It is an idle thing to pretend that we cannot govern our anger; for some things that we do are much harder than others that we ought to do; the wildest affections may be tamed by discipline, and there is hardly anything which the mind will do but it may do. There needs no more argument in this case than the instances of several persons, both powerful and impatient, that have gotten the absolute mastery of themselves in this point.
It's pointless to claim we can't control our anger. We do many things that are much harder than the things we should do. Even the wildest emotions can be tamed through discipline. There's almost nothing the mind can't accomplish if it sets itself to the task. We don't need lengthy arguments to prove this point. We have plenty of examples of powerful and hot-tempered people who have gained complete control over their anger.
Thrasippus in his drink fell foul upon the cruelties of Pisistratus; who, when he was urged by several about him to make an example of him, returned this answer, “Why should I be angry with a man that stumbles upon me blindfold?” In effect most of our quarrels are of our own making, either by mistake or by aggravation. Anger comes sometimes upon us, but we go oftener to it, and instead of rejecting it we call it.
Thrasippus was drunk when he started criticizing the cruelties of Pisistratus. Several people around Pisistratus urged him to make an example of Thrasippus. But Pisistratus replied, "Why should I be angry with a man that stumbles upon me blindfold?" Most of our quarrels are really our own fault. We create them through mistakes or by making things worse than they need to be. Sometimes anger comes to us unexpectedly. But more often, we go looking for it. Instead of pushing it away, we welcome it in.
Augustus was a great master of his passion: for Timagenus, an historian, wrote several bitter things against his person and his family: which passed among the people plausibly enough, as pieces of rash wit commonly do. Cæsar advised him several times to forbear; and when that would not do, forbade him his roof. After this, Asinius Pollio gave him entertainment; and he was so well beloved in the city, that every man’s house was open to him. Those things that he had written in honor of Augustus, he recited and burnt, and publicly professed himself Cæsar’s enemy. Augustus, for all this, never fell out with any man that received him; only once, he told Pollio, that he had taken a snake into his bosom: and as Pollio was about to excuse himself; “No,” says Cæsar, interrupting him, “make your best of him.” And offering to cast him off at that very moment, if Cæsar pleased: “Do you think,” says Cæsar, “that I will ever contribute to the parting of you, that made you friends?” for Pollio was angry with him before, and only entertained him now because Cæsar had discarded him.
Augustus was a master of controlling his emotions. Timagenus, a historian, wrote several harsh things about Augustus and his family. These writings spread among the people and were well-received, as bold wit usually is. Caesar warned him several times to stop. When that didn't work, he banned Timagenus from his house. After this, Asinius Pollio took him in. Timagenus was so popular in the city that every man's house was open to him. He publicly recited and burned the things he had written praising Augustus. He openly declared himself Caesar's enemy. Despite all this, Augustus never quarreled with anyone who welcomed Timagenus. Only once did he tell Pollio that he had "taken a snake into his bosom." When Pollio started to make excuses, Caesar interrupted him. "No," he said, "make the best of him." Pollio offered to cast Timagenus out immediately if Caesar wanted. "Do you think," Caesar replied, "that I will ever help break up a friendship I helped create?" Pollio had been angry with Timagenus before and only took him in now because Caesar had rejected him.
The moderation of Antigonus was remarkable. Some of his soldiers were railing at him one night, where there was but a hanging betwixt them. Antigonus overheard them, and putting it gently aside; “Soldiers,” says he, “stand a little further off, for fear the king should hear you.” And we are to consider, not only violent examples, but moderate, where there wanted neither cause of displeasure nor power of revenge: as in the case of Antigonus, who the same night hearing his soldiers cursing him for bringing them into so foul a way, he went to them, and without telling them who he was, helped them out of it. “Now,” says he, “you may be allowed to curse him that brought you into the mire, provided you bless him that took you out of it.”
Antigonus showed remarkable restraint. One night, some of his soldiers were complaining about him loudly. Only a thin curtain separated them from the king's quarters. Antigonus overheard them and gently pushed the curtain aside. "Soldiers," he said, "stand a little further away, in case the king hears you." We should consider not only violent examples, but also moderate ones. These show leaders who had both good reason to be angry and the power to take revenge. Take Antigonus again. That same night, he heard his soldiers cursing him for leading them down such a terrible road. He went to them without revealing who he was and helped them get out of the mud. "Now," he said, "you can curse the man who brought you into this mess, as long as you bless the one who got you out of it."
It was a notable story that of Vedius Pallio, upon his inviting of Augustus to supper. One of his boys happened to break a glass: and his master, in a rage, commanded him to be thrown in a pond to feed his lampreys. This action of his might be taken for luxury, though, in truth, it was cruelty. The boy was seized, but brake loose and threw himself at Augustus’ feet, only desiring that he might not die that death. Cæsar, in abhorrence of the barbarity, presently ordered all the rest of the glasses to be broken, the boy to be released, and the pond to be filled up, that there might be no further occasion for an inhumanity of that nature. This was an authority well employed. Shall the breaking of a glass cost a man his life? Nothing but a predominant fear could ever have mastered his choleric and sanguinary disposition. This man deserved to die a thousand deaths, either for eating human flesh at second-hand in his lampreys, or for keeping of his fish to be so fed.
