Next to the encounter of death in our own bodies, the most sensible calamity to an honest man is the death of a friend; and we are not in truth without some generous instances of those that have preferred a friend’s life before their own; and yet this affliction, which by nature is so grievous to us, is by virtue and Providence made familiar and easy.
After facing death ourselves, the most painful experience for any decent person is losing a friend. History shows us noble examples of people who chose to save their friend's life over their own. Yet this grief, which naturally causes us such pain, becomes bearable and familiar through virtue and God's providence.
To lament the death of a friend is both natural and just; a sigh or a tear I would allow to his memory: but no profuse or obstinate sorrow. Clamorous and public lamentations are not so much the effects of grief as of vain-glory. He that is sadder in company than alone, shows rather the ambition of his sorrow than the piety of it. Nay, and in the violence of his passion there fall out twenty things that set him a-laughing. At the long-run, time cures all, but it were better done by moderation and wisdom. Some people do as good as set a watch upon themselves, as if they were afraid that their grief would make an escape. The ostentation of grief is many times more than the grief itself. When any body is within hearing, what groans and outcries! when they are alone and private, all is hush and quiet: so soon as any body comes in, they are at it again; and down they throw themselves upon the bed; fall to wringing of their hands, and wishing of themselves dead; which they might have executed by themselves; but their sorrow goes off with the company. We forsake nature, and run over to the practices of the people, that never were the authors of anything that is good. If destiny were to be wrought upon by tears, I would allow you to spend your days and nights in sadness and mourning, tearing of your hair, and beating of your breast; but if Fate be inexorable, and death will keep what it has taken, grief is to no purpose. And yet I would not advise insensibility and hardness; it were inhumanity, and not virtue, not to be moved at the separation of familiar friends and relations: now, in such cases, we cannot command ourselves, we cannot forbear weeping, and we ought not to forbear: but let us not pass the bounds of affection, and run into imitation; within these limits it is some ease to the mind.
It's natural and right to mourn a friend's death. A sigh or tear for their memory is appropriate, but don't let sorrow become excessive or stubborn. Loud public mourning shows vanity more than genuine grief. Someone who acts sadder in company than when alone displays ambitious sorrow rather than true devotion. In fact, during violent outbursts of passion, twenty things happen that would make him laugh. Time eventually heals all wounds, but moderation and wisdom work better. Some people practically guard themselves, as if afraid their grief might escape. The show of grief often exceeds the actual feeling. When someone's within earshot, what groans and cries! When alone and private, all stays quiet and hushed. As soon as anyone enters, they start up again. Down they throw themselves on the bed, wringing their hands and wishing themselves dead. They could have done that by themselves, but their sorrow leaves with the company. We abandon nature and copy the practices of people who never created anything good. If destiny could be changed by tears, I'd let you spend days and nights in sadness and mourning, tearing your hair and beating your chest. But if Fate can't be moved and death keeps what it has taken, grief serves no purpose. Yet I wouldn't recommend being unfeeling and hard. It would be inhuman, not virtuous, to remain unmoved when familiar friends and relatives are separated from us. In such cases, we can't control ourselves. We can't stop weeping, and we shouldn't try. But let's not cross the boundaries of affection and fall into mere imitation. Within these limits, it brings some comfort to the mind.
