She."Now, understand me. To-morrow morning he will ask you to dinner. If he has his umbrella with him, it will mean that he has not got his stall at the theatre. In that case, don't accept. If he has no umbrella, come to dinner."He."But (you know we must think of every thing) suppose it should rain to-morrow morning?"She."If it rains, he will get wet—that's all. If I don't want him to have an umbrella, he won't have one. How silly you are!"—Gavarni,Fourberies de Femmes, Paris, 1846.
She."Now, understand me. To-morrow morning he will ask you to dinner. If he has his umbrella with him, it will mean that he has not got his stall at the theatre. In that case, don't accept. If he has no umbrella, come to dinner."
He."But (you know we must think of every thing) suppose it should rain to-morrow morning?"
She."If it rains, he will get wet—that's all. If I don't want him to have an umbrella, he won't have one. How silly you are!"—Gavarni,Fourberies de Femmes, Paris, 1846.
Many others will occur to the reader who is familiar with the lighter utterances of the ancients. But in Greece, as in China, India, and Japan, and wherever else men and women have been joined in wedlock, there have been marriages in which husband and wife have lived on terms nobler than those contemplated by the law or demanded by usage. Where could we find a juster view of the duties of husband and wife than in that passage of Xenophon's dialogue on Economy where Ischomachus tells Socrates how he had taken his young wife into his confidence, and come to a clear understanding with her as to the share each should take in carrying on the household? Goethe must have had this passage in his mind when he wrote the fine tribute to the dignity of housekeeping in "Wilhelm Meister." Ischomachus had married a girl of fifteen, who came to him as wives in Greece usually came to their husbands—an absolute stranger to him. He had to get acquainted with her after marriage, as, indeed, he says, "When we were well enough acquainted, and were so familiar that we began to converse freely with one another, I asked her why she thought I had taken her for my wife." Much is revealed in that sentence. He tells her that, being married, they are now to have all things incommon, and each should only strive to enhance the good of the household. She stares with wonder. Her mother had told her that her fortune would be wholly her husband's, and all that she had to do was to live virtuously and soberly. Ischomachus assents, but he proceeds to show her that, in the nature of things, husband and wife must be equal co-operators, he getting the money, she administering it; he fighting the battle of life out-of-doors, she within the house. At great length this model husband illustrates his point, and entirely in the spirit of the noble passage in Goethe. She catches the idea at length. "It will be of little avail," she says, "my keeping at home unless you send such provisions as are necessary." "True," he replies, "and of very little use my providing would be if there were no one at home to take care of what I send; it would be pouring water into a sieve."
This fine presentation of household economy, like that of the German poet, is, unhappily, only a dialogue of fiction. It was merely Xenophon's conception of the manner in which a philosopher of prodigious wisdommightdeal with a girl of fifteen, whom he had married without having enjoyed the pleasure of a previous acquaintance with her. Doubtless there was here and there in ancient Greece a couple who succeeded in approximating Xenophon's ideal.
Among the Romans women began to acquire those legal "rights" to which they owe whatever advance they have ever made toward a just equality with men. It was Roman law that lifted a wife from the condition of a cherished slave to a status something higher than that of daughter. But there was still one fatal defect in her position—her husband could divorce her, but she could not divorce him. Cicero, the flower of Roman culture, put away the wife of his youth after living with her thirty years, and no remonstrance on her part would have availed against his decision. But a Roman wifehadrights. She could not be deprived of her property, and the law threw round her and her children a system of safeguards which gave her a position and an influence not unlike those of the "lady of the house" at the present time. Instead of being secluded in a kind of harem, as among the Greeks, she came forward to receive her husband's guests, shared some of their festivities, governed the household, superintended the education of her children, and enjoyed her ample share of the honor which he inherited or won. "Where you are Caius, I am Caia," she modestly said, as she entered for the first time her husband's abode. He was paterfamilias, she materfamilias; and the rooms assigned to her peculiar use were, as with us, the best in the house.
To the Roman law women are infinitely indebted. Among the few hundreds of families who did actually share the civilization of Cicero, the Plinys, and Marcus Aurelius, the position of a Roman matron was one of high dignity and influence, and accordingly the general tone of the best Roman literature toward woman is such as does honor to both sexes. She was even instructed in that literature. In such a family as that of Cicero, the daughter would usually have the same tutors as the son, and the wife of such a man would familiarlyuse her husband's library. Juvenal, that peerless reviler of women, the Gavarni of poets, deplores the fact:
"But of all plagues the greatest is untold—The book-learned wife in Greek and Latin bold;The critic dame who at her table sits,Homer and Virgil quotes, and weighs their wits,And pities Dido's agonizing fits.She has so far the ascendant of the board,The prating pedant puts not in one word;The man of law is nonplused in his suit;Nay, every other female tongue is mute."
"Madame, your cousin Betty wishes to know if you can receive her.""Impossible! Tell her that to-day Ireceive."—Les Tribulations de la Vie Élégante, par Girin, Paris, 1870.
"Madame, your cousin Betty wishes to know if you can receive her."
"Impossible! Tell her that to-day Ireceive."—Les Tribulations de la Vie Élégante, par Girin, Paris, 1870.
