without much consideration of quality. We know the type of man, who is
friendly with everybody, and a friend of none. He is Hail fellow well
met! with every passing stranger, a boon companion of every wayfarer.
He takes up with every sort of casual comrade, and seeks to be on good
terms with everybody. He makes what is called, with a little contempt,
good company, and is a favorite on all light occasions. His affections
spread themselves out over a large expanse. He is easily consoled for
a loss, and easily attracted by a new attachment. And as he deals, so
is he dealt with. Many like him; few quite trust him. He makes many
friends, and is not particular about their quality. The law of
spiritual environment plays upon him with its relentless force. He
gives himself away too cheaply, and opens himself to all sorts of
influence. He is constantly laying himself in the way of temptation.
His mind takes on the opinions of his set: his character assimilates
itself to the forces that act on it. The evil example of some of his
intimates gradually breaks down the barriers of past training and
teaching. The desire to please a crowd means that principle is let
slip, and conscience ceases to be the standard of action. His very
friends are not true friends, being mostly of the fair-weather quality.
Though it may seem difficult to avoid either of these two extremes, it
will not do to refuse to choose at all, and leave things to chance. We
drift into many of our connections with men, but the art of seamanship
is tested by sailing not by drifting. The subject of the choice of
friendship is not advanced much by just letting them choose us. That
is to become the victim, not the master of our circumstances. And
while it is true that we are acted on as much as we act, and are chosen
as much as we choose, it is not permitted to any one merely to be
passive, except at great cost.
At the same time in the mystery of friendship we cannot say that we
went about with a touchstone testing all we met, till we found the ore
that would respond to our particular magnet. It is not that we said to
ourselves, Go to, we will choose a friend, and straightway made a
distinct election to the vacant throne of our heart. From one point of
view we were absolutely passive. Things arranged themselves without
effort, and by some subtle affinity we learned that we had gained a
friend. The history of every true friendship is the brief description
of Emerson, "My friends have come to me unsought; the great God gave
them to me." There was an element of necessity in this, as in all
crises of life.
Does it therefore seem absurd and useless to speak about the choice of
friendship at all? By no means, because the principles we set before
ourselves will determine the kind of friends we have, as truly as if
the whole initiative lay with us. We are chosen for the same reason
for which we would choose. To try to separate the two processes is to
make the same futile distinction, on a lower scale, so often made
between choosing God and being chosen by Him. It is futile, because
the distinction cannot be maintained.
Besides, the value of having some definite principle by which to test
friendship is not confined to the positive attachments made. The
necessity for a system of selection is largely due to the necessity for
rejection. The good and great intimacies of our life will perhaps come
to us, as the wind bloweth, we cannot tell how. But by regulating our
course wisely, we will escape from hampering our life by mistakes, and
weakening it with false connections. We ought to be courteous, and
kind, and gentle with all, but not to all can we open the sanctuary of
our heart.
We have a graduated scale of intimacy, from introduction, and nodding
acquaintance, and speaking acquaintance, through an endless series of
kinds of intercourse to the perfect friendship. In counting up our
gains and our resources, we cannot give them all the same value,
without deceiving ourselves. To expect loyalty and devotion from all
alike is to court disappointment. Most misanthropical and cynical
estimates of man are due to this mingled ignorance and conceit. We
cannot look for undying affection from the crowd we may happen to have
entertained to dinner, or have rubbed shoulders with at business
resorts or at social gatherings. Many men in life, as many are
depicted in literature, have played the misanthrope, because they have
discovered through adversity how many of their associates were
fair-weather friends. In their prosperity they encouraged toadying and
sycophancy. They liked to have hangers-on, who would flatter, and when
the east wind blows they are indignant that their circle should prefer
to avoid it.
