It is often said that it is the duty and privilege of a friend to warn his friend faithfully against his faults.  I believe that this is a wholly mistaken principle.  The essence of the situation is rather a cordial partnership, of which the basis is liberty.  What I mean by liberty is not a freedom from responsibility, but an absence of obligation.  I do not, of course, mean that one is to take all one can get and give as little as one likes, but rather that one must respect one’s friend enough—­and that is implied in the establishment of the relation—­to abstain from directing him, unless he desires and asks for direction.  The telling of faults may be safely left to hostile critics, and to what Sheridan calls “damned good-natured” acquaintances.  But the friend must take for granted that his friend desires, in a general way, what is good and true, even though he may pursue it on different lines.  One’s duty is to encourage and believe in one’s friend, not to disapprove of and to censure him.  One loves him for what he is, not for what he might be if he would only take one’s advice.  The point is that it must be all a free gift, not a mutual improvement society—­unless indeed that is the basis of the compact.  After all, a man can only feel responsible to God.  One goes astray, no doubt, like a sheep that is lost; but it is not the duty of another sheep to butt one back into the right way, unless indeed one appeals for help.  One may have pastors and directors, but they can never be equal friends.  If there is to be superiority in friendship, the lesser must willingly crown the greater; the greater must not ask to be crowned.  The secure friendship is that which begins in comradeship, and moves into a more generous and emotional region.  Then there is no need to demand or to question loyalty, because the tie has been welded by many a simple deed, many a frank word.  The ideal is a perfect frankness and sincerity, which lays bare the soul as it is, without any false shame or any fear of misunderstanding.  A friendship of this kind can be one of the purest, brightest, and strongest things in the world.  Yet how rare it is!  What far oftener happens is that two people, in a sensitive and emotional mood, are brought together.  They begin by comparing experiences, they search their memories for beautiful and suggestive things, and each feels, “This nature is the true complement of my own; what light it seems to shed on my own problems; how subtle, how appreciative it is!” Then the process of discovery begins.  Instead of the fair distant city, all spires and towers, which we discerned in the distance in a sort of glory, we find that there are crooked lanes, muddy crossings, dull market-places, tiresome houses.  Odd misshapen figures, fretful and wearied, plod through the streets or look out at windows; here is a ruin, with doleful creatures moping in the shade; we overturn a stone, and blind uncanny things writhe away from the light.  We begin to reflect that