The Book of Courage

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

THE COURAGE OF SELF-CONQUEST

THE highest courage is impossible without self-conquest. And self-conquest is never easy. A man may be a marvel of physical courage, and be a coward in matters of self-government. Failure here threatens dire disaster to his entire career.

Alexander the Great conquered most of the world he knew, but he permitted his lower nature to conquer his better self, and he died a disappointed, defeated man.

Before the days of Alexander there was a man named Nehemiah from whom the world-conqueror might have learned a few secrets. He was a poor exile in the service of a foreign ruler. That ruler sent him down to Jerusalem, the capital city of his own home land, with instructions to govern the people there. Now, in those days, it was a common thing for governors of cities to plunder the people unfortunate enough to be in their charge. Thus Nehemiah would have had ample precedent to fill his own coffers by injustice, profiteering and worse: he had the power. Possibly he was tempted to do something of the sort. But he had the courage to shut up tight all baser passions, and then to sit firmly on the lid. In the brief record of his service he referred to some of the self-seeking governors, and told of their rascally deeds. Then he added the significant words, "So did not I."

That was certainly courage—the courage of self-conquest.

As a young man Ulysses S. Grant was a brave soldier, but he nearly wrecked his life because of weak yielding to his appetite. His real career began only with self-conquest. When he found the courage to fight himself—and not until then—he became ready for the marvelous life of high courage that never faltered when he was misunderstood by associates and maligned by enemies, that pressed steadily onward, in the face of biting disease, until work was done, until honor was satisfied.

I
RESTRAINING SELF

A little girl four years old came trembling to her mother and asked for pencil and paper. Then, teeth set and eyes flashing, she pounced on the paper and began to make all sorts of vicious marks. Asked what she was doing, she said she was writing a letter to a sister who had offended her by an act that had been misunderstood. "She is not a nice girl," the little critic said, "and I'm telling her so. I don't like her any more, and I'm saying that." As she wrote her hand trembled; she was carried away by her unpleasant emotion. After a few moments, unable to go on with her self-appointed task, she flung herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms and for half an hour she could not control herself.

The sight was pitiful. But far more pitiful is the spectacle of one old enough to know better who yields to vexation and hatred, thereby not only making himself disagreeable, but robbing himself of power to perform the duties of the hour. For there is nothing so exhausting as uncontrolled emotion. There is so much for each one of us to do, and every ounce of strength is needed by those who would play their part in the world....