CHAPTER VIII.

See, "Locked Inside," January No.

Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box

before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home

silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened

the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, "We will have tea

on the terrace," it was brought them by a fourth.

"I was astonished at your attitude, Viva," began the old lady, at

length. "Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire's fault in the first place,

but to encourage that,--outrageous person! How could you do it!"

Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down.

"A sudden access of courage, I suppose," she said. "I was astonished at

myself."

"I wholly disagree with you!" replied her mother-in-law. "Never in my

life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if

it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the

roots of the family."

Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition,

the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted

worship of household gods.

"It doesn't seem so to me," she said slowly, "I was much interested and

impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience,

and put her case well. It has quite waked me up."

"It has quite upset you!" was the reply. "You'll be ill after this, I

am sure. Hadn't you better go and lie down now? I'll have some dinner

sent to you."

"Thank you," said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad

terrace. "You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I

haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--" she drew a pink cluster of

oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--"in several years."

There was a new look about her certainly.

"Nervous excitement," her mother-in-law replied. "You're not like

yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!"

Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely

kissing her. "Not at all!" she said gaily. "I'm going to be well

to-morrow. You will see!"

She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far

off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise, her

clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of

tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords

in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening,

windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen

bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her.

Orchardina Society, eagerly observing "young Mrs. Weatherstone" from her

first appearance, had always classified her as "delicate." Beside the

firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet

slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white

forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin,

though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a

certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.

She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. "I'm

like that man in 'Phantastes'," she thought contemptuously, "who stayed

so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door!

Why don't I--?" she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands

behind her. "I will!" she said at last.

Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions

long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of

Diantha's words. "Sleeping in, indeed!" she murmured to herself. "And

nobody doing anything!"

She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an

impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a

crown. A clear red lit her checks.

She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy

admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. "Have you

been here long?" she asked. "What is your name?"

"No, ma'am," said the child--she was scarce more. "Only a week and two

days. My name is Ilda."

"Who engaged you?"

"Mrs. Halsey, ma'am."

"Ah," said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, "and I engaged Mrs.

Halsey!" "Do you like it here?" she continued kindly.

"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Ilda. "That is--" she stopped, blushed, and

continued bravely. "I like to work for you, ma'am."

"Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me--at once,

please."

Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new

place, and mistress.

As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that

young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. "Whither away so fast,

my dear?" he amiably inquired.

"Please let one pass, sir! I'm on an errand. Please, sir?"

"You must give me a kiss first!" said he--and since there seemed no

escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six--and she ran

away half crying.

Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress,

and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse.

"I'm not dressed," she said to the maid.

"Well she is!" replied Ilda, "dressed splendid. She said 'at once,

please.'"

"A pretty time o' day!" said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily

buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before

Mrs. Weatherstone.

That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter

between the pages of a new magazine.

"In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?" she inquired.

"Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of

the maids. Is it your things, ma'am?"

"No," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "It is yours I refer to. I wish you to

pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. One of the maids can

help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you.

Here is a check for the following month's wages."

Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy

woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye.

This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution.

"You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!" she burst forth.

"I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!"

"If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you

will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified.

Here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some

months past!"

"By whom, Ma'am?"

"By yourself, Mrs. Halsey--I think you understand me. Oscar will take

your things as soon as they are ready."

Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to

face--and left the room.

She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and

meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr.

Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to

him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical.

When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they

reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her

own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and

then from the new excitement, until dinner time.

This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor of

daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony

the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of

housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless

series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes,

the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home.

Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the

meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally

attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear

before the purple footman who attended.

"I understood you were out, Viva," she said politely.

"I was," replied Viva, with equal decorum. "It is charming outside at

this time in the evening--don't you think so?"

Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth

of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing

room, he broke out, "What's this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired

without notice?"

"That is what I wish to know, Viva," said the grandmother. "The poor

woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?"

"It's a damn shame," said Matthew.

The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how

little she minded it. "The door was there all the time!" she thought to

herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, "Hardly

drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!"

He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, "No, there is no

mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner.

The terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages.

I gave her the wages."

"But! but!" Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden

inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in

the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' "I have had no fault to

find with her."

"I have, you see," said her daughter-in-law smiling. "I found her

unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently.

How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the victrolla?"

Matthew wouldn't. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam

Weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her

room--went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the

athmosphere that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week

ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago.

As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height,

and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a

little. "It's open!" said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for

it she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone.

*

Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind

the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had

withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and

engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good

opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of

the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined

to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. This

proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two

persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted

on addressing her.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said, "I am not acquainted with you."

They eagerly produced their cards--and said they were "newspaper men."

"I see," said Diantha, "But you are still men? And gentlemen, I

suppose? I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you."

"Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed," wrote the reporters, and spent

themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed

thereby.

But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the

house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two

being women.

Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the

stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The

girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute

silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the

door after her.

The reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and they

described the house--also unfavorably. They said that "A group of

adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of

the afternoon made her brusque entrance." These adorers consisted of

the landlady's Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still

younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little

hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained.

Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two,

lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to

Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it,

all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the

reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She

wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a

sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so

patiently.

"Dearest," her swift pen flew along, "I really feel much encouraged. An

impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the

young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked

prosperous and reliable. 'When you begin any such business as you have

outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,' he said, and gave me his

card. He's a lawyer--P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another

big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is

Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are

favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed

men, Brother Lawrence!'--but it don't."

She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on

the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's

remarks. "I liked her," she wrote. "She's a nice woman--even if she is

rich."

There was a knock at her door. "Lady to see you, Miss."

"I cannot see anyone," said Diantha; "you must excuse me."

"Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--." The landlady

stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely,

"It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!"

Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. "I'll be right down,"

she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, "I beg your pardon, Miss

Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?"

She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held

Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. "I was a schoolmate of

Ellen Porne," she told the girl. "We are dear friends still; and so I

feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful

work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you."

"Won't you sit down?" said Diantha.

"You, too," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "Now I want you to come to

me--right away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a

New England bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far.

Then you took a step up--and I took a step down."

Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new

friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat

overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. "I

gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to

do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this

seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you'll

understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge

for years and years, and I've been too lazy or too weak, or too

indifferent, to do anything. I didn't care, somehow. All the machinery

of living, and no _living_--no good of it all! Yet there didn't seem to

be anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up--your paper this

afternoon--what Mr. Eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women

took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to

see things now. I can't tell you all at once what a difference it has

made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you

come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a

month?"

Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she

suspected her nervous balance.

"The other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. Now, don't

decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have

plans ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them

off six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at

Santa Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants

and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad

practice for you--now, would it?"

Diantha's troubled eyes lit up. "No--you are right there," she said.

"If I could do it!"

"You'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your

business, won't you?" her visitor went on. "And the summer's not a good

time to start a thing like that, is it?"

Diantha meditated. "No, I wasn't going to. I was going to start

somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the

day to the other cottages."

"Well, you might be able to run that on the side," said Mrs.

Weatherstone. "And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you

like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you

quite frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You

do me good."

They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to the

suddenness of it all. "I'm a slow thinker," she said, "and this is

so--so attractive that I'm suspicious of it. I had the other thing all

planned--the girls practically engaged."

"Where were you thinking of going?" asked Mrs. Weatherstone.

"To Santa Ulrica."

"Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them

part time. Or--how many have you arranged with?"

"Only six have made definite engagements yet."

"What kind?"

"Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones."

"Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls.

I'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them

to me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you'd come

home with me to-night! Why don't you?"

Diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an

excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing.

"Put the new address in the letter," she said, mischievously, "and come

along!"

*

And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the

darkness, rolled them home.

THE ROOM AT THE TOP

There is room at the top?

Ah yes! Were you ever there?