The whole of this sixth satire of Juvenal, in which the Gavarnian literature of all nations was anticipated and exhausted, is a tribute to woman's social importance in Rome. No Greek would have considered woman worthy of so elaborate an effort. And as in Athens, Anacreon, the poet of sensual love, was naturally followed by Aristophanes, a satirist of women, so, in Rome, Ovid's "Art of Love" preceded and will forever explain Juvenal's sixth satire. All illustrates the truth that sensualized men necessarily undervalue and laugh at women. In all probability, Juvenal's satire was a caricature as gross and groundless as the pictures of Gavarni. The instinct of the satirist is first to select for treatment the exceptional instance of folly, and then to exaggerate that exceptional instance to the uttermost. Unhappily many readers are only too much inclined to accept this exaggerated exception as if it were a representative fact. There is a passage in Terence in which he expresses the feeling of most men who have been plagued, justly or unjustly, by a woman:
"Not one but has the sex so strong within her,She differs nothing from the rest. Step-mothersAll hate their step-daughters, and every wifeStudies alike to contradict her husband,The same perverseness running through them all."
The acute reader, on turning to the play of the "Mother-in-law," from which these lines are taken, will not be surprised to learn that the women in the comedy are in the right, and the men grossly in fault.
A Scene of Conjugal Life.(Daumier, Paris, 1846.)
A Scene of Conjugal Life.(Daumier, Paris, 1846.)
The literature of the Middle Ages tells the same story. The popular tales of that period exhibit women as equally seductive and malevolent, silly, vain, not to be trusted, enchanting to the lover, a torment to the husband. Caricatures of women and their extravagances in costume and behavior occur in manuscripts as far back asA.D.1150, and those extravagances may serve to console men of the present time by their enormity. Many specimens could be given, but they are generally too formless or extravagant to be interesting. There are also many rude pictures from those centuries which aimed to satirize the more active foibles of the sex. One of these exhibits a wife belaboring her husband with a broom, another pounding hers with a ladle, another with a more terrible instrument, her withering tongue, and another with the surest weapon in all the female armory—tears. In the Rouen Cathedral there are a pair of carvings, one representing a fierce struggle between husband and wife for the possession of a garment the wearing of which is supposed to be a sign of mastery, and the other exhibiting the victorious wife in the act of putting that garment on. On the portal of a church at Ploërmel, in France, there is a well-cut representation of a young girl leading an elderly man by the nose. More violent contests are frequently portrayed, and even fierce battles with bellows and pokers, stirring incidents in the "eternal war between man and woman."
The gentle German priest who wrote the moral ditties of the "Ship of Fools" ought not to have known much of the tribulations of husbands; but in his poem on the "Wrath and great Lewdnes of Wymen," he becomes a kind of frantic Caudle, and lays about him with remarkable vigor. He calls upon the "Kinge most glorious of heaven and erth" to deliver mankind from the venomous and cruel tongues of froward women. One chiding woman, he observes, "maketh greater yell than a hundred magpies in one cage;" and let her husband do what he will, he can not quiet her till "she hath chid her fill." Nobeast on earth is so capable of furious hate—not the bear, nor the wolf, nor the lion, nor the lioness; no, nor the cruel tigress robbed of her whelps, rushing wildly about, tearing and gnawing stock and tree.
"A wrathfull woman is yet more mad than she.Cruell Medea doth us example sheweOf woman's furour, great wrath and cruelty;Which her owne children dyd all to pecis hewe."
This poet, usually so moderate and mild in his satire of human folly, is transported with rage in contemplating the faults of women, and holds them up to the abhorrence of his readers. A woman, he remarks, can wallow in wicked delights, and then,giving her mouth a hurried wipe, come forward with tranquil mind and an air of child-like innocence, sweetly protesting that she has done nothing wrong. The most virulent woman-hater that was ever jilted or rejected could not go beyond the bachelor priest who penned this infuriate diatribe upon the sex.
A Splendid Spread.(Cruikshank, 1850.)
A Splendid Spread.(Cruikshank, 1850.)
Nor was Erasmus's estimate of women more favorable than Brandt's, though he expresses it more lightly and gayly, as his manner was. And curious it is to note that the foibles which he selects for animadversion are precisely those which form the staple of satire against women at the present time. In one of his Colloquies he describes the "Assembly of Women, or the Female Parliament," and reports at length the speech of one of the principal members, the wise Cornelia. This eloquent lady heartily berates the wives of tradesmen for presuming to copy the fashions of the rich and noble. Would any one believe that the following sentences were written nearly four hundred years ago?
