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emotion, or be thought to feel it, and the universal appeal of sorrow for help must seem to be favourably received. Thus the law must be re-stated so as to take into account this condition: (72A) Sorrow tends to become less painful by being disclosed, so far as it seems to evoke pity in the recipient, or at least sympathetic emotion.

It seems to be also a law that (73) Sorrow, like other painful states, becomes less painful and less intense when its emotion is controlled, and more intense and painful when uncontrolled. But we must distinguish between that control of sorrow which consists in concealing it from others and the control of the emotion itself. The first, as we have seen, increases it under certain conditions: the second diminishes it. Yet sorrow is often said to be relieved by tears and sobs and sighs; because, sometimes at least, it works itself out in this way and comes to an end. There are those in whom it is intense but shallow, like the anger of the "irascible." other cases loss of self-control has not this compensating advantage.

In

"Le chagrin du peuple," says Dostoievsky, "est ordinairement taciturne et patient. Mais quelquefois il éclate en pleurs, en lamentations qui ne cessent plus, surtout chez les femmes. Ce chagrin-là n'est pas plus facile à supporter que le chagrin silencieux.” 1 "L'espèce de soulagement que procurent ces lamentations est factice et ne fait qu'aggrandir la blessure du cœur, comme on irrite une plaie en la touchant. C'est une douleur qui ne veut pas de consolations: elle se nourrit d'elle-même." 2

(6) There is another law frequently expressed in fables, that sorrow is increased when we recognise that our misfortunes are partly caused by our own folly, or even by something that belongs, or once belonged, to us. "An eagle that was watching upon a rock once for a hare, had the ill-hap to be struck with an arrow. This arrow, it seems, was feather'd from her own wing, which very consideration went nearer her heart, she said, than death itself." In "A Tree and a

1 'Les Frères Karamazof.'

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36 Æsop's Fables,' xlviii. (Ed. Sir R. L'Estrange).

Op. cit.

Wedge," 1 and in "A Thrush taken with Birdlime,". 2 Æsop expresses the same truth: "I am not half so much troubled, says the thrush, at the thought of dying, as at the fatality of contributing to my own ruin." Yet in these cases it is not clear that the individual is to blame for his misfortune, even if partly caused by something which belonged to him. In "An Axe and a Forest," the misfortune of a community was due to its lack of foresight. The trees agreed to give so much of their wood as would serve to make the handle of the woodman's axe; but the thrush and the eagle could not help what served for lime and arrows falling from their bodies.

For we are not

These fables illustrate a general fact of human nature: it seems to us strange and unnatural that we should become the cause of injury to ourselves, or that anything which has been part of us should injure us. It still surprises us, though it is of such frequent occurrence. careless about anything that we love, nor do we willingly injure it; all our care being to protect it, and further its welfare; and we love ourselves. Misfortunes of this kind seem therefore to be contrary to the very principle of love, and astonish us. Sorrow is increased, not diminished, by knowing that "we have made our own bed, and must lie in it." And when something that once was part of us causes us injury, as our own children, we are the more surprised that its nature should now be so changed. For we have pursued its welfare; and that it now should return us evil for good conflicts with our expectations. And the same is true of anything we have loved, because we expect to be loved in return. For if it has not been part of our bodies, it has still been united to us and cherished by our minds. The rest of the world may be indifferent or hostile; but this part will surely stand by us. When the reverse of this happens, it frustrates the natural attitude and expectation of love; and hence the sorrow caused by this kind of ingratitude is so keen. Cæsar as he fell exclaimed, "Et tu Brute!"; and Lear, when he thought of all he had lavished on his daughters, cried out, "That way madness lies."

1 Æsop's Fables,' xlvii (Ed. Sir R. L'Estrange). Ibid. xlvi.

2 Ibid. xlix.

We may then attempt to express this law as follows: (74) When either we cause injury to ourselves, or something that was once part of us, or anything we have loved, does this, the sorrow that we feel tends to be greater on that account.

We may be inclined to interpret this law as a particular form of the law of contrast previously referred to; but there need be no other contrast than that which underlies and conditions surprise. For the injury which is done to us, whether by ourselves or another, contrasts with our expectations, and therefore surprises us; and surprise intensifies the emotion. But there is another cause which has a great if not a predominant influence in intensifying this sorrow. When anything we have loved harms us, not only does the injury conflict with our previous attitude of mind,-which in love is so unsuspicious, but it frustrates one of the principal ends of love itself. If the frustration of any impulse tends to arouse sorrow, the stronger the impulse the stronger, other things equal, will be the sorrow. When therefore one of the principal tendencies of the sentiment is frustrated, this is the frustration, not of any isolated or occasional impulse, but of one that binds together the emotional forces of a great system. How much greater then will this sorrow tend to be!

What then is this principal desire of the sentiment which is here frustrated? Through the perpetual conjunction and interaction between love of whatever object and self-love,the one drawing us away from self, making us self-forgetful, urging us to pursue disinterested ends; the other reminding us of self, requiring that the ends of the self-system be not sacrificed by our action,—it happens that when we love anyone, we desire to be loved in return. And this desire is strongest in sexual love, is strong and indispensable in friendship, and is still strong in the most unselfish love of parents for their children. When therefore the loved object itself, which must surely love us a little in return, turns against us, and becomes the cause of our misfortunes, the sorrow that we feel is the greater because one of the principal desires of love is frustrated, and all the expectations grounded upon it.

The study we have made in this chapter of the familiar laws of the increase and diminution to which sorrow is liable, shows

us how much may be done in the case of such laws as these, so fully illustrated in literature, to raise them to a higher degree of precision and truth by a more complete collection and comparison of the facts which bear on them. While there are many who can add to our knowledge in this way, not everyone can discern the significance of new facts, and the precise modifications that we may have to make in

a law in response to them.

CHAPTER XII

OF SOME OTHER LAWS OF THE NON-CONATIVE TENDENCIES OF SORROW

1. Of the Tendency of Sorrow to arouse Anger.

We have to consider in this chapter certain other tendencies of sorrow which, like those dealt with in the last chapter, are non-conative, and have results but not ends, and operate whether we strive to accomplish them or not. However clear this distinction may be in theory, it is sometimes difficult to determine whether a particular tendency belongs to the one class or the other. Passing from primitive varieties which we have already dealt with, we shall confine ourselves to the sorrows of love, and of self-love.

The tendency of sorrow to arouse anger under certain conditions appears to be part of the fundamental constitution of the mind. There is an innate connection between the dispositions of primary emotions on which the systems of sentiments depend. As there is an innate connection between joy and sorrow, so that when joy has ceased, through the loss, injury, or destruction of its object, it tends to be replaced, at once or after a certain interval, by sorrow, so sorrow itself, when its impulse is opposed but not frustrated, tends to arouse anger. It does not try normally to evoke anger, but anger comes to its assistance when opposed. Even wellmeant attempts at consolation may evoke angry exclamations :

One writes that 'other friends remain,'
That Loss is common to the race
And common is the common-place,
And vacant chaff well-meant for grain." 1
1 Tennyson,' In Memoriam,' vi.

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