I see, though you are too diffident to say so openly, that you shrink from the fame of singer, because, fevered by your reading, you would fain aspire to the thorny crown of author.

I echo the hard saying of the Maestro: I should be your worst enemy did I encourage you to forsake a career in which a dazzling success is so assured, for one in which, if it were your true vocation, you would not ask whether you were fit for it; you would be impelled to it by the terrible star which presides over the birth of poets.
Have you, who are so naturally observant, and of late have become so reflective, never remarked that authors, however absorbed in their own craft, do not wish their children to adopt it?
The most successful author is perhaps the last person to whom neophytes should come for encouragement.

This I think is not the case with the cultivators of the sister arts.
The painter, the sculptor, the musician, seem disposed to invite disciples and welcome acolytes.

As for those engaged in the practical affairs of life, fathers mostly wish their sons to be as they have been.
The politician, the lawyer, the merchant, each says to his children, "Follow my steps." All parents in practical life would at least agree in this,--they would not wish their sons to be poets.

There must be some sound cause in the world's philosophy for this general concurrence of digression from a road of which the travellers themselves say to those whom they love best, "Beware!" Romance in youth is, if rightly understood, the happiest nutriment of wisdom in after-years; but I would never invite any one to look upon the romance of youth as a thing "To case in periods and embalm in ink." Enfant, have you need of a publisher to create romance?
Is it not in yourself?
Do not imagine that genius requires for its enjoyment the scratch of the pen and the types of the printer.