s
not half such a bad thing as this age seems to think; it may be overdone,
but so may its opposite. Why should we not give our friend the pleasure of
this or that acknowledgment of her powers, which a stranger would give
her, but which she would value far more from us, even though she "knows we
know" it? Saying those things makes the wheels of life's chariot run
smoothly,--we think them, why are we so slow to say them? Why should "the
privilege of a friend" be synonymous with a cutting remark? Why should we
all have reason to feel that "friend" might, without any violation of
truth, be substituted for the last word in that acute remark on the "fine
frankness about unpleasant truths which marks the relative"? Well might
Bob Jakes say, "Lor, miss, it's a fine thing to hev' a dumb brute fond o'
yer! it sticks to yer and makes no jaw." This question of making no "jaw"
is rather a vexed one. Most people's experience would lead them to attend
to a canny Dutch proverb, which observes that a "friend's" faults may be
noticed but not blamed: since the consequences of blaming them are mostly
unpleasant; but a braver proverb says, "A true friend dares sometimes
venture to be offensive;" and we read that it is our duty to "admonish a
friend; it may be that he hath not said it, and, if he have, that he speak
it not again." But this earnest remonstrance which is sometimes required
of us is very different from the small, nagging, and somewhat impertinent
criticisms which pass so freely between many friends. But defending an
absent friend is not the only point of honour essential in true
friendship. At the present time the Roman virtues seem somewhat at a
discount,--they are suspected of a flavour of Paganism; it is more in
accordance with the Genius of our Age to show our interest in our friend
by talking over his moral and spiritual condition (and _par parenthese_,
all his other affairs) with a sympathizing circle, than to heed the
old-fashioned idea, "He that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the
matter." How often do we hear, "I wouldn't, for the world, tell any one
but you, but--;" and then follows a string of repeated confidences which
the friend under discussion would writhe to hear; yet the speaker would be
most indignant at being considered dishonourable, because "it was only
said to So-and-so, which is _so_ different from saying it to any one
else"! The Son of Sirach made no exception in favour of "So-and-so" when
he said, "Re