"'Tis almost impossible by the outside," says Cornelia to her parliament of fine ladies, "to know a duchess from a kitchen-wench. All the ancient boundsof modesty have been so impudently transgressed, that every one wears what apparel seems best in her own eyes. At church and at the play-house, in city and country, you may see a thousand women of indifferent if not sordid extraction swaggering it abroad in silks and velvets, in damask and brocard, in gold and silver, in ermines and sable tippets, while their husbands perhaps are stitching Grub-street pamphlets or cobbling shoes at home. Their fingers are loaded with diamonds and rubies, for Turkey stones are nowadays despised even by chimney-sweepers' wives. It was thought enough for your ordinary women in the last age that they were allowed the mighty privilege to wear a silk girdle, and to set off the borders of their woolen petticoats with an edging of silk. But now—and I can hardly forbear weeping at the thoughts of it—this worshipful custom is quite out-of-doors. If your tallow-chandlers', vintners', and other tradesmen's wives flaunt it in a chariot and four, what shall your marchionesses or countesses do, I wonder? And if a country squire's spouse will have a train after her full fifteen ells long, pray what shift must a princess make to distinguish herself? What makes this ten times worse than otherwise it would be, we are never constant to one dress, but are as fickle and uncertain as weathercocks—or the men that preach under them. Formerly our head-tire was stretched out upon wires and mounted upon barbers' poles, women of condition thinking to distinguish themselves from the ordinary sort by this dress. Nay, to make the difference still more visible, they wore caps of ermine powdered. But they were mistaken in their politics, for the cits soon got them. Then they trumpt up another mode, and black quoiss came into play. But the ladies within Ludgate not only aped them in this fashion, but added thereto a gold embroidery and jewels. Formerly the court dames took a great deal of pains in combing up their hair from their foreheads and temples to make a tower; but they were soon weary of that, for it was not long before this fashion too was got into Cheapside. After this they let their hair fall loose about their foreheads; but the city gossips soon followed them in that."
And this game, we may add, has been kept up from that day to this; nor does either party yet show any inclination to retire from the contest.
Erasmus was, indeed, an unmerciful satirist of women. In his "Praise of Folly" he returns to the charge again and again. "That which made Plato doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and folly of that sex, a sex so unalterably simple, that for any of them to thrust forward and reach at the name of wise is but to make themselves the more remarkable fools, such an endeavor being but a swimming against the stream, nay, the turning the course of nature, the bare attempting whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for as it is a trite proverb,That an ape will be an ape, though clad in purple; so a woman will be a woman,i. e., a fool, whatever disguise she takes up." And again: "Good God! what frequentdivorces, or worse mischief, would oft sadly happen, except man and wife were so discreet as to pass over light occasions of quarrel with laughing, jesting, dissembling, and such like playing the fool? Nay, how few matches would go forward, if the hasty lover did but first know how many little tricks of lust and wantonness (and perhaps more gross failings) his coy and seemingly bashful mistress had oft before been guilty of? And how fewer marriages, when consummated, would continue happy, if the husband were not either sottishly insensible of, or did not purposely wink at and pass over, the lightness and forwardness of his good-natured wife?"
American Lady walking in the Snow."I have often shivered at seeing a young beauty picking her way through the snow with a pale rose-colored bonnet set on the very top of her head. They never wear muffs or boots, even when they have to step to their sleighs over ice and snow. They walk in the middle of winter with their poor little toes pinched into a miniature slipper, incapable of excluding as much moisture as might bedew a primrose."—Mrs. Trollope,Domestic Manners of the Americans, vol. ii., p. 135. 1830.
American Lady walking in the Snow.
"I have often shivered at seeing a young beauty picking her way through the snow with a pale rose-colored bonnet set on the very top of her head. They never wear muffs or boots, even when they have to step to their sleighs over ice and snow. They walk in the middle of winter with their poor little toes pinched into a miniature slipper, incapable of excluding as much moisture as might bedew a primrose."—Mrs. Trollope,Domestic Manners of the Americans, vol. ii., p. 135. 1830.
The ill opinion entertained of women by men during the ages of darkness and superstition found expression in laws as well as in literature. The age of chivalry! Investigators who have studied that vaunted period in the court records and law-books tell us that respect for women is a thing of which those records show no trace. In the age of chivalry the widow and the fatherless were regarded by lords, knights, and "parsons" as legitimate objects of plunder; and woe to the widow who prosecuted the murderers of her husband or the ravagers of her estate! The homage which the law paid to women consisted in burning them alive for offenses which brought upon men the painless death of hanging. We moderns read with puzzled incredulity such a story as that of Godiva, doubtful if so vast an outrage could ever have been committed in a community not entirely savage. Let the reader immerse himself for only a few months in the material of which the history of the Middle Ages must be composed, if it shall ever be truly written, and the tale of Godiva will seem credible and natural. She was her lord's chattel; and probably the people of her day who heard the story commendedhimfor lightening the burdens ofCoventry on such easy terms, and saw no great hardship in the task assigned to her.
People read with surprise of Thomas Jefferson's antipathy to the poems and novels of Sir Walter Scott. He objected to them because they gave a view of the past ages utterly at variance with the truth as revealed in the authentic records, which he had studied from his youth up.
"'My dear Baron, I am in the most pressing need of five hundred franc!' Must I put ansto franc?""No. In the circumstances it is better not. It will prove to the Baron that, for the moment, you really are destitute of every thing—even of orthography."—Ed. de Braumont,Paris, 1860.
"'My dear Baron, I am in the most pressing need of five hundred franc!' Must I put ansto franc?"
"No. In the circumstances it is better not. It will prove to the Baron that, for the moment, you really are destitute of every thing—even of orthography."—Ed. de Braumont,Paris, 1860.
"Madame, I have the honor—""Sir, be good enough to come round in front and speak to me.""Madame, I really haven't the time. I must be off in five minutes."—Cham,Paris, 1850.
"Madame, I have the honor—"
"Sir, be good enough to come round in front and speak to me."
"Madame, I really haven't the time. I must be off in five minutes."—Cham,Paris, 1850.
