I bid
you go on, and prosper.
"One thing grieves me: the tone of sadness, I might say of settled
melancholy that runs through all your utterances of yourself. It is
not right, it is wrong; and yet how shall I reprove you? If you knew
me, you would triumphantly[A] for any spiritual endowment bestowed
on a man, that it is accompanied, or one might say _preceded_ as the
first origin of it, always by a delicacy of organisation which in
a world like ours is sure to have itself manifoldly afflicted,
tormented, darkened down into sorrow and disease. You feel yourself an
exile, in the East; but in the West too it is exile; I know not where
under the sun it is not exile. Here in the Fog Babylon, amid mud
and smoke, in the infinite din of 'vociferous platitude,' and quack
outbellowing quack, with truth and pity on all hands ground under the
wheels, can one call it a home, or a world? It is a waste chaos, where
we have to swim painfully for our life. The utmost a man can do is
to swim there like a man, and hold his peace. For this seems to me
a great truth, in any exile or chaos whatsoever, that sorrow was not
given us for sorrow's sake, but always and infallibly as a lesson to
us from which we are to learn somewhat: and which, the somewhat
once _learned_, ceases to be sorrow.
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