There are men of a certain type in this world whose judgment is exceedingly sound when their instincts are not in play, but who, in certain channels, when the senses are at riot, become puerile; the good ship, rudderless, which only rights itself when the storm has passed.

They are men without the necessary leaven of introspection.
Of themselves, in fact, they know nothing, learn nothing even in the remorse when the deed is done.

For first of all, they are men of strength--men who can over-ride, with determination, rough-shod, the hampering results of their follies.

Fate and circumstance have no power over them.

They make their own destiny; cutting, if necessary, the knots they have tied, with a knife-edge of will that needs but the one clear sweep to set them free.
Of this type--a vivid example--is Traill.