In the first place, we are mistaken in our expectations that friendship
should be disinterested. It neither is, nor can be. It may be so in
action, but never in the sentiment; there is always an equivalent to be
returned. And if we examine the movements of our own hearts, we must be
sure this is the case; and yet, we are so unreasonable as to expect our
friends should be purely disinterested; and, after having secured their
affections, we neglect to pay the price, and expect they should be
continued to us for nothing. We grow careless of pleasing them;
inconsiderate of their feelings, and heedless of the government of our
own temper towards them; and then we complain of inconstancy, if they
like us not so well as when dressed out in our best for the reception of
their favor. Yet it is, in fact, we that are changed, not they.

Another fruitful source of disappointment in our attachments is, that
while we are much more quick in detecting the faults of others than our
own, we absurdly require that every one should be faultless but
ourselves. We do not say that we expect this in our friends; but we do
expect it, and our conduct proves that we expect it. We begin also with
believing it. The obscurities of distance; the vail that the proprieties
of society casts over nature's deformities; the dazzling glitter of
exterior qualities baffle, for a time, our most penetrating glances, and
the imperfect vision seems all that we should have it. Our inexperienced
hearts, and some indeed that should be better taught, fondly believe it
to be all it seems, and begin their attachment in full hope to find it
so. What wonder then that the bitterest disappointment should ensue,
when, on more close acquaintance, we find them full of imperfections,
perhaps of most glaring faults; and we begin to express disgust,
sometimes even resentment, that they are not what we took them for.

But was this their fault, or ours? Did they not present themselves to us