In this wandering state of life we meet with many occasions of trouble and displeasure, both great and trivial; and not a day passes but, from men or things, we have some cause or other for offense; as a man must expect to be jostled, dashed, and crowded, in a populous city. One man deceives our expectation; another delays it; and a third crosses it; and if everything does not succeed to our wish, we presently fall out either with the person, the business, the place, our fortune, or ourselves. Some men value themselves upon their wit, and will never forgive anyone that pretends to lessen it; others are inflamed by wine: and some are distempered by sickness, weariness, watchings, love, care, etc. Some are prone to it, by heat of constitution; but moist, dry, and cold complexions are more liable to other affections; as suspicion, despair, fear, jealousy, etc. But most of our quarrels are of our own contriving. One while we suspect upon mistake; and another while we make a great matter of trifles. To say the truth, most of those things that exasperate us are rather subjects of disgust than of mischief: there is a large difference betwixt opposing a man’s satisfaction and not assisting it: betwixt taking away and not giving; but we reckon upon denying and deferring as the same thing; and interpret another’s being for himself as if he were against us. Nay, we do many times entertain an ill opinion of well doing, and a good one of the contrary: and we hate a man for doing that very thing which we should hate him for on the other side, if he did not do it.
In this wandering life, we face many troubles and disappointments, both big and small. Not a day goes by without someone or something giving us reason to take offense. It's like walking through a crowded city where you expect to be bumped, shoved, and jostled around. One person disappoints our expectations. Another delays them. A third person blocks them entirely. When things don't go our way, we immediately get angry with the person involved, the situation, the place, our luck, or ourselves. Some people pride themselves on being clever and never forgive anyone who tries to diminish their reputation. Others get fired up by wine. Some are thrown off by sickness, exhaustion, sleepless nights, love, worry, and so on. Some people are naturally hot-tempered. But those with calm, dry, or cold personalities are more likely to suffer from other problems like suspicion, despair, fear, and jealousy. Most of our fights are our own doing. Sometimes we get suspicious over misunderstandings. Other times we make mountains out of molehills. To be honest, most things that anger us are more annoying than actually harmful. There's a big difference between actively opposing someone's happiness and simply not helping them achieve it. There's a difference between taking something away and just not giving it. But we treat refusing and delaying as the same thing. We assume that when someone looks out for themselves, they're working against us. We often think badly of good actions and well of bad ones. We hate someone for doing something that we'd also hate them for not doing if the situation were reversed.
We take it ill to be opposed when there is a father perhaps, a brother, or a friend, in the case against us; when we should rather love a man for it; and only wish that he could be honestly of our party. We approve of the fact, and detest the doer of it. It is a base thing to hate the person whom we cannot but commend; but it is a great deal worse yet if we hate him for the very thing that deserves commendation. The things that we desire, if they be such as cannot be given to one without being taken away from another, must needs set those people together by the ears that desire the same thing. One man has a design upon my mistress, another upon mine inheritance; and that which should make friends makes enemies, our being all of a mind. The general cause of anger is the sense or opinion of an injury; that is, the opinion either of an injury simply done, or of an injury done, which we have not deserved. Some are naturally given to anger, others are provoked to it by occasion; the anger of women and children is commonly sharp, but not lasting: old men are rather querulous and peevish. Hard labor, diseases, anxiety of thought, and whatsoever hurts the body or the mind, disposes a man to be froward, but we must not add fire to fire.
We don't like being opposed when there's a father, brother, or friend on the other side. We should love a person for standing up to us instead. We only wish they could honestly join our side. We approve of what they did, but we hate the person who did it. It's wrong to hate someone we have to admire. It's even worse if we hate them for the very thing that deserves praise. When we want things that can only go to one person, we end up fighting with others who want the same thing. One man wants my girlfriend, another wants my inheritance. What should bring us together as friends makes us enemies instead, even when we all think alike. The main cause of anger is feeling wronged. We think we've been hurt, either unfairly or when we didn't deserve it. Some people are naturally angry. Others get angry when something sets them off. Women and children usually have sharp anger that doesn't last long. Old men tend to be cranky and irritable. Hard work, illness, worry, and anything that hurts the body or mind makes a person difficult to deal with. But we shouldn't make things worse by adding fuel to the fire.