Coming down to recent times, we still find the current anecdote and proverb in all lands bearing hardly upon the sex. A few kindly and appreciative sayings pass current in Scotland; and the literatures of Germany, England, and the United States teem with the noblest and tenderest homage to the excellence of women. But most of these belong to the literature of this century, and bear the names of men who may be said to have created the moral feeling of the present moment. It is interesting to notice that in one of our latest and best dictionaries of quotation, that of Mr. M. M. Ballou, of Boston, there are one hundred and eleven short passages relating to women, of which only one is dishonorable to them, and that dates back a century and a half, to the halcyon day of the British libertine—"Every woman is at heart a rake.—Pope." So thought all the dissolute men of Pope's circle, as we know from their conversation and letters. So thought the Duc de Rochefoucauld, who said, "There are few virtuous women who are not weary of their profession;" and "Most virtuous women, like concealed treasures, are secure because nobody seeks afterthem." So thought Chesterfield, who told his hopeful son that he could never go wrong in flattering a woman, for women were foolish and frail without exception: "I never knew one in my life who had good sense, or who reasoned and acted consequentially for four-and-twenty hours together." And somustthink every man who lived as men of fashion then lived. "If I dwelt in a hospital," said Dr. Franklin once, "I might come to think all mankind diseased."
"Where are the diamonds exhibited?""I haven't the least idea; but I let myself be guided by my wife. Women get at such things by instinct."—Cham,Paris, 1868.
"Where are the diamonds exhibited?"
"I haven't the least idea; but I let myself be guided by my wife. Women get at such things by instinct."—Cham,Paris, 1868.
But a man need not be a fine gentleman nor arouéto think ill of womankind. He needs only to be commonplace; and hence it is that the homely proverbs of all time bear so hardly upon women. The native land of the modern proverb is Spain, as we might guess from Sancho Panza's exhaustless repertory; and most of those homely disparaging sentences concerning women that pass current in all lands appear to have originated there. What Spain has left unsaid upon women's foibles, Italy has supplied. Most of the following proverbs are traceable to one of the two peninsulas of Southern Europe: "He that takes an eel by the tail or a woman by her word may say he holds nothing." "There is one bad wife in Spain, and every man thinks he has her." "He that loses his wife and a farthing hath great loss of his farthing." "If the mother had neverbeen in the oven, she would not have looked for her daughter there." "He that marries a widow and three children marries four thieves." "He that tells his wife news is but newly married." "A dead wife's the best goods in a man's house." "A man of straw is worth a woman of gold." "A woman conceals what she knows not." "As great a pity to see a woman weep as to see a goose go barefoot." "A woman's mind and winter's wind change oft." "There is no mischief in the world done but a woman is always one." "Commend a wedded life, but keep thyself a bachelor." "Where there are women and geese, there wants no noise." "Neither women nor linen by candle-light." "Glasses and lasses are brittle ware." "Two daughters and a back-door are three thieves." "Women commend a modest man, but like him not." "Women in mischief are wiser than men." "Women laugh when they can and weep when they will." "Women, priests, and poultry never have enough."
Evening Scene in the Parlor of an American Boarding-house."Ladies who have no engagements (in the evening) either mount again to the solitude of their chamber, or remain in the common sitting-room, in a society cemented by no tie, endeared by no connection, which choice did not bring together, and which the slightest motive would break asunder. I remarked that the gentlemen were generally obliged to go out every evening on business; and, I confess, the arrangement did not surprise me."—Mrs. Trollope,Domestic Manners of the Americans, vol. ii., p. 111. 1830.
Evening Scene in the Parlor of an American Boarding-house.
"Ladies who have no engagements (in the evening) either mount again to the solitude of their chamber, or remain in the common sitting-room, in a society cemented by no tie, endeared by no connection, which choice did not bring together, and which the slightest motive would break asunder. I remarked that the gentlemen were generally obliged to go out every evening on business; and, I confess, the arrangement did not surprise me."—Mrs. Trollope,Domestic Manners of the Americans, vol. ii., p. 111. 1830.
Among the simple people of Iceland similar proverbs pass current: "Praise the fineness of the day when it is ended; praise a woman when she is buried; praise a maiden when she is married." "Trust not to the words of a girl; neither to those which a woman utters, for their hearts have been made like the wheel that turns round; levity was put into their bosoms."
Among the few broadsides of Elizabeth's reign preserved in the British Museum there is one which is conceived in perfect harmony with these proverbs. It presents eight scenes, in all of which women figure disadvantageously.There is a child-bed scene, in which the mother lies in state, most preposterously dressed and adorned, while a dozen other women are idling and gossiping about the room. Women are exhibited also at the market, at the bakehouse, at the ale-house, at the river washing clothes, at church, at the bath, at the public well; but always chattering, gossiping, idling, unless they are fighting or flirting. Another caricature in the same collection, dated 1620, the year of theMayflowerand Plymouth Rock, contains seven scenes illustrative of the lines following:
"Who marieth a Wife upon a Moneday,If she will not be good upon a Twesday,Lett him go to yewood upon a Wensday,And cutt him a cudgell upon the Thursday,And pay her soundly upon a Fryday;And she mend not, yedivil take her a Saterday,That he may eat his meat in peace on the Sunday."
