SORROW.

Otago Witness, Issue 2362, 1 June 1899, Page 51

SORROW.

"And a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering happier things."

— Tennyson. How shall they feast who fast thro' tedious 3'ears ? How shall they sing who miss their hearts' desires ? What joy for those who count through blinding tears The empty places round their Christinas fires? All these things to the far-off past belong, Our lips, 'alas! have lost the trick of song.' — Christian Burke.

'Tis Sorrow builds the shining ladder tip, Whose golden rounds are our calamities, Whereon our firm feet planting, nearer "Go 3 The spirit climbs and hath its eyes unsealed. — Lowell. Why write of sorrow when life has given out its text to each one of us? Because this page is set apart for "subjects of interest to women" and since life calls us to sorrow, let us see what writers and poets have .gathered for our comfort. There is an old roundel which a dear friend once set to music for me. I have quoted jDart of it before, let me quote again: — " How shall we flee Sorrow?" said he. " Row," answered she. , " How shall we see Solace?" sang he. " Love," murmured slife " How shall we b« Parted?" cried he. " Death/ whispered she.

It is a pretty conceit that Love shall solace us from Sorrow, and be parted from us only by Death — but black Care rides with the swiftest horseman, and Sorrow finds room beside the lustiest rower, while Death robs Love — at least, such is life's relentless lesson. Let us also take it for granted that it is natural for us to rebel against sorrow, nor should we be children for doing bo, in moderation. We were meant to be happy, and sorrow is but a teacher in Life's school, teaching ub hard but necessary lessons, sending us back to our remaining joyjujvith thankfulness and appreciation such we never knew before.

" Sweet are the uses of adversity," quoth the proverb — but there is an " if," and it is embodied thus if we would make " sweet the uses of adversity " : To every joy and porvow That drsiweth nigh, this day, As unto God's white angel, Thy reverent service pay. Give each fair welcome tc thy heart,

And it will bless thee ere it part. It is natural, most natural, and human to rebel against sorrow, because we feel so instinctively that we were meant to be happy. , Yet if like spoilt, badly-brought-up children we could spend our lives in one continual playtime of happiness, shirking all lesson hours of trial, adversity, and sorrow, what then? We should be a hundred time?- more unhappy than we are, foi happiness would cease to make us happy, pleasures would no longer give pleasure. All the beautiful and stimulating plan of life would become as tasteless and vapid as are bodily foods to the wretched drunkard, whose palate and digestion are ruined by his indulgences. But the sorrows that are sent us are one thing, the sorrows which we make for ourselves are another, and a very different thing ! Yet how we confuse them. How wilfully we decline to understand the infinitely loving lessons of the one, or acknowledge the inevitable and certain justice of the other.

There are two open doors in Life's wide corridors that tempt most of us some time or other with the glamour of their magnetism. They are the doors of Love and of Folly — one is gai'landed with roses whose perfume fills us with strange delight, and the other flashes with brilliant lights, and

calls' to us "vrith the seductive tounds of music and the light tread of dancing, feet.; Some of us enter that rose-garlanded doorj and build there our shrine of ivory and gold, only to find when the delicate altarf which we have ruined ourselves to build is finished that grey figure of' Sorrow stand-, ing beside us. She has some fatal power of clear vision in her touch, her chilfy hand dispels illusions! All in a moment we see' that the. god we have placed upon thatf shrine of ivory and gold is anly a" dull clay image — instead of a patron saint, it is a iifeless fetish. Then Sorrow leads us away, and the petals have fallen from the rose garlands, they rustle dead and dry. among our feet. Yet it is only a homemade soztow, orie we have made for ourselves and so all bitterness. For the sorrows we make for ourselves lack ever t3io sacred dignity which encompasses tho: 3 sorrows which He sends to us.

