If such privations do not win pity from
judicious readers, then, alas, I have written in vain! Those who read
this will often be surrounded by strolling Rovers. Treat the reckless
daring salts with respect, for they live hard and risk much.
XXIII.
SORROW.
I have never been disposed to be niggard of cheerfulness; for it has
always seemed to me that one of the duties of a writer is to supply
solace in a world where, amid all the beauty, so many things seem to
go wrong. But, while I would fain banish cankered melancholy, sour
ill-humour, cynicism, and petty complaining, I have never sought to
disturb those who are mastered for a time by the sacred sorrow which
takes possession of the greatest and purest and gentlest souls at
times. There have been great men who were joyous--and they bore their
part very bravely on earth; but the greatest of all have gained their
strength in Sorrow's service. It matters not which of the kings
amongst men we choose, we find that his kingship was only gained and
kept after he had passed through the school of grief. It is a glad
world for most of us--else indeed we might wish that one cataclysm
would overwhelm us all; but our masters, those who teach us and guide
us, have all been under the dominion of a nameless something which we
can hardly call Melancholy, but which is a kind of divine sad sister
to Melancholy.
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