How doth the hat loom large upon her head!Furred like a busby; plumed as hearses are;Armed with eye-spearing quills; bewebbed and hungWith lacy, silky, downy draperies;With spread, wide-waggling feathers fronded highIn bosky thickets of Cimmerian gloom.
How doth the hat with colors dare the eye!Arrest—attract—allure—affront—appall!Vivid and varied as are paroquets;Dove-dull; one mass of white; all solid red;Black with the blackness of a mourning world—Compounded type of "Chaos and Old Night"!
How doth the hat expand: wax wide, and swell!Such is its size that none can predicateOr hair, or head, or shoulders of the frameBelow thIs bulk, this beauty-burying bulk;Trespassing rude on all who walk beside,Brutally blinding all who sit behind.
How doth the hat's mere mass more monstrous growInto a riot of repugnant shapes!Shapes ignominious, extreme, bizarre,Bulbous, distorted, unsymmetrical—Of no relation to the human head—To beauty, comfort, dignity or grace.
Shape of a dishpan! Of a pail! A tub!Of an inverted wastebasket whereinThe head finds lodgment most appropriate!Shape of a wide-spread wilted griddlecake!Shape of the body of an octopusSet sideways on a fireman's misplaced brim!
How doth the hat show callous crueltyIn decoration costing countless deaths;Carrying corpses for its ornaments;Wreath of dead humming-birds, dismembered gulls,The mother heron's breastknot, stiffened wings;Torn fragments of a world of wasted life.
How doth the hat effect the minds of men?Patient bill-payers, chivalrously dumb!What does it indicate of woman's growth;Her sense of beauty, her intelligence,Her thought for others measured with herself,Her place and grade in human life to-day?
"O, no—Please don't—I'd rather not meet them!"
I'm sorry but you have to meet them, constantly.
"But I don't have to know them, surely!"
You will find it safer and easier if you do.
"But they are not proper persons to meet—I've heard awful things about them."
Those stories come from people who never really knew them. They have been much maligned I assure you. Let me tell you a little about them before they come up.
The World yonder is really an excellent fellow, but sulky and erratic because he's not well used. Think of a beautiful, fruitful, home garden used for nothing but to play ball and fight in—and then blamed for its condition. That's the way he feels.
Then there's the Flesh. Never was a good fellow more abused! He's been brought up wrong, from babyhood—but he's all right inside.
As to the Devil—we really ought to be ashamed of treating him so. He'd have died centuries ago, but we will keep him going—and then blame him because his behavior's out of date!
Here they come. Allow me to present:
The World—Just Us; We and our Workshop.
The Flesh—Just Us; Our Natural Vehicle and Servant.
The Devil—Just Us; but an Anachronism—an artificially preservedExtinct Ancestor!
One may use the Old Man of the Sea,For a partner or patron,But helpless and hapless is heWho is ridden, inextricably,By a fond old mer-matron.
The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors. It had "grounds," instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared porches and "galleries," showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing ambitions of the builders.
The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled desperately under the mortgages.
A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still brown hair in "water-waves" over a pale high forehead. She was sitting on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for afghans to any great extent, but "they make such acceptable presents," Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work; and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on.
Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible to call one daughter without calling two, and that "Lina" called them all.
"Mis' Immerjin," said a soft voice in the doorway, "dere pos'tively ain't no butter in de house fer supper."
"No butter?" said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. "Why, Sukey, I'm sure we had a tub sent up last—last Tuesday!"
"A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother," suggested Dora.
"Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?" The mother appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save Dora had even a contradiction to offer.
"You know I never notice things," said the artistic Cora; and "the de-lines," as their younger sisters called them, said nothing.
"I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?" suggested Sukey; "dat's nearer 'n' de sto'."
"Yes, do, Sukey," her mistress agreed. "It is so hot. But what have you done with that tubful?"
"Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'—I'm always most careful to make return for what I borrers—and yo' know, Mis' Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well—an'de fried chicken,an'—"
"Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub."
"We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother," saidAdeline, dreamily. "Those details are so utterly uninteresting."
"I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him," said Madeline with decision; while the "a-lines" kept silence this time.
"There! Sukey's gone!" Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. "And I meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and get it for mother."
Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off.
"That child is the most practical of any of you," said her mother; which statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise.
Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She ho no idea of the high cost of ice in that region—it came from "the store," like all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy, sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received with grateful affection.
"Thank you, my darling," she said. "I wish you'd made a pitcherful."
"Why didn't you, Do?" her sisters demanded.
"You're too late," said Dora, hunting for her needle and then for her thimble, and then for her twist; "but there's more in the kitchen."
