sorrow to its object during prolonged absence is shown not only in absorbing recollection of it, but also in the desire to restore the former conditions of sense-perception. When the object is present, and sorrow arises on account of its illness, misfortune, or death, the force of attraction is still shown by maintaining this presence; but there also arises the desire to restore the former state of the object before it was overtaken by misfortune or death. Thus the two tendencies, though so much involved with one another, remain distinguishable. Even in our 'regrets,' to which we may refuse the name of 'sorrow,' on account of their insufficient intensity, how clearly this tendency is shown. If we break anything which has been a joy to us, our first thought is how it can be mended; and when it is simply lost we desire to find it-to restore it to the former relation to ourselves. And so when the same emotional system is excited in the higher degree that we call sorrow, this tendency is often revealed in the first spontaneous cries to which it gives rise. Thus Juliet's mother exclaims when she first sees her daughter lying in appearance dead :

"O me, O me !-my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee !—
Help, help!-call help."1

Here we see expressed not only the desire for restoration, but with it sorrow's universal appeal for help. But even where death is certain, and the futility of the appeal induces its repression, still it is present in the thought, because the tendencies themselves are working in the emotion. In grief for the loss of his friend, another poet, while recognising the impossibility of restoring him to life, is constrained to cry:“Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be,

I falling on his faithful heart,

Would breathing thro' his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me. . . ."2

And we have the reiterated appeal not only for the restoration of life, but of the former union; which, like so

many other wishes for the impossible, survives in the imagination :

"Deep folly! yet that this could be

That I could wing my will with might

To leap the grades of life and light,
And flash at once my friend to thee."1

Sometimes the impulse for restoration, recognising its end to be impossible in this life, looks to another, and with sorrow's cry for help, appeals to the pity of the Eternal to reunite those who have here been separated. And even Death seems to afford an imperfect bond of union, but—

"Dark is that last stage of sorrow

Which from death alone can borrow
Comfort." 2

And the lover calls to the spirit of his beloved to restore their union :

"Take me to thee!

Like the deep-rooted tree,

My life is half in earth, and draws

Thence all sweetness; oh may my being pause

Soon beside thee!

"Soul of my soul !

Have me not half, but whole.

Dear dust, thou art my eyes, my breath!

Draw me to thee down the dark sea of death,

Soul of my soul !" 3

And sometimes it seems to be the dead that calls to the living:

:

Hence from the impossibility of the end being accomplished in this life, and the possibility of union in or through death, arises so often the suicidal impulse, and the resolution in which it may culminate: "I delibère de mourir en cette 1 Tennyson, 'In Memoriam.' xli.

2 G. Meredith, 'The Shaving of Shagpat,' 'The History of Bhanavar the Beautiful,' 3 Ibid.

tristesse, n'ayant autre plaisir que de suivre son enfant au sepulchre." Sorrow, at this stage, often becomes calm and 'unemotional'; for any check to its impulse, which so much increases the emotional intensity, is no longer felt, since it has found a way in which it can discharge itself, has formed a resolution on which it is prepared to act. The emotion may be said to have almost ceased; but the system is the more efficiently active. Thus Romeo, on being informed of the death of Juliet, shows no weakness, yields to no outburst of emotion, invokes no help from men, but, calm and restrained, the inherent force of sorrow quickly forms into a resolution :get me ink and paper

And hire post horses; I will hence to-night."

And is followed by the reflection:—

"O, mischief! thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary———.” 2

We have furnished sufficient evidence of this second impulse of sorrow and of its various manifestations, according to the outlet which the impulse discovers, and shall now attempt to express the law of its tendency: (60) The sorrow of love tends to restore that state of the beloved object, or that relation to it, the loss or destruction of which is the cause of sorrow.

Thus the former law reveals the tendency of sorrow to preserve what we still have, and this, to get back what we have lost.

4. Of the Source of the Tendencies of Attraction

and Restoration in Sorrow

To what source can we trace these secondary tendencies of Sorrow? Are they inherent in it at the stage at which it becomes a constituent of a sentiment; or are they derived from some other emotion of the same system? When we speak of this higher stage of sorrow, we imply that the love of which it is now a part is an essential condition of it, so

1 Calv. Instit. 332 (quoted by Littré, Dict. Art. Tristesse).
2 Romeo and Juliet,' A. v. Sc, i.

that, apart from love, the loss or destruction of a certain object would not be a cause of sorrow; but this does not hold of the primitive varieties of sorrow which do not depend on any love of their objects, but on the frustration of some fundamental impulse.1

We can hardly overlook the resemblance between the law of Attraction of sorrow and the fundamental law of Joy. For joy, we found, tends to maintain the present situation,— that state of the object and relation of the subject to it which for the time exists. Now what is the normal relation of joy to sorrow in love? That joy precedes sorrow. In some cases joy is present from the beginning; in others it grows with acquaintance. In sex love it strikes us suddenly, and in most cases at first sight. It is the same with places: in some we feel a delight at first sight; in others we gradually come to feel enjoyment as we know them better. After this joy, and with the loss of its object, comes sorrow, if the force of joy is sufficiently strong, if the attraction of other things does not counterbalance the loss. Now joy tends to maintain

But when sorrow comes,

the object and our relation to it. this object or this relation has been injured or destroyed. What remains becomes the object of sorrow; and as joy holds to what it has, sorrow clings to what remains, to memories and keepsakes, to the body in spite of disease or death, to the character fallen from our ideal.

Now we have become familiar with the fact that instincts, and acquired as well as innate tendencies, originally belonging to one emotional system, may also become organised in others to which they are of advantage. It seems probable that the tendency of sorrow which attracts it to the object is derived from the joy that preceded it; for both make union with the object a principal end. But, if so, the kind of sorrow which we call pity seems to be exceptional. In pity we sorrow at the injury or suffering even of strangers, in whose presence we have felt no joy. We feel pity and horror at the great calamities that overtake numbers of persons whom we have never seen. But how much stronger is ordinarily our pity for those we love!

1 See ch. ix. 2.

This pity may be one of the emotions that are only developed in and through love; though afterwards it may acquire sufficient independence to be capable of being aroused on behalf of strangers.

The second tendency of this type of sorrow bears no resemblance to anything we find in joy. Joy has no tendency to restore a former state of its object because it takes delight in the present state. Neither does joy tend to restore the relation between self and the object of joy, because that relation is still present. The object must first be injured or destroyed, or the relation to self be lost; that is to say, the condition of sorrow must first be operative before there can be place for a restorative tendency.

Now it is a familiar experience that the absence of some new object that has delighted us, that we were even beginning to love, awakens a longing for renewed experience of it. This shows itself in many directions. If people have seen a play that delighted them they want to see it again. If they have been for a holiday in the country, and the place which they have visited has day by day revealed new attractions, renewing their joy in it, they feel that they must revisit it on another occasion. Yet in these cases we should not say that the impulse to restore the former state is always accompanied by a feeling of sadness. For where joy is not interrupted, and we remain long in presence of the object, we may part from it without sadness; but after some time has elapsed, if the joy has been strong enough, we begin to desire it afresh, and, sometimes, at first without sadness. But where joy is first interrupted, and afterwards frustrated, with the impulse to restore the former state, anger and sorrow may be successively aroused, as we see so often with children who stamp on the ground and cry when deprived of what they enjoy. Miss Shinn relates of her niece that while at the beginning there was "no grief" at such deprival, because the memory was not perhaps sufficiently strong to preserve the traces of it, yet that in the twenty-third week "she nearly cried several times at having things taken from her, or being interfered with while she was playing with them; and in the next week she