IX. On the Separation of Friends by Death. I KNOW, nothing more common, and almost unavoidable, than the disposition of censuring those manners and inclinations in others, which we are sensible would, in our own tempers, be faulty, or which lie cross to the bent of our natural humours: yet I am persuaded, in many of these instances, were we to make but common allowances for the difference of constitution, of situation, of knowledge, and of perception, we should find, according to a good-natured French saying, that tout le monde a raison. That tenderness which we feel for a true friend is, in some minds, so inseparably blended with every idea, that the dearer half of every enjoyment is liable to be torn away at once, and the stroke of a moment shall cast its gloom over the longest years of life. Kindness and gratitude, the very laws of constancy, and the frame of human nature, seem to exact of us this melancholy return, for all that refined and superior happiness, which, in such an union, we have enjoyed. I cannot help imagining, however, that there may be a good deal of reason on the contrary side: and as one never is so sensible of the force of reason, as when it is heightened by the eloquence of some present feeling; so this came most strongly into my head during some solitary hours of illness, that very lately put me in mind of such an eternal separation from my friends. The enjoyments of life, are what, I believe, all persons of serious thought would easily resign for themselves, when they are sure, at the same time, to be freed from its disquiets: but, to think that we may carry away with us into the grave all the joy and satisfaction of those to whom we ever wish the most; and leave them behind us, in a world where every support is wanting, entirely destitute of any (of any such, I mean, as the ordinary methods of Providence have appointed) is the only reflection, which, at such a moment, can disturb the composure of an innocent and religious mind. I do not know how far the pride of giving pain may extend, in some people; but for myself, I protest, that as earnestly as I wish to be remembered with a kind esteem, I could not bear the thought of that remembrance being a painful one. For this reason, I was summoning up in my mind all that might be alleged for what I used to call lightness of temper, and found it much more than I had imagined. Indeed, if the persons we lament were truly dear to us, we ought, for their sakes, to restrain that immoderate sorrow, which, if they could behold it, we are sure that it would be with the utmost concern. This, however, is an argument, that will by no means hold in all cases; but there are others more general. I will not argue that so short a life as ours seems to contradict the idea of eternal attachments; because I cannot help flattering myself that they may be continued and improved through every state of being; but that they ought to be so moderated, as to contradict no purpose of the state we are at present placed in, is a truth that will scarcely be denied. The inferiority of our station, the frailty and imperfection of our nature, make submission to unerring wisdom one of our first duties: and how do we set ourselves up in opposition to it, when, upon withdrawing any one blessing, however kindly to us, we stubbornly determine to shut our minds against every other which it indulgently continues! Yet, after all these considerations, the characters of Arachne and Maria still surpass me, though they no longer give me the disgust they used to do. To hear them talk, with the greatest good nature, of any present object of compassion, otherwise ever so indifferent to them; to see how really they are affected by every little instance of kindness, and how happy they are in every trifling amusement, one would imagine them extremely susceptible of impressions: but then, in the midst of a gay conversation, to hear them run over, without the least emotion, a long list of once intimate friends, and then go on as earnestly about trifles, as if such people had never been-it is impossible not to wonder at their happy constitutions and eternal flow of spirits. When I tell you, I really esteem these women, shall I be reckoned severe, if I say they are ingenious without parts, and good humoured without sentiments ? Theagenes is scarcely less happy in his frame of mind, but more so in his strength of reason. His genius is the most extensive, his imagination the most flowery that can be; and these supply perpetual employments for his mind, diverting it from too deep an attention to melancholy subjects. His temper is really generous and benevolent: this makes him interested in every body's welfare that comes within his reach; and such an activity of mind is the surest food of cheerfulness. As some people are peculiarly turned to amuse themselves with the oddnesses and deformities of nature, Theagenes has an eye for its beauties only: his speculations wander over the great objects of the universe, and find something curious in the detail even of mechanic arts. In characters, he often errs on the favourable side; and, by this means, sometimes loses too much the distinction of different kinds of merit, and subjects himself to a friendly laugh. As he looks upon the world with a philosophic and a grateful eye, he can find something endearing in whatever part cit he is placed; like a strong plant that will take root and flourish in every soil. When one set of acquaintance is swept away by Time, his social temper |