ourselves open to such desolation? Would it not be better to go
through the world, without joining ourselves too closely to the
fleeting bonds of other loves? Why deliberately add to our
disabilities? But it is not a disability; rather, the great purpose of
all our living is to learn love, even though we must experience the
pains of love as well as the joys. To cut ourselves off from this lot
of the human would be to impoverish our lives, and deprive ourselves of
the culture of the heart, which, if a man has not learned, he has
learned nothing. Whatever the risks to our happiness, we cannot stand
out from the lot of man, without ceasing to be men in the only true
sense.
It is not easy to solve the problem of sorrow. Indeed there is no
solution of it, unless the individual soul works out its own solution.
Most attempts at a philosophy of sorrow just end in high-sounding
words. Explanations, which profess to cover all the ground, are as
futile as the ordinary blundering attempts at comfort, which only charm
ache with sound and patch grief with proverbs. The sorrow of our
hearts is not appreciably lessened by argument. Any kind of
philosophy--any wordy explanation of the problem--is at the best poor
comfort. It is not the problem which brings the pain in the first
instance: it is the pain which brings the problem. The heart's
bitterness is not allayed by an exposition of the doctrine of
providence. Rachel who weeps for her children, the father whose little
daughter lies dead at home, are not to be appeased in their anguish by
a nicely-balanced system of thought. Nor is surcease of sorrow thus
brought to the man to whom has come a bereavement, or a succession of
bereavements, which makes him feel that all the glory and joy of life,
its friendship and love and hope, have gone down into the grave, so
that he can say,
Three dead men have I loved,
And thou wert last of the three.
At the same time, if it be true that there is a meaning in friendship,
a spiritual discipline to educate the heart and train the life, it must
also be true that there is equally a meaning in the eclipse of
friendship. If we have enough faith to see death to be good, we will
find out for ourselves why it is good. It may teach us just what we
were in danger of forgetting, some omission in our lives, which was
making them shallow and poor. It may be to one a sight into the
mystery of sin; to another a sight into the mystery of love. To one it
comes with the lesson of patience, which is only a side of the lesson
of faith; to another it brings the message of sympathy. As we turn the
subject toward the light, there come gleams of color from different
facets of it.
All life is an argument for death. We cannot persist long in the
effort to live the Christian life, without feeling the need for death.
The higher the aims, and the truer the aspirations, the greater is the
burden of living, until it would become intolerable. Sooner or later
we are forced to make the confession of Job, "I would not live alway."
To live forever in this sordidness, to have no reprieve from the doom
of sin, no truce from the struggle of sin, would be a fearful fate.
To the Christian, therefore, death cannot be looked on as evil; first,
because it is universal, and it is universal because it is
God-ordained. In St. Peter's, at Rome, there are many tombs, in which
death is symbolized in its traditional form as a skeleton, with the
fateful hourglass and the fearful scythe. Death is the rude reaper,
who cruelly cuts off life and all the joy of life. But there is one in
which death is sculptured as a sweet gentle motherly woman, who takes
her wearied child home to safer and surer keeping. It is a truer
thought than the other. Death is a minister of God, doing His
pleasure, and doing us good.
Again, it cannot be evil because it means a fuller life, and therefore
an opportunity for fuller and further service. Faith will not let a
man hasten the climax; for it is in the hands of love, as he himself
is. But death is the climax of life. For if all life is an argument
for death, then so also all death is an argument for life.
Jowett says, in one of his letters, "I cannot sympathize in all the
grounds of consolation that are sometimes offered on these melancholy
occasions, but there are two things which have always seemed to me
unchangeable: first, that the dead are in the hands of God, who can do
for them more than we can ask or have; and secondly, with respect to
ourselves, that such losses deepen our views of life, and make us feel
that we would not always be here." These are two noble grounds of
consolation, and they are enough.
