Young man,—­I said,—­the pasty you speak lightly of is not old, but courtesy to those who labor to serve us, especially if they are of the weaker sex, is very old, and yet well worth retaining.  May I recommend to you the following caution, as a guide, whenever you are dealing with a woman, or an artist, or a poet—­if you are handling an editor or politician, it is superfluous advice.  I take it from the back of one of those little French toys which contain pasteboard figures moved by a small running stream of fine sand; Benjamin Franklin will translate it for you:  “Quoiqu’elle soit tres solidement montee, il faut ne pas BRUTALISER la machine.”—­I will thank you for the pie, if you please.

[I took more of it than was good for me—­as much as 85 degrees, I should think,—­and had an indigestion in consequence.  While I was suffering from it, I wrote some sadly desponding poems, and a theological essay which took a very melancholy view of creation.  When I got better I labelled them all “Pie-crust,” and laid them by as scarecrows and solemn warnings.  I have a number of books on my shelves that I should like to label with some such title; but, as they have great names on their title-pages,—­Doctors of Divinity, some of them,—­it wouldn’t do.]

—­My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him in some of the journals of his calling.  I told him that I didn’t doubt he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do anything to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind.—­The Professor smiled.—­Now, said I, hear what I am going to say.  It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing but praise.  Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while before they begin to decay.  I don’t know what it is,—­whether a spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is thorough experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty,—­but it is a fact, that most writers, except sour and unsuccessful ones, get tired of finding fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old.  As a general thing, I would not give a great deal for the fair words of a critic, if he is himself an author, over fifty years of age.  At thirty we are all trying to cut our names in big letters upon the walls of this tenement of life; twenty years later we have carved it, or shut up our jack-knives.  Then we are ready to help others, and care less to hinder any, because nobody’s elbows are in our way.  So I am glad you have a little life left; you will be saccharine enough in a few years.