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 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 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 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.