THE SUPERIORITY OF MAN
Without pausing to inquire why savages and barbarians are capable of producing college professors, who sneer at the source from which they sprung, we may accept for the moment the masculine hypothesis of intellectual superiority. Some women have been heard to say that they wish they had been born men, but there is no man bold enough to say that he would like to be a woman.
If woman can produce a reasoning being, it follows that she herself must be capable of reasoning, since a stream can rise no higher than its fountain. And yet the bitter truth stares us in the face. We have no Shakespeare, Michelangelo, or Beethoven; our Darwins, our Schumanns are mute and inglorious; our Miltons, Raphaels, and Herbert Spencers have not arrived.
Call the roll of the great and how many women’s names will be found there? Scarcely enough to enable you to call the company mixed.
No woman in her senses wishes to be merely the female of man. She aspires to be distinctly different—to exercise her varied powers in wholly different ways. Ex-President Roosevelt said: “Equality does not imply identity of function.” We do not care to put in telephones or to collect fares on a street-car.
Primitive man set forth from his cave to kill an animal or two, then repaired to a secluded nook in the jungle, with other primitive men, to discuss the beginnings of politics. Primitive woman in the cave not only dressed his game, but she cooked the animal for food, made clothing of its skin, necklaces and bracelets of its teeth, passementerie of its claws, and needles of its sharper bones. What wonder that she had no time for an afternoon tea?
The man of the twentieth century has progressed immeasurably beyond this, but his wife, industrially speaking, has not gone half so far. Is she not still in some cases a cave-dweller, while he roams the highways of the world?
If a woman mends men’s socks, should he not darn her lisle-thread hosiery, and run a line of machine stitching around the middle of the hem to prevent a disastrous run from a broken stitch? If she presses his ties, why should he not learn to iron her bits of fine lace?
Some one will say: “But he supports her. It is her duty.”
“Yes, dear friend, but similarly does he ‘support’ the servant who does the same duties. He also gives her seven dollars every Monday morning, or she leaves.” Are we to suppose that a wife is a woman who does general housework for board and clothes, with a few kind words thrown in?
A German lady, whom we well knew, worked all the morning attending to the comforts of her liege lord. In the dining room he was stretched out in an easy chair, while the queen of his heart brushed and repaired his clothes—yes, and blacked his boots! Doubtless for a single kiss, redolent of beer and sausages, she would have pressed his trousers. Kind words and the fragrant osculation had already saved him three dollars at his tailor’s.
By such gold-brick methods, dear friends, do men get good service cheap. Would that we could do the same! Here, and gladly, we admit masculine superiority.
Our short-sightedness, our weakness for kind words, our graceful acceptance of the entire responsibility for the home, have chained us to the earth, while our lords soar. After having worked steadily for some six thousand years to populate the earth passably, some of us may now be excused from that duty.
Motherhood is a career for which especial talents are required. Very few women know how to bring up children properly. If you don’t believe it, look at the difference between our angelic offspring, and the little imps next door! It is as unreasonable to suppose that all women can be good mothers as it is to suppose that all women can sing in grand opera.
And yet, let us hug to our weary hearts, in our most discouraged moments, the great soul-satisfying truth that men, no matter what they say or write, think that we are smarter than they are. Otherwise, they would not expect of us so much more than they can possibly do themselves.
In every field of woman’s work outside the house, the same illustration applies. They also think that we possess greater physical strength. They chivalrously shield us from the exhausting effort of voting, but allow us to stand in the street-cars, wash dishes, push a baby carriage, and scrub the kitchen floor. Should we not be proud because they consider us so much stronger and wiser than they? Interruptions are fatal to their work, as the wife of even a business man will testify.
What would have become of Spencer’s Data of Ethics if, while he was writing it, he had two dressmakers in the house? Should we have had Hamlet, if at the completion of the first act Mr. Shakespeare had given birth to twins, when he had made clothes for only one?
The great charm of marriage, as of life itself, is its unexpectedness. The only way to test a man is to marry him. If you live, it’s a mushroom; if you die, it’s a toadstool!
Or, as another saying goes: “Happiness after marriage is like the soap in the bath-tub; you knew it was there when you got in.”
Man’s clothes are ugly, but the styles change gradually. A judge on the bench may try a case lasting two weeks, and his hat will not be hopelessly behind the times when it is finished. A man can stoop to pick up a fallen magazine without pausing to remember that his front steels are not so flexible this year as they were last.
