The editor of an Eastern health magazine, having asked for information
relative to the habits, hours of work, and style and frequency of feed
adopted by literary men, and several parties having responded who were
no more essentially saturated with literature than I am, I now take my
pen in hand to reveal the true inwardness of my literary life, so that
boys, who may yearn to follow in my footsteps and wear a laurel wreath
the year round in place of a hat, may know what the personal habits of a
literary party are.
I rise from bed the first thing in the morning, leaving my couch not
because I am dissatisfied with it, but because I cannot carry it with me
during the day.
I then seat myself on the edge of the bed and devote a few moments to
thought. Literary men who have never set aside a few moments on rising
for thought will do well to try it.
I then insert myself into a pair of middle-aged pantaloons. It is
needless to say that girls who may have a literary tendency will find
little to interest them here.
Other clothing is added to the above from time to time. I then bathe
myself. Still this is not absolutely essential to a literary life.
Others who do not do so have been equally successful.
Some literary people bathe before dressing.
I then go down stairs and out to the barn, where I feed the horse. Some
literary men feel above taking care of a horse, because there is really
nothing in common between the care of a horse and literature, but
simplicity is my watchword. T. Jefferson would have to rise early in the
day to eclipse me in simplicity. I wish I had as many dollars as I have
got simplicity.
I then go in to breakfast. This meal consists almost wholly of food. I
am passionately fond of food, and I may truly say, with my hand on
my heart, that I owe much of my great success in life to this inward
craving, this constant yearning for something better.
During this meal I frequently converse with my family. I do not feel
above my family; at least, if I do, I try to conceal it as much as
possible. Buckwheat pancakes in a heated state, with maple syrup on the
upper side, are extremely conducive to literature. Nothing jerks the
mental faculties around with greater rapidity than buckwheat pancakes.
After breakfast the time is put in to good advantage looking forward
to the time when dinner will be ready. From 8 to 10 A. M., however,
I frequently retire to my private library hot-bed in the hay mow, and
write 1,200 words in my forthcoming book, the price of which will be
$2.50 in cloth and $4 with Russia back.
I then play Copenhagen with some little girls 21 years of age, who live
near by, and of whom I am passionately fond.
After that I dig some worms, with a view to angling. I then angle. After
this I return home, waiting until dusk, however, as I do not like to
attract attention. Nothing is more distasteful to a truly good man of
wonderful literary acquirements, and yet with singular modesty, than the
coarse and rude scrutiny of the vulgar herd.
In winter I do not angle. I read the "Pirate Prince" or the
"Missourian's Mash," or some other work, not so much for the plot as the
style, that I may get my mind into correct channels of thought. I then
play "old sledge" in a rambling sort of manner. I sometimes spend an
evening at home, in order to excite remark and draw attention to my
wonderful eccentricity.
I do not use alcohol in any form, if I know it, though sometimes I am
basely deceived by those who know of my peculiar prejudice, and who do
it, too, because they enjoy watching my odd and amusing antics at the
time.
Alcohol should be avoided entirely by literary workers, especially young
women. There can be no more pitiable sight to the tender hearted than a
young woman of marked ability writing an obituary poem while under the
influence of liquor.
I knew a young man who was a good writer. His penmanship was very good,
indeed. He once wrote an article for the press while under the influence
of liquor. He sent it to the editor, who returned it at once with a cold
and cruel letter, every line of which was a stab. The letter came at a
time when he was full of remorse.
He tossed up a cent to see whether he should blow out his brains or go
into the ready-made clothing business. The coin decided that he should
die by his own hand, but his head ached so that he didn't feel like
shooting into it. So he went into the ready-made clothing business, and
now he pays taxes on $75,000, so he is probably worth $150,000. This, of
course, salves over his wounded heart, but he often says to me that he
might have been in the literary business to-day if he had let liquor
alone.