Chapter II: Part 2

The way you took my frank criticisms and doubts of your ability to make a good school-teacher, proves you to be a girl of much character. Your success proves, too, that given the general qualifications of a fairly capable and educated human being, add concentration and will, and we can achieve wonders in any line of work we undertake. I am still of the opinion that no woman of my acquaintance was more wholly unfit to teach young children, as they should be taught, than your fair self as I last knew you.

I take pride in believing that my heroic methods were what brought out the undeveloped qualities you needed to ensure such success.

There are certain natures that need to be antagonized before they do their best. Others are prostrated and robbed of all strength by a criticism or a doubt.

You have realized this, I am sure, in your experiences with pupils. "_You cannot do it_" is a more stimulating war-cry to some people than "_You can_." And to such the sneer of the foe does more good, than the smile of the friend. A phrenologist would tell us that strongly developed organs of self-esteem and love of approbation accompanied this trait of character.

I am sure it proves to be the case with you.

Brought up as you were, the only child of indulgent parents, and given admiration and praise by all your associates, you could hardly reach the age of twenty-two without having developed self-esteem and love of praise. You were naturally brighter than most of your companions. (They were also children of fortune, as the term goes, but to my idea the children reared in wealth, are usually children of misfortune. For the real fortune of life is to encounter the discipline which brings out our strongest qualities.)

Your father was a poor boy, who fought his way up to wealth and power before you were born; but he unfortunately wanted the earth beside, and so died in poverty after staking all he had, which was enough, to make more, which he did not need.

You inherit much of his force of character, and that is what gave you the reputation of extreme cleverness among your more commonplace companions. Compared with the really brilliant and talented people of earth, you are not clever. That is why I found you so companionable and charming, no doubt; for the brilliant people--especially women--are rarely companionable for more than a few hours at a time. I gave you that supreme test of friendship--the companionship of travel for a period of months. And I loved you better at the end of the time than at the beginning.

I have often thought how much less occupation there would be for the divorce courts and how many more "indefinitely postponed" announcements of engagements would result from an established custom of a pre-betrothal trip!

If a young man and woman who were enamoured could travel for two or three months, with a chaperon (in the shape of a mother-in-law or two), the lawyers would lose much profit; but I fear race suicide might ensue. Nothing, unless it is the sick-room or the card-table, brings out the real characteristics of human beings like travel.

The irritating delays of boats and trains, and the still more irritating unresponsiveness of officials, when asked the cause, will test the temper and the patience of even a pair of lovers. It is not surprising if the traveller does lose both at times, but it is admirable if he does not. I remember how adorable you were, while I was a bundle of dynamite, ready to explode and send the stolid, uncommunicative conductor and brakemen into a journey through space, when we suffered that long delay coming from California. It is due the travelling public to explain such delays, but the railroads of America have grown to feel that they owe no explanation to any one, even to God, for what they do or do not. While I lost vitality and composure by such idle reflections, you were amusing the nervous travellers by your bright bits of narrative and ready repartee. That fortunate fellow you have promised to marry at the end of two years has no idea what a charming companion he will find in you for travel.

It is interesting to have you say you feel that you need two more years as a teacher, before you are fully developed enough to take up the responsibilities of marriage. You will be twenty-seven then:--that is the age at which the average American girl begins to be most interesting, and the age when she is first physically mature.

And your children will be more fully endowed mentally than if you had become a mother in your teens.

As a rule the brainy people of the world are not born of very youthful parents; you will find youth gives physique, maturity gives brains to offspring.

I did not quite finish my train of reasoning about your self-esteem.

It was because you had always believed yourself to be capable of doing anything you undertook to do, that you were roused by my assertion that you could not make a good school-teacher, to attempt it. I hurt your pride a bit, and you were determined to prove me wrong. Had you been self-depreciating and oversensitive, what I said would have turned you from that field of effort. And that would have been a desirable result, since one who can be turned from any undertaking _ought to be_.

I still think the world has lost a wonderful artist by your not entering the lists of designers and dressmakers. But since my recital of the faults which would prevent your success as a teacher led you to overcome them, I am proud and glad, that you have gone on in the work you contemplated. Good teachers are more needed than good dressmakers.

And you are sweet and charming as usual, to tell me that your popularity with children and parents, is greatly due to that letter of mine.

What you write me of the young girl who is making you so much trouble by her jealousy of all other pupils, interests and saddens me. Her devotion to you is of that morbid type, so unwholesome and so dangerous to her peace, and the peace of all her associates. It is a misfortune that mothers do not take such traits in early babyhood, and eradicate them by patient, practical methods. Instead, this mother, like many others, seems to think her little girl should be favoured and flattered because of her morbid tendency.

She mistakes selfishness, envy, greediness, and hysteria for a loving nature.

