The Grace of Silence; or When to Keep Still.
By Rev. T. L. Cuyler
SILENCE is often a most commendable grace. There is a time to speak out, a time to be heard—when muzzled lips would betray cowardice and treason to the truth. At such times "speech is silver;" but there are other occasions when "silence is golden." Let me indicate, in this article, some occasions in which it is wise to keep still before our fellow-men. 1. It is our privilege, in the first place, to hold our tongues when we are assailed by inquisitiveness. Some people have a chronic itch of curiosity; their very eyes are interrogation points. Instead of minding their own business they are "busy-bodies in other men's matters." Now such people ought not to be encouraged by being gratified. There are many things which we have a right to keep to ourselves, and with which "that great brute beast the public," as Cobbett called it, has no concern. My neighbor has no more right to peep into my pocket-book than he has to steal it; he may no more spy through my windows than break open my doors. Every man's house is his castle; and a self-respecting family will keep to themselves all those matters about which the outsiders have no right to intermeddle. There are sore spots in almost every household, that delicacy ought to conceal; a thousand domestic difficulties would never get wind, if people were wise enough to padlock their own tongues in regard to their own family infirmities. Let us be careful not to have too many confidants. "A tale-bearer revealeth secrets; but he that is of a trusty spirit concealeth the matter." As for the crime of divulging what is intrusted to us in sacred confidence, it is a crime compounded of falsehood and treachery. Upon this whole subject, two sound rules ought to be observed; one is never to ask what you have no right to know; the other rule is never to tell what your neighbor has no right to know. Abraham Lincoln was famed for his shrewd, sagacious speeches; he deserves equal credit for his talent of holding his tongue. 2. A second occasion for Christian silence is when you are strongly tempted to disparage others. Remember that the tongue is a keen instrument; it cuts deep, and often draws blood; you may commit murder with it as truly as with a dirk or a pistol. Alas! how many limp along wounded, or else carry the ugly scars which cruel slander has inflicted! Malicious slander we may all detest; but a peculiar temptation to detraction often comes in this wise. We hear somebody greatly extolled; perhaps the praise seems to us extravagant. Envy—that hateful spirit which often wears the mask of justice—whispers to us, "That person is set up entirely too high; he or she ought to be taken down." So we bring out some deformities of character or some evil things that we happen to know about them. Grant that we do know that these things are true; why speak of them and thus fling a nasty fly into a box of fragrant ointment? Why thrust a daub of detraction over a fair portrait of character? In the name of generosity, let us hold our peace. If we cannot sincerely join in the chorus of praise, let not our envious tongues croak their discord; if we cannot help to set another up, let us not help to pull him down. Silence is often as magnanimous as outspoken vindication. If we cannot conscientiously say anything good about other people, is it not generally better to say nothing at all? Throwing mud is always dirty work; if you do not defile the individual you aim at, you are pretty sure to soil your own fingers. If we would all remember how we have smarted ourselves, and suffered ourselves, from the razor-tongue of defamation, we would be more careful to bridle our own tongues. Of the man who keeps no such bridle the apostle James says that "his religion is vain." 3. If silence be golden under these before-mentioned conditions, then does it shine with a peculiar luster when it is maintained under sharp provocation. If our house takes fire, the first impulse is to run for a bucket of water. But if temper takes fire, the impulse, too often, is to throw on more fuel. Now the best water-bucket for aroused temper is absolute silence. Just seal your lips tightly for ten minutes, and you will save yourself many a quarrel, many a heart-burn, many a mortification, and many a disgrace to your religious profession. Speech is often dynamite; it shatters friendships in a moment that are not repaired in a life-time. Silence is cooling. It cools us off; and it is often a more eloquent vindication than words. One of the calmest men I ever knew, told me that he used to be violently passionate, but that he broke his temper by resolutely bridling his tongue until he cooled down. What answer that can be given to irritating words, or even to a just provocation, is as effective as dignified silence? How eloquent are sealed lips! What sublimity there is in silence, when innocence reviled, reviles not again! Marvelously beautiful was the mute patience of our divine Lord when under all the insults and the buffetings of his brutal enemies, he opened not his holy lips. Those lips might have summoned legions of angels to his rescue. That tongue might have shot the lightnings of heaven into the cruel crowd of his murderers. "Answerest thou nothing?" exclaims the enraged high priest. "But Jesus held his peace." Other men have died for what they have said; but, as Dr. Bushnell beautifully remarked, "here was a personage who died for what he would not say, and was silent." Wonderful silence of conscious innocence; truly this was the Son of God! "He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth."