Friendship

We have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken. Maugre all the selfishness that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element of love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses, whom we scarcely speak to, whom yet we honor, and who honor us! How many we see in the street, or sit with in church, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with! Read the language of these wandering eye-beams. The heart knoweth.

We have far more kindness than we ever express. Despite all the selfishness that chills the world like east winds, a fine, airlike element of love surrounds the whole human family. How many people we meet in homes whom we hardly speak to, yet we respect them and they respect us! How many we see in the street or sit with in church, whose company we silently but warmly enjoy! Read the language of these wandering glances. The heart knows.

The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a certain cordial exhilaration. In poetry and in common speech, the emotions of benevolence and complacency which are felt towards others are likened to the material effects of fire; so swift, or much more swift, more active, more cheering, are these fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of passionate love to the lowest degree of good-will, they make the sweetness of life.

Giving in to this human affection brings a warm joy. In poetry and everyday speech, the kindness and pleasure we feel toward others are compared to fire. These fine inner radiances are just as swift, or much swifter, more active, and more cheering. From the deepest passionate love to the slightest goodwill, they give life its sweetness.

Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection. The scholar sits down to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or happy expression; but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend,—and forthwith troops of gentle thoughts invest themselves, on every hand, with chosen words. See, in any house where virtue and self-respect abide, the palpitation which the approach of a stranger causes. A commended stranger is expected and announced, and an uneasiness betwixt pleasure and pain invades all the hearts of a household. His arrival almost brings fear to the good hearts that would welcome him. The house is dusted, all things fly into their places, the old coat is exchanged for the new, and they must get up a dinner if they can. Of a commended stranger, only the good report is told by others, only the good and new is heard by us. He stands to us for humanity. He is what we wish. Having imagined and invested him, we ask how we should stand related in conversation and action with such a man, and are uneasy with fear. The same idea exalts conversation with him. We talk better than we are wont. We have the nimblest fancy, a richer memory, and our dumb devil has taken leave for the time. For long hours we can continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest, secretest experience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance, shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers. But as soon as the stranger begins to intrude his partialities, his definitions, his defects, into the conversation, it is all over. He has heard the first, the last and best he will ever hear from us. He is no stranger now. Vulgarity, ignorance, misapprehension are old acquaintances. Now, when he comes, he may get the order, the dress and the dinner,—but the throbbing of the heart and the communications of the soul, no more.

Our powers of thought and action grow with our affection. A scholar sits down to write, but all his years of reflection give him no good thought or felicitous phrase. Yet when he needs to write a letter to a friend, gentle thoughts immediately come crowding in, each clothed in well-chosen words. Consider any home where virtue and self-respect live. Notice the excitement a stranger’s approach causes. A stranger who has been well spoken of is expected and announced. Everyone in the household feels an uneasiness somewhere between pleasure and pain. His arrival almost frightens the good people who would welcome him. The house is dusted, everything flies into place, and old coats are exchanged for new ones. They must prepare a dinner if they can. Others tell us only good things about a stranger who has been recommended to us. We hear only what is good and new. To us, he represents humanity. He is what we wish for. Having imagined him and given him these qualities, we wonder how we should speak and act with such a man. The question makes us uneasy and afraid. The same idea lifts our conversation with him. We speak better than we usually do. Our imagination is quicker, our memory richer, and the devil that keeps us silent has left us for a time. For long hours we can share sincere, graceful, and rich thoughts drawn from our oldest, most private experiences. Our relatives and acquaintances who sit nearby are struck with surprise at our unusual powers. But as soon as the stranger begins to introduce his own biases, rigid ideas, and faults into the conversation, it is all over. He has heard the first, the last, and the best he will ever hear from us. He is no longer a stranger. Coarseness, ignorance, and misunderstanding are old acquaintances. Now, when he comes, he may find the house in order, fine clothes, and dinner. But he will no longer find our hearts racing or our souls speaking.

What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make a young world for me again? What so delicious as a just and firm encounter of two, in a thought, in a feeling? How beautiful, on their approach to this beating heart, the steps and forms of the gifted and the true! The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed; there is no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennuis vanish,—all duties even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of beloved persons. Let the soul be assured that somewhere in the universe it should rejoin its friend, and it would be content and cheerful alone for a thousand years.

What is as pleasant as these bursts of affection that make the world young again for me? What is as delightful as two people meeting fully and honestly in a thought or feeling? How beautiful are the steps and forms of gifted and true people as they approach my beating heart! The moment we give in to our affections, the earth is transformed. There is no winter and no night. All tragedies and all boredom vanish, and even all duties disappear. Nothing fills the eternity ahead but the radiant forms of those we love. If the soul were assured that it would rejoin its friend somewhere in the universe, it would be content and cheerful alone for a thousand years.

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. Shall I not call God the Beautiful, who daily showeth himself so to me in his gifts? I chide society, I embrace solitude, and yet I am not so ungrateful as not to see the wise, the lovely and the noble-minded, as from time to time they pass my gate. Who hears me, who understands me, becomes mine,—a possession for all time. Nor is Nature so poor but she gives me this joy several times, and thus we weave social threads of our own, a new web of relations; and, as many thoughts in succession substantiate themselves, we shall by and by stand in a new world of our own creation, and no longer strangers and pilgrims in a traditionary globe. My friends have come to me unsought. The great God gave them to me. By oldest right, by the divine affinity of virtue with itself, I find them, or rather not I but the Deity in me and in them derides and cancels the thick walls of individual character, relation, age, sex, circumstance, at which he usually connives, and now makes many one. High thanks I owe you, excellent lovers, who carry out the world for me to new and noble depths, and enlarge the meaning of all my thoughts. These are new poetry of the first Bard,—poetry without stop,—hymn, ode and epic, poetry still flowing, Apollo and the Muses chanting still. Will these too separate themselves from me again, or some of them? I know not, but I fear it not; for my relation to them is so pure, that we hold by simple affinity, and the Genius of my life being thus social, the same affinity will exert its energy on whomsoever is as noble as these men and women, wherever I may be.