I can imagine your feelings when this mother told you with a proud smile, "Allie always wants the whole attention of any one she loves, and cannot stand sharing her friends. She was always that way at home. We never could pet her little brother without her going into a spasm. And you must be careful about showing the other children attention before her. It just breaks her heart--she is so sensitive."

Oh, mothers, mothers, what are you thinking about, to be so blind to the work put in your hands to do?

You have little time comparatively to work upon this perverted young mind: but under no conditions favour her, and, no matter what scenes she makes, continue to give praise and affection to the other children when it is their due. The prominence of her parents in the neighbourhood, and the power her father wields in the school board, need not worry you. Go ahead and do what is best for the child and for the school at large. Never deviate one inch from your convictions. Take Allie some day to a garden where there are many flowers, and talk to her about them. Speak of all their different charms, and gather a bouquet. Then say to her, "Now, Allie, you and I love each of these pretty flowers, and see how sweetly they nestle together in your hand. Not one is jealous of the other. Each has its place, and would be missed were it not there. The bouquet needs them all. Just so I need all the dear children in my school, and just so I would miss any one. It makes me ashamed to think any little girl is more selfish and unreasonable than a plant, for little girls are a higher order of creation, and we expect more of them than we expect of plants or of animals. All are parts of God, but the human kingdom is the highest expression of the Creator.

"When you show such jealousy of other children I lose respect for you, and cannot love you as much as I love them. When you are gentle and good, and take your share of my love and attention, and let others have their share, then I am proud of you and fond of you. Suppose one plant said to the sunlight that it must have all the sun, would not that be ridiculous and selfish?"

I would make frequent references to this idea when alone with her, and indeed it would serve as an excellent subject for a talk to all your pupils some day. Then try and make Allie understand how unbecoming and unlovable jealousy is, and how it renders a man or woman an object of pity and ridicule to others.

Praise the people you know who are liberal and broad, and absolutely ignore her moods when in school.

Perhaps in time you can do a little toward awakening her mind to a more wholesome outlook.

What you tell me of her hysterical devotion to one of her classmates, makes me realize that the girl needs careful guidance.

You should talk to her mother, and warn her against encouraging such conditions of mind in her child.

Urge her to keep the girl occupied, and to give her much out-door life, and to teach her that pronounced demonstrations of affection are not good form between young girls. The mother should be careful what books she reads, and should see that she makes no long visits to other homes and receives no guests for a continued time. The child needs to cultivate universal love, not individual devotion.

Ideals, principles, ambitions, should be given the girl, not close companions, for her nature is like a rank, weedy flower that needs refining and cultivating into a perfected blossom.

All this needs a mother's constant care and tact and watchfulness. It is work she should have begun when her little girl first indicated her unfortunate tendencies.

It is late for you to undertake a reconstruction of the misshapen character, but you may be able to begin an improvement, and if you can obtain the mother's cooperation the full formation may be accomplished.

And do not fail to use mental suggestion constantly, and to help the child by your assertions to be what you want her to become. Dwell in conversation with her and in her presence, upon the lovableness and charm of generosity of spirit in general, rather than on the selfishness you observe in herself.

At her least indication of an improvement, give her warm praise. Be careful about bestowing caresses upon her, as she needs to be guarded against hysteria, I should judge from your description. To some children they are the sunlight, to others miasma.

Think of yourself as God's agent, given charge of his unfinished work, and recognize the unseen influences ready to aid you with suggestion and courage when you appeal to them.

To a Young Friend

_Who Has Become Interested in the Metaphysical Thoughts of the Day_

Your letter bubbled with enthusiasm, and steamed with optimism. I am rejoiced that you have come into so healthful a line of thought, for I know of no one who was in more immediate need of it than you, when we last met.

As your hostess, I could not tell you how wearing to the nerves your continual reverting to your physical ills became: and I hope I did not seem wholly unsympathetic to you when I so frequently made the effort to change the conversation to more cheerful topics.

And now you tell me that you are astounded to find how universal is this topic with all classes, and on all occasions when one or two human beings gather together even in "His name." Your recital of the church sewing-bee, where all the good Christian women described their diseases and the different operations they and their friends had undergone, is as amusing as it is distressingly realistic.

What a pity that the old theology fostered the idea that God especially loved the people he afflicted with illness and poverty and trouble! It has filled the world with egotistical and selfish invalids and idlers, who have believed they were "God's chosen ones," instead of realizing that they were the natural results of broken laws, which might be mended by the aid of the God-power in themselves, once they understood it.

How Christians have reconciled the idea of a God of love with a God who wanted his chosen ones to be sick and poor, is a problem I cannot solve.

Of course you are well, and growing stronger daily, now that you realize the fact that God made only health, wealth, and love, and that he intended all his children to share his opulence.