To complete the record of man's ridicule of the sex to which he owes his happiness, I add the pictures given in this chapter, which bring that record down to date. They tell their own story. The innocent fun of English Cruikshank and Leech contrasts agreeably with the subtle depravity indicated by some of the French caricaturists, particularly by Gavarni, who surpasses all men in the art of exaggerating the address of the class of women who regard men in the light of prey. The point of Gavarni's satire usually lies in the words printed underneath his pictures, and the pictures generally consist of the two figures who utter those words. But the expression which he contrives to impart to his figures and faces by a few apparently careless lines is truly wonderful, and it can scarcely be transferred to another surface. He excels in the expression of a figure with the face turned away, the whole effect being given by the outline of the head three-quarters averted. There is one picture of his, given on the following page, of a woman and her lover, he sitting in a chair readingwith his hat on, indicating the extreme of familiarity, she standing at the window sewing, and keeping an eye on the pavement below. "He's coming!" she says; "take off your hat." In the attitude of the woman there is a mingled effect of tranquillity and vigilance that is truly remarkable. In all the range of caricature it would be difficult to find a better specimen of the art than this, or a worse. The reader may be curious to see a few more of thesefourberies de femmes, as evolved from the brain of the dissolute Gavarni. It is almost impossible to transfer the work of his pencil, but here are a few of his verbal elucidations:
Under a picture of a father and daughter walking arm-in-arm: "How did you know, papa, that I loved M. Léon?" "Because you always spoke of M. Paul."
Two young ladies in confidential conversation: "When I think that M. Coquardeau is going to be my husband, I feel sorry for Alexander." "And I for Coquardeau."
"He's coming! Take off your hat!"—Gavarni,Paris, 1846.
"He's coming! Take off your hat!"—Gavarni,Paris, 1846.
Two married ladies in conversation: "Yes, my dear, my husband has been guilty of bringing that creature into my house before my very eyes, when he knows that the only man I love in the world is two hundred leagues from here."—"Men are contemptible" (lâches).
Husband writing a note, and his wife standing behind him:
"My dear Sir,—Caroline begs me to remind you of a certain duet, of which she is extravagantly fond, and which you promised to give her. Pray be so good as to dine with her to-day, and bring your music with you. For my part, I shall be deprived of the pleasure of hearing you, for I have an engagement at Versailles. Pity me, my dear sir, and believe me always your affectionate
Coquardeau."
A young man in wild excitement reading a letter:
"On receipt of this, mount, fly; overtake in the Avenue de Neuilly a yellow cab, the steps down, gray horse, old coachman, 108, one lantern lighted! Follow it. It will stop at the side door of a house at Sablonville. A man and a woman will get out. That man—he was my lover! And that woman—she is yours!"
The Scholastic Hen and her Chickens.(Cruikshank, 1846.)Miss Thimblebee loquitur."Turn your heads the other way, my dears, for here are two horridly handsome officers coming."
The Scholastic Hen and her Chickens.(Cruikshank, 1846.)
Miss Thimblebee loquitur."Turn your heads the other way, my dears, for here are two horridly handsome officers coming."
Lady fainting, and a man in consternation supporting her head: "Clara, Clara! dearest, look up! Don't! Clara, I say! You don't knowanynice young man! I am an ass, with my stupid jealousy. And you shall have your velvet shawl. Come, Clara! Now then, Clara,please!"
Lady dropping two letters into the post-office. First letter:
"My kind Amédée,—This evening, toward eight, at the Red Ball. Mind, now, and don't keep waiting your
Clara."
Second letter:
"My Henry,—Well-beloved, judge of my despair—I have a sore throat that is simply frightful. It will be impossible for me to go out this evening. They even talk of applying twenty leeches. Pity a great deal, and love always, your
Clara."
In these numberless satires upon women, executed by pen and pencil, there is a certain portion of truth, for, indeed, a woman powerfully organized and fully developed, but without mental culture and devoid of the sentiment of duty, can be a creature most terrific. If the possession of wealth exempts her from labor, there are four ways in which she can appease the ennui of a barren mind and a torpid conscience. One is deep play, which was, until within seventy years, the resource chiefly relied upon by women of fashion for killing the hours between dinner and bed; one is social display, or the struggle for the leadership of a circle, an ambition perhaps more pernicious than gambling; another is intrigues of love, no longer permitted in the more advanced countries, but formerly an important element in fashionable life everywhere; finally, there is the resource of excessive and ceaseless devotion, the daily mass, the weekly confession, frequent and severe fasting, abject slavery to the ritual.Of all these, the one last named is probably the most injurious, since it tends to bring virtue itself into contempt, and repels the young from all serious and elevated modes of living. Accordingly, in studying the historic families of Europe, we frequently find that the devotee and the debauchee alternate, each producing the other, both being expressions of the same moral and mental defect. But whether a mindless woman gambles, dresses, flirts, or fasts, she is a being who furnishes the satirist with legitimate material.
Equal rights, equal education, equal chances of an independent career—when women have enjoyed these for so much as a single century in any country, the foibles at which men have laughed for so many ages will probably no longer be remarked, for they are either the follies of ignorance or the vices resulting from a previous condition of servitude. Nor will men of right feeling ever regard women with the cold, critical eye of a Chesterfield or a Rochefoucauld, but rather with something of the exalted sentiment which caused old Homer, whenever he had occasion to speak of a mother, to prefix an adjective usually applicable to goddesses and queens, which we can translate best, perhaps, by our English wordREVERED.
