All this sounds hard and rough, but, observe, it is not addressed to any individual, and of course does not refer to any reader of these pages.  I would always treat any given young person passing through the meteoric showers which rain down on the brief period of adolescence with great tenderness.  God forgive us if we ever speak harshly to young creatures on the strength of these ugly truths, and so sooner or later, smite some tender-souled poet or poetess on the lips who might have sung the world into sweet trances, had we not silenced the matin-song in its first low breathings!  Just as my heart yearns over the unloved, just so it sorrows for the ungifted who are doomed to the pangs of an undeceived self-estimate.  I have always tried to be gentle with the most hopeless cases.  My experience, however, has not been encouraging.

—­X.  Y., aet. 18, a cheaply-got-up youth, with narrow jaws, and broad, bony, cold, red hands, having been laughed at by the girls in his village, and “got the mitten” (pronounced mittIn) two or three times, falls to souling and controlling, and youthing and truthing, in the newspapers.  Sends me some strings of verses, candidates for the Orthopedic Infirmary, all of them, in which I learn for the millionth time one of the following facts:  either that something about a chime is sublime, or that something about time is sublime, or that something about a chime is concerned with time, or that something about a rhyme is sublime or concerned with time or with a chime.  Wishes my opinion of the same, with advice as to his future course.

What shall I do about it?  Tell him the whole truth, and send him a ticket of admission to the Institution for Idiots and Feeble-minded Youth?  One doesn’t like to be cruel,—­and yet one hates to lie.  Therefore one softens down the ugly central fact of donkeyism, —­recommends study of good models,—­that writing verse should be an incidental occupation only, not interfering with the hoe, the needle, the lapstone, or the ledger,—­and, above all that there should be no hurry in printing what is written.  Not the least use in all this.  The poetaster who has tasted type is done for.  He is like the man who has once been a candidate for the Presidency.  He feeds on the madder of his delusion all his days, and his very bones grow red with the glow of his foolish fancy.  One of these young brains is like a bunch of India crackers; once touch fire to it and it is best to keep hands off until it has done popping,—­if it ever stops.  I have two letters on file; one is a pattern of adulation, the other of impertinence.  My reply to the first, containing the best advice I could give, conveyed in courteous language, had brought out the second.  There was some sport in this, but Dulness is not commonly a game fish, and only sulks after he is struck.  You may set it down as a truth which admits of few exceptions, that those who ask your opinion really want your praise, and will be contented with nothing less.