been harrowing my feelings and carrying their (?) burdens for nothing.

 

This world is not a pitiful place. It is a lovely great world, full of

all sorts of people, every one of whom exactly fits into his

conditions.

 

And the loveliest thing of all about this bright, blessed old world is

that there is not a man, woman or child in it who cannot change his

environment if he doesn't like the one he now occupies. He can THINK his

way into anything.

 

A real, deep, tender feeling will prompt one to do all he can to

alleviate distress or add to the world's joy. Real feeling prompts to

action. But this sentimental slush which slops over on anything and

everything in general is nothing but an imitation of the real thing. To

sympathize to the extent of acting is good; to harrow up the feelings

when you cannot or will not act, is simply weakness.

 

"Feeling" is subject to the same law as water. Take away its banks and

it spreads all over creation and becomes a stagnant slough of despond.

Confine it by banks of common-sense and will and it grows deep and

tender and powerful, and bears blessings on its bosom.

 

The professional pity-er is adding to the sum total of the world's

misery.

 

The world is like "sweet Alice Ben Bolt"; it laughs with delight when

you give it a smile, and gets out its pocket handkerchief to weep with

you when you call it "Poor thing!"

 

Then it cuts its call short and runs around the corner to tell your

neighbor what a tiresome old thing you are anyway.

 

Never you mind the tribulations you can't help, dearie. Just wake up and

be the brightest, happiest, sweetest thing you know how to be, and the

world will-be that much better off.