As soon as the mind is filled with a dominating idea, no lesser ones can find lodgment therein.

A woman of my acquaintance suffered agonies from seasickness.

She crossed the ocean twice each year, yet seemed unable to accustom herself to the experience.

On her last voyage her child fell dangerously sick with typhoid fever on the second day out at sea.

So wrought up was the mother, and so filled with the thought of her child, that she never felt one moment's seasickness. Her mind was otherwise occupied.

Now you have filled your mind with a consciousness of your divine right to health and happiness, and the thought of sickness and disease has no room.

Yet do not be discouraged if you feel the old ailments and indispositions returning at times. A complete change in mental habits, is difficult to obtain in a moment.

Be satisfied to grow slowly. A wise philosopher has said, "It is not in never falling that we show our strength, but in our ability to rise after repeated falls, and to continue our journey in triumph."

Avoid talking your belief to every individual you meet. It will be breaking your string of pearls for the feet of swine to tread upon. Those who are ready for these truths will indicate the fact to you, and then will be your time for speech. And when you do speak, say little, and say it briefly and to the point.

Leave some things for other minds to study out alone. The people who are not ready for higher ideals of religion and life, will only ridicule or combat your theories and beliefs, if you force them to listen.

Wait until you have fully illustrated by your own conduct of life, that you have something beside vague theories to prove your statements of the power of the mind to conquer circumstance. The world is full to-day of bedraggled and haggard men and women, who are talking loudly of the power of mind to restore youth and health, and bestow riches and success.

Do not add yourself to the unlovely and tiresome army of talkers, until you prove yourself a doer.

And even after you have shown a record of health and prosperity and usefulness, let your silent influence speak louder than your uttered words.

The moment a philosopher becomes a bore, he ceases to be a philosopher.

To Wilfred Clayborn

_Concerning His Education and His Profession_

My Dear Nephew:--I have considered your request from all sides, and have resolved to disappoint you. This seems to me the kindest thing I can do under the circumstances.

You have gone through two years of college life, and I am sure you are not an ignoramus. Most of the great men of the world's history have enjoyed no fuller educational advantages. To lend you money to finish the college course, would be to help you to start life at the age of twenty-two under the burden of debt. If you are determined to finish a college course, and feel that only by so doing will you equip yourself for the duties of life, I would advise you to drop out for a year and teach, or go into any kind of work which will enable you to earn enough to proceed with your studies. However hard and however disappointing this advice seems to you, I know it suggests a course which will do more for your character than all the money I could lend you.

Aside from the fact that you would begin life with a debt, is the possibility of your contracting the debt habit.

One man in a thousand who borrows money to help himself along in early life is benefited by it.

The other 999 are harmed.

To do anything on another's money is to lean on the shoulder of another instead of walking upright. It is not good calisthenic exercise.

A few years ago I would have acceded to your request.

But each year I live I realize more and more that lending money is the last method to be used in helping people to better themselves. In almost every case where I have lent money, I have lived to regret it. Not because I lost my money (which has usually been the fact), but because I lost respect for my friends.

I remember the case of a young newspaper man and author, who came to me for the loan of five dollars. I had never seen him before, but I knew his brother, a brilliant playwright, in a social way.

The young man told me he had met with a series of disasters on the voyage to New York, and was stranded there absolutely penniless, although money would come at almost any hour from his brother.

Besides this, he showed me letters from editors who had taken work which would be paid for on publication.

"I do not know any one here," the young man said, "and to-day, when I used my last twenty-five cents, I thought of you in desperation.

"Your acquaintance with my brother would serve as an introduction, I felt, and I was confident you would realize my straits when I told you my errand."

Of course I lent the young man five dollars. "I am sure it must be a great humiliation for you to ask for this," I said, "and I am certain you will repay it, though many former experiences have made me question the memory of friends and strangers to whom I have been of similar assistance."

One week later the young man called to tell me he had not been able to do more than keep himself sustained at lunch-counters since he called, but hoped soon to obtain a position on a daily newspaper.

That was ten years ago. The young man sat in an orchestra chair the other night at the theatre directly in front of me, and his attire was faultlessly up to date. From the costume of his companion, I should judge their carriage waited outside.

The young man did not seem to recognize me, and no doubt the incident I mention has escaped his memory.

In all probability I was but one of a score of people who helped him with small loans. Had the young man had been forced to appeal to the society organized in every city for aiding the deserving poor, by being sent disappointed from my door, the ordeal would have so hurt his pride, that he might not have become the professional borrower he undoubtedly is.

I could relate innumerable cases of a similar nature. One man, who was a fashionable teacher of French among the millionaires of New York for several seasons, appealed to me at a time of year when all his patrons were out of the city for a loan to enable him to give his wife medical treatment.

