"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?"
Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak offeeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes,and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectantlips.
"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit inagony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm ofconsolation 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 andlamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in theworld, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth itsown bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant inGod's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from thestalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root.
What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, thatyour neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all thathis appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because yousuffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that heis, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy thanyou?
As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions,you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, ofmagnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviablefreedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorablymistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortalsickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plateglass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, isan untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving tolook and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness;there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terribleneglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilfuland repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread ofbankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitterhatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silentand hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, whileit paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undyingremorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and thefatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander;here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and thebelle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred butpoignant sorrow.
Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; youhave buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seventimes has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; hehas no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are aChristian.
Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost yourall--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 onthe uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menialprepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears thefood to his parched lips.
Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night testsyour poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries oflife; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantilyfurnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcomingthe following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see,want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; hisbarn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look athim for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods thegrate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite torest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurryingfootsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door,and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierceand red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food anddrink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father?Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw thebright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angeltriumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdenedwith corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffermore than your neighbour.
Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the littlesums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice toprovide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your richemployer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marbletoilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty beforea gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is wearyof 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 costlyrobes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavishexpenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will pointher jewelled finger towards you, and--if she speaks withcandour--tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, shewould barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night thewealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its everyvibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would theincense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as thechoice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen butfew times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on thecommon mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold,with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, northe taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful innature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy thewife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickenedher of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshiningher compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her uselesslife 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 youunceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you lookupon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children,and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over yourtask, and think it greater than you can bear.
"Tell mothers," said a lady to us a short time since, "who havetheir little ones around them, that they are living their happiestdays; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them tobend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at theirceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by thedistant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but havethem beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I wouldthink no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I mightbut labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and theirlove."
Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even buta door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared withwhich ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of thethunder. We do not say then, let us console ourselves by thereflection that there are always those in the world who sufferkeener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though ourcup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a dropof bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression,"there is no sorrow like unto mine."
THE END.
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