I woke this morning deeply thankful for my friends, both old and new. Should I not call God the Beautiful, when he shows himself to me each day through his gifts? I criticize society and embrace solitude. Yet I am not so ungrateful that I fail to notice the wise, lovely, and noble-minded people who sometimes pass my gate. Anyone who hears and understands me becomes mine, a possession for all time. Nature is generous enough to give me this joy several times. In this way, we weave our own social threads, creating a new web of relationships. As one thought after another takes shape, we will eventually stand in a new world of our own making. We will no longer be strangers and travelers in a world shaped by tradition. My friends have come to me without my seeking them. The great God gave them to me. I find them by the oldest right, through virtue's divine attraction to itself. Or rather, it is not I who find them. The Deity in me and in them mocks and sweeps away the thick walls of individual character, relationships, age, sex, and circumstance. He usually tolerates these walls, but now he makes many people one. I owe you great thanks, excellent lovers. You reveal new and noble depths in the world for me and expand the meaning of all my thoughts. You are new poetry from the first Bard, poetry without end. You are hymn, ode, and epic, poetry still flowing, with Apollo and the Muses still singing. Will these friends also separate from me again, or will some of them? I do not know, but I am not afraid. My relationship with them is so pure that we are held together by simple affinity. The guiding spirit of my life is social. So the same affinity will draw me to anyone as noble as these men and women, wherever I may be.

I confess to an extreme tenderness of nature on this point. It is almost dangerous to me to “crush the sweet poison of misused wine” of the affections. A new person is to me a great event and hinders me from sleep. I have often had fine fancies about persons which have given me delicious hours; but the joy ends in the day; it yields no fruit. Thought is not born of it; my action is very little modified. I must feel pride in my friend’s accomplishments as if they were mine, and a property in his virtues. I feel as warmly when he is praised, as the lover when he hears applause of his engaged maiden. We over-estimate the conscience of our friend. His goodness seems better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. Every thing that is his,—his name, his form, his dress, books and instruments,—fancy enhances. Our own thought sounds new and larger from his mouth.

I admit that I am extremely sensitive on this point. It is almost dangerous for me to “crush the sweet poison of misused wine” in my affections. Meeting a new person is a great event for me and keeps me from sleeping. I have often had wonderful fantasies about people that gave me delightful hours. But the joy ends with the day and bears no fruit. No thought comes from it, and it changes my actions very little. I must feel as proud of my friend’s accomplishments as if they were my own. I must feel that his virtues are partly mine. I feel as warm when he is praised as a lover does when people applaud his fiancée. We overestimate our friend’s conscience. His goodness seems better than ours, his nature finer, and his temptations fewer. Imagination makes everything about him seem better: his name, his appearance, his clothes, his books, and his instruments. Our own thoughts sound new and larger when he expresses them.

Yet the systole and diastole of the heart are not without their analogy in the ebb and flow of love. Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed. The lover, beholding his maiden, half knows that she is not verily that which he worships; and in the golden hour of friendship we are surprised with shades of suspicion and unbelief. We doubt that we bestow on our hero the virtues in which he shines, and afterwards worship the form to which we have ascribed this divine inhabitation. In strictness, the soul does not respect men as it respects itself. In strict science all persons underlie the same condition of an infinite remoteness. Shall we fear to cool our love by mining for the metaphysical foundation of this Elysian temple? Shall I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I shall not fear to know them for what they are. Their essence is not less beautiful than their appearance, though it needs finer organs for its apprehension. The root of the plant is not unsightly to science, though for chaplets and festoons we cut the stem short. And I must hazard the production of the bald fact amidst these pleasing reveries, though it should prove an Egyptian skull at our banquet. A man who stands united with his thought conceives magnificently of himself. He is conscious of a universal success, even though bought by uniform particular failures. No advantages, no powers, no gold or force, can be any match for him. I cannot choose but rely on my own poverty more than on your wealth. I cannot make your consciousness tantamount to mine. Only the star dazzles; the planet has a faint, moon-like ray. I hear what you say of the admirable parts and tried temper of the party you praise, but I see well that for all his purple cloaks I shall not like him, unless he is at last a poor Greek like me. I cannot deny it, O friend, that the vast shadow of the Phenomenal includes thee also in its pied and painted immensity,—thee also, compared with whom all else is shadow. Thou art not Being, as Truth is, as Justice is,—thou art not my soul, but a picture and effigy of that. Thou hast come to me lately, and already thou art seizing thy hat and cloak. Is it not that the soul puts forth friends as the tree puts forth leaves, and presently, by the germination of new buds, extrudes the old leaf? The law of nature is alternation for evermore. Each electrical state superinduces the opposite. The soul environs itself with friends that it may enter into a grander self-acquaintance or solitude; and it goes alone for a season, that it may exalt its conversation or society. This method betrays itself along the whole history of our personal relations. The instinct of affection revives the hope of union with our mates, and the returning sense of insulation recalls us from the chase. Thus every man passes his life in the search after friendship, and if he should record his true sentiment, he might write a letter like this to each new candidate for his love:—