Do you know what they bear

Whose struggle does not stop

Till they reach the room at the top?

Think you first of the way,

How long from the bottom round,--

From the safe, warm, common ground

In the light of the common day--

'Tis a long way. A dark way.

And think of the fight.

It is not so hard to stand

And strive off the broad free land;

But to climb in the wind and night,

And fight,--and climb,--and fight!

And the top when you enter in!

Ah! the fog! The frost! The dark!

And the hateful voices--hark!

O the comfort that you win!

Yes, there's room at the top. Come in!

OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

VIII.

EDUCATION.

The origin of education is maternal. The mother animal is seen to teach

her young what she knows of life, its gains and losses; and, whether

consciously done or not, this is education. In our human life,

education, even in its present state, is the most important process.

Without it we could not maintain ourselves, much less dominate and

improve conditions as we do; and when education is what it should be,

our power will increase far beyond present hopes.

In lower animals, speaking generally, the powers of the race must be

lodged in each individual. No gain of personal experience is of avail

to the others. No advantages remain, save those physically transmitted.

The narrow limits of personal gain and personal inheritance rigidly hem

in sub-human progress. With us, what one learns may be taught to the

others. Our life is social, collective. Our gain is for all, and

profits us in proportion as we extend it to all. As the human soul

develops in us, we become able to grasp more fully our common needs and

advantages; and with this growth has come the extension of education to

the people as a whole. Social functions are developed under natural

laws, like physical ones, and may be studied similarly.

In the evolution of this basic social function, what has been the effect

of wholly masculine influence?

The original process, instruction of individual child by individual

mother, has been largely neglected in our man-made world. That was

considered as a subsidiary sex-function of the woman, and as such, left

to her "instinct." This is the main reason why we show such great

progress in education for older children, and especially for youths, and

so little comparatively in that given to little ones.

We have had on the one side the natural current of maternal education,

with its first assistant, the nursemaid, and its second, the

"dame-school"; and on the other the influence of the dominant class,

organized in university, college, and public school, slowly filtering

downward.

Educational forces are many. The child is born into certain conditions,

physical and psychic, and "educated" thereby. He grows up into social,

political and economic conditions, and is further modified by them. All

these conditions, so far, have been of androcentric character; but what

we call education as a special social process is what the child is

deliberately taught and subjected to; and it is here we may see the same

dominant influence so clearly.

This conscious education was, for long, given to boys alone, the girls

being left to maternal influence, each to learn what her mother knew,

and no more. This very clear instance of the masculine theory is

glaring enough by itself to rest a case on. It shows how absolute was

the assumption that the world was composed of men, and men alone were to

be fitted for it. Women were no part of the world, and needed no

training for its uses. As females they were born and not made; as human

beings they were only servants, trained as such by their servant

mothers.

This system of education we are outgrowing more swiftly with each year.

The growing humanness of women, and its recognition, is forcing an equal

education for boy and girl. When this demand was first made, by women

of unusual calibre, and by men sufficiently human to overlook

sex-prejudice, how was it met? What was the attitude of woman's

"natural protector" when she began to ask some share in human life?

Under the universal assumption that men alone were humanity, that the

world was masculine and for men only, the efforts of the women were met

as a deliberate attempt to "unsex" themselves and become men. To be a

woman was to be ignorant, uneducated; to be wise, educated, was to be a

man. Women were not men, visibly; therefore they could not be educated,

and ought not to want to be.

Under this androcentric prejudice, the equal extension of education to

women was opposed at every step, and is still opposed by many. Seeing

in women only sex, and not humanness, they would confine her exclusively

to feminine interests. This is the masculine view, _par excellence_.

In spite of it, the human development of women, which so splendidly

characterizes our age, has gone on; and now both woman's colleges and

those for both sexes offer "the higher education" to our girls, as well

as the lower grades in school and kindergarten.

In the special professional training, the same opposition was

experienced, even more rancorous and cruel. One would think that on the

entrance of a few straggling and necessarily inferior feminine beginners

into a trade or profession, those in possession would extend to them the

right hand of fellowship, as comrades, extra assistance as beginners,

and special courtesy as women.

The contrary occurred. Women were barred out, discriminated against,

taken advantage of, as competitors; and as women they have had to meet

special danger and offence instead of special courtesy. An

unforgettable instance of this lies in the attitude of the medical

colleges toward women students. The men, strong enough, one would

think, in numbers, in knowledge, in established precedent, to be

generous, opposed the newcomers first with absolute refusal; then, when

the patient, persistent applicants did get inside, both students and

teachers met them not only with unkindness and unfairness, but with a

weapon ingeniously well chosen, and most discreditable--namely,

obscenity. Grave professors, in lecture and clinic, as well as grinning

students, used offensive language, and played offensive tricks, to drive

the women out--a most androcentric performance.

Remember that the essential masculine attitude is one of opposition, of

combat; his desire is obtained by first overcoming a competitor; and

then see how this dominant masculinity stands out where it has no

possible use or benefit--in the field of education. All along the line,

man, long master of a subject sex, fought every step of woman toward

mental equality. Nevertheless, since modern man has become human enough

to be just, he has at last let her have a share in the advantages of

education; and she has proven her full power to appreciate and use these

advantages.

Then to-day rises a new cry against "women in education." Here is Mr.

Barrett Wendell, of Harvard, solemnly claiming that teaching women

weakens the intellect of the teacher, and every now and then bursts out

a frantic sputter of alarm over the "feminization" of our schools. It

is true that the majority of teachers are now women. It is true that

they do have an influence on growing children. It would even seem to be

true that that is largely what women are for.

But the male assumes his influence to be normal, human, and the female

influence as wholly a matter of sex; therefore, where women teach boys,

the boys become "effeminate"--a grievous fall. When men teach girls, do

the girls become -----? Here again we lack the analogue. Never has it

occurred to the androcentric mind to conceive of such a thing as being

too masculine. There is no such word! It is odd to notice that which

ever way the woman is placed, she is supposed to exert this degrading

influence; if the teacher, she effeminizes her pupils; if the pupil, she

effeminizes her teachers.

Now let us shake ourselves free, if only for a moment, from the

androcentric habit of mind.

As a matter of sex, the female is the more important. Her share of the

processes which sex distinction serves is by far the greater. To be

feminine--if one were nothing else, is a far more extensive and

dignified office than to be masculine--and nothing else.

But as a matter of humanity the male of our species is at present far

ahead of the female. By this superior humanness, his knowledge, his

skill, his experience, his organization and specialization, he makes and

manages the world. All this is human, not male. All this is as open to

the woman as the man by nature, but has been denied her during our

androcentric culture.

But even if, in a purely human process, such as education, she does

bring her special feminine characteristics to bear, what are they, and

what are the results?

We can see the masculine influence everywhere still dominant and

superior. There is the first spur, Desire, the base of the reward

system, the incentive of self-interest, the attitude which says, "Why

should I make an effort unless it will give me pleasure?" with its

concomitant laziness, unwillingness to work without payment. There is

the second spur, Combat, the competitive system, which sets one against

another, and finds pleasure not in learning, not exercising the mind,

but in getting ahead of one's fellows. Under these two wholly masculine

influences we have made the educational process a joy to the few who

successfully attain, and a weary effort, with failure and contumely

attached, to all the others. This may be a good method in

sex-competition, but is wholly out of place and mischievous in

education. Its prevalence shows the injurious masculization of this

noble social process.

What might we look for in a distinctly feminine influence? What are

these much-dreaded feminine characteristics?

The maternal ones, of course. The sex instincts of the male are of a

preliminary nature, leading merely to the union preceding parenthood.

The sex instincts of the female cover a far larger field, spending

themselves most fully in the lasting love, the ceaseless service, the

ingenuity and courage of efficient motherhood. To feminize education

would be to make it more motherly. The mother does not rear her

children by a system of prizes to be longed for and pursued; nor does

she set them to compete with one another, giving to the conquering child

what he needs, and to the vanquished, blame and deprivation. That would

be "unfeminine."