Death is the great argument for immortality. We cannot believe that
the living, loving soul has ceased to be. We cannot believe that all
those treasures of mind and heart are squandered in empty air. We will
not believe it. When once we understand the meaning of the spiritual,
we see the absolute certainty of eternal life; we need no arguments for
the persistence of being.
To appear for a little time and then vanish away, is the outward
biography of all men, a circle of smoke that breaks, a bubble on the
stream that bursts, a spark put out by a breath.
But there is another biography, a deeper and a permanent one, the
biography of the soul. Everything that _appears_ vanishes away: that
is its fate, the fate of the everlasting hills as well as of the vapor
that caps them. But that which does not appear, the spiritual and
unseen, which we in our folly sometimes doubt because it does not
appear, is the only reality; it is eternal and passeth not away. The
material in nature is only the garb of the spiritual, as speech is the
clothing of thought. With our vulgar standards we often think of the
thought as the unsubstantial and the shadowy, and the speech as the
real. But speech dies upon the passing wind; the thought alone
remains. We consider the sound to be the music, whereas it is only the
expression of the music, and vanishes away. Behind the material world,
which waxes old as a garment, there is an eternal principle, the
thought of God it represents. Above the sounds there is the music that
can never die. Beneath our lives, which vanish away, there is a vital
thing, spirit. We cannot locate it and put our finger on it; that is
why it is permanent. The things we can put our finger on are the
things which appear, and therefore which fade and die.
So, death to the spiritual mind is only _eclipse_. When there is an
eclipse of the sun it does not mean that the sun is blotted out of the
heavens: it only means that there is a temporary obstruction between it
and us. If we wait a little, it passes. Love cannot die. Its forms
may change, even its objects, but its life is the life of the universe.
It is not death, but sleep: not loss, but eclipse. The love is only
transfigured into something more ethereal and heavenly than ever
before. Happy to have friends on earth, but happier to have friends in
heaven.
And it need not be even eclipse, except in outward form. Communion
with the unseen can mean true correspondence with all we have loved and
lost, if only our souls were responsive. The highest love is not
starved by the absence of its object; it rather becomes more tender and
spiritual, with more of the ideal in it. Ordinary affection, on a
lower plane, dependent on physical attraction, or on the earthly side
of life, naturally crumbles to dust when its foundation is removed.
But love is independent of time or space, and as a matter of fact is
purified and intensified by absence. Separation of friends is not a
physical thing. Lives can be sundered as if divided by infinite
distance, even although materially they are near each other. This
tragedy is often enough enacted in our midst.
The converse is also true; so that friendship does not really lose by
death: it lays up treasure in heaven, and leaves the very earth a
sacred place, made holy by happy memories. "The ruins of Time build
mansions in Eternity," said William Blake, speaking of the death of a
loved brother, with whose spirit he never ceased to converse. There
are people in our homes and our streets whose highest life is with the
dead. They live in another world. We can see in their eyes that their
hearts are not here. It is as if they already saw the land that is
very far off. It is only far off to our gross insensate senses.
The spiritual world is not outside this earth of ours. It includes it
and pervades it, finding a new centre for a new circumference in every
loving soul that has eyes to see the Kingdom. So, to hold commerce
with the dead is not a mere figure of speech. Heaven lies about us not
only in our infancy, but all our lives. We blind ourselves with dust,
and in our blindness lay hold feverishly of the outside of life,
mistaking the fugitive and evanescent for the truly permanent. If we
only used our capacities we would take a more enlightened view of
death. We would see it to be the entrance into a more radiant and a
more abundant life not only for the friend that goes first, but for the
other left behind.
Spiritual communion cannot possibly be interrupted by a physical
change. It is because there is so little of the spiritual in our
ordinary intercourse that death means silence and an end to communion.
There is a picture of death, which, when looked at with the ordinary
perspective, seems to be a hideous skull, but when seen near at hand is
composed of flowers, with the eyes, in the seemingly empty sockets of
the skull, formed by two fair faces of children. Death at a distance
looks horrible, the ghastly spectre of the race; but with the near
vision it is beautiful with youth and flowers, and when we look into
its eyes we look into the stirrings of life.
