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occasionally would he cast his eye toward my window. But he never deigned to repeat his visit. At length he disappeared. What became of him I never knew. His applications to other publishers, if he made any, probably were followed by no better success; for I have never seen his poems in print, and the world has, I apprehend, never enjoyed the benefit of his inspiration.

The case of this poor fellow is by no means a solitary one. Had he occupied the hours and days-and probably years-which it cost him to indite his volume of verses, in setting types, he might have been, at the time I saw him, genteelly clad, and better fed than I presume him to have been, and, with "money in both pockets," he might have bid defiance to care and the critics. It would be as well for many, who, like him, waste their precious time, in devotion to the unrelenting and unpropitious Muses, and, perhaps, better for the world,-if they could not be so unfortunate as to find friends who advise them to publish, and publishers who are blind enough to their own interest to grasp at the shadow of a profit they can never realize.

Many years subsequent to this incident, I was the conductor of a periodical work, and received a letter from a person in a neighboring town, informing me that he had written a poem of about four hundred lines, which he would be glad to dispose of for a small compensation. His friends, he said, had spoken kindly of it, and induced him to think it was not without merit. To show me what he could perform in the way of poetical composition, he had enclosed a few verses, which I might publish, if I approved them, and, if otherwise, I was requested to return them. These verses consisted of about forty lines, intended to be arranged according to the Spenserian stanza, but, in truth, possessing no one attribute of poetry-not even the mechanical one of measured lines. The letter was thrown into a drawer, with others to which it might claim some affinity, and forgotten. In the course of a few weeks afterwards, on entering my office, I observed a young man standing by the stove, where he had apparently been some time waiting my appearance. On being informed that I was the editor he had inquired for," Can I sell you that, sir?" said he, taking from under his plaid cloak and thrusting towards me,—with a bold and confident air, somewhat unexpected from the modesty of his appearance,—a small roll, enveloped in a bit of an old newspaper.

“What is it, sir?” said I.

"Poetry," he replied.

"I must examine it, before I can give you an answer," said I, " and as I am engaged at this time, if you will leave it, you shall be informed whether the purchase can be made or not."

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"I should like to get the money for it, this afternoon," said the gentleman; I live out of town, and if you could read it now-it would not take you more than half an hour-"

The nature of my engagement was stated to him, and the inconvenience of complying at that moment with his request. But the gentleman was not to be disheartened by such apologies, nor did he intend to lose his point for want of perseverance.

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"I sent you," he continued, a piece some weeks ago and requested you to return it, if you did not like it. Did you receive it?"

A few words of explanation showed me that this gentleman was the correspondent mentioned above. I opened the appropriate drawer, and, taking out his letter and specimen, asked him if that was the piece he referred to. He said it was; and on my telling him that it was not accepted, he insisted, with a pertinacity that was very far from indicating any distrust of his own powers,-on knowing why it should be rejected. Finding I had to deal with one who was not to be shaken off very easily, I pointed out to him a few instances of false grammar and half a score of halting lines.

"Do they not contain ten syllables a piece?" said he.

This was a poser. It was true, they did; but they seemed to have as little to do with each other, as if they had been obtained by decimating a dictionary. Having triumphed over me, as he thought, in the matter of the halting lines, he did not seem to care for the grammar. He expected, if the piece were accepted, that I should put that in myself. He had never studied a page of English Grammar in his life. In spite of my engagement, I began to feel interested in the fellow's history, and I learned from him, in reply to my inquiries, that he had been bred to the shoe-making business; that he was exceedingly poor, and that his course of reading had been circumscribed to very narrow limits. He had read none of the English Poets, save Byron, and Childe Harold had been his principal study. This accounted for the form of his stanzas-for of Spenser, the poet, he had never heard. He had read no work on criticism, taste, or composition. He had been a free man only about six months; his health would not allow him to work at his trade; he had discovered that he had a talent for poetry, and his friends advised him to write for the press, and, with the proceeds, purchase books for future instruction and improvement.

