in the garb of mortal flesh?--and do we not know that mortals are
imperfect?--that, however the outside be fair, the interior is corrupt,
and sometimes vile? He who knows all, alone knows how corrupt it is! the
heart itself, enlightened by His grace, is more deeply in the secret
than any without can be; but if the thing we love be mortal, something
of it we must perceive; and more and more of it we must perceive as we
look closer. If this is to disappoint and revolt us, and draw harsh
reproaches and bitter recriminations from our lips, there is but One on
whom we can fix our hearts with safety; and He is one, alas! we show so
little disposition to love, as proves that, with all our complainings
and bewailings of each others' faultiness, our friends are as good as
will, at present, suit us.

But are we, therefore, to say there is no such thing as friendship, or
that it is not worth seeking? morosely repel it, or suspiciously
distrust it? If we do, we shall pay our folly's price in the forfeiture
of that, without which, however we may pretend, we never are or can be
happy; preferring to go without the very greatest of all earthly good,
because it is not what, perhaps, it may be in heaven. Rather than this,
it would be wise so to moderate our expectation, and adapt our conduct,
as to gain of it a greater measure, or, as far as may be possible, to
gather of its flowers without exposing ourselves to be wounded by the
thorns it bears. This is only to be done by setting out in life with
juster feelings and fairer expectations.

It is not true, that friends are few and kindness rare. No one ever
needed friends, and deserved them, and found them not; but we do not
know them when we see them, or deal with them justly when we have them.
We must allow others to be as variable, and imperfect, and faulty, as
ourselves. We do not wish our readers to love their friends less, but to