Love is the only permanent relationship among men, and the permanence
is not an accident of it, but is of its very essence. When released
from the mere magnetism of sense, instead of ceasing to exist, it only
then truly comes into its largest life. If our life were more a life
in the spirit, we would be sure that death can be at the worst but the
eclipse of friendship. Tennyson felt this truth in his own experience,
and expressed it in noble form again and again in _In Memoriam_--
Sweet human hand and lips and eye,
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die;
Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee.
Thy voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run;
Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.
It is not loss, but momentary eclipse, and the final issue is a clearer
perception of immortal love, and a deeper consciousness of eternal life.
The attitude of mind, therefore, in any such bereavement--sore as the
first stroke must be, since we are so much the creatures of habit, and
it is hard to adjust ourselves to the new relationship--cannot be an
attitude merely of resignation. That was the extent to which the
imperfect revelation of the Old Testament brought men. They had to
rest in their knowledge of God's faithfulness and goodness. The limit
of their faith was, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away." But
to resignation we can add joy. "Not dead, but sleepeth," said the
Master of death and life to a sorrowing man.
For one thing it must mean the hallowing of memory. The eclipse of
love makes the love fairer when the eclipse passes. The loss of the
outward purifies the affection and softens the heart. It brings out
into fact what was often only latent in feeling. Memory adds a tender
glory to the past. We only think of the virtues of the dead: we forget
their faults. This is as it should be. We rightly love the immortal
part of them; the fire has burned up the dross and left pure gold. If
it is idealization, it represents that which will be, and that which
really is.
We do not ask to forget; we do not want the so-called consolations
which time brings. Such an insult to the past, as forgetfulness would
be, means that we have not risen to the possibilities of communion of
spirit afforded us in the present. We would rather that the wound
should be ever fresh than that the image of the dear past should fade.
It would be a loss to our best life if it would fade. There is no
sting in such a faith. Such remembrance as this, which keeps the heart
green, will not cumber the life. True sentiment does not weaken, but
becomes an inspiration to make our life worthy of our love. It can
save even a squalid lot from sordidness; for however poor we may be in
the world's goods, we are rich in happy associations in the past, and
in sweet communion in the present, and in blessed hope for the future.
The Wreck of Friendship
They parted--ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining--
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder,
A dreary sea now rolls between;
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
COLERIDGE, Christabel.
The Wreck of Friendship
The eclipse of friendship through death is not nearly so sad as the
many ways in which friendship may be wrecked. There are worse losses
than the losses of death; and to bury a friendship is a keener grief
than to bury a friend. The latter softens the heart and sweetens the
life, while the former hardens and embitters. The Persian poet Hafiz
says, "Thou learnest no secret until thou knowest friendship; since to
the unloving no heavenly knowledge enters." But so imperfect are our
human relationships, that many a man has felt that he has bought his
knowledge too dearly. Few of us go through the world without some
scars on the heart, which even yet throb if the finger of memory touch
them. In spite of all that has been said, and may be said in praise of
this golden friendship, it has been too often found how vain is the
help of man. The deepest tragedies of life have been the failure of
this very relationship.
In one way or other the loss of friendship comes to all. The shores of
life are strewn with wrecks. The convoy which left the harbor gaily in
the sunshine cannot all expect to arrive together in the haven. There
are the danger of storms and collisions, the separation of the night,
and even at the best, if accidents never occur, the whole company
cannot all keep up with the speed of the swiftest.
There is a certain pathos in all loss, but there is not always pain in
it, or at least it is of varied quality and extent. Some losses are
natural and unavoidable, quite beyond our control, the result of
resistless change. Some loss is even the necessary accompaniment of
gain. The loss of youth with all its possessions is the gain of
manhood and womanhood. A man must put away childish things, the speech
and understanding and thought of a child. So the loss of some
friendship comes as a part of the natural course of things, and is
accepted without mutilating the life.
