any man cast me out of the Universe? He cannot; but whithersoever I may go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions, and communion with the gods!"[1]
Speaking as a woman, I can quite understand and appreciate all the little difficulties, irritations, and trials incident to a woman's career in literature; and though I myself welcome such difficulties as so many incentives to fresh effort, I know that there are many of my sex who, growing weary and discouraged, are not able to adopt this attitude. And looking back into the past, one is bound to see a host of brilliant women done to death by cruel injustice and misrepresentation, a state of things which is quite likely to be continued as long as humanity endures.
But no useful object is served by brooding over this apparently incurable evil. "The noble army of martyrs" who praise the Lord in the "Te Deum" are likely to be of the sex feminine. But what does that matter? It is more glorious to be martyred than to die of over-eating and general plethora. Moreover mental or intellectual martyrdom is a necessary ingredient for the "happy" life—a touch of it is like the toothache, helping one to be duly thankful when the pain ceases. For, if we never understood trouble, we should never taste the full measure of joy.
One thing can be very well dispensed with by both men and women who look for happiness in the Life Literary, and that is the uneasy hankering after what is called "Fame." Fame has a habit of setting its halo on the elected brows without