I was again pressed to examine the poem which had not been unrolled. It was of a piece with the specimen, and I perceived that it would be an act of kindness to advise him to throw by his pen for a few years, and betake himself to some other employment. But this was not the kind of advice he wanted. He admitted that it might be useful to study; but he must live, and how could he live unless he could be paid for what he had already written, and what he might write, while he should study for improvement! This question seemed to him to admit of no determination, different from the conclusion to which, in his own mind, he had arrived. When he found me inexorable in regard to the purchase, he unwillingly departed; but, as it afterward appeared, not without having adopted the resolution of one of Pope's annoyers—

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's death, I'll print it, And shame the rogue;'

for, not many weeks after, I found in my box at the Post-Office, a small package, neatly sealed up, for "The Editor of the

On tearing off the envelope, I found its contents to be a little book of twenty-four pages, entitled "The Tri-Dead, and other Poems, by a Mechanic. Printed for the Author." A look at one page was sufficient to enable me to recognize the Poem, which I had refused to purchase of the young shoemaker. What success he has had in disposing of his work, or what amount of profit I lost by declining the speculation, is altogether unknown to me.

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CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

THE time is drawing near when new recruits are to be sent forth from our colleges. Among these young men the choice of a profession is probably the subject, which engrosses most of their thoughts. I hope, therefore, that the following remarks, in the form of a letter from a young man to his friend, will not be thought inappropriate.

You ask me to tell you which profession I think you should choose. I will do no such thing; but instead thereof, will make a few remarks, which will tend to free you from unnecessary incumbrances and false guides, rather than afford any positive assistance in determining the question before you.

In the first place, ask nobody's advice. Consult no one, listen to no one. Otherwise you will be sadly perplexed. For friends will advise you, not upon right principles, but from their own prepossessions and prejudices. One is dazzled by the glittering mausoleum of an eminent lawyer. He recommends the law. Another has been captivated by the well-stored coffers of a successful physician. He recommends medicine. A third is charmed with the character of a clergyman, and prefers his plain monument of unsullied marble to the towering edifices raised by political ambition. He recommends divinity. Thus all the pursuits in the world may be recommended by your different friends. Now what is to be done? Here you are on the threshold of life. You are without experience. You cannot test for yourself the objects before you. In that case, life would be wasted before the work is begun. Men of experience offer different opinions. You cannot rely upon them, and yet the decision must be made. How is it to be made?

Disregard altogether the opinions of others. Study into the wants of the community, and the wants of your own soul. Examine the nature of your mind,-its prepossessions, powers, and aptitudes. Learn which way your natural inclination leads you, and in what your happiness consists. Then reflect upon the duties and advantages of each profession, and consider how far you are competent or capable of becoming competent to the duties, and how far you will be able to secure and enjoy the advantages. Beware of suffering extraneous circumstances to influence your decision. It is to be feared, that the fame of a few men, in the law, for instance, has drawn many into that profession, who were altogether unfit for it, and who might have been eminent physicians or useful clergymen. You must not be led astray by such considerations. That Marshall, or Webster, or Wirt has acquired a high reputation, is no reason why you should enter the same profession, unless you feel germinating within yourself the seeds of talents, such as they possess. Suppose that the shrub, which from its nature can never be more than two feet high, should say, as it sees the oak, towering to heaven upon a neighboring hill, "If I could only be planted upon that hill, I, too, should rise and kiss the heavens;" or suppose that the eagle, jealous of the beaver, should undertake to vie with him in architecture, or that the beaver should spend his life in the attempt to soar above the eagle's flight. Would it not be very

ridiculous? And yet not more so, not a whit more ridiculous, than for you to engage in Law, Medicine, or Divinity, because charmed by the reputation of some great name, when you have not reflected a moment upon your capacity or incapacity for the pursuits upon which you would enter. This is making a strong statement. But I am satisfied that it would hardly be thought an exaggeration, could we but assemble before us the crowds, whose talents have been misplaced, and their energies wasted, in consequence of the celebrity of a few distinguished men.

I have at this moment in my eye the image of a young man, who was engaged in mercantile pursuits, and bidding fair to become a respectable merchant. But he chanced to form an acquaintance with a professional gentleman of some eminence. Captivated by this gentleman's reputation, he determined to follow the same course, not doubting that he should meet the same success. He therefore applied himself at once to hard study. But he was not fashioned for a scholar, and his progress was exceedingly slow. "This was the source of insupportable mortification to his morbidly sensitive mind. Still he persevered, and, after having spent I know not how many years in utter wretchedness, pursuing a route for which nature never destined him, he was at last obliged to abandon the project with a constitution so shattered, and a mind so discouraged, as to render him absolutely unfit for any employment whatever.