He was to repay it in the autumn. Instead, he came to me then with a much more distressing story of immediate need and seeming proof of money coming to him in a few months. To my chagrin, the loan I advanced was employed in giving a feast to friends at his daughter's wedding, after which he obliterated himself from my vision.

Financial aid lent a woman who soon afterward circled Europe, brought no reimbursement. Her handsomely engraved card, with the "Russell Square Hotel, London," as address, reached me instead of the interest money which perhaps paid the engraver.

Money lent a young man to start a small business, was used for his wedding expenses, and an interval of five years brings no word from him. Poor and despicable beings indeed, become the victims of the borrowing habit. It is the shattered faith in humanity, and the heart hurts that I regret, rather than the loss of what can be replaced. I tell you these incidents that you may realize how I have come to regard money-lending, as a species of unkindness to a friend or relative.

It is only one step removed from giving a sick or overtaxed man or woman a morphine powder.

Sleep and rest ensue, but ten to one the habit is formed for life.

The happy experiences of my life in money-lending, have been two instances where I offered loans which were not asked, and which proved to be bridges over the chasm of temporary misfortune, to the success awaiting a worthy woman and man. The really deserving rarely ask for loans.

I can imagine with what pleasure you would take a cheque from this letter, for the amount which would carry you through college.

Yet when you had finished your course, you would find so many things you wanted to do, and must do, the debt would become too heavy to lift, save by borrowing from some one else.

If not that, then you would impose upon the fact of our relationship, and on your belief that I had plenty of means without the amount you owed me: and so you would join the great army of good-for-nothings in the world.

There is one thing you must always remember:

No matter how close the blood tie between two beings, even twins, each soul comes into the world alone, and with a separate life destiny to work out.

If I have worked out my destiny to financial independence, that does not entitle you to a share of it. If it seems best for me to aid you, it is not because a blood tie makes it a duty. I grow to believe there is a sort of curse on money which is not earned, even when it is bestowed by father, on son or daughter.

It cripples individual development. Only when money is earned is it blest.

Regarding your future profession, I cannot agree with your idea that because you feel no particular love for any one calling, and have a halfway tendency toward several, that you will never be a success. Great geniuses are often consumed with a passion for some one line of study or employment, but there have been many great men who did not know what they were fitted to do until accident or necessity gave them an opportunity.

Success means simply concentration and perseverance.

Whether you decide to be a mechanic, a lawyer, a doctor, or a merchant, the one thing to do is to fix all your mental powers upon the goal you select, and then call all the forces from within and from without, to aid you to reach it.

It would, of course, be folly for you to select a profession which requires special talent. No matter how you might concentrate and apply yourself, you could never be a great poet, a great artist, or a great musician.

You have not the creative genius.

But law, medicine, mechanics, or mercantile matters, with your good brain and fair education, you could conquer.

You say you vacillate from one to another, like the wind which goes to the four points of the compass in twenty-four hours.

But you are very young, and this should not discourage you.

It would be well to think the four vocations over quietly, when alone, and sit down by yourself early in the morning asking for guidance. Then, when you feel you have made a decision, let nothing turn you from it.

Direct all your studies and thoughts to further that decision.

Think of yourself as achieving the very highest success in your chosen field, and work for that end.

You cannot fail.

If you desire light from without upon the best path to pursue, I would advise you to find a good phrenologist, and have a careful reading made of your head. Its formation and the development of its organs would indicate in what direction lay your greatest strength, and where you needed to be especially watchful.

But remember if your phrenologist tells you that you have a weak will, it does not mean that you must necessarily _always_ have a weak will. It means that you are to strengthen it, by concentration. There is a great truth underlying phrenology, palmistry, and astrology; but it is ridiculous to accept their verdicts as final and unchangeable, and it is unwise to ignore the good they may do, rightly applied and understood.

I recall the fact that you were born in early June. I know enough about the influence of the planets upon a child born at that period to assert that you are particularly inclined to a Gemini nature--the twin nature, which wants to do two things at one time. You want to stay in and go out, to read a book and play tennis, to swim and sit on the sand. Later in life, you will want to remain single and marry, and travel and remain at home, unless you begin _now_ to select one course of the two which are for ever presenting themselves to you, in small and large matters.

Whenever you feel yourself vacillating between two impulses, take yourself at once in hand, decide upon the preferable course, and go ahead. Dominate your astrological tendencies, do not be dominated by them. Dominate your weaknesses as exhibited by your phrenological chart, and build up the brain cells which need strengthening, and lessen the power of the undesirable qualities by giving them no food or indulgence.

It is a great thing to understand yourself as you are, and then to go ahead and make yourself what you desire to be.

When a carpenter starts to build a house, he knows just what tools and what materials to work with are his. If there is a broken implement, he replaces it with another, and if he is short of material he supplies it. But young men set forth to make futures and fortunes, with no knowledge of their own equipment.

