Your achievements in college, where you distinguished yourself in rhetoric and literature, would justify you in thinking seriously of a career as an author.

And the fact that your father wishes you to take charge of his brokerage business, and to relinquish your literary aspirations, should not deter you from carrying out your ambitions.

Prom your mother you inherit a mind and temperament which wholly unfit you for the pursuits your father follows and enjoys. You are no more suited to make a successful broker than he is fitted to write an Iliad.

Try and make him understand this, and try and convince him that to yield to his wishes in this matter, means the sacrifice of your tastes, the waste of your talents, and the destruction of your happiness.

If he cannot be convinced by your consistent and respectful arguments, then you must quietly, but firmly, refuse to accept a career distasteful to you.

No parent has a right to drive a child into so undesirable a path for life as this would prove to one of your nature.

Your father would think the horticulturist insane, who took a delicate fern and planted it in arid soil, on a hilltop, far from shade, and expected it to thrive and bear blossoms like the cactus.

Yet this would be no more unreasonable, than to expect a son of your temperament and inclinations to be happy and successful in Wall Street.

It is a curious study to watch parents, and to observe their utter lack of knowledge regarding a child's nature and capabilities; and to find them not only ignorant in those important matters, but unwilling to be enlightened.

You say it makes your father angry to have any one refer to your literary talents.

I remember when your father bred race-horses, and how proud he was that a two-year-old colt showed traits and points noticeably like its high-priced dam.

He chose for your mother, a woman of rare mind, and of poetic taste, and why should he not be proud and glad that his son resembles her? When will fathers learn that sons are more frequently like their mothers, and daughters like their fathers, than otherwise?

The temporary dissatisfaction of your father is not so sad to contemplate as your own lifelong disappointment if you accede to his wishes in this matter.

Each individual has a right to choose his own career in life, so long as that career is respectable and bodes no evil to humanity.

If, as your father threatens, he refuses to give you support while you are exploring the field of literature, you should feel grateful to him for this unintentional incentive to success.

I do not agree with those who consider the necessity to earn money a misfortune to genius.

I believe the greatest works of art given to the world have been brought to light through necessity.

The artistic temperament is almost invariably combined with a propensity to dream, and to float upon the clouds of imagination.

The ranks of wealth and comfort are full of talented and accomplished people who "never are, but always to be" great.

One great man in a score may have been reared in affluence, but I doubt if the statistics would show so large a percentage.

There are many hills which contain valuable ore, but if the owner sits in ease upon these elevations, and gazes at the sunsets, he does not find the ore. If he is a poor man, and takes his pick and _digs_, he finds his fortune.

At first he may cast out only loose earth and stones, but by this very necessity to find valuables, he continues to search until the ore is reached.

Were you to remain at home and enjoy all the benefits of your father's wealth, I doubt if you would have the persistence to dig down into the mine you possess within you.

You would sit on the hilltop and dream.

If you are forced to write to live, you may cast up some rubbish from the surface; yet by the continual digging you will reveal all that lies below.

Regarding the style you speak of adopting, let your feeling come _first_, your style of expressing that feeling _second_. Say nothing merely to exhibit your style--and hold back some strong feelings until you can give them the best expression.

As to the methods of getting your work before the public and the "influence" you need, I can only a.s.sure you that unless you write with purpose, and power, and pa.s.sionate enjoyment of your art, forgetful of all things save your desire to express yourself, no influence on earth can do more than give you a page in a magazine, or a column in a newspaper for an occasion or two. And if you do write under those conditions, you will need no influence: for it is just such writing the world wants; and the editors and publishers will be forced to read you, whether they are inclined to or not.

Christopher Columbus found his continent because he was so determined, so persistent, so certain that unknown lands awaited him.

It made no difference who told him that all the earth had been discovered, and that he would never be able to succeed in his wild venture. His purpose was too strong to be influenced by the doubts of others.

It has always seemed to me that G.o.d would have made a continent to reward such a search, had it not already existed.

Unless you set forth on the sea of literature, with the spirit of a Columbus in your soul, you may as well give up the idea of finding the Port of Glory. If you do set forth with that spirit, you need ask no mortal influence.

G.o.d is the only influence genius needs.

Perseverance the only method.

To find the way to success alone, is the test of talent.

Some influential author might give you the entree once to a magazine.

But editors and publishers are men of purely business instincts, and they will not accept work on the recommendation of any third party, which they think their public will not like. Their constant effort is to find what that public _does like_, and the unknown author has an equal advantage with the genius, if he sends such material.

An author once told me that he "trapped" twenty ma.n.u.scripts and sent them out to editors, and all came back unread, as his "trap" proved.

Since he sent them forth with such doubts in his mind, it is no wonder his trap succeeded and his ma.n.u.scripts failed.

No great literary fire of purpose could be in the mind of a man who spent thought and time on such a plot to trick an editor. And because there was no great flame, the inanimate ma.n.u.scripts were returned unread. For even a package of paper sends out its "aura," and invites or repels attention.

If you are discouraged by the people who tell you that "everything has been written," and that you can only be a faint echo of greater souls, then you do not deserve success. I have no doubt the croakers of that day told Shakespeare the same.

It seems that Shakespeare did take many old themes and other people's plots and ideas to re-create in his own way. And what a way! Surely he who best uses an idea is most ent.i.tled to the credit.

There is nothing new under the sun, but there is always the new audience. For the majestic old poem of Spring, bound over in new covers of green, G.o.d creates fresh, eager young eyes and hearts each year. And not yet has he said to the year, "Do not attempt another spring--there have been so many before, you can but repeat their beauties." Then why should any mortal say to the poet or the author, "Do not try to write--it has all been said before."

Proceed, my young friend, and write what is in your heart. Nothing quite the same was ever in any heart before, and yet the greater part of it has been in all hearts, and will be in all hearts, so long as the world lasts.

Remember that when you write from the heart, it will go to the hearts of your readers: and when you write from your head it will go no lower than the head.

And if the critics score or ridicule you, consider yourself on the path to success.

If you have a message for the world, nothing and n.o.body can prevent you from delivering it.

He only fails who has nothing to say.

To Mrs. McAllister

_Concerning Her Little Girl_