Shakespeare's Timon of Athens is a typical misanthrope in his virtuous
indignation at the cat-like love of men for comfort. In his prosperity
crowds of glass-faced flatterers bent before him, and were made rich in
Timon's nod. He wasted his substance in presents and hospitality, and
bred a fine race of parasites and trencher-friends. When he spent all
and began to be in want, no man gave unto him. The winter shower drove
away the summer flies. He had loved the reputation for splendid
liberality, and lavish generosity, and had sought to be a little god
among men, bestowing favors and receiving homage, all of which was only
a more subtle form of selfishness. When the brief day of prosperity
passed, men shut their doors against the setting sun. The smooth and
smilling crowd dropped off with a shrug, and Timon went to the other
extreme of misanthropy, declaimed against friendship, and cursed men
for their ingratitude. But after all he got what he had paid for. He
thought he had been buying the hearts of men, and found that he had
only bought their mouths, and tongues, and eyes.
"He that loves to be flattered is worthy of the flatterer." For moral
value there is not much to choose between them. Rats are said to
desert the sinking ship, which is not to be wondered at in rats. The
choice of friendship does not mean the indiscriminate acceptance of all
who are willing to assume the name of friend. A touch of east wind is
good, not only to weed out the false and test the true, but also to
brace a man to the stern realities of life. When we find that some of
our intimates are dispersed by adversity, instead of raving against the
world's ingratitude like Timon, we should be glad that now we know whom
exactly we can trust.
Another common way of choosing friends, and one which also meets with
its own fitting reward, is the selfish method of valuing men according
to their usefulness to us. To add to their credit, or reputation, some
are willing to include anybody in their list of intimates. For
business purposes even, men will sometimes run risks, by endangering
the peace of their home and the highest interests of those they love;
they are ready to introduce into their family circle men whom they
distrust morally, because they think they can make some gain out of the
connection.
All the stupid snobbishness, and mean tuft-hunting so common, are due
to the same desire to make use of people in some way or other. It is
an abuse of the word friendship to apply it to such social scrambling.
Of course, even tuft-hunting may be only a perverted desire after what
we think the best, a longing to get near those we consider of nobler
nature and larger mind than common associates. It may be an
instinctive agreement with Plato's definition of the wise man, as ever
wanting to be with him who is better than himself. But in its usual
form it becomes an unspeakable degradation, inducing servility, and
lick-spittle humility, and all the vices of the servile mind. There
can never be true friendship without self-respect, and unless soul
meets soul free from self-seeking. If we had higher standards for
ourselves, if we lived to God and not to men, we would also find that
in the truest sense we would live with men. We need not go out of our
way to ingratiate ourselves with anybody. Nothing can make up for the
loss of independence and native dignity of soul. It is not for a man,
made in the image of God, to grovel, and demean himself before his
fellow creatures.
After all it defeats itself; for there can only be friendship _between
equals_. This does not mean equals in what is called social position,
nor even in intellectual attainments, though these naturally have
weight, but it means equality which has a spiritual source. Can two
walk together, except they be agreed? Nor does it mean identity, nor
even likeness. Indeed, for the highest unity there must be difference,
the difference of free beings, with will, and conscience, and mind
unhampered. We often make much of our differences, forgetting that
really we differ, and _can_ differ, only because we agree. Without
many points of contact, there could be no divergence from these.
Argument and contradiction of opinion are the outcome of difference,
and yet for argument there is needed a common basis. We cannot even
discuss, unless we meet on some mental ground common to both
disputants. So there may be, nay, for the highest union there must be,
a great general conformity behind the distinctions, a deep underlying
common basis beneath the unlikeness. And for true union of hearts,
this equality must have a spiritual source. If then there must be some
spiritual affinity, agreement in what is best and highest in each, we
can see the futility of most of the selfish attempts to make capital
out of our intercourse. Our friends will be, because they must be, our
equals. We can never have a nobler intimacy, until we are made fit for
it.
All connections based on selfishness, either on personal pleasure or on
usefulness, are accidental. They are easily dissolved, because, when
the pleasure or the utility ceases, the bond ceases. When the motive
of the friendship is removed, the friendship itself disappears. The
perfect friendship is grounded on what is permanent, on goodness, on
character. It is of much slower growth, since it takes some time to
really find out the truly lovable things in a life, but it is lasting,
since the foundation is stable.
