“Thy trouble, loss, or greatest grief,
May in thy darkest day
Fill black despair with no relief,
Find in the gloom no ray;
But struggle on, be brave and strong,
And to the front look forth;
This world is not completely wrong–
Press on and test thy worth.”
Some persons seem to enjoy being miserable. At least, they make far more of life’s discomforts than of its pleasant things. Thy say very little about their mercies, but a great deal about their miseries, but a great deal about their miseries. When you meet them some bright morning, and ask, “How are you today?” you will have to listen to a long recital of personal ills; and you will escape well if you are not favoured also with a dismal catalogue of the distresses and sufferings of all the members of your friends’ family. You learn by and by, if you are a busy person, not to make inquiries which will lead to such extended confessions of wretchedness.
These people seem to think there is some sort of merit in having ailments or afflictions to speak of to others. It appears to them to be an altogether undesirable and unworthy state to be in; when they can say they are very well, with nothing to complain of. They appear to be happy only when something is wrong with them, so that they can make appeal to the sympathy of their friends.
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