For some of us that myriad-lighted door of Folly, glittering, joyous, is the fatal power. We enter and squander the gold . coin of youth and hope at those gambling tables, pour out the red wine of ambition, endeavour, faith, and honour in reckless libations to " the present." Then from an inner room comes that veiled figure and lays her hand upon us. Where are tho many-coloured lights, the gay dresses, the merry music? There remain instead darlc*ness, and "the chill of dawn, the dull pain of an awakening, .the burden of repentance, the comradeship of sorrow. Yet this, too. is home-made sorrow, and it has an added sting ; for, with eyes awakened by sorrow, we discover shame Then we must take up the book of life once more and try to spell its meaning afresh for now we dimly understand that Not enjoyment, and not- sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to live that each, to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. ,

Other sorrows by the score we make fo* ourselves : troubles, disappointments, bitternesses, obstinacies, false gods to whicJd we sacrifice, such as worldliness, ambition, popularity, intellectual arrogance, physical beauty— the. category is endless. One byone they fail us and we wonder why we alone are so unfortunate when others (it is' always- " others " who are enviable) are iso lucky ! We cannot spell this page of Life's lesson book, but Sorrow is still our schoolmistress, and slowly, unwillingly, she makes us understand that we are not struggling against a cruel Providence — we are but reaping what we sowed, garnering a crop of home-made sorrows. Presently (so we be brave and • patient), we are able to echo Longfellow's words : — - Then in Life's goblet^ freely press TJie leaves that give ft bitterness, Nor prize the coloured waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give. And he who has not learned to know How false its sparkling bubbles show, How bitter are the drops of woe With which its brim may overflow, ' He hai not learned "to live. Then. we are likely to leave Sorrow behind us, and move' on to a happier teacher. ' But though for some of us the plan of life is comparatively so easy, and we arc permitted to make our own sorrows so to 1 speak, , others there are who for no apparent fault of their own are called on to endure sorrow and affliction beyond words to express. In the sorrows that are sent to us j as part of our discipline, it is sometimes terribly hard to discover' the hidden mercy - — we cannot feel that there is any mercy ! Those who can accept their sorrows on trust are happy indeed — but it needs a, sweet and trustful nature and a living faith above the average to do this. Mostly we are concerned in the question of why this thing should have happened to us? We are aflame with rebellion, variously disguised, against it. There is always. a lisfc of sorrows springing from material adversity which we reason out to our own elucidation, rightly or wrongly, putting the blame, humanly speaking, here or there, and acknowledging the controlling finger of Providence in it all. But there are woes*, there are griefs, there are cruel sorrows, wrongs against humanity, hideous crimes against all that is dear to us, bereavements too bitter, trials too unmerited for the hu- /> man heart to accept with resignation. Nor can we under such circumstances take much comfort from the assurance that " some day " we shall understand, some day be comforted, some day be even thankful. " Some day " is long of coming, and every day the heart aches with loneliness and the brain wearies with empty questions. •

When we -have been called on to part for ever from those we love, when Sorrow met us hand in hand with Death, which of us dared Gounsel the other to be resigned? Ah, dear, think for one moment ! What immeasurable mercy may lie hidden in tha sacred silence of death — is not life often more cruel than death a thousand times? Think what life means: in such a story as tins': — Slow moved the weary months tc years (All day dripped down the 'water), The father'? heart was diill with fears, Tho mother's eyes were dim with tears, Ah, me! the little daughter! Who is it 'licath a city's glare Looks up with wild, bewildered stare? Alas! alas! the daughter!

Think of the slow misery, the deadening sorrow that an unhappy marriage encloses — is not every word of this quotation from Marion Crawford true? —

" Have all the woes of humanity, massed together and piled up in their dismal weight, ever called forth one half the sorrow that has ensued from this wedding and being wed? Alas for the tears that have fallen thick and fast from women's eyes, and for the tears that have burned in the eyes of strong men, good find bad ! Who shall count them, or who shall measure 1 them? Who shall ever tell the griefs that are beyond words, the sorrows that all earthly language; wielded by all earthlygenius, cannot tell? Will any man mako bold to say he can describe what pain his neighbour feels? He may tell us what he does, for he can see it ; he may tell u*s what he thinks, for perhaps he can guess ifc, but he cannot tell us what he suffers. The most he can do is to strike the sad minor chord that in every man's heart leads tc a dirgo and a death song of his own." There are sorrows of life beside which th.6

sorrow of death shines as an incarnate blessing. It is only in the minor griefs and sorrows that we dare try to slip a comforting hand into some nerveless clasp, whisper a sympathising word into the dully-indifferent ear, look with helpless love into the sad eyes that mourn. Yet we may remember lines: — To every joy and sorrow That draweth nigh this day, As unto God's white angel Try reverent, homage pay: Give each fair welcome to thy heart, And it will bless thee ere it part.