Yet the heart’s contracting and expanding have their parallel in the ebb and flow of love. Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to believe. A lover looking at his maiden half knows that she is not really what he worships. Even in friendship’s golden hour, shadows of suspicion and disbelief surprise us. We suspect that we ourselves give our hero the virtues that make him shine. Then we worship the person we have imagined to be the home of these divine qualities. Strictly speaking, the soul does not regard other people as it regards itself. In a strictly scientific view, all people are equally and infinitely remote from us. Should we fear that our love will grow cold if we dig for the metaphysical foundation of this heavenly temple? Should I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I will not fear to know them for what they are. Their essence is no less beautiful than their appearance, though we need finer senses to perceive it. To science, a plant’s root is not ugly, though we cut the stem short to make wreaths and garlands. And I must risk stating the bare fact amid these pleasant dreams, even if it proves like an Egyptian skull at our banquet. A man who is at one with his own thought has a magnificent view of himself. He is aware of a universal success, even if he has bought it through constant failures in particular things. No advantages, powers, gold, or force can match him. I cannot help relying more on my own poverty than on your wealth. I cannot make your consciousness equal to my own. Only the star dazzles. The planet gives off a faint, moonlike light. I hear what you say about the admirable qualities and proven character of the person you praise. But I see clearly that, despite all his purple cloaks, I will not like him unless he is, in the end, a poor Greek like me. I cannot deny it, O friend. The vast shadow of the Phenomenal includes you too, in all its multicolored and painted immensity. It includes even you, beside whom everything else is a shadow. You are not Being itself, as Truth and Justice are. You are not my soul, but a picture and likeness of it. You came to me only recently, and already you are taking up your hat and cloak. Does the soul put forth friends as a tree puts forth leaves? Do new buds soon sprout and push the old leaves off? The law of nature is endless alternation. Each electrical state brings about its opposite. The soul surrounds itself with friends so that it may come to know itself more deeply and enjoy a grander solitude. And it goes alone for a time so that it may lift its conversation and companionship to a higher level. This pattern reveals itself throughout the history of our personal relationships. The instinct of affection renews our hope of union with our companions. Then a renewed sense of our separateness calls us back from the pursuit. Thus every man spends his life searching for friendship. If he recorded his true feelings, he might write a letter like this to each new candidate for his love:

DEAR FRIEND,

Dear friend,

If I was sure of thee, sure of thy capacity, sure to match my mood with thine, I should never think again of trifles in relation to thy comings and goings. I am not very wise; my moods are quite attainable, and I respect thy genius; it is to me as yet unfathomed; yet dare I not presume in thee a perfect intelligence of me, and so thou art to me a delicious torment. Thine ever, or never.

If I were sure of you and your capacity, and sure that my mood would match yours, I would never again worry about the little things surrounding your comings and goings. I am not very wise, and my moods are easy enough to share. I respect your genius, which I have not yet fathomed. Yet I dare not assume that you understand me perfectly, and so you are a delicious torment to me. Yours forever, or never.

Yet these uneasy pleasures and fine pains are for curiosity and not for life. They are not to be indulged. This is to weave cobweb, and not cloth. Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions, because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the human heart. The laws of friendship are austere and eternal, of one web with the laws of nature and of morals. But we have aimed at a swift and petty benefit, to suck a sudden sweetness. We snatch at the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God, which many summers and many winters must ripen. We seek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate passion which would appropriate him to ourselves. In vain. We are armed all over with subtle antagonisms, which, as soon as we meet, begin to play, and translate all poetry into stale prose. Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be a compromise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beautiful natures disappears as they approach each other. What a perpetual disappointment is actual society, even of the virtuous and gifted! After interviews have been compassed with long foresight we must be tormented presently by baffled blows, by sudden, unseasonable apathies, by epilepsies of wit and of animal spirits, in the heyday of friendship and thought. Our faculties do not play us true, and both parties are relieved by solitude.

Yet these uneasy pleasures and refined pains are curiosities, not the stuff of life. We should not indulge in them. To do so is to weave cobwebs, not cloth. Our friendships rush to brief and meager conclusions because we have woven them from wine and dreams. We should have made them from the tough fiber of the human heart. The laws of friendship are strict and eternal, woven from the same fabric as the laws of nature and morality. But we have sought a quick, small reward, a sudden taste of sweetness. We reach for the slowest fruit in God’s whole garden, the fruit that takes many summers and winters to ripen. We do not seek our friend with reverence, but with a tainted passion that would claim him for ourselves. But we seek in vain. We are covered in subtle defenses against one another. As soon as we meet, these defenses come into play and turn all poetry into stale prose. Almost everyone lowers themselves to meet others. All companionship must involve compromise. Worst of all, the very flower and fragrance of each beautiful nature disappear as the two people approach each other. Actual society is a constant disappointment, even among the virtuous and gifted! We may plan meetings long in advance. Yet soon we are tormented by frustrated efforts and sudden, ill-timed indifference. Our wit and spirits seize up in the very midst of friendship and thought. Our abilities fail us, and both people are relieved to be alone.

I ought to be equal to every relation. It makes no difference how many friends I have and what content I can find in conversing with each, if there be one to whom I am not equal. If I have shrunk unequal from one contest, the joy I find in all the rest becomes mean and cowardly. I should hate myself, if then I made my other friends my asylum:—

I should be equal to every relationship. It does not matter how many friends I have or how much I enjoy talking with each one, if there is one friend I cannot meet as an equal. If I have backed away from one challenge because I could not meet it, the joy I find in all the others becomes petty and cowardly. I would hate myself if I then took refuge with my other friends:

Our impatience is thus sharply rebuked. Bashfulness and apathy are a tough husk in which a delicate organization is protected from premature ripening. It would be lost if it knew itself before any of the best souls were yet ripe enough to know and own it. Respect the naturlangsamkeit which hardens the ruby in a million years, and works in duration in which Alps and Andes come and go as rainbows. The good spirit of our life has no heaven which is the price of rashness. Love, which is the essence of God, is not for levity, but for the total worth of man. Let us not have this childish luxury in our regards, but the austerest worth; let us approach our friend with an audacious trust in the truth of his heart, in the breadth, impossible to be overturned, of his foundations.