The most important point, then, about the choice of friendship is that
we should know what to reject. Countless attractions come to us on the
lower plane. A man may be attracted by what his own conscience tells
him to be unworthy. He may have slipped gradually into companionship
with some, whose influence is even evil. He may have got, almost
without his own will, into a set which is deteriorating his life and
character. He knows the fruits of his weakness, in the lowering of the
moral tone, in the slackening grip of the conscience, in the looser
flow of the blood. He has become pliant in will, feeble in purpose,
and flaccid in character. Every man has a duty to himself to be his
own best self, and he can never be that under the spell of evil
companionship.
Some men mix in doubtful company, and say that they have no Pharisaic
exclusiveness, and even sometimes defend themselves by Christ's
example, who received sinners and ate with them. The comparison
borders on blasphemy. It depends on the purpose, for which sinners are
received. Christ never joined in their sin, but went to save them from
their sin; and wickedness could not lift its head in His presence.
Some seek to be initiated into the mysteries of iniquity, in idle or
morbid curiosity, perhaps to write a realistic book, or to see life, as
it is called. There is often a prurient desire to explore the tracts
of sin, as if information on such subjects meant wisdom. If men are
honest with themselves, they will admit that they join the company of
sinners, for the relish they have for the sin. We must first obey the
moral command to come out from among them and be separate, before it is
possible for us to meet them like Christ. Separateness of soul is the
law of holiness. Of Christ, of whom it was said that this man
receiveth sinners, it was also said that He was separate from sinners.
The knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom, neither is the counsel of
sinners prudence. Most young men know the temptation here referred to,
the curiosity to learn the hidden things, and to have the air of those
who know the world.
If we have gone wrong here, and have admitted into the sanctuary of our
lives influences that make for evil, we must break away from them at
all costs. The sweeter and truer relationships of our life should arm
us for the struggle, the prayers of a mother, the sorrow of true
friends. This is the fear, countless times, in the hearts of the folks
at home when their boy leaves them to win his way in the city, the
deadly fear lest he should fall into evil habits, and into the clutches
of evil men. They know that there are men whose touch, whose words,
whose very look, is contamination. To give them entrance into our
lives is to submit ourselves to the contagion of sin.
Friends should be chosen by a higher principle of selection than any
worldly one, of pleasure, or usefulness, or by weak submission to the
evil influences of our lot. They should be chosen for character, for
goodness, for truth and trustworthiness, because they have sympathy
with us in our best thoughts and holiest aspirations, because they have
community of mind in the things of the soul. All other connections are
fleeting and imperfect from the nature of the case. A relationship
based on the physical withers when the first bloom fades: a
relationship founded on the intellectual is only a little more secure,
as it too is subject to caprice. All purely earthly partnerships, like
all earthly treasures, are exposed to decay, the bite of the moth and
the stain of the rust; and they must all have an end.
A young man may get opposing advice from two equally trusted
counsellors. One will advise him to cultivate the friendship of the
clever, because they will afterward occupy places of power in the
world: the other will advise him to cultivate the friendship of the
good, because if they do not inherit the earth, they aspire to the
heavens. If he knows the character of the two counsellors, he will
understand why they should look upon life from such different
standpoints; and later on he will find that while some of his friends
were both clever and good, not one of the purely intellectual
friendships remains to him. It does not afford a sufficient basis of
agreement, to stand the tear and wear of life. The basis of friendship
must be community of soul.
The only permanent severance of heart comes through lack of a common
spiritual footing. If one soul goes up the mountain top, and the other
stays down among the shadows, if the two have not the same high
thoughts, and pure desires, and ideals of service, they cannot remain
together except in form. Friends need not be identical in temperament
and capacity, but they must be alike in sympathy. An unequal yoke
becomes either an intolerable burden, or will drag one of the partners
away from the path his soul at its best would have loved to tread.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you.
