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It is a common saying that every one has a temper but a fool. Certainly he who sees wrong done without feeling angry must be either a fool or a knave. The capability of anger is one of our most valuable endowments. Anger, to use Locke's words, "is an uneasiness or discomposure of the mind" which springs up when injury has been done to ourselves or to others; and its purpose is to stimulate us to a remedial course. The protective power of this passion is very great. "It is a moral power which tends to repair the inequality of physical power, and to approximate the strong and the weak towards the same level." But, however useful and necessary, the passion of anger becomes very dangerous when it is not criticised and controlled by reason. When we yield without reflection, anger degenerates into bad temper — into what our text calls "the wrath of man."

1. Reflection may show us that we have no right to be angry at all. Wrath is only righteous when applied to moral wrong. St. truly says, "Anger is a sort of sting implanted in us, that we might therewith attack the devil, and not one another." In this matter, as in all others, Christ should be our example. How often must He have been grieved, disappointed, and vexed at the unsympathetic conduct of His disciples. Yet He was never angry with them. His anger was exhibited only against the mischievous cant of the Pharisees and Scribes.

2. Reflection may show that, though we may have cause for anger, yet our anger is excessive. There are persons who are almost always out of temper, who will get in a rage at anything, or even at nothing. They are more enraged at the thwarting of their smallest whim, than at the most flagrant act of injustice inflicted upon any one else. All such excessive manifestations of anger may be cured by thought. For our anger spontaneously subsides, when we become convinced that there is no real ground for it.

3. Reflection may show that though the feeling of anger is unavoidable, and though its manifestation would be legitimate, it will be better for us, under the circumstances, not to show it. The finest illustration of this will be familiar, no doubt, to many of you. It occurs in Victor Hugo's most celebrated novel, and it deserves to be written in letters of gold. You remember how Jean Valjean, who had been known to himself and others for the last nineteen years as No. 5623, and who has at last been dismissed from the galleys on a ticket-of-leave — you remember bow he walks wearily along in the dust and heat, how he is turned out of the various inns, repulsed from every door, and even chased from an empty dog-kennel into which he has crawled for shelter. He wanders on again, saying despairingly to himself, "I am not even a dog." By and by he comes to the house of the good old Bishop Myriel. He knocks and enters, and tells his story. The bishop, to the great discomposure of his house. keeper and the utter bewilderment of Valjean, orders a bedroom to be prepared for him, and invites him in the meantime to take a seat at the supper-table. After supper, the bishop conducts him to his room, and the poor man lies down and falls asleep. In the middle of the night he wakes and begins to think; and the result of his thinking is, that he will get up and make elf with the silver dishes which he had seen on the table the previous evening. He does so, but is soon captured by the police and brought back. The bishop dismisses the gendarmes, pretending that he had made the man a present of the silver, and asking him why he had not taken the candlesticks as well. When they were left alone together, he says to the astonished thief, "Jean Valjean, my brother, never forget you have promised to employ this silver which I have given you in becoming an honest man. You belong no more to evil, but to good. I have bought your soul. I reclaim it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God." You know the result. From that day Valjean was a changed man. He became one of the noblest characters in the whole range of the world's fiction. Fiction? Yes; but fiction that is true to fact. Cases will sometimes arise when, by restraining an anger perfectly legitimate and withholding a punishment perfectly merited, we may save a soul from death.

4. Reflection may show us that though the feeling of anger was legitimate, and though it was right and desirable to manifest it, yet the feeling has lasted long enough and may now be dismissed. "Anger resteth," says the author of Ecclesiastes, "in the bosom of fools." It arises in the bosom of wise men, but it remains only in the bosom of fools. If we treat men according to the first promptings of anger, we shall almost always do them wrong. It is most important that we should pause and reflect, whenever we have it in our power to inflict punishment. Plato on one occasion, being highly incensed against a servant, asked a friend to chastise him, excusing himself from doing it on the ground that he was in anger. Carillus, a Lacedemonian, said to a slave who had been insolent to him, "If I were not in a great rage I would cause thee to be put to death." We may then lay it down as a general rule that the more eager we are to inflict immediate punishment, the more necessary it is for us, if we would avoid sin, to pause and reflect. So far I have been endeavouring to show that bad temper — i.e., the thoughtless yielding to the first promptings of anger — is wrong. Now let me point out that it is also impolitic. It is our interest, as a rule, apart altogether from moral considerations, to keep our anger under the control of our reason. An exhibition of bad temper is the very last thing in the world by which to get one's self better treated. Everybody is pleased to meet, and glad to serve, the good tempered man; but as for the bad-tempered man, people are perfectly satisfied if they can only manage to keep out of his way. The bad policy of ill temper was very neatly pointed out by Queen Elizabeth. There was a certain hot-tempered courtier on whom her Majesty had not yet bestowed the promotion which she had promised. Meeting him one day, she asked him, "What does a man think of when he thinks of nothing?" "He thinks, madam, of a woman's promise," was the reply. "Well," said the queen, walking away, "I must not confute you. Anger makes men witty, but it keeps them poor." But once more, bad temper is exceedingly unbecoming. In this respect it may be distinguished from anger. As I pointed out before, legitimate manifestations of anger are impressive and awe inspiring — so much so, that they frequently enable the weak to offer a successful resistance to the injuries with which they are threatened by the strong. But the person who is, as we say, "in a temper" — that is, in a bad temper — always appears ridiculous. Jeremy Taylor says — "It makes the voice horrid, the eyes cruel, the face pale or fiery, the gait fierce, the speech clamorous and loud, and the whole body monstrous, deformed, and contemptible." I am sure that those who are at all particular about their personal appearance, might be cured for ever of their bad temper, if only they could be induced, during some violent paroxysm, to gaze into a looking-glass. They would receive a shock that would make them changed characters for the rest of their lives. But permit me to add one warning. I have spoken strongly. I believe that there is nothing more contemptible, and few things more mischievous, than bad temper. But though I would have you very strict and inexorable in judging yourselves, I would have you very gentle and lenient in judging others. Take care lest you mistake for bad temper what is only the involuntary manifestation of physical pain. An invalid once told me that her nearest approach to comfort consisted in being only a little uncomfortable. Now this chronic presence of pain should cover a multitude of seeming sins. If, then, you are uncertain whether any one's hastiness of speech and manner be ill temper or not, whether it be the expression of a bad state of the heart or only a bad state of health, give them the benefit of the doubt — deal very gently with them, I beseech you, for Christ's sake.

(A. W. Momerie, M. A.)

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KJV: Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath:

WEB: So, then, my beloved brothers, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger;