“Why this is preposterous!” at last I exclaimed, gaping in utter amazement at the Procrustean bed on which I found my poor little fancies stretched. “Every word is true; but who would think of whipping the poor fawn into becoming an elephant, or of _faulting_ (as the New-lights say) the same timid little trembler for not having the strength and courage of the lion? Robin-red-breasts will not be allowed to fly hereafter, because, forsooth, they have not wings fit to battle with the whirlwind, eyes of flame, and hoarse screaming voices. Why I never professed to be more than a Robin-red-breast, ’Bella.” “True, but you must profess it _now_; and attain to something higher, too, or feel your inferiority. Since the Great Reform, women do not talk of one thing’s being proper for _them_ and another improper—every thing is proper that they can do; and they _must do every thing that man has done_, for it has been decided that they are fully his equals. Henceforth in literature you must cultivate _strength_ at the expense of—” “But _our tastes_, ’Bel—if there were nothing else in the way—” “We must correct our false feminine tastes. Recollect that hereafter we are not to be the toys of the drawing-room, nor dawdle away our time in the practice of airs and graces—” “Ah! ’Bel, ’Bel! that’s a masculine accusation—don’t copy.” “Well, then, we are not to lounge by the fireside—rocking cradles, tending flowers, and arranging pretty dresses. Our influence is extended, our sphere is widened. Our voices are to be heard—” “What a pity, ’Bel, that the election is over; it would be such a charming thing to ‘Hurrah for Polk and Dallas!’” “Time enough for that four years hence; and, by the way, you may as well begin to prepare for the next campaign. I intend to adopt oratory as a profession; and you would do very respectably in that line, too, I think.” I looked despairingly at the paper in my hand, and wondered if I _could_ make a speech! At any rate, my literary career was ended. I _spoke_ of the simplicity of my tastes, but I _felt_ (“My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream.”) a conscious weakness, as though I had suddenly been called upon to swing an axe or lift a sledge-hammer. I could admire St. Paul’s, but (I speak guardedly, lest my capabilities should be questioned,) it would not be in accordance with my taste to conceive the plan or perform the labor of building. So, though I might read some pages of Lord Verulam—nay, actually admire them—their production would not have been to me—_agreeable_. But the plea would do no longer: the mantle of feminine tastes had suddenly been torn from me, and the wren was to be measured by the king of birds.