Motherhood does all it knows to give to each child what is most needed,

to teach all to their fullest capacity, to affectionately and

efficiently develop the whole of them.

But this is not what is meant by those who fear so much the influence of

women. Accustomed to a wholly male standard of living, to masculine

ideals, virtues, methods and conditions, they say--and say with some

justice--that feminine methods and ideals would be destructive to what

they call "manliness." For instance, education to-day is closely

interwoven with games and sports, all of an excessively masculine

nature. "The education of a boy is carried on largely on the

playground!" say the objectors to women teachers. Women cannot join

them there; therefore, they cannot educate them.

What games are these in which women cannot join? There are forms of

fighting, of course, violent and fierce, modern modifications of the

instinct of sex-combat. It is quite true that women are not adapted, or

inclined, to baseball or football or any violent game. They are

perfectly competent to take part in all normal athletic development, the

human range of agility and skill is open to them, as everyone knows who

has been to the circus; but they are not built for physical combat; nor

do they find ceaseless pleasure in throwing, hitting or kicking things.

But is it true that these strenuous games have the educational value

attributed to them? It seems like blasphemy to question it. The whole

range of male teachers, male pupils, male critics and spectators, are

loud in their admiration for the "manliness" developed by the craft,

courage, co-ordinative power and general "sportsmanship" developed by

the game of football, for instance; that a few young men are killed and

many maimed, is nothing in comparison to these advantages.

Let us review the threefold distinction on which this whole study rests,

between masculine, feminine and human. Grant that woman, being

feminine, cannot emulate man in being masculine--and does not want to.

Grant that the masculine qualities have their use and value, as well as

feminine ones. There still remain the human qualities shared by both,

owned by neither, most important of all. Education is a human process,

and should develop human qualities--not sex qualities. Surely our boys

are sufficiently masculine, without needing a special education to make

them more so.

The error lies here. A strictly masculine world, proud of its own sex

and despising the other, seeing nothing in the world but sex, either

male or female, has "viewed with alarm" the steady and rapid growth of

humanness. Here, for instance, is a boy visibly tending to be an

artist, a musician, a scientific discoverer. Here is another boy not

particularly clever in any line, nor ambitious for any special work,

though he means in a general way to "succeed"; he is, however, a big,

husky fellow, a good fighter, mischievous as a monkey, and strong in the

virtues covered by the word "sportsmanship." This boy we call "a fine

manly fellow."

We are quite right. He is. He is distinctly and excessively male, at

the expense of his humanness. He may make a more prepotent sire than

the other, though even that is not certain; he may, and probably will,

appeal more strongly to the excessively feminine girl, who has even less

humanness than he; but he is not therefore a better citizen.

The advance of civilization calls for human qualities, in both men and

women. Our educational system is thwarted and hindered, not as Prof.

Wendell and his life would have us believe, by "feminization," but by an

overweening masculization.

Their position is a simple one. "We are men. Men are human beings.

Women are only women. This is a man's world. To get on in it you must

do it man-fashion--i.e., fight, and overcome the others. Being

civilized, in part, we must arrange a sort of "civilized warfare," and

learn to play the game, the old crude, fierce male game of combat, and

we must educate our boys thereto." No wonder education was denied to

women. No wonder their influence is dreaded by an ultra-masculine

culture.

It will change the system in time. It will gradually establish an equal

place in life for the feminine characteristics, so long belittled and

derided, and give pre-eminent dignity to the human power.

Physical culture, for both boys and girls, will be part of such a

modified system. All things that both can do together will be accepted

as human; but what either boys or girls have to retire apart to practice

will be frankly called masculine and feminine, and not encouraged in

children.

The most important qualities are the human ones, and will be so named

and honored. Courage is a human quality, not a sex-quality. What is

commonly called courage in male animals is mere belligerence, the

fighting instinct. To meet an adversary of his own sort is a universal

masculine trait; two father cats may fight fiercely each other, but both

will run from a dog as quickly as a mother cat. She has courage enough,

however, in defence of her kittens.

What this world most needs to-day in both men and women, is the power to

recognize our public conditions; to see the relative importance of

measures; to learn the processes of constructive citizenship. We need

an education which shall give its facts in the order of their

importance; morals and manners based on these facts; and train our

personal powers with careful selection, so that each may best serve the

community.

At present, in the larger processes of extra-scholastic education, the

advantage is still with the boy. From infancy we make the gross mistake

of accentuating sex in our children, by dress and all its limitations,

by special teaching of what is "ladylike" and "manly." The boy is

allowed a freedom of experience far beyond the girl. He learns more of

his town and city, more of machinery, more of life, passing on from

father to son the truths as well as traditions of sex superiority.

All this is changing before our eyes, with the advancing humanness of

women. Not yet, however, has their advance affected, to any large

extent, the base of all education; the experience of a child's first

years. Here is where the limitations of women have checked race

progress most thoroughly. Here hereditary influence was constantly

offset by the advance of the male. Social selection did develop higher

types of men, though sex-selection reversed still insisted on primitive

types of women. But the educative influence of these primitive women,

acting most exclusively on the most susceptible years of life, has been

a serious deterrent to race progress.

Here is the dominant male, largely humanized, yet still measuring life

from male standards. He sees women only as a sex. (Note here the

criticism of Europeans on American women. "Your women are so sexless!"

they say, meaning merely that our women have human qualities as well as

feminine.) And children he considers as part and parcel of the same

domain, both inferior classes, "women and children."

I recall in Rimmer's beautiful red chalk studies, certain profiles of

man, woman and child, and careful explanation that the proportion of the

woman's face and head were far more akin to the child than to the man.

What Mr. Rimmer should have shown, and could have, by profuse

illustration, was that the faces of boy and girl differ but slightly,

and the faces of old men and women differ as little, sometimes not at

all; while the face of the woman approximates the human more closely

than that of the man; while the child, representing race more than sex,

is naturally more akin to her than to him. The male reserves more

primitive qualities, the hairiness, the more pugnacious jaw; the female

is nearer to the higher human types.

An ultra-male selection has chosen women for their femininity first, and

next for qualities of submissiveness and patient service bred by long

ages of servility.

This servile womanhood, or the idler and more excessively feminine type,

has never appreciated the real power and place of the mother, and has

never been able to grasp or to carry out any worthy system of education

for little children. Any experienced teacher, man or woman, will own

how rare it is to find a mother capable of a dispassionate appreciation

of educative values. Books in infant education and child culture

generally are read by teachers more than mothers, so our public

libraries prove. The mother-instinct, quite suitable and sufficient in

animals, is by no means equal to the requirements of civilized life.

Animal motherhood furnishes a fresh wave of devotion for each new birth;

primitive human motherhood extends that passionate tenderness over the

growing family for a longer period; but neither can carry education

beyond its rudiments.

So accustomed are we to our world-old method of entrusting the first

years of the child to the action of untaught, unbridled mother-instinct,

that suggestions as to a better education for babies are received with

the frank derision of massed ignorance.

That powerful and brilliant writer, Mrs. Josephine Daskam Bacon, among

others has lent her able pen to ridicule and obstruct the gradual

awakening of human intelligence in mothers, the recognition that babies

are no exception to the rest of us in being better off for competent

care and service. It seems delightfully absurd to these reactionaries

that ages of human progress should be of any benefit to babies, save,

indeed, as their more human fathers, specialized and organized, are able

to provide them with better homes and a better world to grow up in. The

idea that mothers, more human, should specialize and organize as well,

and extend to their babies these supreme advantages, is made a laughing

stock.

