Perhaps, in some of my writings, those who have read them have thought that I have unduly emphasised the brighter, sweeter, more tranquil side of life.  I have done so deliberately, because I believe that we should follow innocent joy as far as we can.  But it is not because I am unaware of the other side.  I do not think that any of the windings of the dark wood of which Dante speaks are unknown to me, and there are few tracts of dreariness that I have not trodden reluctantly.  I have had physical health and much seeming prosperity; but to be acutely sensitive to the pleasures of happiness and peace is generally to be morbidly sensitive to the burden of cares.  Unhappiness is a subjective thing.  As Mrs. Gummidge so truly said, when she was reminded that other people had their troubles, “I feel them more.”  And if I have upheld the duty of seeking peace, it has been like a preacher who preaches most urgently against his own bosom-sins.  But I am sure of this, that however impatiently one mourns one’s fault and desires to be different, the secret of growth lies in that very sorrow, perhaps in the seeming impotence of that sorrow.  What one must desire is to learn the truth, however much one may shudder at it; and the longer that one persists in one’s illusions, the longer is one’s learning-time.  Is it not a bitter comfort to know that the truth is there, and that what we believe or do not believe about it makes no difference at all?  Yes, I think it is a comfort; at all events upon that foundation alone is it possible to rest.

How far one drifts in thought away from the sweet scene which grows sweeter every hour.  The heat of the day is over now; the breeze curls on the stream, the shadow of the tower falls far across the water.  My companion rises and smiles, thinking me lost in indolent content; he hardly guesses how far I have been voyaging

     “On strange seas of thought alone.”

Does he guess that as I look back over my life, pain has so far preponderated over happiness that I would not, if I could, live it again, and that I would not in truth, if I could choose, have lived it at all?  And yet, even so, I recognise that I am glad not to have the choice, for it would be made in an indolent and timid spirit, and I do indeed believe that the end is not yet, and that the hour will assuredly come when I shall rejoice to have lived, and see the meaning even of my fears.

And then we retrace our way, and like the Lady of Shalott step down into the boat, to glide along the darkling water-way in the westering light.  Why cannot I speak to my friend of such dark things as these?  It would be better perhaps if I could, and yet no hand can help us to bear our own burden.