He is not distressed by the fear that some other man may have a suit just like his, or that the neighbours will think it is his last year’s suit dyed.
We women fritter ourselves away upon a thousand unnecessary things. We waste our creative energies and our inspired moments upon pursuits so ephemeral that they are forgotten to-morrow. Our day’s work counts for nothing when tested by the standards of eternity. We are unjust, not only to ourselves, but to the men who strive for us, for civilisation must progress very slowly when half of us are dragged by pots and pans.
A house is a material fact, but a home is a fine spiritual essence which may pervade even the humblest abode. If love means harmony, why not try a little of it in the kitchen? Better a perfect salad than a poor poem; better a fine picture than an immaculate house.
THE YEAR OF MY HEART
Asigh for the spring, full flowered, promised spring,
Laid on the tender earth, and those dear days
When apple blossoms gleamed against the blue!
Ah, how the world of joyous robins sang:
“I love but you, Sweetheart, I love but you!”
A sigh for summer fled. In warm, sweet air
Her thousand singers sped on shining wing;
And all the inward life of budding grain
Throbbed with a thousand pulses, while I cling
To you, my Sweet, with passion near to pain.
A sigh for autumn past. The garnered fields
Lie desolate to-day. My heart is chill
As with a sense of dread, and on the shore
The waves beat grey and cold, and seem to say:
“No more, oh, waiting soul, oh nevermore!”
A sigh for winter come. No singing bird,
Nor harvest field, is near the path I tread;
An empty husk is all I have to keep.
The largess of my giving left me bare,
And I ask God but for His Lethe—sleep.
THE AVERAGE MAN
The real man is not at all on the outskirts of civilisation. He is very much in evidence and everybody knows him. He has faults and virtues, and sometimes they get so mixed up that “you cannot tell one from t’other.”
He is erratic and often queer. He believes, with Emerson, that “with consistency a great soul has nothing to do.” And he is, of course, “a great soul.” Logical, isn’t it?
The average man thinks that he is a born genius at love-making. Henders, in The Professor’s Love Story, states it thus:
“Effie, ye ken there are some men ha’ a power o’er women.... They’re what ye might call ‘dead shots.’ Ye canna deny, Effie, that I’m one o’ those men!”
Even though a man may be obliged to admit, in strict confidence between himself and his mirror, that he is not at all handsome, nevertheless he is certain that he has some occult influence over that strange, mystifying, and altogether unreasonable organ—a woman’s heart.
The real man is conceited. Of course you are not, dear masculine reader, for you are one of the bright particular exceptions, but all of your men friends are conceited—aren’t they?
And then he makes fun of his women folks because they spend so much time in front of the mirror in arranging hats and veils. But when a high wind comes up and disarranges coiffures and chapeaux alike, he takes “my ladye fair” into some obscure corner, and saying, “Pardon me, but your hat isn’t quite straight,” he will deftly restore that piece of millinery to its pristine position. That’s nice of him, isn’t it? He does very nice things quite often, this real man.
He says women are fickle. So they are, but men are fickle too, and will forget all about the absent sweetheart while contemplating the pretty girls in the street. For while “absence makes the heart grow fonder” in the case of a woman, it is presence that plays the mischief with a man, and Miss Beauty present has a very unfair advantage over Miss Sweetheart absent.
The average man thinks he is a connoisseur of feminine attractiveness. He thinks he has tact, too, but there never was a man who was blessed with much of this valuable commodity. Still, as that is a favourite delusion with so large a majority of the human race, the conceit of the ordinary masculine individual ought not to be censured too strongly.
The real man is quite an expert at flattery. Every girl he meets, if she is at all attractive, is considered the most charming lady that he ever knew. He is sure she isn’t prudish enough to refuse him a kiss, and if she is, she wins not only his admiration, but that which is vastly better—his respect.
If she hates to be considered a prude and gives him the kiss, he is very sweet and appreciative at the time, but later on he confides to his chum that she is a silly sort of a girl, without a great deal of self-respect!
There are two things that the average man likes to be told. One is that his taste in dress is exceptional; the other that he is a deep student of human nature and knows the world thoroughly. This remark will make him your lifelong friend.
Again, the real man will put on more agony when he is in love than is needed for a first-class tragedy. But there’s no denying that most women like that sort of thing, you, dear dainty feminine reader, being almost the only exception to this rule.