Our impatience is sharply rebuked. Shyness and apathy are a tough shell that protects a delicate nature from maturing too soon. It would be lost if it came to know itself before any of the best souls were ready to recognize and accept it. Respect the naturlangsamkeit that hardens a ruby over a million years. It works over spans of time in which the Alps and Andes come and go like rainbows. The good spirit of our lives offers no heaven as a reward for recklessness. Love, which is the essence of God, is not for lighthearted amusement. It is for the full worth of a person. Let us not indulge this childish luxury in our affections, but seek the most exacting worth. Let us approach our friend with a bold trust in the truth of his heart. Let us trust in the breadth of his foundations, which cannot be overturned.

The attractions of this subject are not to be resisted, and I leave, for the time, all account of subordinate social benefit, to speak of that select and sacred relation which is a kind of absolute, and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common, so much is this purer, and nothing is so much divine.

This subject is too appealing to resist. For now, I will set aside all discussion of lesser social benefits. Instead, I will speak of that rare and sacred relationship, which is a kind of absolute. It is so much purer than love that even the language of love seems questionable and ordinary beside it. Nothing is so divine.

I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frostwork, but the solidest thing we know. For now, after so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature or of ourselves? Not one step has man taken toward the solution of the problem of his destiny. In one condemnation of folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sincerity of joy and peace which I draw from this alliance with my brother’s soul is the nut itself whereof all nature and all thought is but the husk and shell. Happy is the house that shelters a friend! It might well be built, like a festal bower or arch, to entertain him a single day. Happier, if he know the solemnity of that relation and honor its law! He who offers himself a candidate for that covenant comes up, like an Olympian, to the great games where the first-born of the world are the competitors. He proposes himself for contests where Time, Want, Danger, are in the lists, and he alone is victor who has truth enough in his constitution to preserve the delicacy of his beauty from the wear and tear of all these. The gifts of fortune may be present or absent, but all the speed in that contest depends on intrinsic nobleness and the contempt of trifles. There are two elements that go to the composition of friendship, each so sovereign that I can detect no superiority in either, no reason why either should be first named. One is truth. A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another. Sincerity is the luxury allowed, like diadems and authority, only to the highest rank; that being permitted to speak truth, as having none above it to court or conform unto. Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments, by gossip, by amusements, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a hundred folds. I knew a man who under a certain religious frenzy cast off this drapery, and omitting all compliment and commonplace, spoke to the conscience of every person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. At first he was resisted, and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting—as indeed he could not help doing—for some time in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every man of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speaking falsely with him, or of putting him off with any chat of markets or reading-rooms. But every man was constrained by so much sincerity to the like plaindealing, and what love of nature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he did certainly show him. But to most of us society shows not its face and eye, but its side and its back. To stand in true relations with men in a false age is worth a fit of insanity, is it not? We can seldom go erect. Almost every man we meet requires some civility,—requires to be humored; he has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane man who exercises not my ingenuity, but me. My friend gives me entertainment without requiring any stipulation on my part. A friend therefore is a sort of paradox in nature. I who alone am, I who see nothing in nature whose existence I can affirm with equal evidence to my own, behold now the semblance of my being, in all its height, variety, and curiosity, reiterated in a foreign form; so that a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.

I do not want to treat friendships delicately, but with the greatest courage. When friendships are real, they are not glass threads or frostwork, but the most solid thing we know. After so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature or ourselves? Humanity has not taken one step toward solving the problem of its destiny. All people stand equally condemned for their folly. But the sweet, sincere joy and peace I draw from this bond with my brother’s soul are the kernel itself. All nature and all thought are only the husk and shell around it. Happy is the house that shelters a friend! It could well be built like a festive shelter or arch, just to welcome him for a single day. Happier still if he understands the gravity of friendship and honors its law! Anyone who offers himself for that bond approaches like an Olympian entering the great games. There, the greatest people in the world are his competitors. He enters contests against Time, Need, and Danger. Only the person with enough truth in his nature wins. He alone preserves his delicate beauty from the wear and tear of them all. Fortune’s gifts may be present or absent. But success in that contest depends entirely on inner nobility and a disregard for trivial things. Friendship has two essential elements. Each is so important that I cannot see that either is superior, or why either should be named first. One is truth. A friend is a person with whom I can be sincere. With him, I can think aloud. At last, I am with someone so genuine and so much my equal that I can drop even my deepest disguises. These are the disguises of pretense, courtesy, and second thoughts that people never take off. I can meet him as simply and wholly as one chemical atom meets another. Sincerity is a luxury allowed only to the highest rank, like crowns and authority. Only that rank is allowed to speak the truth, because it has no one above it to flatter or obey. Every person is sincere when alone. When a second person enters, hypocrisy begins. We keep other people at a distance with compliments, gossip, amusements, and business. We hide our thoughts from them under a hundred layers. I knew a man who, in a kind of religious frenzy, threw off these coverings. He left out all compliments and small talk. Instead, he spoke to the conscience of everyone he met, with great insight and beauty. At first, people resisted him, and everyone agreed that he was mad. But he persisted in this way for some time, as indeed he could not help doing. In the end, he gained the advantage of forming genuine relationships with everyone he knew. No one would think of speaking falsely to him or putting him off with talk of markets or reading rooms. His sincerity compelled everyone to be equally plainspoken with him. Whatever love of nature, poetry, or symbol of truth a person had, he would surely show it to him. But to most of us, society shows not its face and eyes, but its side and back. To have genuine relationships with people in a false age is worth a fit of insanity, is it not? We can seldom stand upright. Almost everyone we meet demands some politeness and expects us to humor him. He has some reputation, talent, or pet idea about religion or philanthropy that must not be questioned. This spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane person who engages not my cleverness, but me. My friend gives me pleasure without requiring me to accept any conditions. A friend is therefore a kind of paradox in nature. I alone exist, and I see nothing in nature whose existence I can affirm as surely as my own. Yet now I see a likeness of my own being repeated in another form, in all its height, variety, and intricacy. A friend may therefore well be considered nature’s masterpiece.

