THE POWER OF SYMPATHY.

Colonist, Volume II, Issue 176, 28 June 1859, Page 4

THE POWER OF SYMPATHY.

Sympathy we define to be fellow-feeling or mutual sensibility, the. quality of being affected by the affection or sufferings of others. We feel sympathy for another when we see him in distress, or hear of him being in distress. It would, therefore, appear that all men are capable of the exercise of sympathy. As a characteristic of humanity, it is common to all. It ,is a gift,, an endowment bestowed by the beneficent Creator upon the whole brotherhood of man. It is a precious.golden link that unites man with man everywhere; showing all men to be of one kind and origin. The pleasures which arise from, the exercise of sympathy are peculiar to man. No inferior nature, however ; near, it may approach him, is capable of them. Strange as it may appear, it is a source of real and exquisite enjoyment to feel that we can "weep with them that weep," and thus ally ourselves to the common nature and the common lot of man. Even our most painful sympathies for others prepare the heart to receive direct consolation itself,, by the sensibility from which they flow, and which they call into exercise and preserve susceptible. The spring of benevolence is thus opened; the streams flow whenever refreshment can be imparted; and from them arise the satisfaction of doing good to the bodies and souls of men; the joy of instructing the ignorant, of saving the lost, of defending the feeble, of guarding the innocent, and pf giving impulse and energy to institutions of usefulness, and vigor to great plans for the benefit of nations and the whole race of man itself.

While we consider the capability of s}**mpathy as peculiar to mah and necessary to his happiness, we do not say that therefore it should be always inaction. In the light in which we are. considering it, viz., as awakened by the sufferings or-distress of others, its ceaseless exercise* might be too much for us. The mind might sink under the constant pressure and presence, ofthe causes which so powerfully call it forth. We are so. constituted that neither all joy, nor all sorrow, nor all labor, hor all rest, is the state .most calculated to advance and perpetuate our felicity. As Longfellow beautifully and correctly expresses "it— Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end and way, But to act that each to-morrow Finds us further than to-day. The Causes which, awaken and call forth our sympathy may be considered either as immediate or remote.

The immediate causes of sympathy are present visible forms of suffering and distress. When we behold our fellow creatures. smitten and laid low by disease or wasted and pining away by famine, or in danger of being consumed by the devouring flames, we are moved,and affected intensely by the sight*; we feel for them—-we sympathise with them. If it be possible for us to relieve or deliver.them, every means in.our power will be used, and our strongest efforts will be put forth to accomplish it. It is exceedingly difficult to form a correct, conception ofthe wonderful energy of this feel-; ing "in its efforts .to relieve or rescue from danger the object which has attracted it. When thus engaged all its exhibitions and efforts are beautiful and lovely, and attrac-' tive. , But sometimes it bursts upon us in magnificence and grandeur, which dazzle and overpower and confound us. Such was the case a few years ago, when fever and famine and death were desolating Ireland. The affecting sight aroused and awakened the mighty sympathy of England. Her generous heart was opened and her gushing compassion,and tenderest sympathy were seen flowing in the munificence with which she relieved the wants of the sufferin cp millions. In the magnificence of the bounty we see the strength and depth and power of the sympathy. We find another beautiful and affecting, illustration of the ; power.of sympathy in the the case of the immortal Howard. When this memorable man was but a youth, the great earthquake took place at Lisbon. On his way to that city he , was taken prisoner and carried to France, that country and England being at war. He was cast into a prison of the most horrible kind. Here he saw such sad sights of : cruelty and wretchedness that he at once resolved to devote himself to the relief of the. prisoner and the captive. He began this work in > his own country, visited all the prisons in England, Scotland, and Ireland; ascertained and made known the sorrows and wretchedness of their unhappy inmates. .In this wonderful work and mission of mercy and love, he visited all- the countries in Europe. It is computed that during the twelve years which he thus spent he travelled more than 42,000 miles, and expended more than £30,000. Who can tell what blessings he scattered—what tears he dried—-what debts he paid? Who can tell how many criminals he reclaimed—how many b'eeding wounds he staunched and healed—how many living charnel-houses* he swept and opened to the light and air of Heaven? In the long years which he spent in this great work, the dangers and deaths through which he passed, the wide sweep—the unconfined range' of his benevolence and compassion,—we mark the. amazing depth and power of the sympathy which swayed, and nerved, and actuated him through' all^—a sympathy which allied itself to suffering humanity of .all colors, countries, and climes. . ■ , We find, too, that sympathy of the most noble and generous kind may be