He that duly considers the subject-matter of all our controversies and quarrels, will find them low and mean, not worth the thought of a generous mind; but the greatest noise of all is about money. This is it that sets fathers and children together by the ears, husbands and wives; and makes way for sword and poison. This is it that tires out courts of justice, enrages princes, and lays cities in the dust, to seek for gold and silver in the ruins of them. This is it that finds work for the judge to determine which side is least in the wrong; and whose is the more plausible avarice, the plaintiff’s or the defendant’s. And what is it that we contend for all this while, but those baubles that make us cry when we should laugh? To see a rich old cuff, that has nobody to leave his estate to, break his heart for a handful of dirt; and a gouty usurer, that has no other use of his fingers left him but to count withal; to see him, I say in the extremity of his fit, wrangling for the odd money in his interest. If all that is precious in Nature were gathered into one mass, it were not worth the trouble of a sober mind. It were endless to run over all those ridiculous passions that are moved about meats and drinks, and the matter of our luxury; nay, about words, looks, actions, jealousies, mistakes, which are all of them as contemptible fooleries as those very baubles that children scratch and cry for. There is nothing great or serious in all that which we keep such a clutter about; the madness of it is, that we set too great a value upon trifles. One man flies out upon a salute, a letter, a speech, a question, a gesture, a wink, a look. An action moves one man; a word affects another; one man is tender of his family; another of his person; one sets up for an orator, another for a philosopher: this man will not bear pride, nor that man opposition. He that plays the tyrant at home, is gentle as a lamb abroad. Some take offense if a man ask a favor of them, and others, if he does not. Every man has his weak side; let us learn which that is, and take a care of it; for the same thing does not work upon all men alike. We are moved like beasts at the idle appearances of things, and the fiercer the creature, the more is it startled. The sight of a red coat enrages a bull; a shadow provokes the asp; nay, so unreasonable are some men, that they take moderate benefits for injuries, and squabble about it with their nearest relations: “They have done this and that for others,” they cry; “and they might have dealt better with us if they had pleased.” Very good! and if it be less than we looked for, it may be yet more than we deserve. Of all unquiet humors this is the worst, that will never suffer any man to be happy, so long as he sees a happier man than himself. I have known some men so weak as to think themselves contemned if a horse did but play the jade with them, that is yet obedient to another rider. A brutal folly to be offended at a mute animal; for no injury can be done us without the concurrence of reason. A beast may hurt us, as a sword or a stone, and no otherwise. Nay, there are that will complain of “foul weather, a raging sea, a biting winter,” as if it were expressly directed to them; and this they charge upon Providence, whose operations are all of them so far from being injurious, that they are beneficial to us.
Anyone who carefully examines what we argue and fight about will find these matters are petty and worthless. They're not worth a thoughtful person's attention. But the biggest fights of all are about money. Money turns fathers against children and husbands against wives. It leads to violence and murder. Money exhausts our courts, enrages rulers, and destroys entire cities as people search for gold and silver in the ruins. It keeps judges busy deciding which side is less wrong and whose greed is more believable—the plaintiff's or the defendant's. And what are we fighting for all this time? Nothing but trinkets that make us cry when we should laugh. Look at a rich old miser who has no one to leave his fortune to, breaking his heart over a pile of dirt. Watch a gouty loan shark whose fingers are only good for counting money anymore, arguing over spare change on his interest payments even while suffering from his disease. If everything precious in nature were gathered into one pile, it wouldn't be worth a reasonable person's trouble. I could go on forever about the ridiculous emotions we feel over food and drink and luxury items. We even get worked up over words, looks, actions, jealousies, and misunderstandings. All of these are as foolish as the toys that children fight and cry over. Nothing we make such a fuss about is truly important or serious. The madness is that we place too much value on trivial things. One person explodes over a greeting, a letter, a speech, a question, a gesture, a wink, or a look. An action upsets one man while a word affects another. One person is sensitive about his family, another about himself. One wants to be seen as a great speaker, another as a philosopher. This man can't stand pride, that one can't bear opposition. The person who acts like a tyrant at home becomes gentle as a lamb in public. Some people take offense if you ask them for a favor, others if you don't. Everyone has their weak spot. Let's figure out what it is and be careful with it, because the same thing doesn't affect everyone the same way. We react like animals to meaningless appearances, and the wilder the creature, the more easily it's startled. The sight of a red coat enrages a bull. A shadow provokes a snake. Some people are so unreasonable they treat moderate kindnesses as insults and argue about it with their closest relatives. "They did this and that for others," they complain. "They could have treated us better if they wanted to." Fine! Even if it's less than we expected, it might still be more than we deserve. Of all restless attitudes, this is the worst—never letting anyone be happy as long as they see someone happier than themselves. I've known people so weak they felt insulted when a horse misbehaved with them but obeyed another rider. What brutal foolishness, to be offended by a speechless animal! No real injury can be done to us without reason being involved. A beast can hurt us the same way a sword or stone can, and no differently. Some people even complain about "bad weather, a stormy sea, a bitter winter," as if these were aimed specifically at them. They blame Providence for this, even though all of Providence's works are so far from being harmful that they actually benefit us.
