Your
feelings are so acute, you are so susceptible, I do not see why a sorrow
should not be deep with you. But with your vigor, your pure affection,
your generous impulses, with all the future before you in which to keep
on trying, I cannot understand why you should hug such a phantom as
a mood. Just think again how dangerous gloomy moods are,--how bold!
Why, with the least hint at an invitation, they will come in, not for
a call, nor for one meal, but to stay and stay,--the impudent creatures!
And such despoilers as they are while they remain! They eat you out
of house and home, they even take away your own appetite,--the harpies!
They make you cross,--yes, ugly. They bring frowns, tears, and age
into your faces, and they banish all loveliness to the ends of the
earth. Oh, do _not_ let them in!
When you come home tired out, your energy all gone, your patience
exhausted, why,--rest. Do not think you are desolate, that everybody
has deserted you, and that fate, destiny, grim despair, are all after
you. You are tired and need to go to bed, or to engage in some light
talk which will rest you but at the same time occupy you. Read the
newspaper, build aircastles, hope with all the combined powers of your
fancy. If the clouds of misfortune pile up, and it pours bad
luck,--mother scolds because you did not sweep your room carefully;
father threatens because of an approach to familiarity with the new
young man over the way; brother frets because his stockings are not well
darned; lessons all went wrong in the morning; your best friend said a
careless word to you; you have broken the main-spring of your watch, and
spilt coffee on your new dress,--why, these are all trifles! I know a
good many bad trifles coming together are worse than a misfortune; but
the best way to prevent them from bringing on dejection is to let in
such a flood of light and determined cheerfulness as to drown out
despair.
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