intensity and persistence of sorrow, it tends to enhance the value of its own object by making us incapable of enjoying other things. In joy it is in part the objective value that delights us, the superiority of the thing to others of its class, as the exclamations of joy which we cited themselves indicate; but it is in sorrow that we especially learn what the value of a thing is for ourselves. As St. Augustine observes : A man "when he has an abundance of these passing goods trusts not in them, but when they are withdrawn, he recognises whether they have not taken hold of him. . . . For on that we set not our heart, when present, which we part from without sorrow." 1 "For so it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth "And then they, too late, Perceive the loss of what they might have had When he shall hear, she died upon his words, The idea of her love shall sweetly creep Into the study of imagination; And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparelled in more precious habit; More moving, delicate, and full of life, Than when she lived indeed." 'There is no idealiser like unavailing regret, all the more if it be a regret of fancy as much as of real feeling." "My imagination sees nothing but her, all surrounding objects are of no account, except as they relate to her." • This value of a thing for oneself seems to depend on its capacity to arouse in us both sorrow and joy, and to make itself beloved in consequence, and to be proportionate to 1 'Hom. on Ps.,' 'On True Religion,' 47. • Shakespeare, ' Much Ado about Nothing,' a. iv. sc. i. 3 Beaumont and Fletcher. Shakespeare, 'Much Ado about Nothing,' a. iv., sc. i. 5 Lowell, 'Among my Books,' ii. p. 67. The reference here is to Dante's love of Beatrice. • Goethe, The Sorrows of Werther,' Aug. 30. the strength of these emotions. For if the thing has a value for others it may have none for oneself; if it is useful it may be only useful; but if it has power to arouse in oneself both joy and sorrow independently of its uses, then for oneself it must have intrinsic value. It seems, then, that the intrinsic value we attribute to any object that we love is largely influenced by the succession of joy and sorrow about it, and by the change of valuation 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." 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 loved which are still present to 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 our loss; or ever remembering it, 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 the object 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 comparison with what we have lost, that sorrow enhances the value attributed to it. If we then state the law absolutely, that sorrow always tends to enhance the valuation of the lost object, this statement of it is contradicted by certain facts. We have therefore 1 'Maximes,' cclxxvi. to express it conditionally, so as to exclude these cases: (80) So far as the sorrow of love diminishes the valuation of all things hitherto valued, and prevents one attaching a value for oneself to new things, it tends to tends to increase the value attributed to 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 more fundamental law which would be operative even though the conceptions of value were not present to the mind: (81) The sorrow of love tends to arouse repugnance, 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 person, but by his degradation or dishonour, and by consequent alienation from him, which often inflicts 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 sorrow the loss; and in the total value placed on a person there are other qualities than his moral worth, which, 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 attributed to 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 us. 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. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone, 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; Usually," says South, "the sting of Sorrow is this, that it neither removes nor alters the thing we sorrow for; and so 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 consolation 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. 31 Sermons,' vol. i. S. i. |