If we choose our friends in Christ, neither here, nor ever, need we
fear parting, and will have the secure joy and peace which come from
having a friend who is as one's own soul.
The Eclipse of Friendship
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his pew.
* * * * * *
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead.
Sunk though he be beneath the watery flow.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.
MILTON.
The Eclipse of Friendship
As it is one of the greatest joys of life when a kindred soul is for
the first time recognized and claimed, so it is one of the bitterest
moments of life when the first rupture is made of the ties which bind
us to other lives. Before it comes, it is hard to believe that it is
possible, if we ever think of it at all. When it does come, it is
harder still to understand the meaning of the blow. The miracle of
friendship seemed too fair, to carry in its bosom the menace of its
loss. We knew, of course, that such things had been, and must be, but
we never quite realized what it would be to be the victims of the
common doom of man.
If it only came as a sudden pain, that passes after its brief spasm of
agony, it would not be so sore an affliction; but when it comes, it
comes to stay. There remains a place in our hearts which is tender to
every touch, and it is touched so often. We survive the shock of the
moment easier than the constant reminder of our loss. The old familiar
face, debarred to the sense of sight, can be recalled by a stray word,
a casual sight, a chance memory. The closer the intercourse had been,
the more things there are in our lives associated with him--things that
we did together, places that we visited together, thoughts even that we
thought together.
There seems no region of life where we can escape from the suggestions
of memory. The sight of any little object can bring him back, with his
way of speaking, with his tricks of gesture, with all the qualities for
which we loved him, and for which we mourn him now. If the intimacy
was due to mere physical proximity, the loss will be only a vague sense
of uneasiness through the breakdown of long-continued habit; but, if
the two lives were woven into the same web, there must be ragged edges
left, and it is a weary task to take up the threads again, and find a
new woof for the warp. The closer the connection has been, the keener
is the loss. It comes back to us at the sight of the many things
associated with him, and, fill up our lives with countless distractions
as we may, the shadow creeps back to darken the world.
Sometimes there is the added pain of remorse that we did not enough
appreciate the treasure we possessed. In thoughtlessness we accepted
the gift; we had so little idea of the true value of his friendship; we
loved so little, and were so impatient:--if only we had him back again;
if only we had one more opportunity to show him how dear he was; if
only we had another chance of proving ourselves worthy. We can hardly
forgive ourselves that we were so cold and selfish. Self-reproach, the
regret of the unaccepted opportunity, is one of the commonest feelings
after bereavement, and it is one of the most blessed.
Still, it may become a morbid feeling. It is a false sentimentalism
which lives in the past, and lavishes its tenderness on memory. It is
difficult to say what is the dividing line between healthy sorrow and
morbid sentiment. It seems a natural instinct, which makes the
bereaved care lovingly for the very grave, and which makes the mother
keep locked up the little shoes worn by the little feet, relics hid
from the vulgar eye. The instinct has become a little more morbid,
when it has preserved the room of a dead mother, with its petty
decorations and ornaments as she left them. Beautiful as the instinct
may be, there is nothing so dangerous as when our most natural feeling
turns morbid.
It is always a temptation, which grows stronger the longer we live, to
look back instead of forward, to bemoan the past, and thus deride the
present and distrust the future. We must not forget our present
blessings, the love we still possess, the gracious influences that
remain, and most of all the duties that claim our strength. The loving
women who went early in the morning to the sepulchre of the buried
Christ were met with a rebuke, "Why seek ye the living among the dead?"
They were sent back to life to find Him, and sent back to life to do
honor to His death. Not by ointments and spices, however precious, nor
at the rock-hewn tomb, could they best remember their Lord; but out in
the world, which that morning had seemed so cold and cheerless, and in
their lives, which then had seemed not worth living.
