peth," said the
Master of death and life to a sorrowing man.

For one thing it must mean the hallowing of memory. The eclipse of
love makes the love fairer when the eclipse passes. The loss of the
outward purifies the affection and softens the heart. It brings out
into fact what was often only latent in feeling. Memory adds a tender
glory to the past. We only think of the virtues of the dead: we forget
their faults. This is as it should be. We rightly love the immortal
part of them; the fire has burned up the dross and left pure gold. If
it is idealization, it represents that which will be, and that which
really is.

We do not ask to forget; we do not want the so-called consolations
which time brings. Such an insult to the past, as forgetfulness would
be, means that we have not risen to the possibilities of communion of
spirit afforded us in the present. We would rather that the wound
should be ever fresh than that the image of the dear past should fade.
It would be a loss to our best life if it would fade. There is no
sting in such a faith. Such remembrance as this, which keeps the heart
green, will not cumber the life. True sentiment does not weaken, but
becomes an inspiration to make our life worthy of our love. It can
save even a squalid lot from sordidness; for however poor we may be in
the world's goods, we are rich in happy associations in the past, and
in sweet communion in the present, and in blessed hope for the future.

The Wreck of Friendship

They parted--ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining--
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder,
A dreary sea now rolls between;
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.

COLERIDGE, Christabel.

The Wreck of Friendship

The eclipse of friendship through death is not nearly so sad as the
many ways in which friendship may be wrecked. There are worse losses
than the losses of death; and to bury a friendship is a keener grief
than to bury a friend. The latter softens the heart and sweetens the
life, while the former hardens and embitters. The Persian poet Hafiz
says, "Thou learnest no secret until thou knowest friendship; since to
the unloving no heavenly knowledge enters." But so imperfect are our
human relationships, that many a man has felt that he has