It is easy and profitable to laugh with the majority; but in the

judgment of history, those who do so, hold unenviable positions. The

time is coming when the human mother will recognize the educative

possibilities of early childhood, learn that the ability to rightly

teach little children is rare and precious, and be proud and glad to

avail themselves of it.

We shall then see a development of the most valuable human qualities in

our children's minds such as would now seem wildly Utopian. We shall

learn from wide and long experience to anticipate and provide for the

steps of the unfolding mind, and train it, through carefully prearranged

experiences, to a power of judgment, of self-control, of social

perception, now utterly unthought of.

Such an education would begin at birth; yes, far before it, in the

standards of a conscious human motherhood. It would require a quite

different status of wifehood, womanhood, girlhood. It would be wholly

impossible if we were never to outgrow our androcentric culture.

COMMENT AND REVIEW

With the May issue of the American Magazine closes the first set of

papers on "The American Woman," by Miss Ida Tarbell. She has to a high

degree the historian's power to collate facts and so marshall them as to

give a clear picture of the time and scenes in question. I always read

her work with admiration and respect, also with enjoyment, personal and

professional. The strong, far-seeing mind at work; the direct style;

and the value of the subject matter, place this writer high among our

present day teachers.

For these reasons I was wholly unprepared for the painful shock caused

by reading the opening page in the March number of these articles.

Preceding issues had treated of the rise of the Equal Suffrage movement

in this country; while not wholly sympathetic, these were fair, and ably

treated.

The March number begins: "What was the American Woman doing in the '40's

and '50's that she went on her way so serenely while a few of her sex

struggled and suffered to gain for her what they believed to be her

rights?" And she goes on to show for what reason she kept out of the

Woman's Rights Movement, "reasons, on the whole, simple and noble."

Here are the reasons.

"She was too much occupied with preserving and developing the great

traditions of life she had inherited and accepted. . . . She was firmly

convinced that these traditions were the best the world had so far

developed, not merely for women, but for society. She did not deny that

women had not the full opportunity they should have; but as she saw it,

no more did men. She saw civil and educational and social changes going

on about her. She feared their coming too fast rather than too slow.

"And it was no unworthy thing that she was doing. Take that part of her

life so often spoken of with contempt--her social life. Those who would

pass society by as a frivolous and unworthy institution are those who

have never learned its real functions--who confuse the selfish business

of amusement with the serious task of providing _an intimate circle for

the free exchange of ideals and of service,_ for stimulus and enjoyment.

"It is through society that _the quickening of mind and heart best comes

about--that the nature is aroused, the fancy heightened. It is the very

foundation of civilization--society. The church and state work through

it. Morals are made and unmade in it. Ideas find life or death

there."_

The italics are mine.

For so clear-headed a woman as Miss Tarbell to commit herself to

statements like these was a keen disappointment to a sincere admirer. I

have quoted at length that there may be no mistake as to her meaning.

The "society" referred to is unmistakably that business of exchanging

entertainments which most of us do pass by as "a frivolous and unworthy

institution;" but which some find the sufficient occupation of a

lifetime.

That human intercourse is profoundly important no one will deny; we know

that contact and exchange does quicken the mind and heart, does give

stimulus and enjoyment. It is even true in a large sociological sense

that human intercourse is the foundation of civilization. But to call

"society" the foundation of civilization does seem like putting a very

long train of carts before the horse.

Women who work for suffrage, like other women, and men also, need to

meet other people, need relaxation, need the stimulus of contact with

differing minds, and get it. Being a suffragist is not like being a

leper--or a pauper--or excommunicated. There is nothing about the

belief itself to cut off the believer from her kind, and make it

impossible to invite her to dinner.

"Society" is of course averse to meeting persons who talk seriously of

important things. We are all taught as children that religion and

politics must not be discussed in society--and the cause of woman

suffrage is often both.

"The selfish business of amusement" is so predominant in "society" that

amusing people are the preferred guests; and if some earnest and

noteworthy person is drawn into "society" as a temporary exhibit, he is

expected to be amusing if he can, and not talk "shop."

It may be admitted at once that Miss Tarbell's main contention is true.

It was of course because most women were so occupied in "preserving and

developing the great traditions of life" that they could not open their

minds to new convictions. They were of course suspicious of change, so

is the mass of people at all times, in proportion to their ignorance.

The deadening effect of a ceaseless round of housework keeps most women

from grasping general issues of importance; and the deadening effect of

a ceaseless round of entertainments does the same thing to the few who

represent "society." But to have that "society" presented to us as a

noble soul-satisfying rightfully exclusive occupation, is a shock.

If it is a natural, simple right form of meeting together it is in no

way forbidding to woman suffragists. If it is the "round of gaieties"

to which our newspapers give columns--how does it accomplish all those

invaluable achievements Miss Tarbell enumerates?

What are the occupations of "society?" Its members are always getting

together in expensive clothes, to visit and receive, to eat and drink,

to ride and drive, to dance and play games, to go to the opera; and to

travel from town to country, from beach to mountain, from land to land,

to repeat these things or to hire some one to invent new ones. But

these pleasures cannot be in themselves the foundation of civilization!

The "exchange of ideals and service" alleged to take place in "society"

must be in conversation! It is by this medium that we get our minds and

hearts quickened--our natures aroused--our fancy heightened--that the

ideas find life and death, and morals are made and unmade.

During which process of "society" does the conversation which promotes

the exchange of ideals and service best come about? Is it in the talk

of women who are "paying calls?" Is it in the talk at a "tea" or

reception? Is it in the talk at a luncheon or a dinner? Is it in the

talk over the card-table, or while dancing? Is it in talk at the

horse-show or opera? (The pressure of ideas in society is so great that

its members do converse at the opera.)

Surely it cannot be "society" which Miss Tarbell means! She must mean

human intercourse--the meeting of congenial minds. But no; that is open

to the suffragist as well as to any; and no one ever called it a

frivolous and unworthy institution.

The meaning is clear enough, but the claims made are to say the least

unconvincing.

PERSONAL PROBLEMS

My own, partly personal and partly professional.

Q. Why don't people send questions to this department?

A. 1. Because it does not interest them.

A. 2. Because they have no problems.

A. 3. Because they see no reason to expect satisfactory answers.

A. 4. Because they do not understand that questions are asked for.

Now if any of the first three answers are correct, there is nothing to

be said--and no use for this department.

But if its the last--herein it is stated that the purpose of this

department is to seriously discuss real "personal problems" such as do

arise in most lives; and to which neither the minister nor Ruth Ashmore

do justice.

It is not proposed to furnish absolute wisdom; only comparative.

One question was considered in the January issue; and a very earnest

letter of inquiry was answered at great length for this number but

proved too long--will appear in July.

What has always been a problem to me is how people can be alive and take

so little interest in the performance.

Here is Life--Death--and a discussable Immortality. Here is Love--of

all kinds and sizes. Here is Happiness--so big that you can't swallow

it; and Pain--an unlimited assortment.

Here are Things Going On--all kinds of things.

And here are we--making button holes in the back parlor--breaking our

heads in a sham fight in the back yard!

Question. Why don't people wake up and LIVE! World-size?

Answer ..........................

Some of you send an answer!

[Advertisement]

THE FORERUNNER

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE

CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

AS TO PURPOSE:

_What is The Forerunner?_ It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories

short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon;

dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

_What is it For?_ It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage

and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice

the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to

make.

_What is it about?_ It is about people, principles, and the questions

of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives

a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

_Is it a Woman's magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our

existence--male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true

place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important

citizen.

_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and

humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is

part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious

humanity is to promote Socialization.

_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a

special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons

interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.

AS TO ADVERTISING:

We have long heard that "A pleased customer is the best advertiser."

The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this

authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will

be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual

experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description

command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be

useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own

statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be

true.

