The common, ideal woman is a weak, disingenuous, cowardly creature.
She has no earnest convictions, no purpose, no sincerities within her.
Happily, this worthless ideal is breaking up, or is treasured only
by weak-kneed clerks in city stores, and lads still in their teens.
Rosa Hosmer had a dozen of this kind calling on her. Their self-love
was gratified by the slight contrast between their weak-mindedness
and hers. The vanity of an obtuse, illiterate man is piqued by
the superiority of a woman, while a large-natured, chivalrous man
feels honored in her regard. “_How_ weak-minded must a woman be to
meet with your approbation!” said a lady in a stage coach of some
fellow-passengers who were inveighing against strong-minded women. They
looked at one another perplexed, and slightly ashamed of the absurdity
of their position, and one of the number who recovered his senses
before the others, replied: “I believe you’ve got the best of us,
ma’am. I guess none of us would want a particularly silly wife.”
I met once, in New York, a young man of very remarkable acquirements,
with great decision of character and large self-esteem. “If I ever
marry,” he remarked, “my wife will always have to yield implicit
obedience to my commands, or there will be open warfare in the house.”
“Your children will be a stalwart set, then,” I replied, “with their
mother a mere mush of concession.”
He did not see what she had to do with it. The children would be _his_
children, and being his, would do him credit. He was not wanting in
clear reasoning powers, and having great family pride--pride of race, I
_should_ say--after considerable argument, was honest enough to admit
that there must be truth on my side.