“It would be better,” said a hoary and solemn humorist, whose calling was indicated by a cane made in imitation of a length of stovepipe, with a handle of goat’s horn, “much better, I think, if we were to prevail upon him to enter Society as a literary celebrity, and make a practice of attending kettledrums and receptions, where he will be encouraged by women to talk about his literary methods, and where he will be tempted to partake of the tea and cake and weak punch which have ruined so many brilliant careers. If, in addition to that, we can arrange with the Society reporters to publish his name among ‘the well-known literary and artistic people present’ as often as possible, his descent will be swift and sure.” “There is one thing necessary to make that combination invincible,” said a paragrapher whose sound logic and conservatism had long since gained for him the name of “The Sage of Schoharie”: “we must call the attention of somebody like Mr. Aldrich or Mr. Howells to his work, and induce him to express a favorable opinion of it. If Mr. Aldrich would only say that he has a ‘dainty style,’ or if Mr. Howells would praise him for his ‘subtle delineation of character,’ his book, which is coming out in a few weeks, would fall flat on the market. Then, if he showed any signs of life after that, Edmund Gosse might administer the _coup de grâce_ with a favorable review in some English fortnightly.” These measures having received the indorsement of every member of the union, it was resolved that they should be promptly carried through; but before the meeting adjourned the Professional Humorist arose and begged to be allowed to say a few words. “I have no doubt,” he said, “that the course we have decided upon will result in driving this newcomer from the field of letters; but if it does not I have a plan in my head which has never failed yet. It has already, within my own memory, driven several of our most promising writers to the Potter’s Field, and if desperate measures become necessary we will try it, but only as a last resort.” * * * * * A year rolled by, and again the members of the union assembled for their annual convention. As they passed through Fourteenth Street on their way to the hall of meeting, a sad-eyed, despondent figure stood on the sidewalk and endeavored to sell them lead-pencils at their own price. A smile of triumph lit up the face of the Professional Humorist as he directed the attention of his fellow-members to the mournful, ill-clad wretch on the curb-stone. “I told you my scheme would work,” he said. It was even so. Neither the kettledrums nor the commendations of the wiseacres of literature had had any effect on the Young Man of Talent, who had gone steadily on with his work, unspoiled by feminine flattery, and heedless of the praise or commendations of the critics.