opposite, and seek relief from its sadness in the lighter sal lies of wit. And so we have the melancholy Cowper singing John Gilpin, and the author of the Night Thoughts, in con versation, a jovial and witty man. § II.-SORROW AT Loss or FRIENDS. Differs from Melancholy. Beside the general states of unind already described, and which can hardly be called dis tinct emotions, there are certain specific forms of joy and sor. row which claim our attention. Prominent among these is the grief we feel at any great and sudden bereavement or calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This is a state of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy of which I have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs from a more obvious and immediate cause, and is at once more. definite and more intense. After a time, when the first bit terness of anguish is past, and the mind recovers itself in a measure from the violence of the shock it has received, and which, for the time, like a sudden blow, seemed to stagger all its energies, when other causes begin to operate, and other scenes and cares demand its attention, its sorrow, at first violent and irrepressible, gradully subsides into that calmer but more permanent form which we have already described as melancholy. - Effects of Grief upon the Mind in the first Shock of any Calamity. When the loss is very great, especially if it comes suddenly to us-and what bereavement, however long anticipated and feared, does not at last overtake us suidenly? the mind is at first, in a manner, stupefied and amazed, unable to realize its loss, and looks helplessly about it for relief. To this succeeds a state of mental anguish, more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness of the sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment. In many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief in tears, or in those more violent expressions of anguish in which the burdened heart of man in all ages has been wont to indicate its grief, as the rending of the garments, the beating of the breast, the tearing of the hair, and other like demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow. The mind in such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of its emotion, and is swept on by the rushing current that overflows its banks. It is Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing to be comforted. It is David going to the chamber over the gate, and exclaiming, as he goes, "O Absalom, my son! my son!" Subsequent State of Mind. When the first violence of grief has subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the mind begins to recall the circumstances of its loss, and sets itself to comprehend the greatness and reality of the calam ity that has befallen it. It dwells with interest and satisfaction on all the worth and virtues of the departed, magnifies all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that was faulty, recalls the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the slightest memento of the former history, with the same sacred regard and reverence with which it treasures in the funeral urn the ashes of the dead. A sacredness and dignity invest the character, and the life, when once the angel death has set his seal upon them. Silence of deep Grief. The deepest sorrow is not al· ways, perhaps not usually, the most violent and demonstra tive. It is when the first sudden passion of grief is passed and the soul retires within herself to meditate upon her loss, calmly gathering her mantle about her to hide from the ob servation of others those tears and that sorrow which are sa cred, it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest dark ness gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest grief is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It finds no words for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled and silent goddess, whose rites and altars are hidden from the eye of day. It is the nature of joy to communicate t self. It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may be the occa don whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its chamber that it may weep there. As Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow. The effect of time softening and allaying the violence of grief, is known to every one. The manner in which this effect is produced is worthy of attention. A recurrence to the laws of sugges tion may explain this. It will be recollected that among the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the sugges tion of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed since the occurrence of any event holds an important place. That which has taken place but recently is more likely to recur again to mind than events of remoter date. On the first occurrence of any calamity, or bereavement, every thing ends to remind us of our loss, and this constant suggestion of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our sorrow, ume passes on, however, the objects which once suggested only that which we had lost, become associated with, and 40 suggest other objects and occurrences; or, if they still remind us of our loss, the remembrance is mingled with that of other scenes and events which have since transpired, and other feelings which have since agitated our hearts. Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the cup of our grief. The law of the most recent still holds in suggestion, and thus the very principle that formerly reminded us continually of our loss, now shuts it out, by interposing between it and us what has since transpired. The thought of the past comes up less frequently, and when it recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, and experiences, that it no longer awakens emotions of unmitigated grief. Gradually other objects interest us, other plans and duties engage us, other emotions agitate the heart, as successive waves beat on the same troubled shore, and render fainter, at each return, the traces which former billows had impressed upon its sands. Thus time, the great consoler, assuages our sorrows, and the unbroken darkness that once hung over the mind, and shrouded all its thoughts and purposes, gives place, at length, to a chastened and subdued sadness, that suffuses the past with a soft and mellow radiance. We are ever moving on, swiftly, steadily, in the current of events, and objects whose fearful magnitude, once, from their very nearness, engrossed our whole attention as we passed into their deep shadow, gradually diminish as they recede, until their dark outline is barely discernible on the distant horizon. § III. SYMPATHY WITH THE HAPPINESS AND SORROW OF OTHERS. In what Manner awakened. Closely allied to the emo tions of joy and sorrow awakened by our own personal experi ence of good and of evil, is the sympathy we feel with the joys and sorrows of others in similar circumstances. Joy is contagious. So also is grief. We cannot behold the emotions of others, without, in some degree, experiencing a corres ponding emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye-witnesses of that happiness, or sorrow. The simple description of any scene of happiness or of misery affects the heart, and touches the chords of sympathetic emotion. We picture the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the spectators, or, it may be, the actors and the sufferers; we imagine what would be our own emotions in such a case, and in proportion to the liveliness of our power of conception, and also of our power of feeling, will be our sympathy with the real scene and the real sufferers. Nature of this Principle. The sympathy thus awak ened, whether with the joy or the sorrow of others, is a simple emotion, distinct in its nature from both the affectious and the desires, and it is, moreover, instinctive, rather than rational — a matter of impulse, a principle implanted in our nature, and springing into exercise, as by instinct, whenever the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of reason and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to some extent, at least, in common with the brutes, who are by no means insensible to the distresses or to the happiness of their fellows. It is a susceptibility which manifests itself in early life, before habits of reflection are formed, and under circumstances which preclude the supposition that it may be the result of education, or in any manner an acquired and not an original and implanted principle. So far from being the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There are times when sympathy, for example, with the distresses of others, would stand in the way of efficient and necessary action, and when it is needful to summon all the resources of reason to our aid, in the stern and resolute performance of a duty which brings us into conflict with this instinctive principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty to regard the tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he rises to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon the wretched criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must for the time be deaf to the outcries of his patient, and insensible to his sufferings, or his ministrations are at an end. Usual Limitation of the Term. - The term sympathy is more frequently used to denote the emotion awakened by the sufferings of others, than our participation in their joys. There can be no doubt, however, of the tendency of our nature to each of these results, and that it is, in fact, but one and the same principle under a twofold aspect. Nor does the word itself more properly belong to, and more truly exress, the one, than the other of these aspects. We as readily rejoice with those who do rejoice, as we weep with those who weep, and in either case our feeling is sympathy (ovv παθος). This Limitation accounted for. - The reason why the term is more frequently applied to denote participation in the sorrows of others, is obvious on a little reflection. Such, and so benevolent, are the arrangements of a kind Providence, that happiness is the prevalent law of being, and sor. row the exception to that general rule. It is diffused as |