Arizona republican., 1891-11-15

borne it; but it was thou my companon, mine own familiar friend"-there is the sting, there is the injury, for not only have we been wounded to the very quick, but our faith in everything else that we hold as sure and steadfast is shaken, If this one, this man or this woman whom l have loved so dearly, 1 from whom have concealed nothing, but given into their hands the very weapons with which they now stab me so cruelty If this one is false and treacherous why should 1 believe that any other man or woman is true? l knew them, as I thought, so well; confded in them so utterly; l never again can trust any body, not anybody! And drawing the mantle over our heads we shut out the light of day willing that all should be night since our light is turned to dark ness.
 "Et tu quoque, Brutus!" It was great Casar's only lament.
 We all know the story of the man who found tae viper perishing with cold and warmed it in his bosom, until when it needed him no more it turned and stung him. Where lies the point of the story? Is it not that he warmed it close to his own heart' Had it stung him when he first put out his hand toward it there would have been no story. We should have simply said, Well, it is in the na- ture of vipers to sting! What is the wonder of ity'
 But it was after he had given it strength by nourishing it's life with his own vitality that it stung, and here is the touch of human nature that has kept the fable alive from .Esop's day to ours.
 And then treason of this sort finds one so helpless to defend ones self. For our enemies, as l have said, we have weapons, sharp, trenchant, all sufficing to the need. We have proved them and know their power, and smile with vic tors confidence as we grasp them once again. But for our friend! Oh, no, not for this one who has sat hand in hand with us, and listened to our most un-
 
 own! She whom we have clasped to our heart with fondest embrace, and perhaps kissed away the tears of sorrow We vowed to cure; how can we raise our hand against her, no matter how deeply she has sinned against us? She has for gotten all those sacred ties that bound us, but We cannot forget; sweet love and trust lie slain at our feet, but loyalty and honor remain; nobiesse oblige, and we cannot be false to ourselves although the friend we loved has been false to us. The instinct of self defense perhaps car ries our hand to the hilt of the sword, or perhaps to the pen that is mightier than the sword; but the revulsioi comes before the blow is struck, the unnerved hand falls powerless at our side, the sword is sheathed, the pen laid by, and all the revenge our own hearts will let us take is to echo once more the old Roman 'Et tn quoque"
 To my mind the disillusionments of friendships are more cruel than those of love; for, deny it as we may, there is about love an innate sense of insincerity and of transitoriness that breaks if it does not prevent the bangs of disillusion- ment. We know, even when we bid Cupid to make his home in our hearts, to lay aside his wings and nestle upon our hearts, that it is an idle petition; we know from the first that he is
 A creature all too bright and good
 For human natures daily food;
 and although we borrow his own fillet to blind our eyes, and though we swear to ourselves and to him, "We will never change--this story is not, shall not be as other stories" we know that the fiilet will presently drop; we know that grim fate will presently come to whisper in our ears: What! Is it not, must it not be as other stories? Does not your own heart tell you that it is:'
 And we, meekly lowing our heads, our sweet hopes drowned in tears, our roses dropping crushed and withered at our feet, can only murmur, "The old, old story-too bright and good to last"
 Shakespeare says that men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love! and probably he is right, for few men have read the human heart more closely, and although the man or woman who stands beside the dead body of a love that he has nurtured with his own life may feel that the rest of life must go, too, since this is slain, he or she as general thing recovers and goes on again, not quite so blithely, not quite so joyously, but still with feeling that much remains; that life with all it's du- ties, all its pleasures, all its mutual ob- legations, must still be lived with honor and dignity; that sweet, sweet chapter of the story is closed and perhaps for ever, but that there is still good deal of the book to come, and we hope there will be matters of interest yet unguessed.
 But disappointment in friendship is a far more ruinous matter, for it takes hold of our lives at more points; it in- wolves more complications, Friendship is plant of slow growth, and its annals