THIS NEXT WEEK'S FRIENDLINESS I LIKE the grand old Saxon word friendli ness. It carries with it the savor of all things sweet and gracious. It stands for that delicate touch of life upon life whereby the sorrow and woe of the world are assuaged and men are lifted into nobleness. I know two young children whose one criterion of strangers, be they of the human or of the brute creation, is, "Are they friendly?" That is the first thing they want to find out about a new acquaintance and other considerations take a subordinate place. How many persons lack just this crowning virtue! They are amiable and respectable. They won't lie or steal. But you would never think of going to them with your burden, and it is difficult to imagine them interesting themselves in other persons when such interest involves any sacrifice of time or ease. And we know other persons like the late Prof. Henry Drummond, for instance, whose very presence radiates friendliness. It distils from the tips of their fingers, it sounds in the tones of their voices; it seems to be the atmosphere by which they are constantly surrounded. The trouble with non-friendly people is not antipathy to their kind, but they have walled themselves away from their fellow men, and in doing so they have not only stopped the flow of good-will from outsiders into their own lives, but they have dammed the stream of kindness that might otherwise issue from them to the refreshment of others. You cannot get within a thousand miles of the inmost lives of these persons. Even with a smiling exterior they constantly disappoint you and frequently irritate you, for you know if you could only once get at them their virtue would do you good. But the citadel of their hearts can only be carried by a long and vigorous assault. You must cross the drawbridge and batter down a number of heavy doors before you can really get at them. But friendliness is outgoing and outreaching. It does not dwell behind barred gates. Neither is it officious or inquisitive. It is simply the effluence of a spirit sensitive to the needs of men, eager to give help and sympathy. A minister's wife was commended to me the other day as possessing in a rare de gree this quality. "She is not such a master hand at prayer-meetings," said my informant, “but she does carry on her heart the Christian welfare of every person in the parish." What a change it would make in this big, fevered world if friendliness were the characteristic mark of persons as they met with and dealt with one another! The opposite attitude is painfully prevalent. We cannot remedy the situation all at once, but we can, beginning where we are, strive to be friendly, the mistress with her cook, the master with his coachman, the teacher with his pupil, the neighbor with his neighbor, the parent with his child and the child with his parent, the clerk with his employer and the employer with his clerk. Only we must plan for it. Why not block out the program of the coming week with a view to friendliness? You can show it in places where you have not hitherto conspicuously displayed it. It may hurt your pride to do so and it may call for some heroic effort. But you will be rewarded over and over again, for it has been well said by a sage of former time, "A man to have friends must show himself friendly." WHEN IS A MAN OLD? HEN is a man old? This seems to WHE be one of the burning questions of the day. The facetious Mrs. Partington answered it some time ago, by remarking that she did not consider any one old until he became an octagon or a centurion; or, perchance, might have outlived the use of his factories and become idiomatic. The old lady got her words badly mixed, as she was in the habit of doing; but there was at least a glimmer of good sense in what she said. If it is true that "We live in deeds, not years: in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial,” we have no business to affix the epithet "old" to some men because they are forty, or sixty, or even eighty. Here comes a youth down the street, hardly out of his teens. He is faultlessly dressed, has the entrée of the best clubs and social circles, has been abroad several times. You would judge from a casual glance at him that he was in the heyday of his youth. But wait until you know him better. You will find that the adjective blasé fits him exactly. He has been surfeited with the sweets of life; he has dipped into everything that is going. Alas, he has altogether too much knowledge of the seamy side of life; he has no ambition and few expectations. Here comes another man down the street. His head is white with the snows of many winters, but his form is erect; his face is beaming with kindness and good-will; his heart is young. The world opens itself freshly to him with each new dawn. He has the sense of wonder and anticipation which we associate with little children. He has had his share of struggle, disappointment, and sorrow, but he has kept his faith in God and his fellows. Now, why should you call him old and the victim of ennui young? Or, if you would thus characterize either, why not specify exactly what you mean by the use of terms which, if not clearly defined, carry with them an undue measure either of commendation or opprobrium. What shall we do with the old men? A great physician rises up and declares that they ought to be retired from responsible positions. His dictum starts the pen of the |