an old politician and a young politician were travelling through a beautiful country, by the dusty highway which leads to the city of prosperous obscurity. lured by the flowers and the shade and charmed by the songs of birds which invited to woodland paths and green fields, his imagination fired by glimpses of golden domes and glittering palaces in the distance on either hand, the young politician said:

“let us, i beseech thee, turn aside from this comfortless road leading, thou knowest whither, but not i. let us turn our backs upon duty and abandon ourselves to the delights and advantages which beckon from every grove and call to us from every shining hill. let us, if so thou wilt, follow this beautiful path, which, as thou seest, hath a guide-board saying, ‘turn in here all ye who seek the palace of political distinction.’”

“it is a beautiful path, my son,” said the old politician, without either slackening his pace or turning his head, “and it leadeth among pleasant scenes. but the search for the palace of political distinction is beset with one mighty peril.”

“what is that?” said the young politician.

“the peril of finding it,” the old politician replied, pushing on.