Disregard altogether the suggestions of ambition. Fame is too small and mean a reward for the labors of a life. The man, who is most successful in pursuit of it, is, after all, an unhappy and disappointed being, if this has been the great object of his existence. See him walking to and fro upon the summit of his cold and barren promontory, muttering to himself words of bitterness and vexation. had once," he says, "I had once looked up to the great men of the world with unbounded respect. I dreamed that if I could but reach their places, I should be happy. 'Ah me! I did but dream.' I reached those places. Heaven answered my wishes, and added thereto what I had not dared to hope. But I am not happy. I am disappointed. I have climbed to the spot where my rainbow was extended; but the bright vision has fled. The place, which my childish fancy had peopled with sunny pleasures and rich and substantial joys, is but a desert. I once thought great men happy ; and as I perused the history of by-gone ages, my heart glowed within me at the contemplation of illustrious men, and I longed to follow, though at an awful distance, in their imposing train. I followed them. Hopes, desires, facilities increased, and I at length, have placed myself among them. But I am disappointed. They are not what I had thought them. Lofty mountains are indeed nearer to the sun than humble plains; but they are only the more bleak and weather-beaten. Even the fogs, by which fens are infested, are hardly less frequent upon the mountain topsand then the storms, the merciless, pitiless storms, which clatter against their rough sides! Ambition, I no longer covet your honors. They are apples of Sodom-bitter dust and ashes. Striking and just are the words of Burke in his old age :- My Lord, if I know my own mind, I would not give a peck of refuse wheat for all that the world calls great.'

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But this is no place to preach upon the vanity and worthlessness of fame. Admitting the highest claims, which its advocates would make for it, still it is an unphilosophical object of pursuit. There are too many blanks, and the tickets are too dear to justify a purchase in the lottery. Mediocrity is the common portion of man. "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil." None can reckon upon it with certainty, and few can put forth reasonable claims to it. Usefulness is an absolute term. It interferes with nothing else. It can exist alone. Any man may therefore be useful. But eminence and opulence are relative terms, and as much imply the existence of degradation and poverty as hills and trees imply the existence of valleys and roots. One man is conspicuous, not always because he is high; but because others are low. If thousands rise together, all which the ambitious man desires is lost.

Besides, fame will be quite as likely to come to those who seek it not, as to its most ardent votaries. I should advise you, therefore, to put it entirely out of your mind, in determining upon your profession. It is good for nothing when attained. You have hardly a chance of attaining it. If it is to come to you, it will come in that pursuit to which your talents are best adapted. He, who could never shine at the bar, or in the halls of legislation, may, as a physician, a scholar or a clergyman, build up a reputation as durable and as valuable as the proudest trophies of the conqueror, or the richest laurels of the

statesman.

But I have dwelt too long on this point. You must decide upon it for yourself; and if you find that your habits and feelings are such that fame or pelf must be the pole-star of your existence, of course, you have no thoughts of studying Divinity. That would be hypocrisy; it would be sacrilege. Your mind is unfit for the sacred office, and you would take no pleasure in the performance of its duties. Religion is under light obligation to those, her recreant sons, however exalted in intellect, who have made her altars the stepping stones to worldly preferments, dignities, emoluments and honors. She has already suffered too much from such characters, and you will not add yourself to the number.

If, however, you conclude that the great object of life is to be use. ful to yourself and others,—that this is the surest means of advancing your happiness, and that your plans should be laid out and your actions performed with reference to this; then all the great pursuits of life are open, and the difficult work of selecting is yet on your hands. The only question, which you are to answer, is, "In which profession can I be most happy, and do the greatest good?" Considering the professions in themselves, the duties which they require, the manner in which they are filled, the general wants of the country, the character of your own mind, your feelings, habits, and physical temperament; considering all these separately and relatively, you must determine for which you are best adapted, and in which you are most likely to succeed. You must not be satisfied with a partial view. It is not enough to decide that your talents are best fitted for law or medicine. It does not follow that you will therefore be most successful in these professions. If they happen to be crowded, and our churches are in want of pastors, you must not lose sight of this; but remember that a

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