The other element of friendship is tenderness. We are holden to men by every sort of tie, by blood, by pride, by fear, by hope, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admiration, by every circumstance and badge and trifle,—but we can scarce believe that so much character can subsist in another as to draw us by love. Can another be so blessed and we so pure that we can offer him tenderness? When a man becomes dear to me I have touched the goal of fortune. I find very little written directly to the heart of this matter in books. And yet I have one text which I cannot choose but remember. My author says,—“I offer myself faintly and bluntly to those whose I effectually am, and tender myself least to him to whom I am the most devoted.” I wish that friendship should have feet, as well as eyes and eloquence. It must plant itself on the ground, before it vaults over the moon. I wish it to be a little of a citizen, before it is quite a cherub. We chide the citizen because he makes love a commodity. It is an exchange of gifts, of useful loans; it is good neighborhood; it watches with the sick; it holds the pall at the funeral; and quite loses sight of the delicacies and nobility of the relation. But though we cannot find the god under this disguise of a sutler, yet on the other hand we cannot forgive the poet if he spins his thread too fine and does not substantiate his romance by the municipal virtues of justice, punctuality, fidelity and pity. I hate the prostitution of the name of friendship to signify modish and worldly alliances. I much prefer the company of ploughboys and tin-peddlers to the silken and perfumed amity which celebrates its days of encounter by a frivolous display, by rides in a curricle and dinners at the best taverns. The end of friendship is a commerce the most strict and homely that can be joined; more strict than any of which we have experience. It is for aid and comfort through all the relations and passages of life and death. It is fit for serene days and graceful gifts and country rambles, but also for rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution. It keeps company with the sallies of the wit and the trances of religion. We are to dignify to each other the daily needs and offices of man’s life, and embellish it by courage, wisdom and unity. It should never fall into something usual and settled, but should be alert and inventive and add rhyme and reason to what was drudgery.

The other element of friendship is tenderness. We are bound to people by every kind of tie: blood, pride, fear, hope, profit, lust, hate, admiration, and every circumstance, sign, and trifle. Yet we can hardly believe that another person has enough character to draw us through love. Can another person be so blessed, and can we be so pure, that we can offer them tenderness? When someone becomes dear to me, I have reached the height of good fortune. I find very little in books that speaks directly to the heart of this matter. Yet there is one passage I cannot help remembering. My author says, “I offer myself hesitantly and awkwardly to those to whom I truly belong. I offer myself least to the person to whom I am most devoted.” I want friendship to have feet, as well as eyes and eloquence. It must stand on the ground before it leaps over the moon. I want it to be a little like a citizen before it becomes entirely like a cherub. We scold the citizen because he treats love as a commodity. For him, it is an exchange of gifts and useful loans. It is good neighborliness. It sits with the sick and helps carry the coffin at a funeral. It loses sight entirely of the delicacy and nobility of the relationship. But though we cannot find the god beneath this disguise of a tradesman, we cannot forgive the poet either if he makes his thread too fine. He must give his romance substance through the civic virtues of justice, punctuality, fidelity, and compassion. I hate the misuse of the name of friendship for fashionable and worldly alliances. I much prefer the company of farm boys and traveling tin sellers to that silky, perfumed friendship. Such friends celebrate their meetings with frivolous displays, carriage rides, and dinners at the best taverns. The aim of friendship is the closest and most familiar companionship people can share. It is closer than any we have experienced. It offers aid and comfort through every relationship and passage of life and death. It suits peaceful days, graceful gifts, and walks in the countryside. But it also suits rough roads and meager food, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution. It accompanies both flashes of wit and religious trances. We should give dignity to each other's daily needs and duties. We should also enrich life through courage, wisdom, and unity. Friendship should never become routine and settled. It should remain alert and inventive, bringing rhyme and reason to what was once drudgery.

Friendship may be said to require natures so rare and costly, each so well tempered and so happily adapted, and withal so circumstanced (for even in that particular, a poet says, love demands that the parties be altogether paired), that its satisfaction can very seldom be assured. It cannot subsist in its perfection, say some of those who are learned in this warm lore of the heart, betwixt more than two. I am not quite so strict in my terms, perhaps because I have never known so high a fellowship as others. I please my imagination more with a circle of godlike men and women variously related to each other and between whom subsists a lofty intelligence. But I find this law of one to one peremptory for conversation, which is the practice and consummation of friendship. Do not mix waters too much. The best mix as ill as good and bad. You shall have very useful and cheering discourse at several times with two several men, but let all three of you come together and you shall not have one new and hearty word. Two may talk and one may hear, but three cannot take part in a conversation of the most sincere and searching sort. In good company there is never such discourse between two, across the table, as takes place when you leave them alone. In good company the individuals merge their egotism into a social soul exactly co-extensive with the several consciousnesses there present. No partialities of friend to friend, no fondnesses of brother to sister, of wife to husband, are there pertinent, but quite otherwise. Only he may then speak who can sail on the common thought of the party, and not poorly limited to his own. Now this convention, which good sense demands, destroys the high freedom of great conversation, which requires an absolute running of two souls into one.

Friendship may require natures so rare and precious, each so balanced and so well suited to the other, that its fulfillment can seldom be assured. Their circumstances must also be right. For even in that respect, a poet says, love demands that the two be perfectly matched. Some who are learned in this warm knowledge of the heart say that friendship cannot exist in perfection between more than two people. I am not quite so strict, perhaps because I have never known such a high fellowship as others have. I prefer to imagine a circle of godlike men and women, related to one another in different ways and sharing a lofty understanding. But I find the law of one to one absolute for conversation, which is the practice and fulfillment of friendship. Do not mix waters too much. The best mix as badly with each other as good and bad do. You may have useful and heartening conversations with two different people at different times. But bring all three of you together, and you will not have a single fresh and heartfelt exchange. Two may talk and one may listen, but three cannot take part in the most sincere and searching conversation. In good company, two people never speak across the table as they do when left alone. In good company, individuals merge their separate selves into a social soul that embraces the minds of everyone present. No special affection between friends, brother and sister, or wife and husband belongs there. Quite the opposite is true. Only someone who can move with the shared thought of the group may speak, not someone confined to personal thoughts. But this convention, which good sense demands, destroys the great freedom of great conversation. Such conversation requires two souls to become completely one.