They do not know their own strongest or weakest traits, and are unprepared for the temptations and obstacles that await them.

I would advise you to call in the aid of all the occult sciences, to help you in forming an estimate of your own higher and lower tendencies, and in deciding for what line of occupation you were best fitted. Then, after you have compared the statistics so gathered with your own idea of yourself, you should proceed to make your character what you wish it to be.

This work will be ten thousand times more profitable to you than a mere routine of college studies, gained by running in debt.

To know yourself is far better knowledge than to know Virgil. And to make yourself is a million times better than to have any one else make you.

To Miss Elsie Dean

_Regarding the Habit of Exaggeration_

During your visit here with my niece, I became much interested in you.

Zoe had often written me of her affection for you, and I can readily understand her feeling, now that I have your personal acquaintance.

You have no mother, and your father, you say, absorbed in business, like so many American fathers, seems almost a stranger. Even the most devoted fathers, rarely understand their daughters.

Now, I want to take the part of a mother and write you to-day, as I would write my own daughter, had one been bestowed upon me with the many other blessings which are mine.

I could not ask for a fairer, more amiable, or brighter daughter than you, nor one possessed of a kinder or more unselfish nature.

You are lovable, entertaining, industrious, and refined.

But you possess one fault which needs eradicating, or at least a propensity which needs directing.

_It is the habit of exaggeration in conversation_.

I noticed that small happenings, amusing or exciting, became events of colossal importance when related by you.

I noticed that brief remarks were amplified and grew into something like orations when you repeated them.

I confess that you made small incidents more interesting, and insignificant words acquired poetic meaning under your tongue.

And I confess also that you never once wronged or injured any one by your exaggerations--save yourself.

Zoe often said to me, "Isn't it wonderful how Elsie's imagination lends a halo to the commonest event," and all your friends know that you have this habit of hyperbole in conversation.

Now, in your early girlhood, it is lightly regarded as "Elsie's way." Later, in your maturity, I fear it will be called a harsher name.

When you come to the time of life that larger subjects than girlish pranks and badinage engage your mind, it will be necessary for you to be more exact in your descriptions of occurrences and conversations. Besides this, there is the heritage of your unborn children to consider. I once knew a little girl who possessed the same vivid imagination, and allowed it to continue unchecked through life. She married, and her son, to-day, is utterly devoid of fine moral senses. He is a mental monstrosity--incapable of telling the truth. His falsehoods are many and varied, and his name is a synonym of untruth. He relates, as truth, the most marvellous exploits in which he really never took part, and describes scenes and places he has never visited, save through the pages of some novel.

His lack of moral sense has blighted his mother's life, and she is wholly unconscious that he is only an exaggerated edition of herself.

I think, as a rule, such imaginations as you possess belong to the literary mind. I would advise you to turn your attention to story-writing, and in that occupation you will find vent for your romantic tendencies.

Meanwhile watch yourself and control your speech.

Learn to be exact.

Tell the truth in small matters, and do not allow yourself to indulge in seemingly harmless white lies of exaggeration.

There are times when we should refrain from speaking all the truth, but we should refrain by silence or an adroit change of subject. We should not feel called upon to relate all the unpleasant truths we know of people.

When asked what we know of some acquaintance, we are justified in telling the worthy and commendable traits, and saying nothing of the faults.

Therefore, while to suppress a portion of the truth is at times wise and kind, to distort it, or misstate facts, is never needed and never excusable.

When you and Zoe came from your drive one day you were full of excitement over an adventure with a Greek road merchant.

As you told the story, the handsome peddler had accosted you at the exit of the post-office and asked you to look at his wares.

When you declined he became familiar, paid a compliment to Zoe's beauty, and assured her that a certain lace shawl in his possession would be irresistible draped about her face.

Then he had pursued the carriage on his wheel and continued to "make eyes" and pay compliments to the very gate of my home, where he abandoned the chase.

The facts were, according to further investigation, that the man paid a simple trade compliment in reference to the shawl and its becomingness to a pretty face, mounted his wheel and rode away, as it happened, in the same direction you and Zoe were taking.

Again, you related a bit of repartee between Zoe and a caller, which I had chanced to over-hear, and out of two short sentences you made a small brochure, most amusing, but most untrue.

It was complimentary to both Zoe and her caller, yet it was not the conversation which took place, and therefore was not truthful.

These are trifling incidents, yet they are the straws, telling that the wind blows from the marsh-lands of inexactness--not from the mountain tops of truth.

Once a woman loses a sense of the great value of absolute truthfulness, she has blurred the clear mirror of her soul.

Put yourself upon a diet of _facts_, my sweet young friend, and cure this propensity, harmless enough now, but dangerous for your future.

