In the presence of a
great sorrow, all petty troubles disappear; but we are too ready
to take some cherished misery to our bosom, and to pet it there.
Very often it is the child of our fancy; and, forgetful of the
many means of happiness which lie within our reach, we indulge
this spoilt child of ours until it masters us. We shut the door
against cheerfulness, and surround ourselves with gloom. The
habit gives a colouring to our life. We grow querulous, moody,
and unsympathetic. Our conversation becomes full of regrets. We
are harsh in our judgment of others. We are unsociable, and think
everybody else is so. We make our breast a storehouse of pain,
which we inflict upon ourselves as well as upon others.
This disposition is encouraged by selfishness: indeed, it is for
the most part selfishness unmingled, without any admixture of
sympathy or consideration for the feelings of those about us. It
is simply wilfulness in the wrong direction. It is wilful,
because it might be avoided. Let the necessitarians argue as they
may, freedom of will and action is the possession of every man and
woman. It is sometimes our glory, and very often it is our shame:
all depends upon the manner in which it is used. We can choose to
look at the bright side of things, or at the dark. We can follow
good and eschew evil thoughts. We can be wrongheaded and
wronghearted, or the reverse, as we ourselves determine.
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