AS TO CONTENTS:

The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a

new name:--

_"Our Androcentric Culture."_ this is a study of the historic effect on

normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization.

It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the

more human, may do to change it.

_"What Diantha Did."_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of

true love running very crookedly--as it so often does--among the

obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem--and solves

that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

"Private Morality and Public Immorality."

"The Beauty Women Have Lost"

"Our Overworked Instincts."

"The Nun in the Kitchen."

"Genius: Domestic and Maternal."

"A Small God and a Large Goddess."

"Animals in Cities."

"How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money."

"Prize Children"

"Kitchen-Mindedness"

"Parlor-Mindedness"

"Nursery-Mindedness"

There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue.

The department of "Personal Problems" does not discuss etiquette,

fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be

answered, unless at peril of the asker.

AS TO VALUE:

If you take this magazine one year you will have:

One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman

One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman

Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman

Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman

"Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman

And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

DON'T YOU THINK IT'S WORTH A DOLLAR?

THE FORERUNNER

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE

CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

_____ 19__

Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from

_____ 19___ to _____ 19___

__________

__________

__________

THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN

AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR

.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 9

JULY, 1910

Copyright for 1910

C. P. Gilman

Genus Homo is superior to all other animal species.

Granted. The superiority is due to some things--and in spite of others.

THE BAWLING WORLD

A SESTINA.

Be not impatient with the bawling world!--

The clatter of wild newsmongers, the cry

Of those in pulpits, the incessant speech

From many platforms, and the various prayers

Of tale-tellers all striving for our ears,

And poets that wait and gibber--they have cause.

For all this noise there is a natural cause,

Most natural of all that move the world,

The one that first assails a mother's ears

When loud a lusty infant learns to cry,

An inarticulate insistent prayer

But serving that first need as well as speech.

Reason and love combine to give us speech,

But this loud outcry has a simpler cause,

The same that prompts the roaming jackal's prayer

And fills the forests of the untamed world

With one long, jarring hungry piteous cry--

Such cry as still attacks our weary ears.

We long for human music in our ears,

For the clear joy of well-considered speech,

And the true poet's soul-uplifting cry

To lead us forward, striving for the cause

Of liberty and light for all the world--

And hear but this confused insensate prayer.

Vainly we seek to fly this ceaseless prayer--

To find some silent spot--to stop our ears:--

There is no place in all the groaning world

Where we can live apart from human speech:

and we, while speech is governed by this cause,

Are infants "with no language but a cry."

It is for food that all live creatures cry,

For food the sparrow's or the lion's prayer,

And need of food is the continuing cause,

Of all this deafening tumult in our ears.

Had we our food secure--! Then human speech

Might make mild music, and a wiser world!

*

Poor hungry world! No wonder that you cry;

Elaborate speech reduced to primal prayer:

To save our ears let us remove the cause!

A COINCIDENCE

"O that! It was a fortunate coincidence, wasn't it? All things work

together for good with those who love the Lord, you know, and Emma

Ordway is the most outrageously Christian woman I ever knew. It did

look that Autumn as if there was no way out of it, but things do happen,

sometimes.

I dropped in rather late one afternoon to have a cup of tea with Emma,

hoping against hope that Mirabella Vlack wouldn't be on hand; but she

was, of course, and gobbling. There never was such a woman for candy

and all manner of sweet stuff. I can remember her at school, with those

large innocent eyes, and that wide mouth, eating Emma's nicest tidbits

even then.

Emma loves sweets but she loves her friends better, and never gets

anything for herself unless there is more than enough for everybody.

She is very fond of a particular kind of fudge I make, has been fond of

it for thirty years, and I love to make it for her once in a while, but

after Mirabella came--I might as well have made it for her to begin

with.

I devised the idea of bringing it in separate boxes, one for each, but

bless you! Mirabella kept hers in her room, and ate Emma's!

"O I've left mine up stairs!" she'd say; "Let me go up and get it;"--and

of course Emma wouldn't hear of such a thing. Trust Emma!

I've loved that girl ever since she was a girl, in spite of her

preternatural unselfishness. And I've always hated those Vlack girls,

both of them, Mirabella the most. At least I think so when I'm with

her. When I'm with Arabella I'm not so sure. She married a man named

Sibthorpe, just rich.

They were both there that afternoon, the Vlack girls I mean, and

disagreeing as usual. Arabella was lean and hard and rigorously well

dressed, she meant to have her way in this world and generally got it.

Mirabella was thick and soft. Her face was draped puffily upon its

unseen bones, and of an unwholesome color because of indigestion. She

was the type that suggests cushioned upholstery, whereas Arabella's

construction was evident.

"You don't look well, Mirabella," said she.

"I am well," replied her sister, "Quite well I assure you."

Mirabella was at that time some kind of a holy thoughtist. She had

tried every variety of doctor, keeping them only as long as they did not

charge too much, and let her eat what she pleased; which necessitated

frequent change.

Mrs. Montrose smiled diplomatically, remarking "What a comfort these

wonderful new faiths are!" She was one of Emma's old friends, and was

urging her to go out to California with them and spend the winter. She

dilated on the heavenly beauty and sweetness of the place till it almost

made my mouth water, and Emma!--she loved travel better than anything,

and California was one of the few places she had not seen.

Then that Vlack girl began to perform. "Why don't you go, Emma?" she

said. "I'm not able to travel myself," (she wouldn't admit she was

pointedly left out), "but that's no reason you should miss such a

delightful opportunity. I can be housekeeper for you in your absence."

This proposition had been tried once. All Emma's old servants left, and

she had to come back in the middle of her trip, and re-organize the

household.

Thus Mirabella, looking saintly and cheerful. And Emma--I could have

shaken her soundly where she sat--Emma smiled bravely at Mrs. Montrose

and thanked her warmly; she'd love it above all things, but there were

many reasons why she couldn't leave home that winter. And we both knew

there was only one, a huge thing in petticoats sitting gobbling there.

One or two other old friends dropped in, but they didn't stay long; they

never did any more, and hardly any men came now. As I sat there

drinking my pale tea I heard these people asking Emma why she didn't do

this any more, and why she didn't come to that any more, and Emma just

as dignified and nice as you please, telling all sorts of perforated

paper fibs to explain and decline. One can't be perfect, and nobody

could be as absolutely kind and gracious and universally beloved as Emma

if she always told the plain truth.

I'd brought in my last protege that day, Dr. Lucy Barnes, a small quaint

person, with more knowledge of her profession than her looks would

indicate. She was a very wise little creature altogether. I had been

studying chemistry with her, just for fun. You never know when yon may

want to know a thing.

It was fine to see Dr. Lucy put her finger on Mirabella's weakness.

There that great cuckoo sat and discoursed on the symptoms she used to

have, and would have now if it wasn't for "science"; and there I sat and

watched Emma, and I declare she seemed to age visibly before my eyes.

Was I to keep quiet and let one of the nicest women that ever breathed

be worn into her grave by that--Incubus? Even if she hadn't been a

friend of mine, even if she hadn't been too good for this world, it

would have been a shame. As it was the outrage cried to heaven.--and

nobody could do anything.

Here was Emma, a widow, and in her own house; you couldn't coerce her.

And she could afford it, as far as money went, you couldn't interfere

that way. She had been so happy! She'd got over being a widow--I mean

got used to it, and was finding her own feet. Her children were all

married and reasonably happy, except the youngest, who was unreasonably

happy; but time would make that all right. The Emma really began to

enjoy life. Her health was good; she'd kept her looks wonderfully; and

all the vivid interests of her girlhood cropped up again. She began to

study things; to go to lectures and courses of lectures; to travel every

year to a new place; to see her old friends and make new ones. She

never liked to keep house, but Emma was so idiotically unselfish that

she never would enjoy herself as long as there was anybody at home to

give up to.

And then came Mirabella Vlack.