Chinese Caricature of an English Foraging Party.[28]
Chinese Caricature of an English Foraging Party.[28]
We are apt to think of the Chinese as a grave people, unskilled in the lighter arts of satire and caricature; but, according to that amusing traveler, M. Huc, they are theFrenchof Asia—"a nation of cooks, a nation of actors"—singularly fond of the drama, gifted in pasquinade, addicted to burlesque, prolific in comic ideas and satirical devices. M. Huc likens the Chinese Empire to an immense fair, where you find mingled with the bustle of traffic all kinds of shows, mountebanks, actors, Cheap Jacks, thieves, gamblers, all competing continually and with vociferous uproar for the favor of the crowd. "There are theatres everywhere; the great towns are full of them; and the actors play night and day." When the British officers went ashore, in the retinue of their first grand embassy, many years ago, they were astonished to see Punch in all his glory with Judy, dog, and devil, just as they had last seen him on Ascot Heath, except that he summoned his audience by gong and triangle instead of pipes and drum. The Orient knew Punch perhaps ages before England saw him. In China they have a Punch conducted by a single individual,who is enveloped from head to foot in a gown. He carries the little theatre on his head, works the wires with his hands under the gown, executes the dialogue with his mouth concealed by the same garment, and in the intervals of performance plays on two instruments. He exhibits the theatre reduced to its simplest form, the work of the company, the band, the manager, treasurer, scene-shifter, and property-man all being done by one person.
In the very nature of the Chinese, whether men or women, there is a large element of the histrionic, even those pompous and noisy funerals of theirs being little more than an exhibition of private theatricals. The whole company gossip, drink tea, jest, laugh, smoke, and have all the air of a pleasant social party, until the nearest relation of the deceased informs them that the time to mourn has come. Instantly the conversation ceases and lamentation begins. The company gather round the coffin; affecting speeches are addressed to the dead; groans, sobs, and doleful cries are heard on every side; tears, real tears, roll down many cheeks—all is woe and desolation. But when the signal is given to cease mourning, "the performers," says M. Huc, "do not even stop to finish a sob or a groan, but they take their pipes, and, lo! they are again those incomparable Chinese, laughing, gossiping, and drinking tea."
It need not be said that Chinese women have an ample share of this peculiar talent of their race, nor that they have very frequent occasion to exercise it. Nowhere, even in the East, are women more subject or more artful than in China. "When a son is born," as a Chinese authoress remarks, "he sleeps upon a bed, he is clothed with robes, and plays with pearls; every one obeys his princely cries. But when a girl is born, she sleeps upon the ground, is merely wrapped in a cloth, plays with a tile, and is incapable of acting either virtuously or viciously. She has nothing to think of but preparing food, making wine, and not vexing her parents." This arrangement the authoressapproves, because it prepares the girl to accept without repining the humiliations of her lot. It is a proverb in China that a young wife should be in her house but "a shadow and an echo." As in India, she does not eat with her husband, but waits upon him in silent devotion till he is done, and then satisfies her own appetite with inferior food.
Such is the theory of her position. But if we may judge from Chinese satires, women are not destitute of power in the household, and employ the arts of the oppressed with effect. Among the Chinese poems recently translated by Mr. G. C. Stent in the volume called "The Jade Chaplet," there are a few in the satiric vein which attest the ready adroitness of Chinese women in moments of crisis. According to an English author, "A woman takes as naturally to a lie as a rat to a hole." The author of these popular Chinese poems was evidently of the same opinion. The specimen subjoined, which has not been previously published in the United States, shows us that there is much in common between the jokes of the two hemispheres of our mundane sphere.
"FANNING THE GRAVE.
