labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and
Cooper, and James, to the absurdity of _such_ an idea! Wait--I would
be truthful--even as I write there comes before me a bright
remembrance of _one_ glorious bard, living, voiceless _now_--our own
well-beloved Halleck; but even _he_ may awake, and speak yet--and so
make way with _the_ exception to my rule.

And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise,
wide-awake century it is all _for country and the good of man_! We are
a wise people, WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it
is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we
will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor
and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for
the enlightenment of mankind--the improvement of his fellows? Who will
say that _this_ is not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all,
the _secondary_ consideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor
misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith
to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" There _is_
such a thing as a "lord of creation," _pining_ for distinction, and
braving every distress, and even death, for--Fame! Yes, we have
records of sons of Genius who have _died_ because men recognized not
the light _they_ set before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais!
he is dead."

I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted
the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and
continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do not
_say_ quite) sickened the patient bystanders.

Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves
admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I
know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and
sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make
wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among
masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But,
if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled,
pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles
of _one_ woman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens!
whom shall he blame, if the smile does not always await him? Whose
fault is it if he does not _continue_ to please, when the eyes of the
fair one are awakened to his numberless "shor