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.
To mourn the death of a friend is both natural and just. I would allow a sigh or a tear to his memory, but no lavish or stubborn sorrow. Loud and public lamentations come less from grief than from vanity. The man who is sadder in company than alone shows the ambition of his sorrow rather than its devotion. Indeed, even in the violence of his passion, twenty things happen that set him laughing. In the long run time cures all, but it would be better done by moderation and wisdom. Some people all but set a guard over themselves, as if they were afraid their grief would escape. The display of grief is often greater than the grief itself. When anybody is within hearing, what groans and outcries! When they are alone and private, all is hushed and quiet. As soon as anybody comes in, they are at it again. Down they throw themselves on the bed, wringing their hands and wishing themselves dead. They could have carried that out by themselves, but their sorrow leaves with the company. We abandon nature and go over to the practices of the common crowd, who were never the authors of anything good. If destiny could be moved by tears, I would let you spend your days and nights in sadness and mourning, tearing your hair and beating your breast. But if Fate cannot be moved, and death will keep what it has taken, grief serves no purpose. And yet I would not advise numbness and hardness. It would be inhumanity, not virtue, to be unmoved at parting from close friends and relations. In such cases we cannot command ourselves. We cannot help weeping, and we ought not to hold back. But let us not pass the bounds of natural feeling and fall into imitation. Within these limits, weeping gives the mind some ease.
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 man gives way to tears in some cases, and cannot avoid them in others. Sometimes one is struck by sudden bad news, such as the death of a friend. Or one gives a last embrace to an acquaintance about to die at the executioner’s hand. Then he is under a natural necessity to weep and tremble. In another case we may indulge our sorrow. Remembering a dead friend’s conversation or kindness, one may shed tears of generous feeling and joy. We indulge the one kind of tears, and we are overcome by the other, and this is well. But we must on no terms force them. They may flow of their own accord without lowering the dignity of a wise man, who at the same time keeps his gravity and obeys nature. There is even a certain propriety in weeping, for excessive sorrow is as foolish as unrestrained laughter. Why do we not cry just as much when the trees we took pleasure in shed their leaves, as we do at the loss of our pleasures? The next season restores them, either with the same again or with others in their place. We may accuse Fate, but we cannot change it. It is hard and unmoved, and cannot be shifted by reproaches or by tears. Tears may carry us to the dead, but they can never bring the dead back to us. If reason does not put an end to our sorrows, fortune never will. One man is pinched by poverty. Another is driven by ambition and fears the very wealth he longed for. One is troubled by the loss of children, another by having none. So we will sooner run out of tears than of things to cry about. Let us therefore save our tears, since we have so much occasion for them. I do admit that the very parting of friends brings some uneasiness and trouble. But it is more voluntary than natural, and custom affects us more than real feeling. We impose a sorrow on ourselves rather than submit to one. So people cry when they have company, and when nobody is looking, all is well again. To mourn without measure is folly, and not to mourn at all is lack of feeling. The best temper lies between devotion and reason: to feel, but to be neither carried away nor cast down. The man who can stop his tears and his pleasures whenever he wants is safe. It is equally unhappy to be too soft or too hard. We are overcome by the one, and forced to struggle with the other. There is a certain lack of restraint in a sorrow that goes beyond the rules of modesty. And yet great devotion, in many cases, excuses a lapse in good manners. The loss of a son or of a friend cuts a man to the heart, and there is no resisting the first violence of his passion. But once a man gives himself wholly up to lamentation, he should understand something. Though some tears deserve compassion, others are simply ridiculous. Fresh grief finds pity and comfort. But grief that has become ingrained is laughed at, for it is either fake or foolish. Besides, to weep excessively for the dead is an insult to the living. The most justifiable cause of mourning is to see good men come to bad ends, and virtue crushed by the injustice of Fortune. But in this case too, they either suffer bravely and give us delight in their courage and example, or they suffer meanly and so give us less trouble at their loss. The man who dies cheerfully dries my tears, and the man who dies whining does not deserve them. I would bear the death of friends and children with the same steadiness with which I would await my own. I would no more lament theirs than fear mine. If a man stops to think how often friends have been parted, he will find more time lost among the living than over the dead. The most desperate mourners are those who cared least for their friends while they were alive. Having lacked kindness to the living, they hope to win back their reputation by wild ravings over the dead. Some, I know, hold that grief is only the perverse delight of a restless mind, and that sorrows and pleasures are close kin. And I am confident there are people who find joy even in their tears. But which is more barbarous? To feel no grief at the death of a friend, or to fish for pleasure in grief while a son, perhaps, is burning on the pyre, or a friend is breathing his last? To forget one’s friend, to bury his memory with his body, or to lament beyond measure, is all inhuman. The one who is gone either would not want his friend tormented, or does not know that he is. If he does not feel it, the grief is pointless. If he does, it is unwelcome to him. If reason cannot win us over, reputation may, for excessive mourning lowers a man’s standing. It is shameful for a wise man to let the weariness of grieving be its cure. In time even the most stubborn grief will leave us, if we are not wise enough to leave it 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 do I grieve for my friend’s sake or for my own? Why should I torment myself over the loss of one who is either happy or no longer exists at all? In the first case it is envy, and in the second it is madness. We are apt to say, “What would I give to see him again and enjoy his conversation! I was never sad in his company. My heart leaped whenever I met him. I miss him wherever I go.” All there is to say is, “The greater the loss, the greater the virtue in overcoming it.” If grieving will do no good, it is idle to grieve. And if what has happened to one man awaits everyone, it is just as unjust to complain. The whole world is on the march toward the same point. Why do we not cry for ourselves, who are to follow, as well as for him who has gone first? Why do we not also lament in advance what we know will happen, and cannot possibly fail to happen? He is not gone, but sent ahead. Just as there are many things he has lost, there are many things he no longer fears, such as anger, jealousy, envy, and so on. Is he not happier in desiring nothing than miserable over what he has lost? We do not mourn for the absent. Why then for the dead, who are in effect nothing else? We have lost one blessing, but we have many left. Shall not all these satisfactions support us against 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 a bitterness, that please us. In the same way there is a mixture in remembering friends, where the loss of their company is sweetened again by thinking on their virtues. In some respects I have lost what I had, and in others I still keep what I have lost. It is a poor reading of Providence to think only of my friend being taken away, with no regard for the benefit of his once being given to me. So let us make the most of our friends while we have them, for how long we will keep them is uncertain. I have lost a promising son. But how many fathers have been disappointed in their hopes! And how many noble families have been ruined by luxury and riotous living! The man who grieves for the loss of a son, what if he had lost a friend? And yet the man who has lost a friend has more cause for joy that he once had him than for grief that he is taken away. Shall a man bury his friendship with his friend? We are ungrateful for what is past, in hope of what is to come, as if what is to come would not soon be past too. What is past we are sure of. True, we may get satisfaction both from the future and from what is already past, the one by expectation and the other by memory. Only, the one may possibly never come to pass, and it is impossible to make the other not to have been.
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.