No two men but being left alone with each other enter into simpler relations. Yet it is affinity that determines which two shall converse. Unrelated men give little joy to each other, will never suspect the latent powers of each. We talk sometimes of a great talent for conversation, as if it were a permanent property in some individuals. Conversation is an evanescent relation,—no more. A man is reputed to have thought and eloquence; he cannot, for all that, say a word to his cousin or his uncle. They accuse his silence with as much reason as they would blame the insignificance of a dial in the shade. In the sun it will mark the hour. Among those who enjoy his thought he will regain his tongue.

Any two men, left alone together, enter into a simpler relationship. Yet affinity determines which two will converse. Men who have no connection bring each other little joy and will never suspect each other’s hidden powers. We sometimes speak of a great talent for conversation as if certain people possessed it permanently. But conversation is a fleeting relationship, nothing more. A man may be known for his thought and eloquence, yet be unable to say a word to his cousin or uncle. They have no more reason to blame him for his silence than to fault a sundial for being useless in the shade. In the sun, it will show the hour. Among people who enjoy his thoughts, he will find his voice again.

Friendship requires that rare mean betwixt likeness and unlikeness that piques each with the presence of power and of consent in the other party. Let me be alone to the end of the world, rather than that my friend should overstep, by a word or a look, his real sympathy. I am equally balked by antagonism and by compliance. Let him not cease an instant to be himself. The only joy I have in his being mine, is that the not mine is mine. I hate, where I looked for a manly furtherance, or at least a manly resistance, to find a mush of concession. Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than his echo. The condition which high friendship demands is ability to do without it. That high office requires great and sublime parts. There must be very two, before there can be very one. Let it be an alliance of two large, formidable natures, mutually beheld, mutually feared, before yet they recognize the deep identity which, beneath these disparities, unites them.

Friendship requires a rare balance of likeness and difference. Each friend is stirred by the strength and agreement he finds in the other. I would rather be alone until the end of the world than have my friend pretend, by word or look, to feel more sympathy than he really does. I am equally frustrated by opposition and by compliance. Let him never cease to be himself. My only joy in his being mine is that what is not mine is mine. I hate finding a mush of concessions where I looked for strong support, or at least strong resistance. Better to be a thorn in your friend's side than his echo. The condition of great friendship is the ability to do without it. Such a high calling requires great and noble qualities. There must be two distinct people before they can truly be one. Let friendship be an alliance of two strong, formidable natures, each seeing and fearing the other. Only then can they recognize the deep identity that unites them beneath their differences.

He only is fit for this society who is magnanimous; who is sure that greatness and goodness are always economy; who is not swift to intermeddle with his fortunes. Let him not intermeddle with this. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected. Reverence is a great part of it. Treat your friend as a spectacle. Of course he has merits that are not yours, and that you cannot honor if you must needs hold him close to your person. Stand aside; give those merits room; let them mount and expand. Are you the friend of your friend’s buttons, or of his thought? To a great heart he will still be a stranger in a thousand particulars, that he may come near in the holiest ground. Leave it to girls and boys to regard a friend as property, and to suck a short and all-confounding pleasure, instead of the noblest benefit.

Only a generous spirit is fit for this kind of companionship. Such a person is sure that greatness and goodness are always the wisest investments. He does not rush to meddle with his fortunes. Let him leave his fortunes alone. Let the diamond take ages to grow, and do not expect to hasten the birth of what is eternal. Friendship calls for the reverence we give to sacred things. We talk of choosing our friends, but friends choose themselves. Reverence is a great part of friendship. Regard your friend as someone to behold. Of course, he has merits you do not have. You cannot honor those merits if you insist on keeping him close to you. Stand aside and give them room. Let them rise and grow. Are you a friend to your friend’s buttons, or to his thought? To a generous heart, a friend will still be a stranger in a thousand ways. This leaves him free to draw near on the holiest ground. Leave it to boys and girls to treat a friend as property. They draw from friendship a brief pleasure that confuses everything, instead of its noblest benefit.

Let us buy our entrance to this guild by a long probation. Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding on them? Why insist on rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, or know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me a spirit. A message, a thought, a sincerity, a glance from him, I want, but not news, nor pottage. I can get politics and chat and neighborly conveniences from cheaper companions. Should not the society of my friend be to me poetic, pure, universal and great as nature itself? Ought I to feel that our tie is profane in comparison with yonder bar of cloud that sleeps on the horizon, or that clump of waving grass that divides the brook? Let us not vilify, but raise it to that standard. That great defying eye, that scornful beauty of his mien and action, do not pique yourself on reducing, but rather fortify and enhance. Worship his superiorities; wish him not less by a thought, but hoard and tell them all. Guard him as thy counterpart. Let him be to thee for ever a sort of beautiful enemy, untamable, devoutly revered, and not a trivial conveniency to be soon outgrown and cast aside. The hues of the opal, the light of the diamond, are not to be seen if the eye is too near. To my friend I write a letter and from him I receive a letter. That seems to you a little. It suffices me. It is a spiritual gift worthy of him to give and of me to receive. It profanes nobody. In these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it will not to the tongue, and pour out the prophecy of a godlier existence than all the annals of heroism have yet made good.