But, resuming the special line of thought, man firmly believes that woman cannot sharpen a pencil, select a necktie, throw a stone, drive a nail, or kill a mouse, and it is very certain that she cannot cook a beef-steak in the finished style of which his lordship is capable.
Yes, man has his faults as well as woman. There is a vast room for improvement on both sides, but as long as this old earth of ours turns through shadow and sunlight, through sorrow and happiness, men and women will forgive and try to forget, and will cling to, and love each other.
THE BOOK OF LOVE
I dreamt I saw an angel in the night,
And she held forth Love’s book, limned o’er with gold,
That I might read of days of chivalry
And how men’s hearts were wont to thrill of old.
Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves,
For Love’s book counts out centuries as years,
And here and there a page shone out undimmed,
And here and there a page was blurred with tears.
I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained—
Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and Blame,
Renunciation—bitterest of all—
And yet I wandered not beyond Love’s name.
At last I cried to her who held the book,
So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet;
“Why write these things within this book of Love?
Why may we not pass onward and forget?”
Her voice was tender when she answered me:
“Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art,
How should’st thou dream that Love is never Love
Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?”
THE IDEAL MAN
He isn’t nearly so scarce as one might think, but happy is the woman who finds him, for he is often a bit out of the beaten paths, sometimes in the very suburbs of our modern civilisation. He is, however, coming to the front rather slowly, to be sure, but nevertheless he is coming.
He wouldn’t do for the hero of a dime novel—he isn’t melancholy in his mien, nor Byronic in his morals. It is a frank, honest, manly face that looks into the other end of our observation telescope when we sweep the horizon to find something higher and better than the rank and file of humanity.
He is a gentleman, invariably courteous and refined. He is careful in his attire, but not foppish. He is chivalrous in his attitude toward woman, and as politely kind to the wrinkled old woman who scrubs his office floor as to the aristocratic belle who bows to him from her carriage.
He is scrupulously honest in all his dealings with his fellow men, and meanness of any sort is utterly beneath him. He has a happy way of seeing the humorous side of life, and he is an exceedingly pleasant companion.
When the love light shines in his eyes, kindled at the only fire where it may be lighted, he has nothing in his past of which he need be ashamed. He stands beside her and pleads earnestly and manfully for the treasure he seeks. Slowly he turns the pages of his life before her, for there is not one which can call a blush to his cheek, or to hers.
Truth, purity, honesty, chivalry, the highest manliness—all these are written therein, and she gladly accepts the clean heart which is offered for her keeping.
Her life is now another open book. To him her nature seems like a harp of a thousand strings, and every note, though it may not be strong and high, is truth itself, and most refined in tone.
So they join hands, these two: the sweetheart becomes the wife; the lover is the husband.
He is still chivalrous to every woman, but to his wife he pays the gentler deference which was the sweetheart’s due. He loves her, and is not ashamed to show it. He brings her flowers and books, just as he used to do when he was teaching her to love him. He is broad-minded, and far-seeing—he believes in “a white life for two.” He knows his wife has the same right to demand purity in thought, word, and deed from him, as he has to ask absolute stainlessness from her. That is why he has kept clean the pages of his life—why he keeps the record unsullied as the years go by.
He is tender in his feelings; if he goes home and finds his wife in tears, he doesn’t tell her angrily to “brace up,” or say, “this is a pretty welcome for a man!” He doesn’t slam the door and whistle as if nothing was the matter. But he takes her in his comforting arms and speaks soothing words. If his comrades speak lightly of his devotion, he simply thinks out other blessings for the little woman who presides at his fireside.
His wife is inexpressibly dear to him, and every day he shows this, and takes pains, also, to tell her so. He admires her pretty gowns, and is glad to speak appreciatively of the becoming things she wears. He knows instinctively that it is the thoughtfulness and the little tenderness which make a woman’s happiness, and he tries to make her realise that his love for her grew brighter, instead of fading, when the sweetheart blossomed into the wife. For every woman, old, wrinkled, and grey, or young and charming, likes to be loved.
The ideal man will do his utmost to make his wife realise that his devotion intensifies as the years go by.
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest upon each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?
God bless the ideal man and hasten his coming in greater numbers.
GOOD-NIGHT, SWEETHEART
Good-night, Sweetheart; the wingèd hours have flown;
I have forgotten all the world but thee.
