Whatever Tom will do about marrying I don’t know; and when he is married, what his wife will do, I know still less—it’s no use speculating on such a matter. But now, letting Tom be, let us inquire whether the sulky boy is more to be blamed than pitied. That he is an odious, disagreeable fellow, there is no doubt. But perhaps it’s not all his own fault. Some boys are of duller natures than others. The high-spirited, healthy, sanguine fellow will flare up at a moment’s notice, and let fly without stopping to think twice of the injury done him, while the dull boy is altogether slower in his movements: words don’t come to his lips so quickly, or thoughts don’t rush into his mind as promptly as in others; he is like the snail who, when offended, shrinks back into its shell, leaving nothing but a hard, unyielding exterior to mark his displeasure. A great many boys are sulky because they have not the boldness to be anything else; and a great many others are so because to their small minds it is the grandest way of displaying their wrath. If only they could see how ridiculous they are!
I once knew two boys who for some time had been firm friends at school. By some unlucky chance a misunderstanding occurred which interrupted this friendship, and the grievance was, or appeared to be, so sore, that neither boy would speak to the other. Well, this went on for no less than six months, and became the talk of the whole school. These silly boys, however, were so convinced of the sublimity of their respective conducts that they never observed that every one was laughing at them. Daily they passed one another, with eyes averted and noses high in the air; daily they fed their memories with the recollection of their smart. For six months never a word passed between them. Then came the summer holidays, in the course of which it suddenly occurred to both these boys, being not altogether senseless boys, that after all they were making themselves rather ridiculous. And the more they thought of it, the more ashamed of themselves they grew, till at last one sat down and wrote,—
“Dear Dick, I’m sorry I offended you; make it up,” to which epistle came, by return post, a reply,—
“Dear Bob, I’m sorry I offended you; let’s be friends.”
And the first day of next term these two met and shook hands, and laughed, and owned what fools they had both been.
A great many of the faults of this life come from the lack of a sense of humour. Certainly, if sulky boys had more of it, they would be inclined to follow the example of these two.
But, although there is a great deal about the sulky boy that merits pity rather than blame, there is much that deserves merciless censure. Why should one boy, by a whim of selfish resentment, mar the pleasure, not only of those with whom he has his quarrel, but with every one else he comes in contact with? “One dead fly,” the proverb says, “makes the apothecary’s ointment unsavoury”; and one sulky boy, in like manner, may destroy the harmony of a whole school. Isn’t it enough, if you must be disagreeable, to confine your disagreeableness to those for whom it is meant, without lugging a dozen other harmless fellows into the shadow of it? Do you really think so much of your own importance as to imagine all the world will be interested in your quarrel with Smith, because he insisted a thing was tweedledum and you insisted it was tweedledee? Or, if you have the grace to confine your sulkiness to Smith alone, for his private benefit, do you imagine you will convince him of the error of his ways by shutting yourself up and never looking or speaking to him?
It used to be a matter of frequent debate at school what ought to be done to Tom Sulks.
“Kick him,” said some. “Laugh at him,” said others. “Send him to Coventry,” put in a third. “Lecture him,” advised others. “Let him alone,” said the rest.
And this, after all, is the best advice. If a sulky fellow won’t come round of his own accord, no kicks, or laughs, or snubs, or lectures will bring him.