Many of our connections with people are admittedly casual and
temporary. They exist for mutual convenience through common interest
at the time, or common purpose, or common business. None of the
partners asks for more than the advantage each derives from the
connection. When it comes to an end, we let slip the cable easily, and
say good-bye with a cheery wave. With many people we meet and part in
all friendliness and good feeling, and will be glad to meet again, but
the parting does not tear our affections by the roots. When the
business is transacted the tie is loosed, and we each go our separate
ways without much regret.
At other times there is no thought of gain, except the mutual advantage
of conversation or companionship. We are pleasant to each other, and
enjoy the intercourse of kindred tastes. Most of us have some pleasant
recollections of happy meetings with interesting people, perhaps on
holiday times, when we felt we would be glad to see them again if
fortune turned round the wheel again to the same place; but, though
hardly ever did it come about that an opportunity of meeting has
occurred, we do not feel that our life is much the poorer for the loss.
Also, we _grow_ out of some of our friendships. This is to be
expected, since so many of them are formed thoughtlessly, or before we
really knew either ourselves or our friends. They never meant very
much to us. Most boyish friendships as a rule do not last long,
because they are not based on the qualities which wear well. Schoolboy
comradeships are usually due to propinquity rather than to character.
They are the fruit of accident rather than of affinity of soul. Boys
grow out of these as they grow out of their clothes. Now and again
they suffer from growing pains, but it is more discomfort than anything
else.
It is sad to look back and realize how few of one's early
companionships remain, but it is not possible to blame either party for
the loss. Distance, separation of interest, difference of work, all
operate to divide. When athletics seemed the end of existence,
friendship was based on football and baseball. But as life opens out,
other standards are set up, and a new principle of selection takes its
place. When the world is seen to be more than a ball-ground, when it
is recognized to be a stage oh which men play many parts, a new sort of
intimacy is demanded, and it does not follow that it will be with the
same persons. Such loss as this is the condition which accompanies the
gain of growth.
There is more chance for the permanence of friendships formed a little
later. It must not be too long after this period, however; for, when
the generous time of youth has wholly passed, it becomes hard to make
new connections. Men get over-burdened with cares and personal
concerns, and grow cautious about making advances. In youth the heart
is responsive and ready to be generous, and the hand aches for the
grasp of a comrade's hand, and the mind demands fellowship in the great
thoughts that are beginning to dawn upon it. The closest friendships
are formed early in life, just because then we are less cautious, more
open to impressions, and readier to welcome self-revelations. After
middle life a man does not find it easy to give himself away, and keeps
a firmer hand on his feelings. Whatever are the faults of youth, it is
unworldly in its estimates as a rule, and uncalculating in its thoughts
of the future.
The danger to such friendship is the danger of just letting it lapse.
As life spreads out before the eager feet, new interests crop up, new
relations are formed, and the old tie gets worn away, from want of
adding fresh strands to it. We may believe the advice about not
forsaking an old friend because the new is not comparable to him, but
we can neglect it by merely letting things slip past, which if used
would be a new bond of union.
As it is easier for some temperaments to make friends, it is easier for
some dispositions to keep them. Little faults of manner, little
occasions of thoughtlessness, or lack of the little courtesies, do more
to separate people than glaring mistakes. There are some men so built
that it is difficult to remain on very close terms with them, there are
so many corners to knock against. Even strength of character, if
unmodified by sweetness of disposition, adds to the difficulty of
pulling together. Strong will can so easily develop into self-will;
decision can become dogmatism; wit, the salt of conversation, loses its
savor when it becomes ill-natured; a faculty for argument is in danger
of being mere quarrelsomeness.
