beloved in consequence; and further, it seems to be proportionate to the strength of these emotions. For if the thing has a value for others it may have none for oneself; and if it is useful it may be only useful; but if it have power to arouse in oneself both joy and sorrow independently of its uses, then for oneself it will tend to have an intrinsic value. It seems, then, that the intrinsic value we place on any object that we love is largely constituted by the succession of joy and sorrow about it, and by the modification of its value which each in turn effects. If it is through sorrow alone that we principally estimate the value of a thing for ourselves; still sorrow, as we have seen, does not therefore enhance the total value attributed to it. The effect produced depends on the strength and persistency of sorrow. "Absence," says la Rochefoucauld, "weakens common sentiments, but strengthens great ones, as the wind extinguishes the candle and stirs up a conflagration." 1 The difference of the effect is due to the result of the competition between sorrow for what we have lost and joy in the old objects we have loved and which still surround us, or in the new things that appeal to us with a fresh charm. Either these, or some one of them, console us, so that by degrees we forget what we have lost; or obstinately we turn away from them, and refuse to be comforted; and this is accompanied by that depreciation of their value to which we have already referred. But these things, or rather the systems to which they belong, resist this depreciation. For each so far as it is a love of anything has its own capacity for joy and sorrow: each has its own valuation. There is the worth of friendship, of ambition, and of life itself; and these systems after a little time may reassert their old hold upon us, so that the value of what we have lost is diminished or destroyed by their competition. It is only in proportion as these other things can no longer awaken joy in us, bearing no comparison with what we have lost, that sorrow enhances the value of what we have lost. If we then state the law absolutely, that sorrow always tends to enhance the value of the lost object, this statement ! 'Maximes,' cclxxvi. of it is contradicted by certain facts. We have therefore to express it conditionally, so as to exclude these cases: (80) So far as the sorrow of love diminishes the value of all objects previously valued, and prevents one attaching a value for oneself to new objects, it tends to increase the value already placed on its own object: But beneath these beliefs of the surpassing value of what we have lost are the emotions by which they have been established, and these are-not sorrow alone, but sorrow in conjunction with some antagonistic emotions organised in the sentiment of Love to destroy the competition of other things. These are repugnance, disgust, and contempt, through which we turn from or reject the proffered consolations of competing objects. There is then a law that is more fundamental, and which would be operative even though the conceptions of value were not present to the mind: (81) The sorrow of love tends to arouse repugnancy, or disgust, or contempt for all objects that distract it from its own object, and thereby strengthens itself. Now there seems to be an exception to the law that sorrow tends, under certain conditions, to increase the value placed on the beloved object. There is a sorrow not caused by the absence or death of the loved object, but by his degradation or dishonour, and by alienation from him, which often inflict the greatest anguish that love can suffer. For death, it is said, is better than dishonour. If under such conditions we lose our belief in the worth of the person, how can such sorrow fail to diminish instead of increasing the total value placed on him? But the loss of our belief causes the sorrow, not the sorrow that loss; and in the total value placed on a person there are other qualities than his moral worth, and this, if degraded may be restored. His importance and his value still seem to be increased by the action of sorrow; for if there were no sorrow, or sorrow gave place to anger, in condemnation of him as worthless and bad, his potential value would be ignored, and the greatest achievement of love, the restoration of the character, would remain unattempted. The parable of the lost sheep illustrates the law that sorrow even here tends to increase the value placed on the lost object. CHAPTER XIII OF THE TENDENCY OF SORROW TO STRENGTHEN AND PERFECT THE CHARACTER OR TO WEAKEN AND DEGRADE IT 1. Of the opposite Opinions concerning the Value of Sorrow THE remarks made in daily life and the reflections that we find in literature on the value of sorrow are so different and apparently contradictory as to present to us a problem of unusual difficulty. For any attempt to furnish an adequate theory of this emotional