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.