All Men Are
Dreaming Of It, And Its Drama, Which Is Always A Tragedy, Is
Enacted Daily.
It is the secret of the universe.
You may thread
the town, you may wander the country, and none shall ever speak
of it, yet thought is everywhere busy about it, and the idea of
what is possible in this respect affects our behavior toward all
new men and women, and a great many old ones. Nevertheless, I
can remember only two or three essays on this subject in all
literature. No wonder that the Mythology, and Arabian Nights,
and Shakespeare, and Scott's 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?
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