Across the moon-lit deep, where stars have shone,
The surge sounds softly from the sleeping sea.
Thy heart at last hath opened to Love’s key;
Remembered Aprils, glorious blooms have sown,
And now there comes the questing honey bee.
Good-night, Sweetheart; the wingèd hours have flown.
My singing soul makes music in thine own,
Thy hand upon my harp makes melody;
So close the theme and harmony have grown
I have forsaken all the world for thee.
Before thy whiteness do I bend the knee;
Thou art a queen upon a stainless throne,
Like Dian making royal jubilee,
Across the vaulted dark where stars are blown.
Within my heart thy face shines out alone,
Ah, dearest! Say for once thou lovest me!
A whisper, even, like the undertone
The surge sings slowly from the rhythmic sea.
Thy downcast eyes make answer to my plea;
A crimson mantle o’er thy cheek is thrown
Assurance more than this, there need not be,
For thus, within the silence, love is known.
Good-night, Sweetheart.
THE IDEAL WOMAN
The trend of modern thought in art and literature is toward the real, but fortunately the cherishing of the ideal has not vanished.
All of us, though we may profess to be realists, are at heart idealists, for every woman in the innermost sanctuary of her thoughts cherishes an ideal man. And every man, practical and commonplace though he be, has before him in his quiet moments a living picture of grace and beauty, which, consciously or not, is his ideal woman.
Every man instinctively admires a beautiful woman. But when he seeks a wife, he demands other qualities besides that wonderful one which is, as the proverb tells us, “only skin deep.”
If men were not such strangely inconsistent beings, the world would lose half its charm. Each sex rails at the other for its inconsistency, when the real truth is that nowhere exists much of that beautiful quality which is aptly termed a “jewel.”
But humanity must learn with Emerson to seek other things than consistency, and to look upon the lightning play of thought and feeling as an index of mental and moral growth.
For those who possess the happy faculty of “making the best of things,” men are really the most amusing people in existence. To hear a man dilate upon the virtues and accomplishments of the ideal woman he would make his wife is a most interesting diversion, besides being a source of what may be called decorative instruction.
She must, first of all, be beautiful. No man, even in his wildest moments, ever dreamed of marrying any but a beautiful woman, yet, in nine cases out of ten when he does go to the altar, he is leading there one who is lovely only in his own eyes.
He has read Swinburne and Tennyson and is very sure he won’t have anything but “a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair.” Then, of course, there is the “classic profile,” the “deep, unfathomable eyes,” the “lily-white skin,” and “hair like the raven’s wing,” not to mention the “swan-like neck” and “tapering, shapely fingers.”
Mr. Ideal is really a man of refined taste, and the women who hear this impassioned outburst are supremely conscious of their own imperfections.
But beauty is not the only demand of this fastidious gentleman; the fortunate woman whom he deigns to honour must be a paragon of sweetness and docility. No “woman’s rights” or “suffrage rant” for him, and none of those high-stepping professional women need apply either—oh, no! And then all of her interests must be his, for of all things on earth, he “does despise a woman with a hobby!” None of these “broad-minded women” were ever intended for Mr. Ideal. He is very certain of that, because away down in his secret heart he was sure he had found the right woman once, but when he did, he learned also that she was somewhat particular about the man she wanted to marry, and the applicant then present did not fill the bill! He is therefore very sure that “a man does not want an intellectual instructor: he wants a wife.”
Just like the most of them after all, isn’t he?
The year goes round and Mr. Ideal goes away on a summer vacation. There are some pleasant people in the little town to which he goes, and there is a girl in the party with her mother and brother. Mr. Ideal looks her over disapprovingly. She isn’t pretty—no, she isn’t even good-looking. Her hair is almost red, her eyes are a pale blue, and she wears glasses. Her nose isn’t even straight, and it turns up too much besides. Her skin is covered with tiny golden-brown blotches. “Freckles!” exclaims Mr. Ideal, sotto voce. Her mouth isn’t bad, the lips are red and full and her teeth are white and even. She wears a blue boating suit with an Eton jacket. “So common!” and Mr. Ideal goes away from his secluded point of observation.