Let us earn entry into this fellowship through a long trial. Why should we intrude on noble and beautiful souls and violate their dignity? Why rush into a personal relationship with your friend? Why go to his house or meet his mother, brother, and sisters? Why have him visit yours? Are these things important to our bond? Let us stop all this touching and clawing. Let him be a spirit to me. I want a message, a thought, a word of sincerity, or a glance from him. But I do not want news or a bowl of soup. I can get politics, chat, and neighborly favors from less costly companions. Should not my friend’s company be poetic, pure, universal, and great, like nature itself? Should I feel that our bond is less sacred than that bank of cloud resting on the horizon? Or less sacred than that clump of waving grass dividing the brook? Let us not cheapen our bond, but raise it to that standard. Do not take pride in diminishing his bold, defiant gaze or the scornful beauty of his manner and actions. Instead, strengthen and enhance them. Worship his superior qualities. Do not wish him any less remarkable, even in thought. Treasure all his superior qualities and tell others of them. Guard him as your counterpart. Let him always be a kind of beautiful enemy to you, untamable and deeply revered. Do not treat him as a mere convenience, soon outgrown and cast aside. The colors of an opal and the light of a diamond cannot be seen if the eye is too close. I write a letter to my friend, and he writes one to me. That may seem like little to you. It is enough for me. A letter is a spiritual gift, worthy of him to give and of me to receive. It violates no one’s dignity. In these warm lines, the heart will trust itself as it will not trust the tongue. It will pour out a vision of a more divine life than all the records of heroism have yet shown to be possible.

Respect so far the holy laws of this fellowship as not to prejudice its perfect flower by your impatience for its opening. We must be our own before we can be another’s. There is at least this satisfaction in crime, according to the Latin proverb;—you can speak to your accomplice on even terms. Crimen quos inquinat, æquat. To those whom we admire and love, at first we cannot. Yet the least defect of self-possession vitiates, in my judgment, the entire relation. There can never be deep peace between two spirits, never mutual respect, until in their dialogue each stands for the whole world.

Respect the sacred laws of this fellowship enough not to spoil its perfect bloom by being impatient for it to open. We must belong to ourselves before we can belong to another. According to a Latin proverb, crime offers at least this satisfaction: you can speak to your accomplice as an equal. Crime makes equals of those it stains. At first, we cannot speak as equals to those we admire and love. Yet, in my judgment, even the slightest lack of self-possession spoils the entire relationship. There can never be deep peace between two spirits, or mutual respect, until each speaks for the whole world in their conversation.

What is so great as friendship, let us carry with what grandeur of spirit we can. Let us be silent,—so we may hear the whisper of the gods. Let us not interfere. Who set you to cast about what you should say to the select souls, or how to say any thing to such? No matter how ingenious, no matter how graceful and bland. There are innumerable degrees of folly and wisdom, and for you to say aught is to be frivolous. Wait, and thy heart shall speak. Wait until the necessary and everlasting overpowers you, until day and night avail themselves of your lips. The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is to be one. You shall not come nearer a man by getting into his house. If unlike, his soul only flees the faster from you, and you shall never catch a true glance of his eye. We see the noble afar off and they repel us; why should we intrude? Late,—very late,—we perceive that no arrangements, no introductions, no consuetudes or habits of society would be of any avail to establish us in such relations with them as we desire,—but solely the uprise of nature in us to the same degree it is in them; then shall we meet as water with water; and if we should not meet them then, we shall not want them, for we are already they. In the last analysis, love is only the reflection of a man’s own worthiness from other men. Men have sometimes exchanged names with their friends, as if they would signify that in their friend each loved his own soul.

Let us approach something as great as friendship with all the greatness of spirit we can. Let us be silent so that we may hear the whisper of the gods. Let us not interfere. Who asked you to worry about what to say to exceptional souls, or how to say anything to them? It does not matter how clever, graceful, or pleasing your words are. There are countless degrees of folly and wisdom, and anything you say is frivolous. Wait, and your heart will speak. Wait until what is necessary and everlasting overpowers you, until day and night speak through your lips. The only reward of virtue is virtue. The only way to have a friend is to be one. You will not grow closer to a man by entering his house. If you are unlike him, his soul will only flee from you faster. You will never catch a true glimpse of his eyes. We see noble people from afar, and they turn us away. Why should we intrude? Very late, we realize that no arrangements, introductions, or social customs could establish the relationships we desire with them. Only when our nature rises to the same level as theirs can we meet them as water meets water. And if we do not meet them then, we will not need them, because we are already the same as they are. In the end, love is only the reflection of a man's own worth in other men. Men have sometimes exchanged names with their friends, as if to show that each loved his own soul in his friend.

The higher the style we demand of friendship, of course the less easy to establish it with flesh and blood. We walk alone in the world. Friends such as we desire are dreams and fables. But a sublime hope cheers ever the faithful heart, that elsewhere, in other regions of the universal power, souls are now acting, enduring, and daring, which can love us and which we can love. We may congratulate ourselves that the period of nonage, of follies, of blunders and of shame, is passed in solitude, and when we are finished men we shall grasp heroic hands in heroic hands. Only be admonished by what you already see, not to strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons, where no friendship can be. Our impatience betrays us into rash and foolish alliances which no god attends. By persisting in your path, though you forfeit the little you gain the great. You demonstrate yourself, so as to put yourself out of the reach of false relations, and you draw to you the first-born of the world,—those rare pilgrims whereof only one or two wander in nature at once, and before whom the vulgar great show as spectres and shadows merely.

The higher our ideal of friendship, of course, the harder it is to find it in living people. We walk alone in the world. The friends we long for are dreams and fables. But a sublime hope always cheers the faithful heart. Elsewhere, in other regions of the universal power, souls are now acting, enduring, and daring. They can love us, and we can love them. We may be glad that we spent our immature years, with their follies, mistakes, and shame, in solitude. When we are fully formed, we shall grasp heroic hands with heroic hands. Let what you already see warn you not to form friendships with people of little worth, where friendship cannot exist. Our impatience leads us into rash and foolish alliances that no god blesses. By staying on your path, though you lose the little, you gain the great. You show who you are, putting yourself beyond the reach of false relationships. And you draw to yourself the firstborn of the world. They are rare pilgrims, only one or two of whom wander through nature at a time. Beside them, the great people admired by the crowd seem like mere ghosts and shadows.

