knows a great deal--has the making of a man in him, only it lies
fallow for want of training--and then my suffering is acute. When
success--business or social or athletic or literary or artistic--comes
to the untrained man under thirty-five, it comes pitifully near being
his ruin. The adulation of the world is more intoxicating and more
deadly than to drink absinthe out of a stein; more insidious than
opium; more fatal than poison. It unsettles the steadiest brain and
feeds the too-ravenous Ego with a food which at first he deemed nectar
and ambrosia, but which he soon comes to feel is the staff of life,
and no more than he deserves. With success should come the
determination, be you man or woman, to fall upon your knees every day
and pray Heaven for strength to keep from believing what people tell
you, so that you still may be bearable to your friends and livable to
your family.

I know that all this will fall unkindly upon the ears of many a worthy
man under thirty-five whose charm is still in embryo, and that, unless
he is very clever, he will be mortally offended, and never believe my
solemn assertion that I am the stanchest friend the man of
possibilities has. Let him take care how he resents my amiable
brutality, or how he denounces me as his enemy, for if I were not
interested in the untrained man under thirty-five I wouldn't bother
with him, would I?

I know, too, that a diplomatic feminine contingency will raise a howl
of protest, and will read this aloud to men under thirty-five for the
express purpose of disclaiming all complicity with such heterodox
views, and doubtless will be able to make the men believe them.
Tactful girls are a necessity, and I approve of them. I do not in the
least mind their disclaiming my views to specific men, especially if I