A merry laugh reaches his ear, and he turns around. The tall brother is chasing her through the bushes, and she waves a letter tantalisingly at him as she goes, and finally bounds over a low fence and runs across the field, with her big brother in close pursuit. “Hoydenish!” and Mr. Ideal hums softly to himself and goes off to find Smith. Smith is a good fellow and asks Mr. Ideal to go fishing. They go, but don’t have a bite, and come home rather cross. Does Smith know the little red-headed girl who was on the piazza this morning?
Yes, he has met her. She has been here about a week. “Rather nice, but not especially attractive, you know.” No, she isn’t, but he will introduce Mr. Ideal.
Days pass, and Mr. Ideal and Miss Practical are much together. He finds her the jolliest girl he ever knew. She is an enthusiastic advocate of “woman” in every available sphere.
She herself is going to be a trained nurse after she learns to “keep house.” “For you know that every woman should be a good housekeeper,” she says demurely.
He doesn’t exactly like “that trained nurse business,” but he admits to himself that, if he were ill, he should like to have Miss Practical smooth his pillow and take care of him.
And so the time goes on, and he is often the companion of the girl. At times, she fairly scintillates with merriment, but she is so dignified, and so womanly—so very careful to keep him at his proper distance—that, well, “she is a type!”
In due course of time, he plans to return to the city, and to the theatres and parties he used to find so pleasant. All his friends are there. No, Miss Practical is not in the city; she is right here. Like a flash a revelation comes over him, and he paces the veranda angrily. Well, there’s only one thing to be done—he must tell her about it. Perhaps—and he sees a flash of blue through the shrubbery, which he seeks with the air of a man who has an object in view.
His circle of friends are very much surprised when he introduces Mrs. Ideal, for she is surely different from the ideal woman about whom they have heard so much. They naturally think he is inconsistent, but he isn’t, for some subtle alchemy has transfigured the homely little girl into the dearest, best, and altogether most beautiful woman Mr. Ideal has ever seen.
She is domestic in her tastes now, and has abandoned the professional nurse idea. She knows a great deal about Greek and Latin, and still more about Shakespeare and Browning and other authors.
But she neglects neither her books nor her housekeeping, and her husband spends his evenings at home, not because Mrs. Ideal would cry and make a fuss if he didn’t, but because his heart is in her keeping, and because his own fireside, with its sweet-faced guardian angel, is to him the most beautiful place on earth, and he has sense enough to appreciate what a noble wife is to him.
The plain truth is, when “any whatsoever” Mr. Ideal loves a woman, he immediately finds her perfect, and transfers to her the attributes which only exist in his imagination. His heart and happiness are there—not with the creatures of his dreams, but the warm, living, loving human being beside him, and to him, henceforth, the ideal is the real.
For “the ideal woman is as gentle as she is strong.” She wins her way among her friends and fellow human beings, even though they may be strangers, by doing many a kindness which the most of us are too apt to overlook or ignore.
No heights of thought or feeling are beyond her eager reach, and no human creature has sunk too low for her sympathy and her helping hand. Even the forlorn and friendless dog in the alley looks instinctively into her face for help.
She is in every man’s thoughts and always will be, as she always has been—the ideal who shall lead him step by step, and star by star, to the heights which he cannot reach alone.
Ruskin says: “No man ever lived a right life who has not been chastened by a woman’s love, strengthened by her courage and guided by her discretion.”
The steady flow of the twentieth-century progress has not swept away woman’s influence, nor has it crushed out her womanliness. She lives in the hearts of men, a queen as royal as in the days of chivalry, and men shall do and dare for her dear sake as long as time shall last.
The sweet, lovable, loyal woman of the past is not lost; she is only intensified in the brave wifehood and motherhood of our own times. The modern ideal, like that of olden times, is and ever will be, above all things—womanly.
SHE IS NOT FAIR
She is not fair to other eyes—
No poet’s dream is she,
Nor artist’s inspiration, yet
I would not have her be.
She wanders not through princely halls,
A crown upon her hair;
Her heart awaits a single king
Because she is not fair.
Dear lips, your half-shy tenderness
Seems far too much to win!
Yet, has your heart a tiny door
Where I may peep within?
That voiceless chamber, dim and sweet,
I pray may be my own.
Dear little Love, may I come in
And make you mine alone?
She is not fair to other eyes—
I would not have it so;
She needs no further charm or grace
Or aught wealth may bestow;
For when the love light shines and makes
Her dear face glorified—
Ah Sweetheart! queens may come and go
And all the world beside.
