In argument, therefore, the grumbler has the best of it.  It is more than probable that things are as he says.  But why say it?  Why make four miseries out of three?  If the three be already unbearable, so much the worse.  If he is uncomfortable, it is a pity; we are sorry, but we cannot change the course of Nature.  We shall soon have our own little turn of torments, and we do not want to be worn out before it comes by having listened to his; probably, too, the very things of which he complains are pressing just as heavily on us as on him,—­are just as unpleasant to everybody as to him.  Suppose everybody did as he does.  Imagine, for instance, a chorus of grumble from ten people at a breakfast-table, all saying at once, or immediately after each other, “This coffee is not fit to drink.”  “Really, the attendance in this house is insufferably poor.”  I have sometimes wished to try this homoeopathic treatment in a bad case of grumble.  It sounds as if it might work a cure.

If you lose your temper with the grumbler, and turn upon him suddenly, saying, “Oh, do not spoil all our pleasure.  Do make the best of things:  or, at least, keep quiet!” then how aggrieved he is! how unjust he thinks you are to “make a personal matter of it”!  “You do not, surely, suppose I think you are responsible for it, do you?” he says, with a lofty air of astonishment at your unreasonable sensitiveness.  Of course, we do not suppose he thinks we are to blame; we do not take him to be a fool as well as a grumbler.  But he speaks to us, at us, before us, about the cause of his discomfort, whatever it may be, precisely as he would if we were to blame; and that is one thing which makes his grumbling so insufferable.  But this he can never be made to see.  And the worst of it is that grumbling is contagious.  If we live with him, we shall, sooner or later, in spite of our dislike of his ways, fall into them; even sinking so low, perhaps, before the end of a single summer, as to be heard complaining of butter at boarding-house tables, which is the lowest deep of vulgarity of grumbling.  There is no help for this; I have seen it again and again.  I have caught it myself.  One grumbler in a family is as pestilent a thing as a diseased animal in a herd:  if he be not shut up or killed, the herd is lost.

But the grumbler cannot be shut up or killed, since grumbling is not held to be a proof of insanity, nor a capital offence,—­more’s the pity.

What, then, is to be done?  Keep out of his way, at all costs, if he be grown up.  If it be a child, labor day and night, as you would with a tendency to paralysis, or distortion of limb, to prevent this blight on its life.

It sounds extreme to say that a child should never be allowed to express a dislike of any thing which cannot be helped; but I think it is true.  I do not mean that it should be positively forbidden or punished, but that it should never pass unnoticed; his attention should be invariably called to its uselessness, and to the annoyance it gives to other people.  Children begin by being good-natured little grumblers at every thing which goes wrong, simply from the outspokenness of their natures.  All they think they say and act.  The rudiments of good behavior have to be chiefly negative at the outset, like Punch’s advice to those about to marry,—­“Don’t.”