awakened- not only 'by a nation's calamity or the sight of the suffering captives of athousand gaols, but also by individual 1 danger and distress,—danger and distress unknown and unnoticed by the public eye. Indeed it is under circumstances of retirement and obscurity that \ve often find the most affecting and beautiful forms of sympathy showing themselves. ..You enter a cottage, you behold a family of sons and.daughters all lovely and growing, up under the care and guardianship, of parents whom they deeply love and.vener rate. But you are at once struck with the subdued tone, the restrained manner, the quiet sad solemnity which like a dark cloud encircles all.' What is the cause.of all this real heartfelt woe? Ah! you see it in the darkened room. In yonder little cot lies the little one most loved and cherished of all, gasping, groaning, struggling for life. In close proximity to this lovely fading dying flower, there sits from day to day and night to night, with sleepless eye and ever open ear, a silent form, pale, emaciated, death-like. She minds nothing, heeds nothing but the little sufferer before her. Every sigh and' every groan that escapes from it pierces her broken and bleeding heart afresh; and yet there she sits watchful and unmoved still, held-and bound with a chain which nothing but death \ can sever. Do you ask what is that chain which binds this weeping mother ? Ah !it is the deep and unutterable sympathy of her broken, bleeding heart. Such scenes as these' illustrate the mighty energy of sympathy. We observe again that sympathy of the noblest character is sometimes brought into instant operation, and that too under circumstances which heighten bur admira- \ tion. of its tenderness and power.. And however obscure may be the scene of its. development, its impulses, and dictates are as- great and glorious as if the eyes ofthe assembled universe were fixed upon it. It performs its beautiful mission -heedless alike whether there be many or few witnesses. We adduce the incident of a Cornish miner to throw light, upon this observation.

With a companion in toil he was sinking a shaft; they were blasting the rock and had deposited the charge of gunpowder and fixed the fuse. The proper course was to cut the fuse with a knife, then one should ascend in the bucket, the other wait till the bucket came down again, get into it, ignite the fuse, give the signal, and so be at. the top of the, shaft before the explosion. In, the present case, however, they carelessly cut the fuse with a/stone and a blunt instrument; fire was' struck,, the fuse was hissing, they both dashed to the. bucket and gave the signal, the man at the top could not move the windlass—one could escape, both could, not, and delay, was death to both;, one miner looked for-a moment at his comrade, and, slipping from the bucketsaid, "Escape! I shall be in Heaven in a minute." The bucket was drawn up the. shaft, the man was safe. : Eager to. know the fate of his generous deliverer, he leant down to hear;—the explosion rumbled below, a splinter came up the shaft ancl struck him on the arm, leaving him a mark he will carry all his, days to remind him of his rescue. They searched for their heroic friend—they heard a voice; he was alive. Pieces of rock had roofed him over and he was without hurt or scratch. All that he could tell was' that the moment his friend was gone, he sat down, lifted a piece of rock and held it before his eyes. When asked what induced him to let the other escape, he replied, '■" I knew my soul was safe; I was not so sure of his." Here was conduct the most magnanimous and heroic; conduct becoming the man and the Christian. Here was danger immediate and terrible; and here, too, was the sympathy, instant, strong, powerful, glorious, and self-immo-lating. - . ...':.-■■■•■.■ Before we dismiss this branch of our subject, we must not omit; to divert; your attention to an incident, in the life of our Saviour which beautifully illustrates the tenderness

and power of the feeling we^ are considering. It would appear that it was the custom of the Redeemer during his visits to Jerusalem to retire at eventide to the beautiful and quiet village of Bethany. In thatvillage there lived a lovely and most interesting family. It was composed of two amiable sisters—Martha and Mary —and one beloved brother, Lazarus. In the.abode of this pious family the Redeemer often sought and found repose and rest after the toils and labours of the day. They loved his society and treated him with all the courtesy and kindness. of a dear and intimate friend, and over and above all they received him as their Redeemer and King. " I believe,'' said Martha (and we may regard her has speaking for the whole), "1 believe that thou art the Christ the Son of the living God, which should come into the world." He had therefore not only a home in their house, but he had, also a home in their hearts. He was very dear unto them. They loved him tenderly, affectionately, supremely.

It is also clear that he, loved them. He regarded them as his friends, yea, as his children—his ransomed and redeemed children. The inspired* historian, when, relating the brief history of this pious family, observes—" Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus." Oh, was not that a happy family 1 Their house the house of their Lord, whom they* loved. They enjoyed the sweetness and blessing of his society and heavenly instructions. How elevating and sanctifying must have been his conversation and holy intercourse with them. With such a guest, such a friend, it must have been a bright, a sunny, happy house indeed. But over this lovely abode a dark cloucl is seen descending until it rests upon it. The house of joy is changed into the house of mourning. The cruel spoiler Death has entered it. The pious; the affectionate, the beloved brother is smitten down. -No medicine, no tears, no prayers can procure aid. Death triumphs; Lazarus,is

j dead. . But Jesus comes to this house of , sorrow. He .beholds-the .lonely :sorrow, 'the agony of distress of the two disconsolate sisters. . He beholds the desolation and ruin which Death* has' wrought, and he asks for the friend of his bosom,' and says, " Where ■ have you laid him ?" and the sympathy of his compassionate heart found vent in tears. Jesus wept. ' Here'is sympathy —beautiful, pure, exalted, and divine.