indulging a fancy of mine about the Man who is to sit at the foot of
the monument for one； or it may be two or three thousand years。 As
long as the monument stands and there is a city near it； there will
always be a man to take the names of visitors and extract some small
tribute from their pockets； I suppose。 I sometimes get thinking of
the long； unbroken succession of these men； until they come to look
like one Man； continuous in being； unchanging as the stone he
watches； looking upon the successive generations of human beings as
they come and go； and outliving all the dynasties of the world in all
probability。 It has come to such a pass that I never speak to the
Man of the Monument without wanting to take my hat off and feeling as
if I were looking down a vista of twenty or thirty centuries。
The 〃Man of Letters；〃 so called； said； in a rather contemptuous way；
I thought； that he had n't got so far as that。 He was n't quite up
to moral reflections on toll…men and ticket…takers。 Sentiment was
n't his tap。
He looked round triumphantly for a response： but the Capitalist was a
little hard of hearing just then； the Register of Deeds was browsing
on his food in the calm bovine abstraction of a quadruped； and paid
no attention； the Salesman had bolted his breakfast； and whisked
himself away with that peculiar alacrity which belongs to the retail
dealer's assistant； and the Member of the Haouse； who had sometimes
seemed to be impressed with his 〃tahlented mahn's〃 air of superiority
to the rest of us； looked as if he thought the speaker was not
exactly parliamentary。 So he failed to make his point； and reddened
a little； and was not in the best humor； I thought； when he left the
table。 I hope he will not let off any of his irritation on our poor
little Scheherezade； but the truth is； the first person a man of this
sort （if he is what I think him） meets； when he is out of humor； has
to be made a victim of； and I only hope our Young Girl will not have
to play Jephthah's daughter。
And that leads me to say； I cannot help thinking that the kind of
criticism to which this Young Girl has been subjected from some
person or other； who is willing to be smart at her expense； is
hurtful and not wholesome。 The question is a delicate one。 So many
foolish persons are rushing into print； that it requires a kind of
literary police to hold them back and keep them in order。 Where
there are mice there must be cats； and where there are rats we may
think it worth our while to keep a terrier； who will give them a
shake and let them drop； with all the mischief taken out of them。
But the process is a rude and cruel one at best； and it too often
breeds a love of destructiveness for its own sake in those who get
their living by it。 A poor poem or essay does not do much harm after
all； nobody reads it who is like to be seriously hurt by it。 But a
sharp criticism with a drop of witty venom in it stings a young
author almost to death； and makes an old one uncomfortable to no
purpose。 If it were my business to sit in judgment on my neighbors；
I would try to be courteous； at least； to those who had done any good
service； but； above all； I would handle tenderly those young authors
who are coming before the public in the flutter of their first or
early appearance； and are in the trembling delirium of stage…fright
already。 Before you write that brilliant notice of some alliterative
Angelina's book of verses； I wish you would try this experiment。
Take half a sheet of paper and copy upon it any of Angelina's
stanzas；the ones you were going to make fun of； if you will。 Now
go to your window； if it is a still day； open it； and let the half…
sheet of paper drop on the outside。 How gently it falls through the
soft air； always tending downwards； but sliding softly； from side to
side； wavering； hesitating； balancing； until it settles as
noiselessly as a snow…flake upon the all…receiving bosom of the
earth！ Just such would have been the fate of poor Angelina's
fluttering effort； if you had left it to itself。 It would have
slanted downward into oblivion so sweetly and softly that she would
have never known when it reached that harmless consummation。
Our epizoic literature is becoming so extensive that nobody is safe
from its ad infinitum progeny。 A man writes a book of criticisms。 A
Quarterly Review criticises the critic。 A Monthly Magazine takes up
the critic's critic。 A Weekly Journal criticises the critic of the
critic's critic； and a daily paper favors us with some critical
remarks on the performance of the writer in the Weekly； who has
criticised the critical notice in the Monthly of the critical essay
in the Quarterly on the critical work we started with。 And thus we
see that as each flea 〃has smaller fleas that on him prey；〃 even the
critic himself cannot escape the common lot of being bitten。 Whether
all this is a blessing or a curse； like that one which made Pharaoh
and all his household run to their toilet…tables； is a question about
which opinions might differ。 The physiologists of the time of Moses
if there were vivisectors other than priests in those dayswould
probably have considered that other plague； of the frogs； as a
fortunate opportunity for science； as this poor little beast has been
the souffre…douleur of experimenters and schoolboys from time
immemorial。
But there is a form of criticism to which none will object。 It is
impossible to come before a public so alive with sensibilities as
this we live in； with the smallest evidence of a sympathetic
disposition； without making friends in a very unexpected way。
Everywhere there are minds tossing on the unquiet waves of doubt。 If
you confess to the same perplexities and uncertainties that torture
them； they are grateful for your companionship。 If you have groped
your way out of the wilderness in which you were once wandering with
them； they will follow your footsteps； it may be； and bless you as
their deliverer。 So； all at once； a writer finds he has a parish of
devout listeners； scattered； it is true； beyond the reach of any
summons but that of a trumpet like the archangel's； to whom his
slight discourse may be of more value than the exhortations they hear
from the pulpit； if these last do not happen to suit their special
needs。 Young men with more ambition and intelligence than force of
character； who have missed their first steps in life and are
stumbling irresolute amidst vague aims and changing purposes； hold
out their hands； imploring to be led into； or at least pointed
towards； some path where they can find a firm foothold。 Young women
born into a chilling atmosphere of circumstance which keeps all the
buds of their nature unopened and always striving to get to a ray of
sunshine； if one finds its way to their neighborhood； tell their
stories； sometimes simply and touchingly； sometimes in a more or less
affected and rhetorical way； but still stories of defeated and
disappointed instincts which ought to make any moderately impressible
person feel very tenderly toward them。
In speaking privately to these young persons； many of whom have
literary aspirations； one should be very considerate of their human
feelings。 But addressing them collectively a few plain truths will
not give any one of them much pain。 Indeed； almost every individual
among them will feel sure that he or she is an exception to those
generalities which apply so well to the rest。
If I were a literary Pope sending out an Encyclical； I would tell
these inexperienced persons that nothing is so frequent as to mistake
an ordinary human gift for a special and extraordinary endowment。
The mechanism of breathing and that of swallowing are very wonderful；
and if one had seen and studied them in his own person only； he might
well think himself a prodigy。 Everybody knows these and other bodily
faculties are common gifts； but nobody except editors and school…
teachers and here and there a literary than knows how common is the
capacity of rhyming and prattling in readable prose； especially among
young women of a certain degree of education。 In my character of
Pontiff； I should tell these young persons that most of them labored
under a delusion。 It is very hard to believe it； one feels so full
of intelligence and so decidedly superior to one's dull relations and
schoolmates； one writes so easily and the lines sound so prettily to
one's self； there are such felicities of expression； just like those
we hear quoted from the great poets； and besides one has been told by
so many friends that all one had to do was to print and be famous！
Delusion； my poor dear； delusion at least nineteen times out of
twenty； yes； ninety…nine times in a hundred。
But as private father confessor； I always allow as much as I can for
the one chance in the hundred。 I try not to take away all hope；
unless the case is clearly desperate； and then to direct the
activities into some other channel。
Using kind language； I can talk pretty freely。 I have counselled
more than one aspirant after literary fame to go back to his tailor's
board or his lapstone。 I have advised the dilettanti； whose foolish
friends prai