She came for a visit, at least she called one day with her air of

saintly patience, and a miserable story of her loneliness and

unhappiness, and how she couldn't bear to be dependent on

Arabella--Arabella was so unsympathetic!--and that misguided Emma

invited her to visit her for awhile.

That was five years ago. Five years! And here she sat, gobbling, forty

pounds fatter and the soul of amiability, while Emma grew old.

Of course we all remonstrated--after it was too late.

Emma had a right to her own visitors--nobody ever dreamed that the thing

was permanent, and nobody could break down that adamantine wall of

Christian virtue she suffered behind, not owning that she suffered.

It was a problem.

But I love problems, human problems, better even than problems in

chemistry, and they are fascinating enough.

First I tried Arabella. She said she regretted that poor Mirabella

would not come to her loving arms. You see Mirabella had tried them,

for about a year after her husband died, and preferred Emma's.

"It really doesn't look well," said Arabella. "Here am I alone in these

great halls, and there is my only sister preferring to live with a

comparative stranger! Her duty is to live with me, where I can take

care of her."

Not much progress here. Mirabella did not want to be taken care of by a

fault-finding older sister--not while Emma was in reach. It paid, too.

Her insurance money kept her in clothes, and she could save a good deal,

having no living expenses. As long as she preferred living with Emma

Ordway, and Emma let her--what could anybody do?

It was getting well along in November, miserable weather.

Emma had a cough that hung on for weeks and weeks, she couldn't seem to

gather herself together and throw it off, and Mirabella all the time

assuring her that she had no cough at all!

Certain things began to seem very clear to me.

One was the duty of a sister, of two sisters. One was the need of a

change of climate for my Emma.

One was that ever opening field of human possibilities which it has been

the increasing joy of my lifetime to study.

I carried two boxes of my delectable fudge to those ladies quite

regularly, a plain white one for Emma, a pretty colored one for the

Incubus.

"Are you sure it is good for you?" I asked Mirabella; "I love to make it

and have it appreciated, but does your Doctor think it is good for you?"

Strong in her latest faith she proudly declared she could eat anything.

She could--visibly. So she took me up short on this point, and ate

several to demonstrate immunity--out of Emma's box.

Nevertheless, in spite of all demonstration she seemed to grow

somewhat--queasy--shall we say? --and drove poor Emma almost to tears

trying to please her in the matter of meals.

Then I began to take them both out to ride in my motor, and to call

quite frequently on Arabella; they couldn't well help it, you see, when

I stopped the car and hopped out. "Mrs. Sibthorpe's sister" I'd always

say to the butler or maid, and she'd always act as if she owned the

house--that is if Arabella was out.

Then I had a good talk with Emma's old doctor, and he quite frightened

her.

"You ought to close up the house," he said, "and spend the winter in a

warm climate. You need complete rest and change, for a long time, a

year at least," he told her. I urged her to go.

"Do make a change," I begged. "Here's Mrs. Sibthorpe perfectly willing

to keep Mirabella--she'd be just as well off there; and you do really

need a rest."

Emma smiled that saintly smile of hers, and said, "Of course, if

Mirabella would go to her sister's awhile I could leave? But I can't

ask her to go."

I could. I did. I put it to her fair and square,--the state of Emma's

health, her real need to break up housekeeping, and how Arabella was

just waiting for her to come there. But what's the use of talking to

that kind? Emma wasn't sick, couldn't be sick, nobody could. At that

very moment she paused suddenly, laid a fat hand on a fat side with an

expression that certainly looked like pain; but she changed it for one

of lofty and determined faith, and seemed to feel better. It made her

cross though, as near it as she ever gets. She'd have been rude I

think, but she likes my motor, to say nothing of my fudge.

I took them both out to ride that very afternoon, and Dr. Lucy with us.

Emma, foolish thing, insisted on sitting with the driver, and Mirabella

made for her pet corner at once. I put Dr. Lucy in the middle, and

encouraged Mirabella in her favorite backsliding, the discussion of her

symptoms--the symptoms she used to have--or would have now if she gave

way to "error."

Dr. Lucy was ingeniously sympathetic. She made no pretence of taking up

the new view, but was perfectly polite about it.

"Judging from what you tell me", she said, "and from my own point of

view, I should say that you had a quite serious digestive trouble; that

you had a good deal of pain now and then; and were quite likely to have

a sudden and perhaps serious attack. But that is all nonsense to you I

suppose."

"Of course it is!" said Mirabella, turning a shade paler.

We were running smoothly down the to avenue where Arabella lived.

"Here's something to cheer you up," I said, producing my two boxes of

fudge. One I passed around in front to Emma; she couldn't share it with

us. The other I gave Mirabella.

She fell upon it at once; perfunctorily offering some to Dr. Lucy, who

declined; and to me. I took one for politeness's sake, and casually put

it in my pocket.

We had just about reached Mrs. Sibthorpe's gate when Mirabella gave in.

"Oh I have such a terrible pain!" said she. "Oh Dr. Lucy! What shall I

do?"

"Shall I take you down to your healer?" I suggested; but Mirabella was

feeling very badly indeed.

"I think I'd better go in here a moment," she said; and in five minutes

we had her in bed in what used to be her room.

Dr. Lucy seemed averse to prescribe.

"I have no right to interfere with your faith, Mrs. Vlack," she said.

"I have medicines which I think would relieve you, but you do not

believe in them. I think you should summon your--practitioner, at

once."

"Oh Dr. Lucy!" gasped poor Mirabella, whose aspect was that of a small

boy in an August orchard. "Don't leave me! Oh do something for me

quick!"

"Will you do just what I say?"

"I will! I will; I'll do _anything_!" said Mirabella, curling up in as

small a heap as was possible to her proportions, and Dr. Lucy took the

case.

We waited in the big bald parlors till she came down to tell us what was

wrong. Emma seemed very anxious, but then Emma is a preternatural

saint.

Arabella came home and made a great todo. "So fortunate that she was

near my door!" she said. "Oh my poor sister! I am so glad she has a

real doctor!"

The real doctor came down after a while. "She is practically out of

pain," she said, "and resting quietly. But she is extremely weak, and

ought not to be moved for a long time."

"She shall not be!" said Arabella fervently. "My own sister! I am so

thankful she came to me in her hour of need!"

I took Emma away. "Let's pick up Mrs. Montrose," I said. "She's tired

out with packing--the air will do her good."

She was glad to come. We all sat back comfortably in the big seat and

had a fine ride; and then Mrs. Montrose had us both come in and take

dinner with her. Emma ate better than I'd seen her in months, and

before she went home it was settled that she leave with Mrs. Montrose on

Tuesday.

Dear Emma! She was as pleased as a child. I ran about with her, doing

a little shopping. "Don't bother with anything," I said, "You can get

things out there. Maybe you'll go on to Japan next spring with the

James's."

"If we could sell the house I would!" said Emma. She brisked and

sparkled--the years fell off from her--she started off looking fairly

girlish in her hope and enthusiasm.

I drew a long sigh of relief.

Mr. MacAvelly has some real estate interests.

The house was sold before Mirabella was out of bed.

SHARES

To those who in leisure may meet

Comes Summer, green, fragrant and fair,

With roses and stars in her hair;

Summer, as motherhood sweet.

To us, in the waste of the street,

No Summer, only--The Heat!

To those of the fortunate fold

Comes Winter, snow-clean and ice-bright,

With joy for the day and the night,

Winter, as fatherhood bold.

To us, without silver or gold,

No Winter, only--The Cold!

GENIUS, DOMESTIC AND MATERNAL. II.

Consider the mighty influence of Dr. Arnold, of Emma Willard; and think

of that all lost to the world, and concentrated relentlessly on a few

little Arnolds and Willards alone!

The children of such genius can healthfully share in its benefits but

not healthily monopolize them.

