Its horror
lies in the continuance of it, in the shuddering anticipation of all we
may yet have to endure; but once over, it becomes instantly either like
a cloud melting in the blue of heaven, or, better still a joyful memory
of a pain that braced and purified. No one ever gives a thought, except
a grateful one, to past suffering. If it leaves its handwriting on brow
and cheek, it leaves no shadow on the spirit within. It is so easy to
see this in the lives of others, however hard it is to realise it for
oneself. What interest is there in the record of the life of a
perfectly prosperous and equable person? And what inspiration is equal
to that which comes when we read the life of one who suffered much,
when we see the hope that rose superior to thwarted designs and broken
purposes, and the joy that came of realising that not through easy and
graceful triumph is the soul made strong? Why does one ask oneself
about the dead hero, when his life rounds itself to the view, not
whether he had enough of prosperity and honour to content him, but
whether he had enough of pain and self-reproach to perfect his
humanity? Suffering is no part of the soul; the soul has need to
suffer, but it is made to rejoice; and when it has earned its joy, it
will abide in it.
And now a word of personal experience. This book is a record of an
experiment in happiness.
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