his apotheosis of him." "It is the merit and preservation of friendship
that it takes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the
parties would seem to warrant." This is to put friendship on a pedestal
indeed; and yet the root of the matter is there; and the last sentence,
in particular, is like a light in a dark place, and makes many mysteries
plain. We are different with different friends; yet if we look closely
we shall find that every such relation reposes on some particular
apotheosis of oneself; with each friend, although we could not
distinguish it in words from any other, we have at least one special
reputation to preserve: and it is thus that we run, when mortified, to
our friend or the woman that we love, not to hear ourselves called
better, but to be better men in point of fact. We seek this society to
flatter ourselves with our own good conduct. And hence any falsehood in
the relation, any incomplete or perverted understanding, will spoil even
the pleasure of these visits. Thus says Thoreau again: "Only lovers know
the value of truth." And yet again: "They ask for words and deeds, when
a true relation is word and deed."

But it follows that since they are neither of them so good as the other
hopes, and each is, in a very honest manner, playing a part above his
powers, such an intercourse must often be disappointing to both. "We may
bid farewell sooner than complain," says Thoreau, "for our complaint is
too well grounded to be uttered." "We have not so good a right to hate
any as our friend."

"It were treason to our love
And a sin to God above,
One iota to abate
Of a pure, impartial hate."

Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. "O yes, believe me," as the song
says, "Love has eyes!" The nearer the intimacy, the more cuttingly do we
feel the unworthiness of those we love; and because you love one, and
would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, and you never
will forgive, that friend's misconduct. If you want a person's faults,
go to those who love him. They will not tell you, but they know. And
herein lies the magnanimous courage of love, that it endures this
knowledge without change.

It required a cold, distant personality like that of Thoreau, perhaps,
to recognise and certainly to utter this truth; for a more human love
makes it a point of honour not to acknowledge those faults of which it
is most conscious. But his point of view is both high and dry. He has