Here's a remarkable story about Vedius Pallio when he invited Augustus to dinner. One of his servants accidentally broke a glass. His master flew into a rage and ordered the boy thrown into a pond to feed his lampreys. This might seem like mere extravagance, but it was actually cruelty. The boy was seized but broke free and threw himself at Augustus' feet. He begged only that he might not die such a death. Caesar was horrified by this barbarity. He immediately ordered all the remaining glasses to be broken, the boy to be freed, and the pond to be filled in. This would prevent any future acts of such inhumanity. This was authority put to good use. Should breaking a glass cost a man his life? Only overwhelming fear could have controlled his angry and bloodthirsty nature. This man deserved to die a thousand deaths. He was either eating human flesh secondhand through his lampreys, or keeping fish that were fed on human bodies.
It is written of Præxaspes (a favorite of Cambyses, who was much given to wine) that he took the freedom to tell this prince of his hard drinking, and to lay before him the scandal and the inconveniences of his excesses; and how that, in those distempers, he had not the command of himself. “Now,” says Cambyses, “to show you your mistake, you shall see me drink deeper than ever I did, and yet keep the use of my eyes, and of my hands, as well as if I were sober.” Upon this he drank to a higher pitch than ordinary, and ordered Præxaspes’ son to go out, and stand on the other side of the threshold, with his left arm over his head; “And,” says he, “if I have a good aim, have at the heart of him.” He shot, and upon cutting up the young man, they found indeed that the arrow had struck him through the middle of the heart. “What do you think now,” says Cambyses, “is my hand steady or not?” “Apollo himself,” says Præxaspes, “could not have outdone it.” It may be a question now, which was the greater impiety, the murder itself, or the commendation of it; for him to take the heart of his son, while it was yet reeking and panting under the wound, for an occasion of flattery: why was there not another experiment made upon the father, to try if Cambyses could not have yet mended his shot? This was a most unmanly violation of hospitality; but the approbation of the act was still worse than the crime itself. This example of Præxaspes proves sufficiently that a man may repress his anger; for he returned not one ill word, no not so much as a complaint; but he paid dear for his good counsel. He had been wiser, perhaps, if he had let the king alone in his cups, for he had better have drunk wine than blood. It is a dangerous office to give good advice to intemperate princes.
There's a story about Præxaspes, a favorite of King Cambyses, who drank heavily. Præxaspes took the liberty of telling the prince about his hard drinking. He explained the scandal and problems caused by his excessive drinking. He pointed out that when Cambyses was drunk, he couldn't control himself. "Now," said Cambyses, "I'll show you your mistake. You'll see me drink more than I ever have before. Yet I'll still have perfect use of my eyes and hands, just as if I were sober." He then drank more heavily than usual. He ordered Præxaspes' son to go stand on the other side of the doorway with his left arm raised over his head. "If my aim is good," he said, "I'll hit him right in the heart." He shot his arrow. When they cut open the young man, they found the arrow had indeed struck him through the middle of the heart. "What do you think now?" asked Cambyses. "Is my hand steady or not?" "Apollo himself," replied Præxaspes, "could not have done better." Now we might ask which was the greater sin: the murder itself, or praising it afterward. How could a father use his son's heart, still bleeding and beating from the wound, as an opportunity for flattery? Why didn't they make another test on the father to see if Cambyses could improve his shot even more? This was a terrible violation of hospitality. But approving the act was even worse than the crime itself. This example of Præxaspes shows clearly that a man can control his anger. He didn't say one harsh word back, not even a complaint. But he paid dearly for his good advice. He might have been wiser to leave the king alone with his drinking. The king would have been better off drinking wine than blood. It's dangerous to give good advice to uncontrolled princes.
Another instance of anger suppressed, we have in Harpagus, who was commanded to expose Cyrus upon a mountain. But the child was preserved; which, when 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,” says 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?
Another example of suppressed anger comes from Harpagus, who was ordered to abandon baby Cyrus on a mountain. But the child survived. When Astyages later discovered this, he invited Harpagus to dinner and served him meat. After Harpagus had eaten his fill, Astyages told him he had just consumed his own son. He then asked how Harpagus liked the seasoning. "Whatever pleases your Majesty must please me," Harpagus replied, and he said nothing more about it. We can certainly control our anger if we choose to. The same thing that irritates us at home doesn't bother us at all when we're away. Why is this? Simply because we choose to be patient in one situation and difficult 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 foul-mouthed 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.
Philip of Macedon, Alexander's father, once faced a shocking insult. The Athenians sent ambassadors to him, and he received them politely. "Tell me, gentlemen," Philip said, "what can I do to help the Athenians?" Democharas, one of the ambassadors, replied that they would consider it a great favor if he would hang himself. This rudeness outraged the bystanders, but Philip told them not to interfere. He even let the foul-mouthed man leave unharmed. "As for the rest of you ambassadors," he said, "please tell the Athenians that saying such things is worse than hearing and forgiving them." Philip's remarkable patience in the face of insults was a key source of his power and security.