It is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose any genuine love. Whatever correction of our popular views we make from insight, nature will be sure to bear us out in, and though it seem to rob us of some joy, will repay us with a greater. Let us feel if we will the absolute insulation of man. We are sure that we have all in us. We go to Europe, or we pursue persons, or we read books, in the instinctive faith that these will call it out and reveal us to ourselves. Beggars all. The persons are such as we; the Europe, an old faded garment of dead persons; the books, their ghosts. Let us drop this idolatry. Let us give over this mendicancy. Let us even bid our dearest friends farewell, and defy them, saying, ‘Who are you? Unhand me: I will be dependent no more.’ Ah! seest thou not, O brother, that thus we part only to meet again on a higher platform, and only be more each other’s because we are more our own? A friend is Janus-faced; he looks to the past and the future. He is the child of all my foregoing hours, the prophet of those to come, and the harbinger of a greater friend.

It is foolish to fear making our ties too spiritual, as if we could lose any genuine love that way. Whenever insight corrects our common views, nature will surely confirm the correction. Though it seems to rob us of some joy, nature will repay us with a greater joy. Let us feel, if we choose, how completely isolated each person is. We are sure that we have everything within us. We go to Europe, seek out people, or read books. We instinctively trust that these will draw out what is within us and reveal us to ourselves. We are all beggars. These people are like us. Europe is an old, faded garment left by the dead, and books are their ghosts. Let us give up this idol worship. Let us stop begging. Let us even say farewell to our dearest friends and defy them, saying, ‘Who are you? Let go of me: I will depend on you no longer.’ Ah, brother, can you not see that we part this way only to meet again on a higher plane? We become more each other’s because we belong more fully to ourselves. A friend is Janus-faced, looking to the past and the future. He is the child of all my past hours, the prophet of those to come, and the sign of a greater friend yet to come.

I do then with my friends as I do with my books. I would have them where I can find them, but I seldom use them. We must have society on our own terms, and admit or exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford to speak much with my friend. If he is great he makes me so great that I cannot descend to converse. In the great days, presentiments hover before me in the firmament. I ought then to dedicate myself to them. I go in that I may seize them, I go out that I may seize them. I fear only that I may lose them receding into the sky in which now they are only a patch of brighter light. Then, though I prize my friends, I cannot afford to talk with them and study their visions, lest I lose my own. It would indeed give me a certain household joy to quit this lofty seeking, this spiritual astronomy or search of stars, and come down to warm sympathies with you; but then I know well I shall mourn always the vanishing of my mighty gods. It is true, next week I shall have languid moods, when I can well afford to occupy myself with foreign objects; then I shall regret the lost literature of your mind, and wish you were by my side again. But if you come, perhaps you will fill my mind only with new visions; not with yourself but with your lustres, and I shall not be able any more than now to converse with you. So I will owe to my friends this evanescent intercourse. I will receive from them not what they have but what they are. They shall give me that which properly they cannot give, but which emanates from them. But they shall not hold me by any relations less subtile and pure. We will meet as though we met not, and part as though we parted not.

I treat my friends as I treat my books. I want them where I can find them, but I seldom turn to them. We must have company on our own terms, and welcome or turn it away for the slightest reason. I cannot afford to talk much with my friend. If he is great, he makes me feel so great that I cannot come down to conversation. On great days, glimpses of what is to come hover before me in the sky. I ought to devote myself to them then. I go indoors to grasp them, and I go outdoors to grasp them. My only fear is that I may lose them as they fade into the sky. Already, they are only a patch of brighter light there. So, though I prize my friends, I cannot afford to talk with them and study their visions. I might lose my own. It would give me a kind of homely joy to abandon this lofty search, this spiritual astronomy or search for stars. I could come down and share warm feelings with you. But I know well that I would always mourn the disappearance of my mighty gods. True, next week I will have sluggish moods, when I can easily afford to occupy myself with things outside myself. Then I will regret having missed the literature of your mind and wish you were beside me again. But if you come, perhaps you will fill my mind only with new visions. You may fill it not with yourself but with your radiance. Then I will be no more able to talk with you than I am now. So this fleeting communion is what I will owe to my friends. I will receive from them not what they have but what they are. They will give me what they cannot properly give, but what flows from them. But they will not hold me by any ties less subtle and pure. We will meet as though we had not met, and part as though we had not parted.

It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal he will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and no longer a mate for frogs and worms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object and dwells and broods on the eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so much earth and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a god, that it may deify both.

Lately, I have come to think it more possible than I once knew to sustain a great friendship on one side, without an equal response from the other. Why should I burden myself with regret that the person receiving my love cannot fully take it in? The sun is never troubled that some of its rays fall uselessly into ungrateful space, while only a small part reaches the planet that reflects them. Let your greatness educate your unrefined and cold companion. If your companion cannot match you, he will soon pass out of your life. But your own shining makes you greater. You are no longer a companion for frogs and worms, but soar and burn with the gods of the highest heaven. People think it shameful to love without being loved in return. But great souls will see that true love cannot go unreturned. True love rises above its unworthy object and rests and dwells on what is eternal. When the poor mask that came between love and the eternal crumbles, love is not sad. It feels free of so much earth and more certain of its independence. Yet these things can hardly be said without a kind of betrayal of the friendship. The essence of friendship is wholeheartedness, a complete generosity of spirit and trust. It must not suspect or prepare for weakness. It treats the friend as a god, so that it may make gods of both.