"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?"
Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak of
feeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes,
and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectant
lips.
"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit in
agony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm of
consolation in the wounded heart.
"But I have known worse," is the reply.
"Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do,
and live."
In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish;
it absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears and
lamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in the
world, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth its
own bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant in
God's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from the
stalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root.
What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, that
your neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all that
his appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because you
suffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that he
is, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy than
you?
As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions,
you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, of
magnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviable
freedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorably
mistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortal
sickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plate
glass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, is
an untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving to
look and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness;
there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terrible
neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilful
and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread of
bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitter
hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent
and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while
it paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying
remorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the
fatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander;
here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and the
belle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred but
poignant sorrow.
Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you
have buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven
times has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he
has no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a
Christian.
Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your
all--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands,
but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on
the uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial
prepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the
food to his parched lips.
Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests
your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries of
life; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantily
furnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcoming
the following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see,
want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; his
barn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look at
him for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods the
grate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite to
rest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurrying
footsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door,
and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierce
and red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food and
drink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father?
Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw the
bright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angel
triumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdened
with corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffer
more than your neighbour.
Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the little
sums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice to
provide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your rich
employer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marble
toilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty before
a gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is weary
of gazing, and being gazed at; do you envy your wealthier neighbour,
young sewing-girl? Go to her boudoir, where pictures and statuary,
silken hangings and perfumes delight every sense, and where costly
robes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavish
expenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will point
her jewelled finger towards you, and--if she speaks with
candour--tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, she
would barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night the
wealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its every
vibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would the
incense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as the
choice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen but
few times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on the
common mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold,
with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, nor
the taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful in
nature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy the
wife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickened
her of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshining
her compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her useless
life to-morrow.
Mothers, worn out and enfeebled with work, labouring for those who,
however good they may be, are at the best unable to pay you for you
unceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you look
upon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children,
and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over your
task, and think it greater than you can bear.
"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who have
their little ones around them, that they are living their happiest
days; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them to
bend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at their
ceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by the
distant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but have
them beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I would
think no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I might
but labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and their
love."
Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even but
a door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared with
which ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of the
thunder. We do not say then, let us _console_ ourselves by the
reflection that there are always those in the world who suffer
keener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though our
cup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a drop
of bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression,
"there is no sorrow like unto mine."