he same, if they are much
afflicted: but this is because they are still boys enough to have the
natural sense to be ashamed of ill-luck, even when they lack courage to
struggle against it. The reproaching of Providence by a man of full
growth, comes to some extent from his meanness, and chiefly from his
pride. He remembers that the old Gods selected great heroes whom to
persecute, and it is his compensation for material losses to conceive
himself a distinguished mark for the Powers of air. One who wraps himself
in this delusion may have great qualities; he cannot be of a very
contemptible nature; and in this place we will discriminate more closely
than to call him fool. Had Sir Purcell sunk or bent under the thong that
pursued him, he might, after a little healthy moaning, have gone along as
others do. Who knows?--though a much persecuted man, he might have become
so degraded as to have looked forward with cheerfulness to his daily
dinner; still despising, if he pleased, the soul that would invent a
sauce. I mean to say, he would, like the larger body of our
sentimentalists, have acquiesced in our simple humanity, but without
sacrificing a scruple to its grossness, or going arm-in-arm with it by
any means. Sir Purcell, however, never sank, and never bent. He was
invariably erect before men, and he did not console himself with a murmur
in secret. He had lived much alone; eating alone; thinking alone. To
complain of a father is, to a delicate mind, a delicate matter, and Sir
Purcell was a gentleman to all about him. His chief affliction in his
youth, therefore, kept him dumb. A gentleman to all about him, he
unhappily forgot what was due to his own nature. Must we not speak under
pressure of a grief? Little people should know that they must: but then
the primary task is to teach them that they are little people. For, if
they repress the outcry of a constant irritation, and the complaint
against injustice, they lock up a feeding devil in their hearts, and they
must have vast strength to crush him there. Strength they must have to
kill him, and freshness of spirit to live without him, after he has once
entertained them with his most comforting discourses. Have you listened
to him, ever? He does this:--he plays to you your music (it is he who
first teaches thousands that they have any music at all, so guess what a
dear devil he is!); and when he has played this ravishing melody, he
falls to upon a burlesque contrast of hurdy-g