‘In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness, and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tyger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage: Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it, As fearfully, as doth a galled rock O’erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.’ This advice (sensible as it is) is abhorrent to the nature of a man who is accustomed to place all his hopes of victory in reasoning and reflection only. The noisy, rude, gratuitous success of those who have taken so much less pains to deserve it, disgusts and disheartens him—he loses his self-possession and self-esteem, has no standard left by which to measure himself or others, and as he cannot be brought to admire them, persuades himself at last that the blame rests with himself; and instead of bespeaking a fashionable dress, learning to bow, or taking a few lessons in boxing or fencing to brace his nerves and raise his spirits, aggravates all his former faults by way of repairing them, grows more jealous of the propriety of every word and look, lowers his voice into a whisper, gives his style the last polish, reconsiders his arguments, refines his sentiments till they evaporate in a sigh, and thus satisfies himself that he can hardly fail, that men judge impartially in the end, that the public will sooner or later do him justice, Fortune smile, and the Fair no longer be averse! _Oh malore!_ He is just where he was, or ten times worse off than ever.