"'Twas spring—the air was redolentWith many a sweet and grateful scent;The peach and plum bloomed side by side,Like blushing maid and pale-faced bride;Coy willows stealthily were seenOpening their eyes of living green—As if to watch the sturdy strifeOf nature struggling into life."One sunny morn a Mr. ChuangWas strolling leisurely along;Viewing the budding flowers and trees—Sniffing the fragrance-laden breeze—Staring at those who hurried by,Each loaded with a good supplyOf imitation sycee shoes,To burn—for friends defunct to use—Of dainty viands, oil, and rice,And wine to pour in sacrifice,On tombs of friends who 'neath them slept.(Twas '3d of the 3d,' when the graves are swept.)"Chuang sauntered on. At length, on looking round,He spied a cozy-looking burial-ground;'I'll turn in here and rest a bit,' thought he,'And muse awhile on life's uncertainty;This quiet place just suits my pensive mood,I'll sit and moralize in pleasant solitude.'So, sitting down upon a grassy knoll,He sighed—when all at once upon him stoleA smothered sound of sorrow and distress,As if one wept in very bitterness."Mr. Chuang, hearing this, at once got up to see,Who the sorrowing mourner could possibly be,When he saw a young womanfanning a grave.Her 'three-inch gold lilies'[29]were bandaged up tightIn the deepest of mourning—her clothes, too, were white.[30]Of all the strange things he had read of or heard,This one was by far the most strange and absurd;He had never heard tell of onefanning a grave."He stood looking on at this queer scene of woe,Unobserved, but astounded, and curious to knowThe reason the woman wasfanning the grave.He thought, in this case, the best thing he could doWas to ask her himself; so without more ado,He hemmed once or twice, then bowing his head,Advanced to the woman and smilingly said,'May I ask, madam, why you arefanning that grave?'"The woman, on this, glancing up with surprise,Looked as though she could scarcely believe her own eyes,When she saw a man watching herfanning the grave.He was handsome, and might have been thirty or more;The garb of a Taoist he tastefully wore;His kind manner soon put her quite at her ease,So she answered demurely, 'Listen, sir, if you please,And I'll tell you the reason I'mfanning this grave."'My husband, alas! whom I now (sob,sob) mourn,A short time since (sob) to this grave (sob) was borne;And (sob) he lies buried in this (sob,sob) grave.'(Here she bitterly wept.) 'Ere my (sob) husband died,He called me (sob) once more (sob,sob) to his side,And grasping my—(sob) with his dying lips said,"When I'm gone (sob,sob) promise (sob) never to wed,Till the mold is(sob)dry on the top of my grave.""'I come hither daily to (sob) and to weep,For the promise I gave (sob) I'll faithfully keep,I'll not wed till the mold is(sob)dry on his grave.I don't want to marry again (sob), I'm sure,But poverty (sob) is so hard to endure;And, oh! I'm so lonely, that I come (sob) to tryIf I can't with my fan help the mold(sob)to dry;And that is the reason I'm fanning his grave.'"Hearing this, Chuang exclaimed, 'Madam, give me the fan.I'll willingly help you as much as I canIn drying the mold on your poor husband's grave.'She readily handed the fan up to Chuang(Who in magic was skilled—as he proved before long),For he muttered some words in a low under-tone,Flicked the fan, and the grave was as dry as a bone;'There,' said he, 'the mold's dry on the top of the grave.'"Joy plainly was seen on the poor woman's face,As she hastily thanked him, ere quitting the place,For helping her dry up the mold on the grave.Chuang watched her go off with a cynical sigh,Thought he, 'Now suppose I myself were to die,How long wouldmywife in her weeds mourn my fate?Wouldshe, like this woman, have patience to waitTill the mold was well dry on her poor husband's grave?'"
"'Twas spring—the air was redolentWith many a sweet and grateful scent;The peach and plum bloomed side by side,Like blushing maid and pale-faced bride;Coy willows stealthily were seenOpening their eyes of living green—As if to watch the sturdy strifeOf nature struggling into life.
"One sunny morn a Mr. ChuangWas strolling leisurely along;Viewing the budding flowers and trees—Sniffing the fragrance-laden breeze—Staring at those who hurried by,Each loaded with a good supplyOf imitation sycee shoes,To burn—for friends defunct to use—Of dainty viands, oil, and rice,And wine to pour in sacrifice,On tombs of friends who 'neath them slept.(Twas '3d of the 3d,' when the graves are swept.)
"Chuang sauntered on. At length, on looking round,He spied a cozy-looking burial-ground;'I'll turn in here and rest a bit,' thought he,'And muse awhile on life's uncertainty;This quiet place just suits my pensive mood,I'll sit and moralize in pleasant solitude.'So, sitting down upon a grassy knoll,He sighed—when all at once upon him stoleA smothered sound of sorrow and distress,As if one wept in very bitterness.
"Mr. Chuang, hearing this, at once got up to see,Who the sorrowing mourner could possibly be,When he saw a young womanfanning a grave.Her 'three-inch gold lilies'[29]were bandaged up tightIn the deepest of mourning—her clothes, too, were white.[30]Of all the strange things he had read of or heard,This one was by far the most strange and absurd;He had never heard tell of onefanning a grave.
"He stood looking on at this queer scene of woe,Unobserved, but astounded, and curious to knowThe reason the woman wasfanning the grave.He thought, in this case, the best thing he could doWas to ask her himself; so without more ado,He hemmed once or twice, then bowing his head,Advanced to the woman and smilingly said,'May I ask, madam, why you arefanning that grave?'
"The woman, on this, glancing up with surprise,Looked as though she could scarcely believe her own eyes,When she saw a man watching herfanning the grave.He was handsome, and might have been thirty or more;The garb of a Taoist he tastefully wore;His kind manner soon put her quite at her ease,So she answered demurely, 'Listen, sir, if you please,And I'll tell you the reason I'mfanning this grave.
"'My husband, alas! whom I now (sob,sob) mourn,A short time since (sob) to this grave (sob) was borne;And (sob) he lies buried in this (sob,sob) grave.'(Here she bitterly wept.) 'Ere my (sob) husband died,He called me (sob) once more (sob,sob) to his side,And grasping my—(sob) with his dying lips said,"When I'm gone (sob,sob) promise (sob) never to wed,Till the mold is(sob)dry on the top of my grave."
"'I come hither daily to (sob) and to weep,For the promise I gave (sob) I'll faithfully keep,I'll not wed till the mold is(sob)dry on his grave.I don't want to marry again (sob), I'm sure,But poverty (sob) is so hard to endure;And, oh! I'm so lonely, that I come (sob) to tryIf I can't with my fan help the mold(sob)to dry;And that is the reason I'm fanning his grave.'
