ife, a thing apart. The community of human life is
being emphasized to-day, and it is a lesson which bears and needs
repetition, the lesson of our common ties and common duties. But at
the same time we dare not lose sight of the fact of the singleness of
human life, if for no other reason than that, otherwise we have no
moral appeal to make on behalf of those ties and duties. In the region
of morals, in dealing with sin, we see how true this solitude is.
There may be what we can truly call social and national sins, and men
can sin together, but in its ultimate issue sin is individual. It is a
disintegrating thing, separating a man from his fellows, and separating
him from God. We are alone with our sin, like the Ancient Mariner with
the bodies of his messmates around him, each cursing him with his eye.
In the last issue, there is nothing in the universe but God and the
single human soul. Men can share the sinning with us; no man can share
the sin. "And the sin ye do by two and two, ye must pay for one by
one." Therefore in this sphere of morals there must be limits to
friendship, even with the friend who is as our own soul.

Friendship is a very real and close thing. It is one of the greatest
joys in life, and has noble fruits. We can do much for each other:
there are burdens we can share: we can rejoice with those who do
rejoice, and weep with those who weep. Through sympathy and love we
are able to get out of self; and yet even here there are limits. Our
helplessness in the presence of grief proves this fundamental
singleness of human life. When we stand beside a friend before the
open grave, under the cloud of a great sorrow, we learn how little we
can do for him. We can only stand speechless, and pray that the great
Comforter may come with His own divine tenderness and enter the
sanctuary of sorrow shut to feet of flesh. Mourners have indeed been
soothed by a touch, or a look, or a prayer, which had their source in a
pitiful human heart, but it is only as a message of condolence flashed
from one world to another. There is a burden which every man must
bear, and none can bear for him: for there is a personality which, even
if we would, we cannot unveil to human eyes. There are feelings sacred
to the man who feels. We have to "dree our own weird," and live our
own life, and die our own death.

In the time of desolation, when the truth of this solitude is borne in
on us, we are left to ourselves, not