novels entertain us,—­we are poets and fablers and dramatists and novelists ourselves.  We are continually acting a part in a more interesting drama than any written.  We are dreaming that our Friends are our Friends , and that we are our Friends’ Friends.  Our actual Friends are but distant relations of those to whom we are pledged.  We never exchange more than three words with a Friend in our lives on that level to which our thoughts and feelings almost habitually rise.  One goes forth prepared to say, “Sweet Friends!” and the salutation is, “Damn your eyes!” But never mind; faint heart never won true Friend.  O my Friend, may it come to pass once, that when you are my Friend I may be yours.

Of what use the friendliest dispositions even, if there are no hours given to Friendship, if it is forever postponed to unimportant duties and relations?  Friendship is first, Friendship last.  But it is equally impossible to forget our Friends, and to make them answer to our ideal.  When they say farewell, then indeed we begin to keep them company.  How often we find ourselves turning our backs on our actual Friends, that we may go and meet their ideal cousins.  I would that I were worthy to be any man’s Friend.

What is commonly honored with the name of Friendship is no very profound or powerful instinct.  Men do not, after all, love their Friends greatly.  I do not often see the farmers made seers and wise to the verge of insanity by their Friendship for one another.  They are not often transfigured and translated by love in each other’s presence.  I do not observe them purified, refined, and elevated by the love of a man.  If one abates a little the price of his wood, or gives a neighbor his vote at town-meeting, or a barrel of apples, or lends him his wagon frequently, it is esteemed a rare instance of Friendship.  Nor do the farmers’ wives lead lives consecrated to Friendship.  I do not see the pair of farmer Friends of either sex prepared to stand against the world.  There are only two or three couples in history.  To say that a man is your Friend, means commonly no more than this, that he is not your enemy.  Most contemplate only what would be the accidental and trifling advantages of Friendship, as that the Friend can assist in time of need, by his substance, or his influence, or his counsel; but he who foresees such advantages in this relation proves himself blind to its real advantage, or indeed wholly inexperienced in the relation itself.  Such services are particular and menial, compared with the perpetual and all-embracing service which it is.  Even the utmost good-will and harmony and practical kindness are not sufficient for Friendship, for Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but in melody.  We do not wish for Friends to feed and clothe our bodies,—­neighbors are kind enough for that,—­but to do the like office to our spirits.  For this few are rich enough, however well disposed they may be.  For the most part we stupidly confound one man with another.  The dull distinguish only races or nations, or at most classes, but the wise man, individuals.  To his Friend a man’s peculiar character appears in every feature and in every action, and it is thus drawn out and improved by him.