The moment a philosopher becomes a bore, he ceases to be a philosopher.

To Wilfred Clayborn

Concerning His Education and His Profession

My Dear Nephew:—­I have considered your request from all sides, and have resolved to disappoint you.  This seems to me the kindest thing I can do under the circumstances.

You have gone through two years of college life, and I am sure you are not an ignoramus.  Most of the great men of the world’s history have enjoyed no fuller educational advantages.  To lend you money to finish the college course, would be to help you to start life at the age of twenty-two under the burden of debt.  If you are determined to finish a college course, and feel that only by so doing will you equip yourself for the duties of life, I would advise you to drop out for a year and teach, or go into any kind of work which will enable you to earn enough to proceed with your studies.  However hard and however disappointing this advice seems to you, I know it suggests a course which will do more for your character than all the money I could lend you.

Aside from the fact that you would begin life with a debt, is the possibility of your contracting the debt habit.

One man in a thousand who borrows money to help himself along in early life is benefited by it.

The other 999 are harmed.

To do anything on another’s money is to lean on the shoulder of another instead of walking upright.  It is not good calisthenic exercise.

A few years ago I would have acceded to your request.

But each year I live I realize more and more that lending money is the last method to be used in helping people to better themselves.  In almost every case where I have lent money, I have lived to regret it.  Not because I lost my money (which has usually been the fact), but because I lost respect for my friends.

I remember the case of a young newspaper man and author, who came to me for the loan of five dollars.  I had never seen him before, but I knew his brother, a brilliant playwright, in a social way.

The young man told me he had met with a series of disasters on the voyage to New York, and was stranded there absolutely penniless, although money would come at almost any hour from his brother.

Besides this, he showed me letters from editors who had taken work which would be paid for on publication.

“I do not know any one here,” the young man said, “and to-day, when I used my last twenty-five cents, I thought of you in desperation.

“Your acquaintance with my brother would serve as an introduction, I felt, and I was confident you would realize my straits when I told you my errand.”

Of course I lent the young man five dollars.  “I am sure it must be a great humiliation for you to ask for this,” I said, “and I am certain you will repay it, though many former experiences have made me question the memory of friends and strangers to whom I have been of similar assistance.”