all manner of abuse heaped on you and your forbears to the remotest generation—a ceremony that in Africa follows the election, but is 'preliminary to the crowning,' but in this country is preliminary to the election—but if you can make up your mind to pass through this ordeal, well and good—but don't throw in the heart.... Yet in games on which is staked all that is worth playing for, 'hearts are trumps;' and he who holds the lowest card, stands a better chance of winning than he who has none, though in his hand may be all the aces of the others, diamonds included. But, lest I go too far beyond the analogy—as I might ignorantly do, being unskilled in the many games of cards—I will drop the figurative.... Keep your heart for faith, love, friendship, for God, your country, and truth. And where the heart is given, it should be unreservedly. Its allegiance is too often withheld where it is due, yet this is better than a half-way loyalty; there should be no if, followed by self-interest.... The seal of confederate nobles, opposed to some measures of Peter IV. of Aragon, 'represents the king sitting on his throne, with the confederates kneeling in a suppliant attitude, around, to denote their loyalty and unwillingness to offend. But in the back-ground, tents and lines of spears are discovered, as a hint of their ability and resolution to defend themselves.' … This kind of allegiance no true heart will ever give.
I take it for granted that you have a heart—not merely anatomically speaking, an organ to circulate the blood, but a something that prompts you to love, to self-sacrifice, to scorn of meanness, and, it may be, to good, honest hatred. All metals can be separated from their ores; but meanness is inseparable from some natures, so it is impossible to hate the sin without hating the sinner; we can't, indeed, conceive of it in the abstract. I don't mean hate in a malignant sense—here I may as well express my scorn of that sly hatred that is too cowardly to knock a man down, but quietly trips him up.
It is well enough for those who think that 'life is a jest,' (and a bitter, sarcastic one it must be to them,) to mock at all nobler feelings and sentiments of the heart. None do they more contemn than friendship. I would not 'sit in the seat' of these 'scornful,' however they may have found false friends. Yet every man capable of a genuine friendship himself, will in this world find at least one true friend. Oxygen, which comprises one fifth of the atmosphere, is said to be highly magnetic; and any ordinary, healthy soul can extract magnetism enough from the very air he breathes to draw at least one other soul. Some people have an amazing power of absorption and retention of this magnetism. You feel irresistibly drawn toward them—and it is all right, for they are noble, true souls. There is a great difference between their attractive force and that kind of 'power of charming' innocence that villainy often has—just as I once saw a cat charm a bird, which circled nearer and nearer till it almost brushed the cat's whiskers—and had he not been chased away, he would have that day daintily lunched—and there would have been one songster less to join in that evening's vespers.
False–s there are—I will not call them false friends—this noun should never follow that adjective. To what shall I liken them—to the young gorilla, that even while its master is feeding it, looks trustingly in his face and thrusts forth its paw to tear him? Who blames the gorilla? Torn from its dam, caged or chained, it owes its captor a grudge. To the serpent? The story of the warming of the serpent in the man's bosom, is a mere fable. No man was ever fool enough to warm a serpent in his bosom. And the serpent never crosses the path of man if he can help it. The most deadly is that which is too sluggish to get out of his way—therefore bites in self-defense. And the serpent generally gives some warning hiss, or a rattle. Indeed, almost every animal gives warning of its foul intent. The shark turns over before seizing its prey. But the false friend (I am obliged to couple these words) takes you in without changing his side.... In truth, a man, if he has a vice, be it treachery or any other, goes a little beyond the other animals, even those of which it is characteristic. We say, for instance, of a treacherous man, He is a serpent; but it would be hyperbole to call a serpent a treacherous man.
But these false friends, who deceive you out of pure malignity, who would rather injure you than not, who, perhaps, have an old, by you long-forgotten, grudge, and become your apparent friends to pay you back—these are few. Human nature, with all its depravity, is seldom so completely debased. But there are many who are only selfishly your friends. When you most need their friendship, where is it? When some great calamity sweeps over you, and, bowed and weakened, you would lean on this friendship, though it were but a 'broken reed,' you stretch forth your hand—feel but empty space.
Then there are some who let go the hand of a friend because they feel sure of him, to grasp the extended hand of a former enemy. Politicians, especially, do this. An enemy can not so easily be transformed into a friend. As in those paintings of George III., on tavern-signs, after the Revolution changed to George Washington, there will still be the same old features.... The opposite of this is what every generous nature has tried. To revive a dying friendship, this is impossible. If you find yourself losing your friendship for a person, there must be some reason for it. If the former dear name is becoming indistinct on the tablet of your heart, the attempt to re-write it will entirely obliterate it. It is said that a sure way to obliterate any writing, is to attempt to re-write it.... But it is not true that 'hot love soon cools.' With all my faults—and to say that I am an O'Molly is to admit that I have faults, and I am not sure that I would wish to be without them. To speak paradoxically, a fault in some cases does better than a virtue—as on some organs 'the wrong note in certain passages has a better effect than the right.' But, as I was saying, with all my faults, I have never yet changed toward a friend; I will not admit even to the ante-chamber of my heart a single thought untrue to my friend. Though it is true my friends are so few that I could more than count them on my fingers, had I but one hand.... And these few friends—what shall I say of them? They have become so a part of my constant thoughts and feelings, so a part of myself, that I can not project them—if I may so speak—from my own interior self, so as to portray them. Have you not such friends? Are there none whom to love has become so a habit of your life that you are almost unconscious of it—that you hardly think of it, any more than you think—'I breathe'?
There is probably no one who has not some time in his or her life felt the dreariness of fancied friendliness. I can recall in my own experience at least one time when this dreary feeling came over me. It was during a twilight walk home from a visit. I can convey to you no idea of the utter loneliness of the unloved feeling; it seemed that not even the love of God was mine, or if it was, there was not individuality enough in it; it was so diffused; this one, whom I disliked—that insignificant person, might share in it. I know not how long I indulged in these thoughts, with my eyes on the ground, or seeing all things 'as though I saw them not,' but when I did raise them to take cognizance of any thing, there was, a few degrees above the horizon, the evening star; it shone as entirely on me as though it shone on me exclusively. It is thus, I thought, with His love; thus it melts into each individual soul. Such gentle thoughts as these, long after the star had sunk behind the western mountains, were a calm light in my soul. And I awoke the next morning, the old cheerful
VI
I have often thought what splendid members of the diplomatic corps women would make, especially married women. As much delicate management is required of them, they have as much financiering to do as any minister plenipotentiary of them all. Let a woman once have an object in view, and 'o'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense or rare; with head, hands, or feet, she pursues her way, and swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies;' but she attains her object.
You poor, hood-winked portion of humanity—man—you think you know woman; that she 'can't pull the wool over your eyes.' Just take a retrospective view. Did your wife ever want any thing that she didn't somehow get it? Whether a new dress, or the dearest secret of your soul, she either, Delilah-like, wheedled it out of you, or, in a passion, you almost flung it at her, as an enraged monkey flings cocoa-nuts at his tormentor.
And how she has changed your habits, has turned the course of your life, made it flow in the channel she wished, instead of, as heretofore, 'wandering at its own sweet will,' as the gently-winding but useless brook has been converted into a mill-race.
There is Mr. Jones. Before he married, as free and easy a man as ever smoked a meerschaum. Mrs. Jones is considered