A wise man gives way to tears in some cases, and cannot avoid them in others. When one is struck with the surprise of ill-news, as the death of a friend, or the like; or upon the last embrace of an acquaintance under the hand of an executioner, he lies under a natural necessity of weeping and trembling. In another case, we may indulge our sorrow, as upon the memory of a dead friend’s conversation or kindness, one may let fall tears of generosity and joy. We favor the one, and we are overcome by the other; and this is well: but we are not upon any terms to force them: they may flow of their own accord, without derogating from the dignity of a wise man; who at the same time both preserves his gravity, and obeys nature. Nay, there is a certain decorum even in weeping; for excess of sorrow is as foolish as profuse laughter. Why do we not as well cry, when our trees that we took pleasure in, shed their leaves, as at the loss of our satisfactions; when the next season repairs them, either with the same again, or others in their places. We may accuse Fate, but we cannot alter it; for it is hard and inexorable, and not to be removed either with reproaches or tears. They may carry us to the dead, but never bring them back again to us. If reason does not put an end to our sorrows, fortune never will: one is pinched with poverty; another solicited with ambition, and fears the very wealth that he coveted. One is troubled for the loss of children; another for the want of them: so that we shall sooner want tears than matter for them; let us therefore spare that for which we have so much occasion. I do confess, that in the very parting of friends there is something of uneasiness and trouble; but it is rather voluntary than natural; and it is custom more than sense that affects us: we do rather impose a sorrow upon ourselves than submit to it; as people cry when they have company, and when nobody looks on, all is well again. To mourn without measure is folly, and not to mourn at all is insensibility. The best temper is betwixt piety and reason; to be sensible, but neither transported nor cast down. He that can put a stop to his tears and pleasures when he will is safe. It is an equal infelicity to be either too soft or too hard: we are overcome by the one, and put to struggle with the other. There is a certain intemperance in that sorrow that passes the rules of modesty; and yet great piety is, in many cases, a dispensation to good manners. The loss of a son or of a friend, cuts a man to the heart, and there is no opposing the first violence of his passion; but when a man comes once to deliver himself wholly up to lamentations, he is to understand, that though some tears deserve compassion, others are yet ridiculous. A grief that is fresh finds pity and comfort, but when it is inveterate it is laughed at, for it is either counterfeit or foolish. Beside that, to weep excessively for the dead is an affront to the living. The most justifiable cause of mourning is to see good men come to ill ends, and virtue oppressed by the iniquity of Fortune. But in this case, too, they either suffer resolutely, and yield us delight in their courage and example, or meanly, and so give us the less trouble for the loss. He that dies cheerfully, dries up my tears; and he that dies whiningly, does not deserve them. I would bear the death of friends and children with the same constancy that I would expect my own, and no more lament the one than fear the other. He that bethinks himself, how often friends have been parted, will find more time lost among the living, than upon the dead; and the most desperate mourners are they that cared least for their friends when they were living; for they think to redeem their credits, for want of kindness to the living, by extravagant ravings after the dead. Some (I know) will have grief to be only the perverse delight of a restless mind, and sorrows and pleasures to be near akin; and there are, I am confident, that find joy even in their tears. But which is more barbarous, to be insensible of grief for the death of a friend, or to fish for pleasure in grief, when a son perhaps is burning, or a friend expiring? To forget one’s friend, to bury the memory with the body, to lament out of measure, is all inhuman. He that is gone either would not have his friend tormented, or does not know that he is so: if he does not feel it, it is superfluous; if he does, it is unacceptable to him. If reason cannot prevail, reputation may; for immoderate mourning lessens a man’s character: it is a shameful thing for a wise man to make the weariness of grieving the remedy of it. In time, the most stubborn grief will leave us, if in prudence we do not leave that first.