Watch your tongue that it does not say _five or six_ when it should say _two_, or _yards_ when it should say _inches_.

Even in the smallest matters, practise the habit of being exact.

You will thank me for this advice sometime, even if it seems unreasonable to you to-day, and remember, I would not take the liberty or the trouble to so advise you, did I not love you and feel anxious for your welfare.

To Sybyl Marchmont

_Who Has Learned Her Origin_

Your despairing letter lies before me. I wish you were here, my dear child, that I might talk from my heart, instead of writing from it. I am sorry that the secret, so long hidden, has been revealed to you, and in such a despicable manner.

An anonymous letter always carries with it the venom of a serpent. I have long known your history, though the world generally believed you to be the actual daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont, who adopted you when you were scarcely one week old.

No daughter ever received more affection or better care than these good people gave you. Mrs. Marchmont lived always with a fear in her heart that you might learn your history from some idle or malicious lip, and before she died begged me to be your comforting friend, if that hour ever came, which has now arrived.

As your mother's nearest friend, it is natural you should turn to me in your crucial hour of pain. And in reply to your questions regarding the truth of this anonymous assertion, I will tell you all I know.

Your own mother was well born, and a girl of great beauty and charm. She was of foreign blood, and her parents, after the foreign custom, selected for her, at the age of seventeen, a man of mature years and unattractive personality, but some fortune. The family lived in a seaport town, and your mother attracted the eye of a young seafaring man, holding a government position. An intense and uncontrollable love sprang up between them. Your mother had been kept in ignorance of God's great law of sex attraction, its purpose and its results, and she was like a new-born babe towed on the sea of her own suddenly awakened emotion.

It was arranged that your mother was to elope with her lover on his next arrival in port. All plans were to be made by him during the voyage on which he went forth, after a stolen interview with your mother. He was lost at sea, and all on board the ship perished with him. Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont chanced to be sojourning in the place at the time of your birth. Mr. Marchmont had longed for a child, and the tragic story came to his ears through the physician of your mother's family, and he and his wife decided to adopt you and take you to America.

I was the one friend who shared with Mrs. Marchmont the story of your birth. Other friends knew she had adopted a child, and of course all sorts of rumours were afloat for a time. Mr. Marchmont's nephew was particularly unfriendly, I remember, as he had believed himself heir to his uncle's estate until your adoption.

Some three years ago I chanced to be in the seaport town where you were born, and I made quiet inquiries about your mother. I learned that she had recently died, leaving a husband and three children. I hunted up the children, and found them to be most uninteresting and ordinary. The oldest daughter I met and studied. She was plain and commonplace in appearance, and the other children were dull and unattractive.

The husband was the elderly man selected by your grandparents. Just how he had been led to accept the second place in your mother's life, and whether he had known of the tragedy, I could not learn without asking more questions than I deemed wise.

But what I want to impress upon your mind by this recital is, _your own divine inheritance of love,_ the inheritance which has bestowed upon you physical beauty, mental power, and rare qualities of heart and soul. I know few women so endowed by the Creator as you. I know of few young girls--in fact, not one--I would so gladly and proudly claim as a daughter, or wish a daughter to be like, as your lovely self.

When I read your letter, with its wild expressions of self-abasement and despair and regret that you were in the world, where, you seemed to believe, you had no right to be, I could not help picturing to myself the dull face and disagreeable personality of your half-sister, the child whom you no doubt believe has a greater right than yourself on earth. Now whatever society has decided is legal and right for human beings, you must not forget that God also has made rules, and that those rules must first be obeyed, before the rules of man can be regarded as perfect.

God's first law, regarding the propagation of the human species, is that the _mother must be dominated by a supreme and ruling emotion to give to the world the highest type of a child_.

Your mother loved your father with all her heart and soul. She was a young girl, ignorant of the world. She thought of her lover as her rightful mate, and lived but for the hour when he should rescue her from the unhappy fate arranged by unwise and sordid-minded parents.

Your father loved her, and they were in God's sight more truly husband and wife than the soulless and loveless ceremony of the law made her and her legal husband afterward.

It is a great misfortune that your parents lacked the self-control which is necessary to every well-balanced human being who seeks for the fullest development. It is a sad thing that over your life this shadow of unlegalized birth must rest.

But were I given the choice to-day to be what you are, or what your sister is, and what thousands of children born of loveless marriages are, I would not for one second hesitate in my choice.

The world needs marriage laws to keep any order in society.

The wisely reared and well-balanced woman will keep herself in womanly reserve for her legal husband.

Your mother, by a moment's weakness and loss of self-control, left a blight upon her life for ever, and a shadow upon yours.

But do not for one instant think of yourself as anything but _a child of God_, endowed with all the wealth of the spiritual kingdom, whatever the law may withhold from you here.

