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; for to accomplish this he must put away the teachings of his editor-in-chief, who has learned four languages in order that he may understand his own, and whose later years have been devoted to the task of instilling in the minds of his subordinates a fitting reverence for the purity and splendor of the anglo-saxon tongue.

it is precious little that the pure, refined young girl cares about good english, and she would be a rare one of her kind if she did not prefer it splattered with hybrid[pg 89] french because it “sounds better.” she has a far higher regard for the author who signs his name to “the paper-hanger’s bride” in the century, or “the dish-washer’s farewell” in the ladies’ home journal, than she has for the reporter who, by sheer force of humor, pathos, and imagination, has raised some trivial city happening to the dignity of a column “story” which becomes a three days’ talk along park row.

that there are women who habitually judge literary matter strictly on its merits, and without regard to the quality of the paper on which it is printed, i will not deny—i am even willing to admit that there are women who will lead trumps at whist—but i most solemnly affirm that the average well-educated, clever reading woman of to-day believes in her secret heart that a magazine story possesses a higher degree of merit than a newspaper sketch because it appears in a magazine,[pg 90] and that the “literary man” who has succeeded in selling enough short stories to the monthlies to enable him to republish them in book form has won for himself a more imposing niche in the temple of fame than should be accorded to the late mr. j. a. macgahan, who was nothing but a newspaper reporter to the time of his death.

a few cases of swelled head resulting from the flattery of women may be mentioned here for the benefit of my imaginary young friend from park row, to whom they should serve as so many awful examples of what may happen to one who deserts the narrow and rugged path of honest literary endeavor for the easy-going drawing-rooms in which “faking” and even literary and artistic theft are looked upon with complacency and tolerance.

about fifteen years ago sundry poems, essays, and short stories, bearing a signature which is almost forgotten now, began[pg 91] to attract the attention of the critical, and before long their author came to be looked upon as one of the most promising and talented young writers in the city. unfortunately for himself, however, his very cleverness and its remarkable precocity proved his ultimate ruin. he was a very young man when he emerged from his native commonplace obscurity and crept, almost unaided, to the very edge of the great white fierce light in whose rays the most ordinary of folks become famous.

and, having reached the outer edge of this brilliant disk of light, he leisurely sate himself down to rest, firmly believing that he was in the very center of it, and that the silly flattery of underbred and half-educated women, and some ridiculous puffery at the hands of time-serving reviewers and paragraphers, were the greenest bays of parnassus. he became thoroughly satisfied with himself and with his work; and the swelled head assumes no more[pg 92] virulent or insidious form than that. he did not become an unpleasant, egotistical nuisance, as many people similarly afflicted do. i cannot remember that he talked very much about himself or his work; he simply agreed with himself that he was the greatest writer of the age, and that he had already achieved fame and glory of the highest sort.

that was not more than a dozen years ago, and at that time his name was on everybody’s lips as the “coming man” of the period. ah me! how many of these “coming” men and women have come and gone along the outer edge of the great white light within my short memory!

in the past six years i have not seen anything from his pen nor heard him spoken of a dozen times. i saw him the other night on third avenue, and if the light from a huge sibilant electric lamp had not shone upon him much more vividly than the great white light of fame[pg 93] ever did, i would never have known him. seedy, abject, repulsive, he seemed fitted for no r?le in life other than that of an “awful example” to accompany one whose profession it is to go about delivering lectures on the evil results of indulgence in swelled head.

in another case of swelled head which has come under my observation, the victim is a woman—rather an unusual thing, for a woman’s vanity is not, as a rule, as deep-seated as a man’s. this woman, whom i will call margaret mealy, and whose real name is well known to thousands of magazine readers, dwells in a pleasant inland town and has for a neighbor an old-time friend and fellow-writer named henry kornkrop. both are graduates of the old ledger school—many a friday morning have they sat side by side on the poets’ bench in the outer office, watching the awful shadow of robert bonner moving to and fro behind the[pg 94] glass partition—and both have been successful, though in widely different ways.

mrs. mealy has made the tastes of mediocre people her life-study, and, as she has never for a single moment lost sight of the great literary principles which she acquired during the period of her apprenticeship, she has continued to keep herself in touch with editorial likes and dislikes, with the result that she is now a regular contributor to the leading magazines, and the author of various short stories and serials of such incredible stupidity that i often wonder what hypnotic or persuasive powers made it possible for her to dispose of them.

her neighbor, henry kornkrop, is a literary worker of another stamp. he goes to work every morning at nine o’clock, and from that hour until noon the click of his type-writer does not cease for a single instant. two hours more in the afternoon complete his day’s stint; and[pg 95] as his contract with his publishers calls for neither punctuation, paragraphs, nor capitals, he is able to turn out a stupendous quantity of fiction from one christmas day to another. he writes over the name of “lady gwendoline dunrivers,” and deals exclusively with aristocratic life and character. many a young shop-girl going down-town in an early elevated train with the latest “lady gwendoline” in her hand has been carried past grand street and awakened with a start from her dream of lord cecil, with his tawny mustache and clear-blue eyes, to find herself at the battery terminus of the road. there is strong meat in henry kornkrop’s work, and his publishers gladly buy every ream that he turns out. in one sense he leads an ideal literary life, with no editors to refuse his work or alter it to suit the tastes of their readers, no vulgar publicity, no adverse criticisms to wound his feelings, and, best of all, no pecuniary care; for the “lady[pg 96] gwendoline” romances bring him in not less than $10,000 a year, which is probably twice as much as mrs. mealy makes.

of course neither of these writers turns out any decent work the year through, if we are to judge them by a respectable literary standard; but it is not easy to determine which of the two is the more culpable—margaret mealy, who puts gas-fitters to sleep, or henry kornkrop, who keeps dish-washers awake. i fancy, however, that there are few of my readers who will disagree with me in my opinion that, of the two, honest henry kornkrop is by far the more successful and prosperous. and yet mrs. mealy made up her mind a few years ago that she really could not afford to be on such familiar terms with the kornkrops—not that mrs. k. was not the very best of women, and henry the most industrious of men—but simply because her position before the world as a literary woman made it necessary for[pg 97] her to be a little particular about her associates.

in other words, the silly flattery of young women in search of autographs, and of mendacious reviewers who have manuscript to dispose of, has been sufficient to upset the mental equilibrium of this most excellent woman and leave her a victim of the swelled head, pitied by all who know her, and by none more than by her old associate of the poets’ bench, henry kornkrop, the modest and gifted author of the “lady gwendoline” romances.

one more instance of swelled head and i am done. the case to which i refer is that of mr. e. f. benson, the author of dodo, who has, i am credibly informed, been so overwhelmed with attentions from women of rank and fashion that his evenings are now fully occupied with social functions and he is unable to attend night-school. this is to be regretted, for mr.[pg 98] benson is by no means devoid of cleverness, and i am sure that in an institution of learning of the kind that i have named he would soon master such mysteries of syntax as the subjunctive mood, and at the same time vastly improve his style by constant study of such masterpieces of simple, direct english as, “ho! the ox does go,” and “lo! i do go up.”