Our appreciation of this study is hampered by the limitation of little

exercised minds. Most of us accept things as they are--cannot easily

imagine them different, and fear any change as evil.

There was a time when there wasn't a school or a schoolhouse on earth;

people may yet be found who see no need of them. To build places for

children to spend part of the day in--away from their mothers--and be

cared for by specialists!--Horrible!

The same feeling meets us now when it is suggested that places should be

built for the babies to spend part of the day in--away from their

mothers--and be cared for by specialists!--Horrible! Up hops in every

mind those twin bugaboos, the Infant Hospital and the Orphan Asylum.

That is all the average mind can think of as an "institution" for

babies.

Think of the kindergarten. Think of the day-nursery. Multiply and

magnify these a thousand fold; make them beautiful, comfortable,

hygienic, safe and sweet and near--one for every twenty or thirty

families perhaps; and put in each, not a casual young kindergarten

apprentice or hired nurse; but Genius, Training and Experience. Then

you can "teach the mothers," for at last there can be gathered a body of

facts, real knowledge, on the subject of child culture; and it can take

its place in modern progress.

Every mother whose baby spent its day hours in such care would take home

new knowledge and new standards to aid her there; and the one mother out

of twenty or thirty who cared most about it would be in that baby house

herself--she is the Genius. Not anybody's hired "nursemaid," but a

nurse-mother, a teacher-mother, a Human Mother at last.

The same opening confronts us when we squirm so helplessly in what we

call "the domestic problem." That problem is "How can every woman carry

on the same trade equally well?"

Answer--She can't.

All women do not like to "keep house;" and there is no reason why all

men, and all children, as well as the women, should suffer in health,

comfort and peace of mind under their mal-administration. We need the

Expert, the Specialist, the Genius, here too.

Thousands of discontented women are doing very imperfectly what hundreds

could do well and enjoy.

Thousands of men are paying unnecessary bills, eating what we may

politely call "unnecessary food," and putting up with the discontented

woman. Thousands of children are growing up as best they can under

inexpert mothers and inexpert housekeepers. Thousands of unnecessary

deaths, invalids, and miserable lives; millions and millions of dollars

wasted; and all this for the simple lack of society's first

law--Specialization.

Here are all these unspecialized housekeepers wriggling miserably with

their unspecialized servants; and others--the vast majority,

remember--"doing their own work" in a crude and ineffectual manner; and

there is not even a standard whereby to judge our shortcomings! We have

never known anything better, and the average mind cannot imagine

anything better than it has ever known.

(When we have expert Childculture, we shall cultivate the imagination!)

"Do you want us to give up our homes?" cries the Average Mind. "Must we

live in hotels, eat in restaurants?"

No, dear Average Mind.

Every family should have its own home; and it ought to be a real home,

with a real garden. Among the homes and gardens should stand the

baby-house with its baby-gardens; and quite apart from these fair homes

should stand the Workshops. The Cleaning Establishment, the

Laundry--the Cookshop; the Service Bureau; each and all in charge of its

Genius--its special person who likes that kind of work and does it well.

The home, quiet, sweet and kitchenless, will be visited by swift skilled

cleaners to keep it up to the highest sanitary standards; the dishes

will come in filled with fresh, hot food, and go out in the same

receptacle, for proper cleansing; the whole labor of "housekeeping" will

be removed from the home, and the woman will begin to enjoy it as a man

does. The man also will enjoy it more. It will be cleaner, quieter,

more sanitary, more beautiful and comfortable, and far less expensive.

And what of the average woman?

She will cease to exist. She will become specialized as every civilized

person must be. She will not be a woman less, but a human being more.

And in these special lines of genius, domestic and maternal, she will

lift the whole world forward with amazing speed. The health, the

brain-power, the peace of mind, of all our citizens will be increased by

the work of the Mother-Genius and maintained by the Domestic Genius.

Have you never known one of those born mothers, with perhaps some

training as a kindergartner added; who loves to be with children and

whom children love to be with? She is healthy and happy in her work,

and the children she cares for grow up with fewer tears, with better

constitutions, with strong young hearts and clear brains to meet life's

problems.

Have you never compared such a mother and such children with those we

see commonly about us? The mother, nervous, irritable, unfit for her

work and not happy in it; a discontented person, her energies both

exhausted and unused. What she wastes in uncongenial effort she might

spend joyfully in work she was fit for.

Have you never seen the sullen misery, the horrible impotent rage, the

fretful unhappiness of mishandled children? Not orphans; and not

"neglected"; not physically starved or beaten; but treated with such

brutal clumsiness that their childhood is clouded and their whole lives

embittered and weakened by the experience?

Are we so blinded by the beautiful ideal of motherhood as it should be,

that we continually overlook the limitations of motherhood as it is?

Again have you not seen the home of homes; where the cleanliness is

perfect, the quiet and harmony a joy to the soul; where beauty and peace

are linked with economy and wisdom? There are such--but they are not

common.

As in the other case, our ideals blind us to the facts. Most homes are

sadly imperfect; enjoyed by their inmates because they are used to

them--and have known no better. What we have so far failed to see is

humanity's right to the best; in these departments of life, as well as

others.

As we live now, the ever-growing weight of our just demands for a higher

order of home falling on the ever more inadequate shoulders of the

Average Woman, both Motherhood and the home are imperilled. We are

horribly frightened when we see our poor Average Woman shrink from

maternity, and [illegible] at housework. We preach at her and scold her

and flatter her and woo her, and, if we could, we would force her back

into her old place, child-bearer and burden-hearer, the helpless servant

of the world.

All this terror is wasted. It is not child-bearing--within reason--that

the girl of to-day so dreads. It is the life-long task of

child-rearing, for which she begins at last to realize she is unfit. An

utterly ignorant woman has no such terror, she bears profusely, rears as

she can, and buries as she must. Better one well-born and well-trained,

than the incapable six survivors of the unnecessary twelve.

It is not home-life that our girls shrink from; men and women alike, we

love and need a home; it is the housework, and the house management,

which are no more alluring to a rational woman than to a rational man.

"I love ocean travel," says Mrs. Porne, "but that's no reason I should

wish to be either a captain or a stoker!"

Why not respect this new attitude of our women; study it, try to

understand it; see if there is not some reason for it--and some way to

change conditions.

Suppose a young woman stands, happy and successful, in her chosen

profession. Suppose a young man offers her marriage. Suppose that this

meant to her all that life held before--plus Love! Plus a Home

Together! Plus Children! Children they both would love, both would

provide for, both would work for; but to whom neither would be a living

sacrifice--and an ineffectual sacrifice at that.

Children are not improved in proportion to their mother's immolation.

The father's love, the mother's love, the sheltering care of both, and

all due association, they need, but in the detailed services and

education of their lives, they need Genius.

And the Home--that should mean to her precisely what it means to him.

Peace, comfort, joy and pride; seclusion; mutual companionship; rest,

beautiful privacy and rest--not a workshop.

What we need in this matter is not noisy objurgations and adjurations on

the part of men; and not the reluctant submission, or angry refusal, of

women--forced to take so much needless bitter with life's sweetest joy;

but a rational facing of the question by the women themselves. It is

their business--as much so as the most obdurate mossback can

protest--but collectively, not individually.

Let them collect then! Let them organize and specialize--the two go

together. Let them develop Genius--and use it; heaven knows it is

needed!

IMPROVED METHODS OF HABIT CULTURE

Most of us recognize that common force, "the power of habit." Most of

us have been rigorously, often painfully, almost always annoyingly,

trained into what our parents and guardians considered good habits.

Most of us know something of the insidious nature of "bad habits"--how

easily they slip in, how hard they are to eject.