The ordinary amenities of life must be preserved among friends. We can
never feel very safe with the man whose humor tends to bitter speaking
or keen sarcasm, or with the man who flares up into hasty speech at
every or no provocation, or with the man who is argumentative and
assertive,--
Who 'd rather on a gibbet dangle
Than miss his dear delight to wrangle.
There are more breaches of the peace among friends through sins of
speech, than from any other cause. We do not treat our friends with
enough respect. We make the vulgar mistake of looking upon the common
as if it were therefore cheap in nature. We ought rather to treat our
friend with a sort of sacred familiarity, as if we appreciated the
precious gift his friendship is.
Every change in a man's life brings a risk of letting go something of
the past, which it is a loss to part with. A change of work, or a
change of residence, or entrance into a larger sphere, brings a certain
engrossment which leads to neglect of the richest intercourse in the
past life. To many a man, even marriage has had a drop of bitterness
in it, because it has somehow meant the severing of old and sacred
links. This may be due to the vulgar reason of wives' quarrels, the
result of petty jealousy; but it may be due also to pre-occupation and
a subtle form of selfishness. The fire needs to be kept alive with
fuel. To preserve it, there must be forethought, and care, and love
expended as before.
Friendship may lapse through the _misfortune of distance_. Absence
does not always make the heart grow fonder. It only does so, when the
heart is securely fixed, and when it is a heart worth fixing. More
often the other proverb is truer, that it is out of sight out of mind.
It is so easy for a man to become self-centred, and to impoverish his
affections through sheer neglect. Ties once close get frayed and
strained till they break, and we discover that we have said farewell to
the past. Some kind of intercourse is needed to maintain friendship.
There is a pathos about this gradual drifting away of lives, borne from
each other, it sometimes seems, by opposing tides, as if a resistless
power separated them,
And bade betwixt their souls to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Or friendship may lapse through the _fault of silence_. The misfortune
of distance may be overcome by love, but the fault of silence crushes
out feeling as the falling rain kills the kindling beacon. Even the
estrangements and misunderstandings which will arise to all could not
long remain, where there is a frank and candid interchange of thought.
Hearts grow cold toward each other through neglect. There is a
suggestive word from the old Scandinavian _Edda_, "Go often to the
house of thy friend; for weeds soon choke up the unused path." It is
hard to overcome again the alienation caused by neglect; for there
grows up a sense of resentment and injured feeling.
Among the petty things which wreck friendships, none is so common and
so unworthy as money. It is pitiable that it should be so. Thackeray
speaks of the remarkable way in which a five-pound note will break up a
half-century's attachment between two brethren, and it is a common
cynical remark of the world that the way to lose a friend is to lend
him money. There is nothing which seems to affect the mind more, and
color the very heart's blood, than money. There seems a curse in it
sometimes, so potent is it for mischief. Poverty, if it be too
oppressive grinding down the face, may often hurt the heart-life; but
perhaps oftener still it only reveals what true treasures there are in
the wealth of the affections. Whereas, we know what heartburnings, and
rivalries, and envyings, are occasioned by this golden apple of
discord. Most of the disputes which separate brethren are about the
dividing of the inheritance, and it does seem to be the case that few
friendships can survive the test of money.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend.
There must be something wrong with the friendship which so breaks down.
It ought to be able to stand a severer strain than that. But the inner
reason of the failure is often that there has been a moral degeneracy
going on, and a weakening of the fibre of character on one side, or on
both sides. The particular dispute, whether it be about money or about
anything else, is only the occasion which reveals the slackening of the
morale. The innate delicacy and self-respect of the friend who asks
the favor may have been damaged through a series of similar
importunities, or there may have been a growing hardness of heart and
selfishness in the friend who refuses the request. Otherwise, if two
are on terms of communion, it is hard to see why the giving or
receiving of this service should be any more unworthy than any other
help, which friends can grant to each other. True commerce of the
heart should make all other needful commerce possible. Communion
includes communism. To have things in common does not seem difficult,
when there is love in common.