"Hearing this, Chuang exclaimed, 'Madam, give me the fan.I'll willingly help you as much as I canIn drying the mold on your poor husband's grave.'She readily handed the fan up to Chuang(Who in magic was skilled—as he proved before long),For he muttered some words in a low under-tone,Flicked the fan, and the grave was as dry as a bone;'There,' said he, 'the mold's dry on the top of the grave.'
"Joy plainly was seen on the poor woman's face,As she hastily thanked him, ere quitting the place,For helping her dry up the mold on the grave.Chuang watched her go off with a cynical sigh,Thought he, 'Now suppose I myself were to die,How long wouldmywife in her weeds mourn my fate?Wouldshe, like this woman, have patience to waitTill the mold was well dry on her poor husband's grave?'"
There is an amusing sequel to this poem, in which Chuang is exhibited putting his wife to the test. Being a magician, endowed with miraculouspower, he pretends to die; and while his body is in its coffin awaiting burial, he assumes the form of a handsome young man, and pays to his mourning wife ardent court.
"In short, they made love, and the next day were wed;She cheerfully changing her white clothes to red.[31]Excited by drink, they were going to bed,When Chuang clapped his hand to his brow—He groaned. She exclaimed, 'What! areyoudying too?Onehusband I've lost, and got married to you;Nowyouare took bad. Oh, what shall I do?Can I help you? If so, tell me how.'"'Alas!' groaned the husband, 'I'm sadly afraidThe disease that I have is beyond human aid.Oh! the sums upon sums I the doctors have paid!There a remedy is, to be sure:It is this:take the brains from a living man's head—If not to be had, get, and mash up insteadThose of one who no more than three days has been dead.'Twill effect an infallible cure!'"
"In short, they made love, and the next day were wed;She cheerfully changing her white clothes to red.[31]Excited by drink, they were going to bed,When Chuang clapped his hand to his brow—He groaned. She exclaimed, 'What! areyoudying too?Onehusband I've lost, and got married to you;Nowyouare took bad. Oh, what shall I do?Can I help you? If so, tell me how.'
"'Alas!' groaned the husband, 'I'm sadly afraidThe disease that I have is beyond human aid.Oh! the sums upon sums I the doctors have paid!There a remedy is, to be sure:It is this:take the brains from a living man's head—If not to be had, get, and mash up insteadThose of one who no more than three days has been dead.'Twill effect an infallible cure!'"
The distracted widow did not hesitate. There was the coffin of her lamented husband before her, and he had not yet been dead three days:
"She grasped the chopper savagely, her brows she firmly knit,And battered at the coffin until the lid was split.But, oh! what mortal pen could paint her horror and her dread?A voice within exclaimed, 'Hollo!' and Chuang popped up his head!"'Hollo!' again repeated he, as he sat bolt-upright:'What made you smash my coffin in?—I see, besides, you're tight!You've dressed yourself in red, too!What means this mummery?Let me have the full particulars, and don't try on flummery.'"She had all her wits about her, though she quaked a bit with fear.Said she (the artful wretch!), 'It seems miraculous, my dear!Some unseen power impelled me to break the coffin-lid,To see if you were still alive—which, of course, you know I did!"'I felt sure you must be living; so, to welcome you once more,My mourning robes I tore off, and my wedding garments wore;But, were you dead, to guard against all noxious fumes, I quaffed,As a measure of precaution, a disinfecting draught!'"Said Chuang, 'Your tale is plausible, but I think you'd better stop;Don't fatigue yourself by telling lies; just let the matter drop.To test your faithfulness to me, I've been merely shamming dead,I'm the youth you just now married—my widow I've just wed!'"
"She grasped the chopper savagely, her brows she firmly knit,And battered at the coffin until the lid was split.But, oh! what mortal pen could paint her horror and her dread?A voice within exclaimed, 'Hollo!' and Chuang popped up his head!
"'Hollo!' again repeated he, as he sat bolt-upright:'What made you smash my coffin in?—I see, besides, you're tight!You've dressed yourself in red, too!What means this mummery?Let me have the full particulars, and don't try on flummery.'
"She had all her wits about her, though she quaked a bit with fear.Said she (the artful wretch!), 'It seems miraculous, my dear!Some unseen power impelled me to break the coffin-lid,To see if you were still alive—which, of course, you know I did!
"'I felt sure you must be living; so, to welcome you once more,My mourning robes I tore off, and my wedding garments wore;But, were you dead, to guard against all noxious fumes, I quaffed,As a measure of precaution, a disinfecting draught!'
"Said Chuang, 'Your tale is plausible, but I think you'd better stop;Don't fatigue yourself by telling lies; just let the matter drop.To test your faithfulness to me, I've been merely shamming dead,I'm the youth you just now married—my widow I've just wed!'"
Appended to these two poems, there is the regulation moral, in which marriedladies are warned not to be too sure of their constancy, nor judge severely the poor widows who make haste to console themselves.
"Do your best, but avoid supercilious pride,For you never can tell what you'll do till you're tried."
We can not say much for the translation of these comic works. Mr. Stent is a high authority in the Chinese language and literature, but is not at home in English prosody. It is plain, however, from his translations, rough as they may be, that there is a comic vein in the Chinese character which finds expression in Chinese literature.