When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the shrine of beauty—and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation man forces to her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so very unnatural in the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why, even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give—give!"
Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you—what warrior, after a brilliant achievement in one battle—after one glorious conquest over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity, and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners in the vallies of the world—I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes? Was Alexander?
What author, after writing one book that took the reading world by storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their death-stiffened fingers can write for us no more? Are the writers of our day satisfied with one brilliant and successful effort in the field of literary 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 "short comings?" And some day when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might some day come to a just conclusion.
But enough of this; I have given a preface—and I know a case in point—more satisfactory than all my arguments I think it will prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge, if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on this important subject.
From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors. Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world," I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience" to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods, she will never know that I have seized upon her as a "subject" whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by touching on this topic.
Every body said Flory was a coquette—and adopting as a settled point the sentiment that "what every body says must be true," I suppose she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly the idea that she was artful and designing, or that she ever regularly set a trap to ensnare any human heart.
Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair, and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light, glossy brown—and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the truth of it, they never emerged from curl-papers—(and by the way, how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing natural, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, holy light, and again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.