Do not keep on with a mockery of friendship after the substance

In the grave and honest words of William Hazlitt, philosopher and essayist of the nineteenth century, we are given a truth both sorrowful and noble: “Do not keep on with a mockery of friendship after the substance is gone — but part, while you can part friends. Bury the carcass of friendship: it is not worth embalming.” These words strike like the tolling of a bell — mournful, yet cleansing. They call us to the courage of honesty, to the acceptance that even the most cherished bonds, when emptied of their spirit, must be laid to rest with dignity rather than dressed in illusion. Hazlitt reminds us that friendship, like all living things, has its time of birth, of flourishing, and sometimes, of death. To cling to it beyond that life is not loyalty, but deceit — a betrayal of what once was sacred.

Hazlitt, a man of profound intellect and fierce emotion, wrote these words from a lifetime of reflection upon human nature — its warmth and its frailties. His essays often explored the subtleties of love, art, and character, and through them he learned that truth must always stand above sentiment. The mockery of friendship, he warns, is born not from malice but from weakness — the unwillingness to let go of what once nourished us but no longer does. In pretending that a dead bond still lives, we dishonor the purity it once held. Better to bury it with reverence than to parade its corpse beneath the sun.

There is an ancient echo of this wisdom in the story of Brutus and Cassius, the Roman friends who turned upon each other when ambition and distrust shattered their bond. Once united in purpose, they found themselves divided by pride. Their friendship, drained of faith, became a shadow of its former strength. And yet, neither had the grace to part as friends; instead, they carried their resentment until both fell upon their swords. Had they heeded Hazlitt’s counsel — to part while peace remained possible — they might have preserved their honor and memory. The lesson is plain: to end a friendship in truth is to keep its beauty intact; to prolong it in falsehood is to watch it rot.

Bury the carcass of friendship, Hazlitt says — a phrase at once shocking and profound. For he speaks not of cruelty, but of mercy. When a creature dies, we do not keep it at the table out of sentiment; we lay it in the earth, where decay becomes renewal. So too with human bonds. When affection turns to indifference, or understanding to silence, the wise do not cling to what was, but let it pass. In doing so, they make space for new friendships to live, and for memory to remain untainted. To embalm the dead — to preserve the outer form while the spirit has fled — is to build a shrine to emptiness.

The ancients called this act detachment, not as a cold withdrawal, but as an honoring of truth. Even in parting, one may bless the other. The one who says, “Go in peace,” while still holding goodwill, acts not from bitterness but from wisdom. Many friendships die not from hatred but from the quiet erosion of time. Paths diverge, hearts evolve, seasons change. To recognize this without anger is a mark of greatness. It is the difference between a mourning of love and a mockery of affection.

Yet, this teaching is not one of despair. Hazlitt does not tell us to abandon friendship lightly, but to cherish it deeply while it lives — and to release it gracefully when it no longer serves truth. To part as friends, as he writes, is to preserve the essence even as the form dissolves. The one who can say farewell without bitterness proves that they have loved rightly. In such a departure, there is no decay — only transformation. For all that is sincere can never truly die; it changes form and becomes wisdom, gratitude, or peace.

So, O seeker of understanding, remember this: friendship, like fire, must be tended to live and left to die with honor. Do not fan the ashes and call them flame. When warmth has turned to smoke, let go. Speak kindly, forgive, and walk forward. To cling to what is gone is to bind yourself to illusion; to release it is to set both souls free.

And thus, the lesson shines clear as dawn: be truthful in all affections. Love wholly when love is alive; depart gently when it has ended. Do not fear the burial of friendship, for in every honest ending lies the seed of renewal. The heart that knows how to let go with grace will never be empty — it will be vast, and it will be free.