DISTRESS

DISTRESS, in its ordinary acceptance, denotes calamity, misery, or painful suffering.

The Contemplation of Distress, a source of pleasure. On this subject we have a very pleasing and ingenious essay by Dr Barnes, in the Memoirs of the Literary and

Distress. and Philosophical Society of Manchester *. It is introduced with the following motto :

Saxo mori magis, tantumque equo vadis,
E terra alterius magnam spoliare periculum.
Non quis vicariis quicquam, quod iuranda voluptas :
Sed quibus ipse malis carcas, quia carceri suae ipse.
LUCRETIIUS.

“ The pleasure here described by the poet, and of which he has mentioned so striking and apposite an instance, may perhaps at first seem of so singular and astonishing a nature, that some may be disposed to doubt of its existence. But that it does exist, in the case here referred to, and in many others of a similar kind, is an undoubted fact ; and it may not appear an useless or disagreeable entertainment, to trace its source in the human breast, together with the final cause for which it was implanted there by our benevolent Creator.

“ Shall I, it may be said, feel complacency in beholding a scene in which many of my fellow-creatures are agonizing with terror, whilst I can neither diminish their danger, nor, by my sympathy, divide their anguish? At the sight of another's woe, does not my bosom naturally feel pain? Do I not share in his sensations? And is not this strong and exquisite sensibility intended by my Maker to urge me on to active and immediate assistance? These sensations are indeed attended with a noble pleasure, when I can, by friendly attention, or by benevolent communication, soothe the sorrows of the poor mourner, snatch him from impending danger, or supply his pressing wants. But in general, where my sympathy is of no avail to the wretched sufferer, I fly from the spectacle of his misery, unable or unwilling to endure a pain which is not allayed by the sweet satisfaction of doing good.”

It will be necessary, in answer to these objections, in the first place to prove the reality of the feeling, the cause of which, in the human constitution, we here attempt to explore.

Mr Addison, in his beautiful papers on the Pleasures of the Imagination, has observed, “ that objects or scenes, which, when real, give disgust or pain, in description often become beautiful and agreeable. Thus, even a dunghill may, by the charms of poetic imagery, excite pleasure and entertainment. Scenes of this nature, dignified by apt and striking description, we regard with something of the same feelings with which we look upon a dead monster.

Infirme vulnus
Preteribit : nequeat expleri corda turba
Terribilis oculis, vulnus, vilisque seles
Pedora semiferi, atque extindit famula ignis. VIRGIL.

“ This (he observes) is more particularly the case, where the description raises a ferment in the mind and works with violence upon the passions. One would wonder (adds he) how it comes to pass, that passions, which are very unpleasant at all other times, are very agreeable when excited by proper description ; such as terror, dejection, grief, &c. This pleasure arises from the reflection we make upon ourselves, whilst reading it, that we are not in danger from them. When we read of wounds, death, &c. our pleasure does not rise so properly from the grief which these melancholy descriptions give us, as from the secret comparison we make of ourselves with those who suffer. We should

not feel the same kind of pleasure, if we actually saw a person lying under the tortures that we meet with in a description.”

And yet, upon the principle assigned by this amiable writer, we might feel the same, or even higher pleasure, from the actual view of distress, than from any description ; because the comparison of ourselves with the sufferer would be more vivid, and consequently the feeling more intense. We would only observe, that the cause which he assigns for this pleasure is the very same with that assigned by Lucretius in our motto. Mr Addison applies it to the description ; the poet, to the actual contemplation of affecting scenes. In both the pleasure is supposed to originate in selfishness. But wherever the social passions are deeply interested, as they are here supposed to be, from the pathetic description, or the still more pathetic survey, of the sufferings of another, the sympathetic feelings will of themselves, at once, and previously to all reflection, become a source of agreeable and tender emotions. They will thus dignify and enhance the satisfaction, if any such be felt, arising merely from the consideration of our own personal security. And the more entirely we enter into the scene, by losing all ideas of its being either past or fabulous, the more perfectly we forget ourselves, and are absorbed in the feeling,—the more exquisite is the sensation.

But as our subsequent speculations will chiefly turn upon the pleasure derived from real scenes of calamity, and not from those which are imaginary, it may be expected that we produce instances in proof that such pleasure is felt by persons very different in their taste and mental cultivation.