A wise person sometimes gives way to tears and cannot avoid them in other situations. When someone receives shocking bad news, like a friend's death, or during a final goodbye to someone about to be executed, they naturally must weep and tremble. In other cases, we can allow ourselves to grieve. When remembering a dead friend's conversation or kindness, we might shed tears of generosity and joy. We choose one kind of tears, while the other overcomes us. This is natural and right, but we should never force tears. They may flow on their own without damaging a wise person's dignity. A wise person can maintain their composure while still obeying nature. There is even proper behavior in weeping. Excessive sorrow is as foolish as too much laughter. Why don't we cry when trees we enjoyed lose their leaves, just as we do when we lose our pleasures? The next season brings them back, either the same leaves or new ones in their place. We may blame Fate, but we cannot change it. Fate is hard and unchangeable. It won't be moved by complaints or tears. Tears may take us to the dead, but they never bring the dead back to us. If reason doesn't end our sorrows, fortune never will. One person struggles with poverty. Another is driven by ambition and fears the very wealth they wanted. One person grieves for lost children. Another grieves for not having children. We will run out of tears before we run out of reasons to cry. Let us save our tears for when we truly need them. I admit that parting from friends brings some uneasiness and trouble. But this feeling is more voluntary than natural. Custom affects us more than actual feeling. We impose sorrow on ourselves rather than simply accepting it. People cry when they have company, but when no one is watching, they feel fine again. To mourn without limits is foolish. To not mourn at all shows no feeling. The best approach lies between devotion and reason. Be sensitive, but don't get carried away or completely broken down. Someone who can control their tears and pleasures when they choose is safe. It's equally unfortunate to be too soft or too hard. One overcomes us, the other forces us to struggle. There is a certain excess in sorrow that goes beyond proper behavior. Yet great devotion sometimes excuses bad manners. Losing a son or friend cuts deeply, and no one can resist the first wave of passion. But when someone gives themselves completely to mourning, they should understand this: while some tears deserve compassion, others are ridiculous. Fresh grief finds pity and comfort. When grief becomes old and stubborn, people laugh at it because it's either fake or foolish. Besides, weeping too much for the dead insults the living. The most reasonable cause for mourning is seeing good people meet bad ends and virtue crushed by Fortune's unfairness. But even then, they either suffer bravely and give us joy through their courage and example, or they suffer poorly and cause us less trouble over their loss. Someone who dies cheerfully dries up my tears. Someone who dies whining doesn't deserve them. I would handle the death of friends and children with the same strength I would expect for my own death. I wouldn't mourn one any more than I would fear the other. Anyone who thinks about how often friends have been separated will find more time wasted among the living than mourning the dead. The most desperate mourners are those who cared least for their friends while they were alive. They think they can make up for their lack of kindness to the living by extreme grief after death. Some people, I know, believe grief is just the twisted pleasure of a restless mind. They think sorrows and pleasures are closely related. I'm sure some people find joy even in their tears. But which is more cruel: to feel nothing when a friend dies, or to seek pleasure in grief while perhaps a son is dying or a friend is breathing their last? To forget one's friend, to bury their memory with their body, or to mourn excessively is all inhuman. The person who is gone either wouldn't want their friend tormented or doesn't know they are suffering. If they don't feel it, the mourning is pointless. If they do feel it, it's unwelcome to them. If reason cannot convince you, reputation might. Excessive mourning damages a person's character. It's shameful for a wise person to make the exhaustion of grieving the cure for grief. In time, even the most stubborn grief will leave us, if we wisely don't abandon reason first.
But do I grieve for my friend’s sake or for my own? Why should I afflict myself for the loss of him that is either happy or not at all in being? In the one case it is envy, and in the other it is madness. We are apt to say, “What would I give to see him again, and to enjoy his conversation! I was never sad in his company: my heart leaped whenever I met him; I want him wherever I go.” All that is to be said is, “The greater the loss, the greater is the virtue to overcome it.” If grieving will do no good, it is an idle thing to grieve; and if that which has befallen one man remains to all, it is as unjust to complain. The whole world is upon the march towards the same point; why do we not cry for ourselves that are to follow, as well as for him that has gone first? Why do we not as well lament beforehand for that which we know will be, and can not possibly but be? He is not gone, but sent before. As there are many things that he has lost, so there are many things that he does not fear; as anger, jealousy, envy, etc. Is he not more happy in desiring nothing than miserable in what he has lost? We do not mourn for the absent, why then for the dead, who are effectually no other? We have lost one blessing, but we have many left; and shall not all these satisfactions support us against one sorrow?
But am I grieving for my friend or for myself? Why should I torment myself over losing someone who is either happy or simply doesn't exist anymore? In the first case, it's envy. In the second, it's madness. We tend to say things like, "What wouldn't I give to see him again and enjoy his company! I was never sad when he was around. My heart jumped whenever I saw him. I miss him wherever I go." All we can really say is this: the greater the loss, the greater the strength needed to overcome it. If grieving won't help, then it's pointless to grieve. If what happened to one person awaits us all, then it's unfair to complain. The whole world is marching toward the same destination. Why don't we cry for ourselves, knowing we'll follow, just as much as we cry for the one who went first? Why don't we mourn in advance for what we know will happen and absolutely must happen? He hasn't disappeared. He was just sent ahead of us. Yes, he's lost many things, but he also no longer fears many things like anger, jealousy, and envy. Isn't he happier wanting nothing than he would be miserable about what he's lost? We don't mourn for people who are simply absent. Why then do we mourn for the dead, who are really no different? We've lost one blessing, but we have many left. Can't all these other joys support us against this one sorrow?
