you have taken the measure of a man, when you have
sounded him and know that you can not wade in him more than ankle-deep,
when you have got out of him all that he has to yield for your soul's
sustenance and strength, what is the next thing to be done? Obviously,
pass him on; and turn you "to fresh woods and pastures new." Do you work
him an injury? By no means. Friends that are simply glued on, and don't
grow out of, are little worth. He has nothing more for you, nor you for
him; but he may be rich in juices wherewithal to nourish the heart of
another man, and their two lives, set together, may have an endosmose
and exosmose whose result shall be richness of soil, grandeur of growth,
beauty of foliage, and perfectness of fruit, while you and he would only
have languished into aridity and a stunted crab-tree.

For my part, I desire to sweep off my old friends with the old year, and
begin the new with a clean record. It is a measure absolutely necessary.
The snake does not put on his new skin over the old one. He sloughs off
the first, before he dons the second. He would be a very clumsy serpent,
if he did not. One can not have successive layers of friendships any
more than the snake has successive layers of skins. One must adopt some
system to guard against a congestion of the heart from plethora of
loves. I go in for the much-abused, fair-weather, skin-deep,
April-shower friends,--the friends who will drop off, if let alone,--who
must be kept awake to be kept at all,--who will talk and laugh with you
as long as it suits your respective humors and you are prosperous and
happy,--the blessed butterfly-race, who flutter about your June
mornings, and when the clouds lower, and the drops patter, and the rains
descend, and the winds blow, will spread their gay wings and float
gracefully away to sunny, southern lands, where the skies are yet blue
and the breezes violet-scented. They are not only agreeable, but deeply
wise. So long as a man keeps his streamer flying, his sails set, and his
hull above water, it is pleasant to paddle alongside; but when the sails
split, the yards crack, and the keel goes staggering down, by all means
paddle off. Why should you be submerged in his whirlpool? Will he drown
any more easily because you are drowning with him? Lung is lung. He dies
from want of air, not from want of sympathy. When a poor fellow sits
down among the ashes, the best thing his friends can do is to stand afar
off. Job bore