system must take into account and be able to interpret these opposite opinions of great writers, and to discern the limitations under which they apply. The nature of sorrow is so complex, its effects in different characters so various, that it is rare, if not impossible, for any writer to show an insight into all of them. Hence there arises a great diversity of opinions as to its value. Nothing is commoner than to hear sorrow spoken of by some as vain and useless, and as the source of all that is best in us by others. It is alternately regarded as weakening us both physically and morally; and as strengthening and hardening It is held to make us bitter, envious, and hateful; and also to make us gentle, sympathetic, and pitiful. It is regarded by theologians as a chief instrument of religion, as drawing us to a faith in, and a love of, God; and it is shown by others to be the frequent source of impeachments of His providence, justice, and love. Of the uselessness of sorrow, Seneca says: "If fate can be overcome by tears, let us bring tears to bear upon it; let every day be passed in mourning, every night be spent in sorrow instead of sleep; let your breast be torn by your own hands, your very face attacked by them, and every kind of cruelty be practised by your grief, if it will profit you. But if the dead cannot be brought back to life, however much we may beat our breasts, if destiny remains fixed and immovable for ever, not to be changed by any sorrow, however great then let our futile grief be brought to an end.”1 And in Shakespeare, whose genius reflects all opinions, we find this expression of the vanity of sorrow :— .... "When remedies are past, the griefs are ended, By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended, Is the next way to draw new mischiefs on. What cannot be preserved when Fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd, that smiles, steals something from the thief; ... and so Usually," says South, "the sting of Sorrow is this, that it neither removes nor alters the thing we sorrow for; is but a kind of reproach to our reason . . . Either the thing we sorrow for is to be remedied, or it is not: if it is, why do we spend the time in mourning which should be spent in active applying of remedies; but if it is not, then is our sorrow vain and superfluous."3 Yet sorrow belongs to love, and in certain situations is the fitting expression of it. If we are not to sorrow, we must not love. If we are to find consolations outside, love will be forgotten. But if love is to find a solution of the problem of sorrow,--and no other solution will be accepted by it, it must be one that in assuaging sorrow does not produce forgetfulness. An old epitaph says: "We bury love. Forgetfulness grows o'er it like the grass. That is the thing to weep for, not the dead." The Stoical solution of sorrow is the solution of an antagonistic system. To maintain his superiority to fortune, the Stoic sets up his pride as a virtue in place of love. Montaigne has expressed a contemptuous opinion of the value of sorrow : "Je suis de plus exempts de cette passion, 1 'Of Consolation,' vi. 2 'Othello,' A. i. Sc. 3. et ne l'ayme ny l'estime quoi que le monde ayt entrepris, comme à prix faict, de l'honorer de faveur particulière. Ils en habillent la sagesse, la vertu, la conscience: Sot et vilain ornement. Les Italiens ont plus sortablement baptisé de son nom la malignité. Car c'est une qualité, tousjours nuisible, tousjours folle : et comme tousjours couarde et basse." 1 Even the noble Spinoza joins in the depreciation of sorrow, but rather in comparison with joy, which he held to be the greater perfection, than altogether on account of its own nature and effects: "It is superstition that sets up sorrow as good, and all that tends to gladness as evil. God would show Himself envious were He to take pleasure in my impotence and in the ills which I suffer. Rather in proportion to the greatness of our joy do we reach a higher perfection and participate more fully in the divine nature . . . How should the Divine Being take delight in the spectacle of my weakness or impute to me as meritorious, tears, sobs, terrors-all signs of an impotent soul ?" 2 Yet from the earliest times to the present a contrary opinion has also been expressed by the wisest men of the hidden uses and meaning of sorrow. "Sorrow is better than laughter," says the writer of Ecclesiastes, "for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth."3 The austere Milton cries : "Hence vain deluding joys, The brood of folly without father bred!" "But hail thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest melancholy ! " 4 Grey writes in his " Hymn to Adversity": "When first thy Sire to send on earth What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe." 1 'Essais,' L. i. ch. ii. 2 Quoted by Renan, 'Spinoza.' 3 Ecclesiastes, ch. vii, v. 3 and 4. 4Il Penseroso.' |