The comfort of having a friend may be taken away, but not that of having had one. As there is a sharpness in some fruits, and a bitterness in some wines that please us, so there is a mixture in the remembrance of friends, where the loss of their company is sweetened again by the contemplation of their virtues. In some respects, I have lost what I had, and in others, I retain still what I have lost. It is an ill construction of Providence to reflect only upon my friend’s being taken away, without any regard to the benefit of his being once given me. Let us therefore make the best of our friends while we have them; for how long we shall keep them is uncertain. I have lost a hopeful son, but how many fathers have been deceived in their expectations! and how many noble families have been destroyed by luxury and riot! He that grieves for the loss of a son, what if he had lost a friend? and yet he that has lost a friend has more cause of joy that he once had him, than of grief that he is taken away. Shall a man bury his friendship with his friend? We are ungrateful for that which is past, in hope of what is to come; as if that which is to come would not quickly be past too. That which is past we are sure of. We may receive satisfaction, it is true, both from the future and what is already past; the one by expectation, and the other by memory; only the one may possibly not come to pass, and it is impossible to make the other not to have been.
The comfort of having a friend may be taken away, but not the comfort of having had one. Some fruits have a sharpness and some wines have a bitterness that please us. In the same way, remembering friends brings a mixture of feelings. The loss of their company is sweetened by thinking about their virtues. In some ways, I have lost what I had. In others, I still keep what I have lost. It's wrong to think only about my friend being taken away without considering the benefit of his being given to me in the first place. Let us make the best of our friends while we have them. We don't know how long we'll keep them. I have lost a promising son, but how many fathers have been disappointed in their hopes! How many noble families have been destroyed by luxury and wild living! A man grieves for losing a son. What if he had lost a friend instead? Yet someone who has lost a friend has more reason for joy that he once had him than grief that he is gone. Should a man bury his friendship with his friend? We are ungrateful for what is past while hoping for what is to come. We act as if what is to come won't quickly become past too. What is past we can be sure of. We can find satisfaction from both the future and what has already passed. One comes through expectation, the other through memory. The future may not come to pass, but it's impossible to make the past not have happened.
But there is no applying of consolation to fresh and bleeding sorrow; the very discourse irritates the grief and inflames it. It is like an unseasonable medicine in a disease; when the first violence is over, it will be more tractable, and endure the handling. Those people whose minds are weakened by long felicity may be allowed to groan and complain, but it is otherwise with those that have led their days in misfortunes. A long course of adversity has this good in it, that though it vexes a body a great while, it comes to harden us at last; as a raw soldier shrinks at every wound, and dreads the surgeon more than an enemy; whereas a veteran sees his own body cut and lamed with as little concern as if it were another’s. With the same resolution should we stand the shock and cure of all misfortunes; we are never the better for our experience, if we have not yet learned to be miserable. And there is no thought of curing us by the diversion of sports and entertainments; we are apt to fall into relapses; wherefore we had better overcome our sorrow than delude it.
You can't comfort someone whose grief is fresh and raw. Any attempt to console them only makes the pain worse. It's like giving medicine at the wrong time during an illness. Once the first shock passes, the person becomes more open to help and can handle being touched by others. People who have lived easy, comfortable lives might be allowed to groan and complain when trouble hits. But it's different for those who have faced hardship throughout their days. A long series of troubles has one benefit: though it torments you for a long time, it eventually makes you tougher. A new soldier flinches at every wound and fears the doctor more than the enemy. But a veteran watches his own body get cut and injured with as little concern as if it were someone else's. We should face all misfortunes and their cures with the same steady resolve. Our experience means nothing if we haven't learned how to endure suffering. There's no point in trying to cure us through sports and entertainment as distractions. We're likely to fall back into despair. It's better to overcome our sorrow than to fool ourselves into ignoring it.