You are legitimized by love, your sister is legitimate by law. She is illegitimate in the sight of heaven, you in sight of earth.

Be glad of your beautiful nature and beautiful qualities, and do not spoil them by despondency or pessimism.

Think of yourself as if you were a child of Adam and Eve, born before the serpent appeared, when there was no law but the law of love to govern two souls, drawn together by irresistible attraction.

The best and highest qualities of two human beings meet and mingle in your nature. Do you suppose the great Creator of all things regards you as base born, when he has so endowed you with all that makes woman lovable and charming.

Live up to your divine inheritance, my dear girl. Make the world better for your presence in it, and bear your sorrow with that resignation and philosophy which all human beings must cultivate if they do not wish to become weak repiners when they face the sorrows of life.

Look the world squarely in the eyes, and feel no shame.

Your mother's marriage to the man she detested, and the birth of children conceived in loathing, were acts which in my mind called for more shame on her part than your own birth. Both were misfortunes for her, since only by living an orderly, controlled, and lawful life can any human being find happiness or self-respect in the world.

But when we come to the close analysis of motives and impulses, many an act the world condemns is far less reprehensible than other acts which meet its loud acclaim.

You have received from the vast spiritual realms about us your rarely beautiful qualities. Go forth and give them to humanity.

Be strong, be good, be brave, be happy.

No one and nothing can harm you but your own mind.

The world, as we encounter it, is but an echo of our own strong convictions. Respect yourself absolutely, believe in yourself absolutely, and the world will respect you and believe in you.

Say to yourself every hour, "I am God's divine creature," and no one will dare look you in the eyes and say you are anything less than that.

The arms of infinite love enfold you--have no fear.

To Miss Diana Rivers

_Young Lady Contemplating a Career as a Journalist_

Your interesting letter regarding your future plans has been food for my thoughts ever since its receipt this morning.

I remember when you were my guest a year ago that you told me you felt like a big bird in a small cage. Every time you tried to spread your wings you were bruised by bars. Your home environment with its few duties and small responsibilities, your church and your charities, failed to give you full opportunity for the exercise of all your vital forces.

I knew then that you were longing for a career, and I felt confident that some word would come from you before long, announcing a change in your life.

I was prepared to hear one of two things--that you were soon to be married, or that you had decided to enter the dramatic profession. When a young and attractive woman grows restless and eager for change, she is, unconsciously to herself, sending out a challenge to Fate to create new conditions in her life. Despite the fact that no male member in the "Fate" family has ever attained prominence in the eyes of the world, and that the three sisters have claimed so much power over the destinies of the human family, a little investigation will prove that they never make any pronounced move without calling in the aid of Cupid.

Cupid is their prime minister, and we all know that prime ministers are the power behind the throne of rulers.

When you sent out your eager thoughts for "something to happen," to change the monotony of your existence, I knew the Fate sisters were quite likely telegraphing Cupid that his assistance was needed to quiet a small riot in the human family.

Once they set Cupid busy with a human heart, the Fates need give it no further attention. When Cupid reports that his work with the heart is finished, then the Angel of Resignation or the Angel of Death must finish the task.

Knowing you to be particularly fond of the theatre as a distraction, I had thought you might essay the rôle of society actress, confounding appreciation for talent, as so many women do; and when your letter opened with the announcement that you were about to give me a great surprise, I was prepared to hear that you were billed to appear in a walking rôle, with a road company, next season, with promises of greater things "soon afterward."

But I confess to absolute surprise, as I read on, and learned that your career was to lead you, not through Lovers' Lane, not before the footlights, but along the hurly-burly byways and highways of American newspaper work, beginning with interviews and reporting. Allow me to quote from your letter before me.

"I do not imagine I have talent save the talent for work. I am, as you know, well educated, as that expression goes to-day. I have always found expression with the pen an easy mode of communicating my impressions and ideas.

"I am observing, and I have a keen sense of humour, and I have (so people tell me) an agreeable personality. I know the value of correct dressing, and I am not oversensitive. That is, I am not one who will go down at the first rebuff. I have the real American spirit, which makes me believe myself as good as anybody, and you know my family name is one to buoy up that impression. Therefore, it seems to me I cannot fail to attain some degree of success. I am sure to obtain entrée to people and functions, and I can describe what I see and hear in attractive form. I shall shrink at no task, however difficult, and stop at no obstacle.

"I am determined to make a success as a reporter and a correspondent, and after I have achieved something in that line I may look to an editorial position; and who knows but my fertile imagination, coupled with the experiences sure to come to me, may develop the great American novelist the world is waiting?"

This is all interesting and admirable reasoning.

