"And now examine each and decide for yourself, which you will choose as the scene of your future efforts--choose, and pursue that choice with determination. One road alone can you follow. Some, it is true, have, when tired of the one, pursued the other for a time. _But no man ever reached the top of both._ You are then to decide in favor of _one_, and having decided, steadily to pursue it, or content yourself with remaining unnoticed in the crowd which fills the plain beneath. That you may form your decision more correctly, look into the history of those who have sought and gained pre-eminence, in either kind of fame. Let us then (laying aside our metaphors) judge from past history, and by that let your future course be decided. In the histories of those who have even stood highest as writers, poets, &c. you often find much calculated to disgust you with the pursuit which they followed--how little do you find to envy in the lot of the beggar Homer--the blind and half starved Milton--the miserable Otway dying, choked with the morsel of food which he had begged of a friend; Goldsmith, Johnson, &c. It is true, that in contrast to these we may name Newton, Bacon, Shakspeare, Byron, who succeeded in gaining during (and some of them early in) their lives the fame they so eagerly sought. But more numerous are the instances on record, where literary merit has been unrewarded except by posthumous renown. Of genius the most brilliant--of minds the most powerful, which have gained their hard earned mede of praise--when their bodies were mouldering in the grave--when the head which conceived, and the hand which penned their bright aspirations, as well as the heart which so ardently beat for glory and honor--have mingled with the dust, alike unmindful and indifferent to praise or reproach, to fame or obloquy. When the bright etherial spirit, which once so strongly throbbed for a 'name among men,' has taken its flight to a truer home, where the glory of this world is nothing--then is paid to the memory the honor which the man deserved--which would have made him so completely happy. His life perhaps was spent in grinding poverty, in misery and wretchedness, imbittered by that chill cold neglect of the world, which so withers the sensitive heart--for what? A name after death. Let us turn from this dismal picture, to the other. Here at least, are some substantial pleasures, however they may be alloyed by the attendant evils, dangers and difficulties. Here at least, honor is nearly always rendered, if bestowed at all, whilst it can be appreciated. And now let us see whether the dangers and difficulties I have mentioned, may not be really less than we were at first inclined to believe them, and whether with care they may not be almost entirely avoided. It is true, that he who once becomes a public servant, throws his character in the hands of every man, and lays himself open to the attacks of every scribbler.