It seems to me that so long as a literary man can hold a pen in his hand there is no danger of his going to the poorhouse; for when he becomes too old to give satisfaction as a reporter, or too prosy and stupid to write essays on “The Probable Outcome of the Briggs Controversy” for the religious journals, he can always find a purchaser for a series of Letters to a Young Man on the Threshold of Life, and the sillier the letters the greater will be their success.
I have read dozens of books of this sort, and have often wondered at the uniform[Pg 79] ignorance and stupidity which characterized them. There was a time when I wondered who bought these books, for no young man on the threshold of life would be seen reading one of them. I know now that they are not written to suit the tastes of the young men themselves, but of the old grannies who will buy one at Christmas-time as a present for Bob or Tom or Bill.
They are compiled either by literary hacks, enfeebled clergymen, or women of limited intelligence, and they are artfully designed to ensnare the fancy of the simple-minded, the credulous, and the good. I have noticed that those which are plentifully supplied with texts from Holy Writ command the largest sale, provided, of course, the texts are printed in italics.
I believe that books of this description belong to what is known technically as the “awakening” class—that is to say, they are supposed to awaken a young man[Pg 80] to a sense of his own spiritual degradation. I cannot answer for their effect on very young men, but I do know that they awaken nothing in my heart but feelings of uproarious hilarity; for I well remember how the merry Bohemians who enriched the literature of the Ledger age with their contributions turned many an honest dollar by means of these admonitory letters, and not one of these priceless essays but contained its solemn preachment on the advantages to be derived from the companionship of good, pure women. But never a word was uttered in regard to the bad influence of good women.
Indeed, I can fancy nothing that would have been less in harmony with a literary spirit which denied recognition to stepmothers, fast horses, and amatory cousins than a vivid bit of realism of that sort; and as for the succeeding age, was not the good Dr. Holland himself the author of[Pg 81] the famous Timothy Titcomb Papers? It is even too bald a bit of truth for the more enlightened Johnsonian period in which we live. Nevertheless the recording angel has a heavy score rolled up against the sex which it was once the chivalrous fashion to liken to the clinging vine, but which, as some of us know, can clutch as well as cling—a sex which continues to distil the most deadly and enervating of intoxicants, the flattery of tongue and eye, by the same process that was known to Delilah and to Helen of Troy.
But although the latter-day process of distillation is undoubtedly the same that was employed in centuries long gone by the effects of the poison are by no means the same now that they were then. In the Homeric age it sent a man forth to do valiant if unnecessary deeds; but in the present era it slowly but surely robs the young writer of his originality, undermines[Pg 82] his reputation, nips all healthy ambition in the bud, and leaves him a stranded wreck of whom men say contemptuously as they pass by: “Bad case of the Swelled Head.” It may happen that some more thoughtful of the passers-by will have the grace to put the blame where it belongs by adding: “That young fellow was doing very well two years ago, and we all thought he was going to amount to something; but he fell in with a lot of silly women who flattered him and told him he was the greatest writer in the world. They swelled his head so that he could not write at all, and now he’s of no use to himself or any one else.”
But although these poor stranded human wrecks may be encountered in every large community I have yet to find a writer of advice to young men with sufficient courage, veracity, and conscience to utter a word of warning against the poison to which so many owe their fall.
[Pg 83]In order that I may make clear my meaning in regard to the evil influences of good women let us imagine the unheard-of case of a young man who actually reads one of these books of advice to young men on life’s threshold, and is sufficiently influenced by its teachings to seek the sort of female companionship which he is told will prove of such enduring benefit to him. This young man, we will say, is beginning his literary career in the very best possible way, as a reporter on a great morning newspaper. He is not a “journalist,” nor a compiler of “special stories” (which the city editor always takes special pains to crowd out), nor is he “writing brevier” or “doing syndicate work.” He is just a plain reporter of the common or garden kind; and very glad he is to be one, too, for he and his fellows know that the reporter wields the most influential pen in America in the present year of grace.
[Pg 84]And every day this young man adds some new experience to the store of worldly knowledge which will be his sole capital in the profession which he has chosen. To-day the task of reporting the strike at the thread-mills gives him an insight into the condition of the working-classes such as was never possessed by the wiseacres who write so learnedly in the great quarterlies about the relation of labor to capital. To-morrow he will go down the Bay to interview some incoming foreign celebrity, and next week will find him in a distant city reporting a great criminal trial which engrosses the attention of the whole country. He is working hard and making a fair living, and, best of all, he is making steady progress every day in the profession of writing.
It is in the midst of this healthy, engrossing, and instructive life that he pauses to listen to the admonitory words of the Rev. Dr. Stuffe:
[Pg 85]“Young man on life’s threshold, seek the companionship of good women. Go into the society of cultivated and thoughtful people. You will be all the better for it!”
Whereupon the young man arrays himself in the finest attire at his command and goes up-town to call on certain family friends whom he has not seen for some years past. Within a short time he finds himself a regular frequenter of receptions, kettledrums, and evening parties, with dinners looming up on the horizon. He meets a number of charming young women, and cannot help noticing that they prefer his society to that of the other young men whom they know. These other young men are richer, better dressed, and, in many instances, better looking than our young friend from Park Row, but what does all that count for in the face of the fact that he has often been behind the scenes at the Metropolitan Opera-house,[Pg 86] and is personally acquainted with Ada Rehan or Ellen Terry?
He thinks that Dr. Stuffe was right when he advised him to go into society, and already he feels sure that he is deriving great benefit from it. But what he mistakes for a healthful stimulant is, in reality, the insidious poison against which the Reverend Stuffe has never a word of warning said; and, unless our young friend be strong enough to flee from it in time, he will find his feet straying from the rugged path which leads to true literary success, and which he has up to this moment been treading bravely and with ever-increasing self-confidence and knowledge.
“And so you’re really a literary man! How nice that must be! Do tell me what nom de plume you write under!” some lovely girl will say to him, and then he will answer meekly that he does not sign either his name or his nom de plume, because[Pg 87] he is working on a daily paper—if he has a mind as strong as Daniel Webster’s he will say that he is a reporter—and then some of the light will fade out of the young girl’s deep-blue eyes, and she will say “Oh!” and perhaps ask him if he doesn’t think Mr. Janvier’s story about the dead Philadelphia cat the funniest thing that he’s seen in a long while. Then she will ask him compassionately why he does not write for the magazines like that delightful Mr. Inkhorn, who sometimes goes down on the Bowery with two detectives, and sits up as late as half-past eleven. Has he read Mr. Inkhorn’s story, “Little Willie: A Tale of Mush and Milk”? It’s perfectly delightful, and shows such a wonderful knowledge of New York!
At this point I would advise my young friend from Park Row to put cotton in his ears or turn the conversation into some other channel, because if the sweet young girl prattles on much longer he will find[Pg 88] that her literary standards of good and bad are very different from those of his editor-in-chief, whom he has been trying so hard to please, and of the clever, hard-working and hard-thinking young men with whom he is associated in both work and play. If she can inspire him with a desire to please her, he will have cause to bitterly regret the day that he first sought her society in obedience to the suggestion of Dr. Stuffe; fo............