In nine cases out of ten, the wounds which our sensibilities
receive are the merest pin-pricks, enlarged and fretted by our own
hands; we work the little thorn about in the puncture till it
festers, instead of drawing it out and casting it away.
Very few of the prizes of life that we covet are worth winning, if
we scheme to get them; it is the honour or the task that comes to
us unexpectedly that we deserve. I have heard discontented men say
that they never get the particular work that they desire and for
which they feel themselves to be suited; and meanwhile life flies
swiftly, while we are picturing ourselves in all sorts of coveted
situations, and slighting the peaceful happiness, the beautiful
joys which lie all around us, as we go forward in our greedy
reverie.
I have been much surprised, since I began some years ago to receive
letters from all sorts of unknown people, to realise how many
persons there are in the world who think themselves unappreciated.
Such are not generally people who have tried and failed;--an honest
failure very often brings a wholesome sense of incompetence;--but
they are generally persons who think that they have never had a
chance of showing what is in them, speakers who have found their
audiences unresponsive, writers who have been discouraged by
finding their amateur efforts unsaleable, men who lament the
unsuitability of their profession to their abilities, women who
find themselves living in what they call a thoroughly unsympathetic
circle.
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