How vain and idle are many of those things that make us stark mad! A resty horse, the overturning of a glass, the falling of a key, the dragging of a chair, a jealousy, a misconstruction. How shall that man endure the extremities of hunger and thirst that flies out into a rage for putting of a little too much water in his wine? What haste is there to lay a servant by the heels, or break a leg or an arm immediately for it, as if he were not to have the same power over him an hour after, that he has at that instant? The answer of a servant, a wife, a tenant, puts some people out of all patience; and yet they can quarrel with the government, for not allowing them the same liberty in public, which they themselves deny to their own families. If they say nothing, it is contumacy: if they speak or laugh, it is insolence. As if a man had his ears given him only for music; whereas we must suffer all sorts of noises, good and bad, both of man and beast. How idle is it to start at the tinkling of a bell, or the creaking of a door, when, for all this delicacy, we must endure thunder! Neither are our eyes less curious and fantastical than our ears. When we are abroad, we can bear well enough with foul ways, nasty streets, noisome ditches; but a spot upon a dish at home, or an unswept hearth, absolutely distracts us. And what is the reason, but that we are patient in the one place, and fantastically peevish in the other? Nothing makes us more intemperate than luxury, that shrinks at every stroke, and starts at every shadow. It is death to some to have another sit above them, as if a body were ever the more or the less honest for the cushion. But they are only weak creatures that think themselves wounded if they be but touched. One of the Sybarites, that saw a fellow hard at work a digging, desired him to give over, for it made him weary to see him: and it was an ordinary complaint with him, that “he could take no rest because the rose-leaves lay double under him.” When we are once weakened with our pleasures, everything grows intolerable. And we are angry as well with those things that cannot hurt us as with those that do. We tear a book because it is blotted; and our clothes, because they are not well made: things that neither deserve our anger nor feel it: the tailor, perchance, did his best, or, however, had no intent to displease us: if so, first, why should we be angry at all? Secondly, why should we be angry with the thing for the man’s sake? Nay, our anger extends even to dogs, horses, and other beasts.
How pointless and foolish are many of the things that drive us completely crazy! A stubborn horse, a spilled glass, a dropped key, the scraping of a chair, jealousy, a misunderstanding. How can someone who flies into a rage over a little too much water in his wine ever endure extreme hunger and thirst? What's the rush to punish a servant immediately, or break his leg or arm right away, as if you won't have the same power over him an hour later? A servant's answer, a wife's response, a tenant's reply puts some people completely out of patience. Yet they complain about the government for not allowing them the same freedom in public that they deny their own families. If servants say nothing, it's defiance. If they speak or laugh, it's insolence. It's as if we were given ears only for music, when we must actually endure all sorts of noises, good and bad, from both people and animals. How silly it is to jump at the tinkling of a bell or the creaking of a door when we must endure thunder despite all this sensitivity! Our eyes are just as picky and unreasonable as our ears. When we're out and about, we can tolerate muddy roads, dirty streets, and stinking ditches well enough. But a spot on a dish at home or an unswept fireplace absolutely drives us crazy. What's the reason except that we're patient in one place and unreasonably irritable in the other? Nothing makes us more extreme than luxury, which flinches at every touch and jumps at every shadow. It's death to some people to have another sit above them, as if a person were more or less honest because of a cushion. Only weak people think they're wounded when they're barely touched. One of the Sybarites saw a man working hard at digging and asked him to stop because watching made him tired. He commonly complained that "he couldn't rest because the rose petals lay doubled under him." Once we're weakened by our pleasures, everything becomes unbearable. We get angry at things that can't hurt us just as much as those that do. We tear up a book because it's stained and rip our clothes because they're poorly made. These things neither deserve our anger nor feel it. The tailor perhaps did his best or at least had no intention to displease us. If so, first, why should we be angry at all? Second, why should we be angry at the thing because of the person? Our anger even extends to dogs, horses, and other animals.
It was a blasphemous and a sottish extravagance, that of Caius Cæsar, who challenged Jupiter for making such a noise with his thunder, that he could not hear his mimics, and so invented a machine in imitation of it to oppose thunder to thunder; a brutal conceit, to imagine, either that he could reach the Almighty, or that the Almighty could not reach him!
It was a blasphemous and foolish extravagance by Caius Caesar. He challenged Jupiter for making such noise with his thunder that he couldn't hear his mimics. So he invented a machine to imitate thunder and oppose it with thunder of his own. What a brutal idea! He imagined either that he could reach the Almighty, or that the Almighty could not reach him.
And every jot as ridiculous, though not so impious, was that of Cyrus; who, in his design upon Babylon, found a river in his way that put a stop to his march: the current was strong, and carried away one of the horses that belonged to his own chariot: upon this he swore, that since it had obstructed his passage, it should never hinder any body’s else; and presently set his whole army to work upon it, which diverted it into a hundred and fourscore channels, and laid it dry. In this ignoble and unprofitable employment he lost his time, and the soldiers their courage, and gave his adversaries an opportunity of providing themselves, while he was waging war with a river instead of an enemy.
Just as ridiculous, though not as blasphemous, was the story of Cyrus. He was planning to attack Babylon when he came to a river that blocked his path. The current was strong and swept away one of the horses from his own chariot. This made him furious. He swore that since the river had blocked his passage, it would never block anyone else's again. He immediately put his entire army to work on it. They diverted the river into one hundred and eighty channels and dried it up completely. This pointless and wasteful project cost him valuable time and destroyed his soldiers' morale. It also gave his enemies the chance to prepare their defenses while he was fighting a river instead of his real enemy.