But few of us know the distinct pleasure of voluntary habit culture, by

modern methods.

ln my youth an improving book was prepared for children concerning a

Peasant and a Camel. The Peasant was depicted as having a Hut, and a

Fireside, and as loafing lazily in its warm glow. Then, in the crack of

the door, appeared the appealing nose of a Camel--might he warm that

nose? The lazy Peasant wouldn't take the trouble to get up and shut him

out. The appealing nose became an insinuating neck, then intrusive

shoulders, and presently we have a whole camel lying by the fire, and

the peasant, now alarmed and enraged, vainly belaboring the tough hind

quarters of the huge beast which lay in his place.

I was a child of a painfully logical mind, and this story failed of its

due effect on me because of certain discrepancies. A. Peasants (in my

limited reading) belonged with asses and oxen--not with Camels. Camels

had Arab companions--Bedouins--turbaned Blacks--not Peasants. I did not

understand the intrusion of this solitary camel into a peasant country.

B. Why should the Camel want to come into the hut? Camels are not

house-beasts, surely. And to lie by the fire;--cats and dogs like

firesides, and crickets, but in my pictures of the Ship of the Desert I

never had seen this overmastering desire to get warm. And if it was in

sooth a cold country--then in the name of all nursery reasonableness,

how came the camel there?

Furthermore, if he was a stray camel, a camel escaped from a circus and

seeking the only human companionship he could discover,--in that case

such an unusual apparition would have scared the laziest of Peasants

into prompt resistance. Moreover, a Hut, to my mind, was necessarily a

small building, with but a modest portal; and camels are tall bony

beasts, not physically able to slink and crawl. How could the beast get

in!

Beyond these criticisms I was filled with contempt at the

resourcelessness of the Peasant, who found no better means of ejecting

the intruder than to beat him where he felt it the least. It seemed to

me a poor story on the face of it, though I did not then know how these

things are made up out of whole cloth, as it were, and foisted upon

children.

In later years, I found that it was sometimes desirable to catch and

tame one's own camels. Certain characteristics were assuredly more

desirable than others, and seemed open to attainment if one but knew

how. I experimented with processes, and worked out a method; simple,

easy, safe and sure. Safe--unless overdone. It is not well to overdo

anything, and if our young people should develop a morbid desire to

acquire too many virtues at once, this method would be a strain on the

nervous system! Short of such excess, there is no danger involved.

Here is the Subject; up for moral examination; as if for physical

examination in a gymnasium. Self-measurements are taken--this is a

wholly personal method. Many of us, indeed most of us, are willing to

acquire good habits of our own choosing and by our own efforts who would

strenuously object to outside management! Very well. The subject

decides which Bad Habit He or She wishes to check, or, which Good Habit

to develop.

I will take as an illustrative instance a Combination effort: to check

the habit of Thoughtless Speech, and substitute the habit of Conscious

Control. Common indeed are the offences of the unbridled tongue; and in

youth they are especially prevalent.

"Why don't you think before you speak?" demands the Irate Parent; but

has not the faintest idea of the reason--patent though it be to any

practical psychologist.

Here is the reason:

Reflex action is earlier established than voluntary action. In a child

most activity is reflex--unconscious. It may be complex, modified by

many contradictory stimuli, but whatever else modifies it, a clear

personal determination seldom does.

Most of us carry this simple early state of mind through life. We speak

according to present impulse, provocation, and state of mind; and

afterward are sorry for it. When we are called upon to "think before we

speak", a distinct psychological process is required. We have to

establish a new connection between the speech center and the center of

volition. To hold the knife in the right hand and carve is easy; to

hold it in the left is hard, for most of us, merely because the

controlling impulse has always been sent to the muscles of the right

arm. To learn to cut with the left is an extra effort, but can be done

if necessary. It is merely a matter of repetition of command, properly

measured.

So with our Subject.

"You speak thoughtlessly, do you? You say things you wish you hadn't?

You'd like to be able to use your judgement beforehand instead of

afterward when it's too late?" Very well.

First Step.--Make up your mind that you _will_ think before you speak.

This "making up one's mind," as we so lightly call it, is in itself a

distinct act. Suppose you have to get up at five, and have no alarm

clock nor anyone to waken you. You "make up your mind," hard, that you

must wake up at five; you rouse yourself from coming sleep with the

renewed intense determination to wake up at five; your last waking

thought is "I must wake up at five!"--and you do wake up at five. You

set an alarm inside--and it worked. After a while, the need continuing,

you always wake up at five--no trouble at all--and a good deal of

trouble to break the habit when you want to. When the mind is "made up"

it is apt to stay.

Second Step.--Dismiss the matter from your mind. You may not think of

your determination again for a month--but at last you do.

Third Step.--When your determination reappears to you, welcome it

easily. Do not scold because it was so long in coming. Do not lament

its lateness. Just say, "Ah! Here you are! I knew you'd come!" Then

_drive it in._ That is, make up your mind again--harder than before,

and again dismiss it completely. You will remember it again in less

time--say in a fortnight. Then you can welcome it more cordially,

feeling already that the game is yours: and drive it in again with good

will.

Presently it reappears--in a week maybe. "Hurrah!" you say, wasting

never a spark of energy on lamenting the delay; this is a natural

process and takes time, and once more you make up your mind. Presently

you will think of it oftener and oftener, daily perhaps; the idea of

control will flutter nearer and nearer to the moment of expression, but

always too soon--when you are not about to say anything, or too

late--after you have said it.

Do not waste energy in fretting over this delay; just renew your

determination as often as it pops into your head--"I _will_ think

_before_ I speak."

By and by you do so. You remember _in time._ Your brother aggravates

you--your mother is swearing--your father is too severe--your girl

friends tempt you to unwise confidences--but--you remember!

Then, for the first time, a new nerve connection is established. From

the center of volition a little pulse of power goes down; the unruly

member is checked in mid-career, and you decide what you shall or shall

not say!

Very well. The miracle is wrought, you think. You have attained. Wait

a bit.

Fourth Step.--_Turn off the power._ Don't think of it again that day.

But to-morrow it will come again; use it twice; next day four times,

perhaps; but go slowly.

Here is the formula:

1st. Make up your mind.

2nd. Release the spring.

3rd. Remake as often as you think of it cheerfully, always releasing

the spring.

4th. When you have at last established connection;

Do it as often as you think of it;--

Stop _before_ you are tired.

The last direction is the patentable secret of this process.

Always before we have been taught to strive unceasingly for our virtues;

and to reproach ourselves bitterly if we "back-slide." When we learn

more of our mental machinery we shall feel differently about

back-sliding. When you are learning the typewriter or the bicycle or

the use of skates, you do not gain by practicing day and night.

Practice--_and rest;_ that is the trick.

After you have learned your new virtue, it will not tire you to practice

it; but while you are learning, go slow.

If you essay to hold your arm out straight; and hold it there till

muscle and nerve are utterly exhausted, you have gone backward rather

than forward in establishing the habit. But if you deliberately pour

nerve force along that arm for a while, holding it out as you choose;

and then withdraw the nerve force, release the pressure, discontinue the

determination, drop the arm, _because you choose,_ and _before you are

tired_--then you can repeatedly hold it out a little longer until you

have mastered the useless art.

Don't waste nerve force on foolish and unnecessary things--physical or

moral; but invest it, carefully, without losing an ounce, in the gradual

and easy acquisition of whatever new habits You, as the Conscious

Master, desire to develop in your organism.

O FAITHFUL CLAY!

O faithful clay of ancient brain!

Deep graven with tradition dim,

Hard baked with time and glazed with pain,

On your blind page man reads again

What else were lost to him.

Blessed the day when art was found

To carve and paint, to print and write,

So may we store past memory's bound,

Make our heaped knowledge common ground.

So may the brain go light.

Oh wondrous power of brain released,

Kindled--alive--set free;

Knowledge possessed; desire increased;

We enter life's continual feast

To see--to see--to see!

WHAT DIANTHA DID