The very beauty, too, of pain itself--the strange flushes of joy that it gives us, which can only thus be won--the certainty that this is reality, this is what we are meant to do and be--happiness of different kinds, art, friends, books, are delusive; they play over the surface; in suffering we dip below it." This latter thought expanded is the subject of a passage of a letter to myself that gave me wonderful comfort.
We know how sickness or sorrow comes down heavily on us, crushing in what we are pleased to call our "plans," and "interrupting," as we say, "our opportunities for usefulness," spoiling our life.
"My dear friend, _this is_ life itself.

It is this very 'interruption' that we live for.

What does God care about the wretched books you intend to write, the petty occupations you think you discharge so gracefully?
He means to teach you a great high truth, worth knowing; and, thank Heaven, He will, however much you shrink and writhe.

Do not pick and choose among events: try and interpret each as it comes." At the expiration of the year of work--Easter, 1875--he was unchanged in his plan of travel; in fact, it had become a resolve by that time.
He confessed that he did not personally at all like giving up the school work; he had got very much interested in some of the boys, and in the whole process of the education of character.

But there was also another reason, which the following letter will explain: "You know, perhaps, that I have been acting as usher here for a year; it is to be a kind of probation.