One of the most difficult things a person has to do, who is getting ahead
of the friends of his earlier and less prosperous years in the race of
fortune, is to rid himself of these friends--to get quit of persons whose
want of success in the world renders them no longer fit associates. The
thing is not easily done, for you have to maintain appearances. You have
to repel them gradually and gently, and in such a manner as to be able
to defy them to lay any particular act of rudeness, any positive act
of repulsion, to your charge. To manage the thing adroitly, therefore,
requires some genius and a good deal of tact.
The difficulty of accomplishing this great manœuvre in a prosperous
career, is much increased by the circumstance that as you advance your
ancient cronies throng the thicker and closer around you. They in fact
cling and cluster about you like so many bees, and with impertinent looks
of glee seek to express their satisfaction with your prosperity.
Now, it is a most desirable thing to get quit of these gentry--to have
them brushed off. But it would be rude to do this with the fly-flap
and the strong hand. You must get rid of them by more tact and
management. And after you have got rid of them, that is, driven them
from personal contact as it were, you have to continue to keep them at
a proper distance. No easy matter this, for somehow or other the obtuse
creatures, your poor former acquaintance, will not see, what you see very
distinctly, that you are now quite a superior sort of person to them, and
that they are no longer fit to be ranked amongst your friends. This the
perverse, dull-witted fellows will not see. And, more provoking still,
no degree of advancement in the world on your part, no acquisition of
wealth, will induce one of them, whatever you yourself may think to the
contrary, to contemplate you with a whit more respect than they did when
you were one of themselves. They insist on considering you merely as
having been more fortunate than themselves--not a bit better or a bit
cleverer.
Let us remark here, that the successful in the world are stout deniers of
the doctrine of chances. They maintain that there is no such a thing as
luck; while the unsuccessful, again, are firm believers in the doctrine,
and insist on it that not only is there such a thing as luck, but that
luck is every thing. The successful man’s vanity prompts him to attribute
his prosperity solely to his talents and merit--the unsuccessful
man’s self-love to deny that the want of these qualities has been his
hindrance. Hence the conflicting opinions of the two on this curious
subject. Then, where lies the truth? We suspect between.
From a good deal of experience in the science of “cutting” under the
circumstances alluded to in this paper--we shall not say whether as
cutters or cuttees--we have flattered ourselves that we could throw out a
few hints that might be found useful to gentlemen who are getting on in
the world, and who are desirous of ridding themselves of their earlier
and poorer friends. Under this supposition we offer the few following
remarks:--
For some time after you have started on the prosperous career on which
you have luckily fallen, continue to smile and bow towards your old
friends as formerly; and when you meet them accidentally (let this
be, however, as seldom as you possibly can), shake hands with them as
cordially as ever. You may even venture to remark, accompanying such
remark with an expression of regret, that they are prodigious strangers
now. But this is not quite safe ground, and we by no means advise its
general adoption. Conducting yourself in this way, your old friends will
never suspect that there is already a change working at your heart--a
secret operation as yet known only to yourself.
By and bye, throw the least, the very least thing of distance into your
greeting: let your smile be _apparently_ as cordial as formerly, but let
there now be a slight expression of the slightest degree possible of
coolness, of an indefinable something or other in your general manner of
a repulsive character: take care, however, that it _be_ indefinable--that
it be of a description that cannot be named.
This new feature in your bearing will probably startle the more shrewd
and observant of your former friends: but never mind that--it is
precisely the impression you desire to make. It is even possible that
some of them may express by _their_ manner towards _you_ a feeling of
irritation at your new mode of treating them. Meet it by an expression
of surprise at _their_ conduct, and by increased coolness. There is
now good ground for a quarrel--not open hostility, of course, but the
warfare of distant looks and haughty salutations. Improve it to the
utmost, and wonder what the fellows mean.
Observe that the whole of this nice process of dissolving former
associations is carried on without one angry or offensive word being
said on either side--without the slightest approach to an overt act
of hostility; you, particularly, being as bland as ever. The whole is
effected by look and manner alone.
To the gentleman who is rising in the world there are few things more
offensive than the familiarity of old acquaintanceship when presented
in the shape of notes and letters. Your old friends, still obstinately
overlooking your advancement in the world, will in all probability
continue to write to you when they have occasion to do so, in the
free-and-easy way of former days. They will even sometimes so far forget
themselves and you as to address you in a jocular strain. This must be
instantly put down. Do it by brief and grave replies; take no notice of
their jokes, and never attempt an approach to one in return. This in time
will cure them: if not, you must have recourse to stronger measures. You
must either not answer at all, or administer some decided dampers.
Should any of your former friends seek your patronage--a very probable
case--take an early opportunity, while doing him some trifling service,
of letting him feel sensibly your relative positions, all the while,
however, exhibiting towards him the most friendly dispositions. But
let him ever and anon feel the bit gently--let him feel that he has
got somebody on his back. Begin as soon as possible to lecture him in
a gentle way--all for his own good of course. Your character of patron
gives you a right to do this; and under this guise you can say the most
cutting things to him without affording him the slightest ground for
complaint. Under this guise you can address the most insulting language
to him, and defy him to take it amiss. If he should, however, you can
without any difficulty prove him to be one of the most ungrateful
monsters that ever lived. You were doing all you could for him, and
when you ventured to _advise_ him--having nothing but his own good at
heart--he chose to take offence at you, and to resent the friendly advice
you gave him. Such an ungrateful dog!
As few men can stand such treatment as that above alluded to long, we can
venture to promise you that by a steady course of proceeding in the way
we have pointed out, you will soon clear your hands of your old friends.