But, having seen much of the world, and known much of the various types of young women writers and reporters and correspondents, I feel like discussing the subject of your profession with you. At the instigation, perhaps, of some editor who makes the mistake of thinking success must be reached through sensationalism, you may be tempted to make your pen, not _mightier_, but more _cruel_ than the sword.

I remember once upon a time meeting a young woman who had come, unbidden by the hostess, to "write up" a social function where a number of celebrated people were congregated.

Her employer had sent her to the house, telling her to obtain an entree by fair means or foul; and as she was well dressed and quiet in manner, she was not repulsed by an amiable hostess. This lady realized that the reporter has his or her living to make, and must be either helped or hindered by the willingness or unwillingness of people to furnish material for copy. Being informed that the young woman was "literary," and chancing to stand near her for a few moments, I asked her the nature of her work.

The young woman looked a trifle embarrassed, as she answered: "Well, to tell you the truth, I write a good many disagreeable and nasty things about people, especially people in public life. The editors who take my work will have that kind. I have essayed better things, and they would not touch them. So I am compelled to write the stuff they do want. I must make a living." When I read the "stuff" in question, I was inclined to doubt the assertion of the writer that "she must make a living." The world would be the better should she and all her kind cease to exist. Ridicule, falsehood, and insinuation were the leading traits of the young woman's literary style. Costumes and personalities were caricatured, and conversations and actions misstated. The entire article would have been libelous, had it not been too cowardly to deserve so bold a word.

It is useless for any man or woman to assert that such reportorial work is done from necessity. The blackmailer and the pickpocket have as much right to the plea, as the newspaper masked-assassin, with the concealed weapon of a pen.

If you are ever asked by any editor to do this reportorial stiletto work, let me urge you to take to professional burglary, rather than consent to write what such an employer demands.

It is far less despicable to rob houses of things of mercantile value, than to rob characters and reputations and personalities. Again, when you are sent out upon a commission to obtain an interview with any person, obtain what you seek and take nothing else away with you.

Just as you would scorn to pawn the watch of the famous actress which you may find lying on the table as you pass out, so scorn to sell any personal speech she may have carelessly dropped in your hearing which you know was not intended for publication. Petty larceny is not a noble feature of interviewing. Even though a facility for selling such dishonestly gained property to advantage be yours, do not convince yourself or be convinced that larceny should be included in your reportorial duties.

I recollect speaking with you once upon the difficulties young women encountered who attempted to win honours in a dramatic career. You felt that the necessity to cater to the ideas and wishes of inferior minds, in representing a character on the stage, would be one of the hardest phases of stage life to meet.

"To be loud and spectacular where I wanted to be refined and subtle," you said, "just to catch some rough audience and fill the house, would be insupportable. And yet I know actresses ofttimes must do that very thing, to keep a foothold in the profession."

I am wondering how you will meet what seems to me a more humiliating rôle, when you are sent out by an editor to gain an entree to some person who does not wish to be interviewed.

Will you, when refused entrance at the front door, go in at the rear and hobnob with the servants? will you spy, and watch and wait on street corners, and hide yourself in hallways, and intercept and surprise, and congratulate yourself when you have trapped your prey? That is the shameful pathway which nowadays leads to what is called "successful newspaper work."

You need to realize the facts before you enter the profession. Were you my daughter, I am certain I should feel much less concern were you to enter the theatrical field.

And yet if you choose to stand by your ideals, and retain your self-respect, you can do so, and succeed in journalism.

If you have, as you say, observation, expression, humour, and ambition, you can create a style of your own: which will not necessitate the loss of all womanly sense of decency and pride in dealing with your fellow beings. It might be well for you to cultivate and add to the list of your qualities appreciation of all that is best in human nature and worthiest of respect. If you understand the law of concentration and demand, you can obtain an entrance to the people you wish to see, through the front hall and a properly engraved card.

If that fails, a polite and frank note, stating your purpose and intimating your self-respecting ideas of your profession, may prove effective. Once establish your reputation as an interviewer who is not a highwayman in disguise, and you will achieve tenfold the success your less reputable confrères gain in the long run. Try and remember always that fame, glory, or even crime, do not destroy all human sensibilities, or render the possessor invulnerable to the thrust of a pen.

The greatest warrior who ever conquered armies has still the power to feel hurt when he sees some personal blemish or misfortune described in print.

You would never be guilty of saying to any man's face, "How hideous your harelip renders you"--and why should you go from his presence and make such a statement to the whole world concerning him? One of the most gifted men America ever claimed was driven from his native land by the cruel, bald, and heartless personalities of newspaper critics, who seemed to consider it necessary to comment on his physical infirmities whenever his genius was mentioned.

During the lifetime of one of England's great literary women, an American correspondent who had been given an interview in her home described her as possessing the "face of a horse." Surely this was agreeable reading for a gifted woman whose genius had delighted thousands!