We shall not mention the horrid joy with which the savage feasts his eye upon the agonies and contortions of his expiring prisoner—expiring in all the pains which artificial cruelty can inflict! Nor will we recur to the almost equally savage sons of ancient Rome, when the majesty of the Roman people could rush, with eagerness and transport, to behold hundreds of gladiators contending in fatal conflict, and probably more than half the number extended, weltering in blood and writhing in agony, upon the plain. Nor will we mention the Spanish bull-fights ; nor the fervent acclamations of an English mob around their fellow-creatures, when engaged in furious battle, in which it is possible that some of the combatants may receive a mortal blow, and be hurried in this awful state to the bar of his Judge. Let us survey the multitudes which, in every part of the kingdom, always attend an execution. It may perhaps be said, that in all places the vulgar have little of the sensibility and tenderness of more polished bosoms. But, in the last mentioned instance, an execution, there is no exultation in the sufferings of the poor criminal. He is regarded by every eye with the most melting compassion. The whole assembly sympathizes with him in his unhappy situation. An awful stillness prevails at the dreadful moment. Many are wrung with unutterable sensations ; and prayer and silence declare, more loudly than any language could, the interest they feel in his distress. Should a reprieve come to rescue him from death, how great is the general triumph and congratulation! And probably in this multitude you will find not the mere vulgar herd alone, but the man of superior knowledge and of more refined sensibility ;

Distress sensibility; who, led by some strong principle, which we wish to explain, feels a pleasure greater than all the pain, great and exquisite as one should imagine it to be, from such a spectacle.

The man who condemns many of the scenes we have already mentioned as barbarous and shocking, would probably run with the greatest eagerness to some high cliff, overhanging the ocean, to see it swelled into a tempest, though a poor vessel, or even a fleet of vessels, were to appear as one part of the dreadful scenery, now lifted to the heavens on the foaming surge, now plunged deep into the fathomless abyss, and now dashed upon the rocks, where they are in a moment shivered into fragments, and, with all their mariners, entombed in the wave. Or, to vary the question a little; Who would not be forward to stand safe, on the top of some mountain or tower, adjoining to a field of battle, in which two armies meet in desperate conflict, though probably thousands may soon lie before him prostrate on the ground, and the whole field present the most horrid scenes of carnage and desolation?

That in all these cases pleasure predominates in the compounded feeling, is plain from hence, because you continue to survey the scene; whereas when pain became the stronger sensation, you would certainly retire.

Cultivation may indeed have produced some minute differences in the taste and feelings of different minds. Those whose sensibilities have not been refined by education or science, may feel the pleasure in a more gross and brutal form. But do not the most polished natures feel a similar, a kindred pleasure, in the deep-wrought distresses of the well-imagined scene? Here the endeavour is, to introduce whatever is dreadful or pathetic, whatever can harrow up the feelings or extort the tear. And the deeper and more tragical the scene becomes, the more it agitates the several passions of terror, grief, or pity—the more intensely it delights, even the most polished minds. They seem to enjoy the various and vivid emotions of contending passions. They love to have the tear trembling in the eye, and to feel the whole soul wrapt in thrilling sensations. For that moment they seem to forget the fiction; and afterwards commend that exhibition most, in which they most entirely lost sight of the author, and of their own situation, and were alive to all the unutterable vibrations of strong or melting sensibility.

Taking it then for granted, that in the contemplation of many scenes of distress, both imaginary and real, a gratification is felt, let us endeavour to account for it, by mentioning some of those principles, woven into the web of human nature, by its benevolent Creator, on which that gratification depends.

Dr Akenfide, with his accustomed strength and brilliancy of colouring, describes and accounts for it in the following manner.

Behold the ways
Of heaven's eternal destiny to man!
For ever just, benevolent, and wise!
That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing fortune, and intrusive pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought, through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy softening soul
At length may learn, what energy the hand
Of Virtue mingles in the bitter tide

Distress
Of Passion, swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp, with gracious drops
Of cordial Pleasure. Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold arm of her, whom long he loved,
So often fills his arm? So often draws
His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forgo
That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance sooths,
With Virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd,
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighbouring cliff, when far below
The cruel wind have hurled upon the coast
Some helpless bark: whilst sacred Pity melts
The general eye, or Terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs, or horrent hair,
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child; and, pointing where the waves
Foam through the shattered vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, that spreads his pitous arms
For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge,
As now another, dashed against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O dearest thou indeed
No kind endearment here, by nature given,
To mutual terror, and compassion's tears?
No sweetly melting softness, which attracts
O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers,
To this their proce action, and their end?"

The poet pursues the sentiment in the same animated imagery, describing the strong, but pleasurable, sensations which the soul feels, in reading the sufferings of heroes who nobly died in the cause of liberty and their country:

"When the pious band
Of youths, who fought for freedom, and their fires,
Lie side by side in gore."

Or, in the strong movements of indignation and revenge against the tyrant, who invades that liberty, and enslaves their country.

"When the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove,
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from his trophæd car;
Say—Does thy secret soul rejoice to taste
The big distress? Or, would it thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot
Of him, who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians, bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself, "I am a king,
And wherefore should the clamorous voice of wo
Intrude upon mine ear?"

The sentiment of this charming and moral poet is, that sympathetic feelings are virtuous, and therefore pleasant. And from the whole, he deduces this important conclusion; that every virtuous emotion must be agreeable, and that this is the sanction and the reward of virtue. The thought is amiable; the conclusion noble: but still the solution appears to us to be imperfect.

