasonableness; or when an affected one pronounces the word London "Lunnun," and Birmingham "Brummagem," and, while he asserts in his justification that Lord Brougham calls the places by those names, refuses to distinguish his lordship as Lord Bruffham.

If individual grievances or peculiarities should fail, which is scarcely possible, national ones will do as well. Nay, I know a philanthropist whose heart was broken fifty times a year, whose blood boiled hourly, at the recollection of some great outrage that had happened in the dark ages. Passion, moreover, has this convenience, that it is an essential privilege of it to reason from the individual to the national; thus, if a Russian government, or a Russian faction, inflict wrongs on Poland, all Russia may be indiscriminately condemned; and thus too, if an American visiting this country should be wanting in good manners, or give you any cause of offence, you can with strict propriety launch out into a tirade against the American people, their customs and institutions, laws and dispositions—wrath will there find "elbow room." You may wind up with the observation that, bad as is the brute whom you have just encountered, you believe him to be quite as good as the very best of his countrymen.

This, indeed, may be laid down as a rule; when a Scotchman offends you, abuse all Scotland, and offer to prove that Burns was no poet;—when an Irishman puts you in a heat, be sure to denounce Ireland, and hint that St. Patrick was no gentleman, nor were his ancestors decent people. With an Englishman the case is rather different, because anything you may say against John Bull is pretty sure to please, instead of annoying a member of his family; who won't much mind a back-handed hit at himself, if you direct the principal force of your attack against the national character. It is expedient, therefore, to be less sweeping in your charge, to concentrate your forces, and to content yourself with a small explosion, fatal only to his immediate friends and relations. Point out how remarkable it is that so many persons of the same name should have been hanged for sheep-stealing; question the depth of his breeches-pocket, where he rattles a bunch of keys, as though he had anything to lock up; and pick out some cousin of his who is very badly off, and spitefully ask him to dinner. But you will never vent your rage satisfactorily, by merely abusing Old England in an Englishman's presence.

To get into a passion in the street is sometimes peculiarly awkward. It makes you feel like a bottle of soda-water that wants to go off and can't. Some people ought to have their hats wired down, cork-fashion. Walking with an irascible friend the other day—I am fond of such companions, and can boast a great variety of them—he worked himself into as pretty a specimen of fury as I have lately seen; but what was to be done? There was nothing to cause it, and there was no relief to be had. Apple-stalls upset are but vulgar exploits; me, he could not strangle in the open street; there was no temptation to smash a lamp in the broad daylight, however agreeable and comforting at night; there was no loitering schoolboy in the way, to be kicked "for always tieing that shoe;" yet, "as fires imprisoned fiercest burn," out the blaze must burst, the volcano was not to be smothered up. Accordingly, just as we reached the open window of a butcher's shop, on the board of which a lad in blue sleeves, and black, glossy, curling hair, sat intently reading the "Sorrows of Werter," my passionate friend stopped. Whether he meant to snatch, a weapon, À la Virginius, was doubtful. I thought at least he would have snatched the grease-marked volume out of the hands of the sentimental butcher-boy, and trampled it under-foot; when instead, off he darted across the wide street, I following—rushed up to a house opposite, seized the large knocker, and plied it with the combined force of forty footmen, or a legion of penny-postmen rolled into one! I stood, looking on, amazed, while he knocked and knocked, without one moment's cessation, until the door was torn open, and the knocker dropped from his fingers. The servant-maid looked aghast, yet the accustomed spirit of inquiry, Who was he? What did he want? was uppermost in her face. "Oh!" said my now subdued companion, "Oh! ah!-a-I'm sorry to have troubled you! I-a-I don't want anybody—it's all right—thank you—I'm better now!" Thus saying he quietly took my arm, and we sauntered off. I never saw a fellow in a more charming flow of spirits than his were throughout the rest of that day.