Christianity does not condemn any natural human feeling, but it will
not let these interfere with present duty and destroy future
usefulness. It does not send men to search for the purpose of living
in the graves of their dead hopes and pleasures. Its disciples must
not attempt to live on the relics of even great incidents, among
crucifixes and tombs. In the Desert, the heart must reach forward to
the Promised Land, and not back to Egypt. The Christian faith is for
the future, because it believes in the God of the future. The world is
not a lumber room, full of relics and remembrances, over which to
brood. We are asked to remember the beautiful past which was ours, and
the beautiful lives which we have lost, by making the present beautiful
like it, and our lives beautiful like theirs. It is human to think
that life has no future, if now it seems "dark with griefs and graves."
It comes like a shock to find that we must bury our sorrow, and come
into contact with the hard world again, and live our common life once
more. The Christian learns to do it, not because he has a short
memory, but because he has a long faith. The voice of inspiration is
heard oftener through the realities of life, than through vain regrets
and recluse dreams. The Christian life must be in its degree something
like the Master's own life, luminous with His hope, and surrounded by a
bracing atmosphere which uplifts all who even touch its outer fringe.
The great fact of life, nevertheless, is death, and it must have a
purpose to serve and a lesson to teach. It seems to lose something of
its impressiveness, because it is universal. The very inevitableness
of it seems to kill thought, rather than induce it. It is only when
the blow strikes home, that we are pulled up and forced to face the
fact. Theoretically there is a wonderful unanimity among men,
regarding the shortness of life and the uncertainty of all human
relationships. The last word of the wise on life has ever been its
fleetingness, its appalling changes, its unexpected surprises. The
only certainty of life is its uncertainty--its unstable tenure, its
inevitable end. But practically we go on as if we could lay our plans,
and mortgage time, without doubt or danger; until our feet are knocked
from under us by some sudden shock, and we realize how unstable the
equilibrium of life really is. The lesson of life is death.
The experience would not be so tragically universal, if it had not a
good and necessary meaning. For one thing it should sober us, and make
our lives full of serious, solemn purpose. It should teach us to
number our days that we may apply our hearts to wisdom. The man, who
has no place for death in his philosophy, has not learned to live. The
lesson of death is life.
On the whole, however, it is not our own liability to death which
oppresses us. The fear of it to a brave man, not to speak of a man of
faith, can be overcome. It is the fear of it _for others_ whom we
love, which is its sting. And none of us can live very long without
knowing in our own heart's experience the reality, as well as the
terror, of death. This too has its meaning for us, to look at life
more tenderly, and touch it more gently. The pathos of life is only a
forced sentiment to us, if we have not felt the pity of life. To a
sensitive soul, smarting with his own loss, the world sometimes seems
full of graves, and for a time at least makes him walk softly among men.
This is one reason why the making of new friends is so much easier in
youth than later on. Friendship comes to youth seemingly without any
conditions, and without any fears. There is no past to look back at,
with much regret and some sorrow. We never look behind us, _till we
miss something_. Youth is satisfied with the joy of present
possession. To the young friendship comes as the glory of spring, a
very miracle of beauty, a mystery of birth: to the old it has the bloom
of autumn, beautiful still, but with the beauty of decay. To the young
it is chiefly hope: to the old it is mostly memory. The man who is
conscious that he has lost the best of his days, the best of his
powers, the best of his friends, naturally lives a good deal in the
past.
Such a man is prepared for further losses; he has adjusted himself to
the fact of death. At first, we cannot believe that it can happen to
us and to our love; or, if the thought comes to us, it is an event too
far in the future to ruffle the calm surface of our heart. And yet, it
must come; from it none can escape. Most can remember a night of
waiting, too stricken for prayer, too numb of heart even for feeling,
vaguely expecting the blow to strike us out of the dark. A strange
sense of the unreality of things came over us, when the black wave
submerged us and passed on. We went out into the sunshine, and it
seemed to mock us. We entered again among the busy ways of men, and
the roar of life beat upon our brain and heart,
Yet in these ears, till hearing dies,
One set slow bell will seem to toll,
The passing of the sweetest soul
That ever looked with human eyes.