We have already said, that the pleasure arising from the contemplation of distressful scenes is a compounded feeling, arising from several distinct sources in the human breast. The kind and degree of the sensation must depend upon the various blendings of the several ingredients which enter into the composition. The cause assigned by Mr Addison, the sense of our own security, may be supposed to have some share in the mass of feelings. That of Dr Akenfide may be allowed to have

Distress. Have a still larger proportion. Let us attempt to trace some of the rest.

There are few principles in human nature of more general and important influence than that of sympathy. A late ingenious writer, led by the fashionable idea of simplifying all the springs of human nature into one source, has, in his beautiful Theory of Moral Sentiments, endeavoured to analyse a very large number of the feelings of the heart into sympathetic vibration. Though it appears to us most probable, that the human mind, like the human body, possesses various and distinct springs of action and of happiness, yet he has shown, in an amazing diversity of instances, the operation and importance of this principle of human nature. Let us apply it to our present subject.

We naturally sympathize with the passions of others. But if the passions they appear to feel be not those of mere distress alone; if, midst the scenes of calamity, they display fortitude, generosity, and forgiveness; if, "rising superior to the cloud of ills which covers them," they nobly stand firm, collected, and patient; here a still higher source of pleasure opens upon us, from complacence, admiration, and that unutterable sympathy which the heart feels with virtuous and heroic minds. By the operation of this principle, we place ourselves in their situation; we feel, as it were, some share of that conscious integrity and peace which they must enjoy. Hence, as before observed, the pleasure will vary, both as to its nature and degree, according to the scene and characters before us. The shock of contending armies in the field,—the ocean wrought to tempest, and covered with the wreck of shattered vessels,—and a worthy family silently, yet nobly, bearing up against a multitude of surrounding sorrows, will excite very different emotions, because the component parts of the pleasurable sensation consist of very different materials. They all excite admiration; but admiration, how diversified, both as to its degree and its cause! These several ingredients may doubtless be so blended together, that the pleasure shall make but a very small part of the mixed sensation. The more agreeable tints may bear little proportion to the terrifying red or the gloomy black.

In many of the instances which have been mentioned, the pleasure must arise chiefly, if not solely, from the circumstances or accompaniments of the scene. The sublime feelings excited by the view of an agitated ocean, relieve and soften those occasioned by the shipwreck. And the awe excited by the presence of thousands of men, acting as with one soul, and displaying magnanimity and firmness in the most solemn trial, tempers those sensations of horror and of pain which would arise from the field of battle.

The gratification we are attempting to account for, depends also, in a very considerable degree, upon a principle of human nature, implanted in it for the wisest ends; the exercise which it gives to the mind, by rousing it to energy and feeling. Nothing is so insupportable, as that languor and ennui, for the full expression of which our language does not afford a term. How agreeable it is, to have the soul called forth to exertion and sensibility, let the gamester witness, who, unable to endure the lassitude and famesness of unanimated luxury, runs with eagerness to the

place where probably await him all the irritation and agony of tumultuous passions.

Again; it is a law of our nature, that opposite passions, when felt in succession, and, above all, when felt at the same moment, heighten and increase each other. Ease succeeding pain, certainly after suspense, friendship after aversion, are unspeakably stronger than if they had not been thus contrasted. In this conflict of feelings, the mind rises from passive to active energy. It is roused to intense sensation; and it enjoys that peculiar, exquisite, and complex feeling, in which, as in many articles of our table, the acid and the sweet, the pleasurable and painful, pungencies are so happily mixed together, as to render the united sensation amazingly more strong and delightful.

We have not yet mentioned the principle of curiosity, that busy and active power, which appears so early, continues almost unimpaired so long, and to which, for the wisest ends, is annexed so great a sense of enjoyment. To this principle, rather than to a love of cruelty, would we ascribe that pleasure which children sometimes seem to feel from torturing flies and lesser animals. They have not yet formed an idea of the pain they inflict. It is, indeed, of unspeakable consequence, that this practice be checked as soon and as effectually as possible, because it is so important, that they learn to connect the ideas of pleasure and pain with the motions and actions of the animal creation. And to this principle may we also refer no small share of that pleasure in the contemplation of distressful scenes, the springs of which, in the human heart, are now endeavouring to open.

To curiosity, then—to sympathy—to mental exertion—to the idea of our own security—and to the strong feelings occasioned by viewing the actions and passions of mankind in interesting situations, do we ascribe that gratification which the mind feels from the survey of many scenes of sorrow. We have called it a pleasure; but it will approach, towards, or recede from, pleasure, according to the nature and proportion of the ingredients of which the sensation is composed. In some cases, pain will predominate. In others, there will be exquisite enjoyment.

The final cause of this constitution of the human mind is probably, that by means of this strong sensation, the soul may be preserved in continual and vigorous motion—that its feelings may be kept lively and tender—that it may learn to practise the virtues it admires—and to assist those to whom its sympathy can reach—and that it may thus be led, by these social exercises of the heart, to soften with compassion—to expand with benevolence—and generously to assist in every case, in which assistance can be given. An end this sufficient,

— "To affect eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man."