It is a solemn thing, to think when you sit down to splatter ink, that
what you write, in prose or verse, may be a blessing or a curse. The
gems of thought that you impart may upward guide some mind and heart;
some youth may read your Smoking Stuff, and say: "That logic's good
enough; the path of virtue must be fine; I'll have no wickedness in
mine." And some day, when you're old and gray, that youth may come
along your way, and say, in language ringing true: "All that I've won I
owe to you! When I was young I read your rot; it hit a most responsive
spot, encouraged me for stress and strife, and made me choose the best
in life." And this will warm your heart and brain; you'll know you
have not lived in vain. But if you write disgusting dope, that thrusts
at Truth, and Faith and Hope; if you apologize for vice, and show that
wickedness is nice, it well may chance, when you are old, and in your
veins the blood runs cold, there'll come your way some dismal wreck,
who'll roast you sore, and cry: "By heck! And also I might say, by
gum! 'Twas you that put me on the bum! Your writings got me headed
wrong; you threw it into Virtue strong; and in the prison that you see,
I'm convict No. 23!"