"I'd rather go without than go into the kitchen," said Adeline; "I do despise a kitchen." And this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no one moved.
"My mother always liked raspberry shrub," said Mrs. Warden; "and yourAunt Leicester, and your Raymond cousins."
Mrs. Warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives, "connections" of whom she was duly proud and "kin" in such widening ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of them.
"You young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!" pursued their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from whence it was presently knocked off and broken.
"That's the fifth!" remarked Dora, under breath.
"Why should we, Ma?" inquired Cora. "We've never seen one of them—except Madam Weatherstone!"
"We'll never forgether!"said Madeline, with delicate decision, laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for Roscoe. "Whatbeautifulmanners she had!"
"How rich is she, mother? Do you know?" asked Dora.
"Rich enough to do something for Roscoe, I'm sure, if she had a proper family spirit," replied Mrs. Warden. "Her mother was own cousin to my grandmother—one of the Virginia Paddingtons. Or she might do something for you girls."
"I wish she would!" Adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking for Roscoe.
"Don't be ungrateful, Adeline," said her mother, firmly. "You have a good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better."
"But there is never anything going on," broke in Coraline, in a tone of complaint; "no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything."
"Now, Cora, don't be discontented! You must not add a straw to dearRoscoe's burdens," said her mother.
"Of course not, mother; I wouldn't for the world. I never saw her but that once; and she wasn't very cordial. But, as you say, she might dosomething.She might invite us to visit her."
"If she ever comes back again, I'm going to recite for her," said, Dora, firmly.
Her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. "I wish you could, dear," she agreed. "I'm sure you have talent; and Madam Weatherstone would recognize it. And Adeline's music too. And Cora's art. I am very proud of my girls."
Cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. She was illuminating a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate places—for Roscoe.
"I wonder if he'll care for it?" she said, laying down her brush and holding the book at arm's length to get the effect.
"Of course he will!" answered her mother, warmly. "It is not only the beauty of it, but the affection! How are you getting on, Dora?"
Dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was embroidering a large, intricate design—for Roscoe. She was an ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects.
"I guess it'll be done," she said, a little wearily. "What are you going to give him, mother?"
"Another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. And nothing is too good for my boy."
"He's coming," said Adeline, who was still looking down the road; and they all concealed their birthday work in haste.
A tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them.
He had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich profusion of ruffled shirt. But his hair was sternly short, his shirt severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of ease in its attitude.
Dora skipped to meet him, Cora descended a decorous step or two. Madeline and Adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother lifted her face.
"Well, mother, dear!" Affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she held his hand and stroked it lovingly. The sisters gathered about with teasing affection, Dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered.
"Aren't you home early, dear?" asked Mrs. Warden.
"Yes; I had a little headache"—he passed his hand over his forehead—"and Joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow." They flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. Dora dragged forth the wicker lounge. He was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over till his mother drove them all away.
"Now, just rest," she said. "It's an hour to supper time yet!" And she covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents.
He was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches. But the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. He loved his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it.
That they need never have had so large a "place" to "keep up" did not occur to him. He had lived there most of his life, and it was home. That the expenses of running the household were three times what they needed to be, he did not know. His father had not questioned their style of living, nor did he. That a family of five women might, between them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider.
Mrs. Warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house. Madeline was "delicate," and Adeline was "frail"; Cora was "nervous," Dora was "only a child." So black Sukey and her husband Jonah did the work of the place, so far as it was done; and Mrs. Warden held it a miracle of management that she could "do with one servant," and the height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the parlor and arranged the flowers.
Roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him ruthlessly. There was the store—their one and only source of income. There was the house, a steady, large expense. There were five women to clothe and keep contented, beside himself. There was the unappeasable demand of the mortgage—and there was Diantha.
When Mr. Warden died, some four years previously, Roscoe was a lad of about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next year. Instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step into the harness on the spot.
He was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. In his first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. A year, a year or two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could "retire" in time and take up his scientific work again. Then—there was Diantha.
When he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. They had been engaged six months—and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man that it might be six years—or sixteen years—before he could marry.
He could not sell the business—and if he could, he knew of no better way to take care of his family. The girls did not marry, and even when they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still not be free. To pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring in for some six years ahead. The young man set his teeth hard and turned his head sharply toward the road.
And there was Diantha.
She stood at the gate and smiled at him. He sprang to his feet, headacheless for the moment, and joined her. Mrs. Warden, from the lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed.
"Poor Roscoe!" she said to herself. "It is very hard for him. But he carries his difficulties nobly. He is a son to be proud of." And she wept a little.
Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm—he clasped it warmly with his, and they walked along together.
"You won't come in and see mother and the girls?"
"No, thank you; not this time. I must get home and get supper.Besides, I'd rather see just you."
He felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here, but squeezed her hand, anyhow.
She looked at him keenly. "Headache?" she asked.
"Yes; it's nothing; it's gone already."
"Worry?" she asked.
"Yes, I suppose it is," he answered. "But I ought not to worry. I've got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and—you!" And he took advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them.
Diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied, and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about.
"About you, of course," she answered, brightly. "There are things I want to say; and yet—I ought not to."
"You can say anything on earth to me," he answered.
"You are twenty-four," she began, musingly.
"Admitted at once."
"And I'm twenty-one and a half."
"That's no such awful revelation, surely!"
"And we've been engaged ever since my birthday," the girl pursued.
"All these are facts, dearest."
"Now, Ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? May I ask you an—an impertinent question?"
"You may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent."
"You'll be scandalised, I know—but—well, here goes. What would you think if Madeline—or any of the girls—should go away to work?"
He looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth.
"I shouldn't allow it," he said.
"O—allow it? I asked you what you'd think."
"I should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach to me," be answered. "But it's no use talking about that. None of the girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it if they had."
Diantha smiled. "I suppose you never would permit your wife to work?"
"My widow might have to—not my wife." He held his fine head a trifle higher, and her hand ached for a moment.
"Wouldn't you let me work—to help you, Ross?"
"My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for me, and that's wait."
His face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead. "Sometimes I feel as if I ought not to hold you at all!" he burst out, bitterly. "You ought to be free to marry a better man."
"There aren't any!" said Diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "And if there were—millions—I wouldn't marry any of 'em. I loveyou,"she firmly concluded.
"Then we'll justwait,"said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if he would crush it. "It won't be hard with you to help. You're better worth it than Rachael and Leah together." They walked a few steps silently.
"But how about science?" she asked him.
"I don't let myself think of it. I'll take that up later. We're young enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness."
"And have you any idea—we might as well face the worst—how many years do you think that will be, dearest?"
He was a little annoyed at her persistence. Also, though he would not admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. A woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. She ought to trust—to just wait on general principles.
"I can face a thing better if I know just what I'm facing," said the girl, quietly, "and I'd wait for you, if I had to, all my life. Will it be twenty years, do you think?"
He looked relieved. "Why, no, indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at the outside more than five. Or six," he added, honest though reluctant.
"You see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. But the business is good; and I can carry it; I can build it up." He shook his broad shoulders determinedly. "I should think it might be within five, perhaps even less. Good things happen sometimes—such as you, my heart's delight."
They were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say good-night. A step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen, roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. Many a long good-night had they exchanged there, under the large, brilliant California moon. They sat there, silent, now.
Diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom. His trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. To her mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the Warden family lived in careless wastefulness. That five women—for Dora was older than she had been when she began to do housework—should require servants, seemed to this New England-born girl mere laziness and pride. That two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply. Moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to "support," Mr. Warden would never have broken down so suddenly and irrecoverably. Even that funeral—her face hardened as she thought of the conspicuous "lot," the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)—all that expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus brutally Diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness for a whole year.
She rose at last, her hand still held in his. "I'm sorry, but I've got to get supper, dear," she said, "and you must go. Good-night for the present; you'll be round by and by?"
"Yes, for a little while, after we close up," said he, and took himself off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eves were on him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with the cupola.
Diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as his. "It's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!" she told herself rebelliously. "A man of his ability. Why, he could do anything, in his own work! And he loved it so!
"To keep a grocery store—
""And nothing to show for all that splendid effort!
"They don't do a thing? They justlive—and 'keep house!' All those women!
"Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!"
A small stone city, very old, built upon rock, rock-paved, rock-bound with twenty centuries of walls.
A Ghetto, an age-old Ghetto, crowded into a stony corner of the crowded stony city; its steep and narrow confines not more a boundary than the iron prejudices that built them.
In the Ghetto—life, human life; close-pressed, kept to its elemental forms, with a vitality purchased at nature's awful price—by surviving slow extinction.
This life, denied all larger grouping, finds its sole joy in fierce deep love of family and home. This home a room, a low and narrow room, unwholesome, dark, incredibly filled up, yet overflowing most with love.
Here was peace. Here was Honor wherewith to face the outer Scorn. Here was Safety—the only safety known. Here, most of all was Love, Love, wound and interwound with the blood-tie, deepened by religion, intensified by centuries of relentless pressure, strengthened a thousandfold by the unbroken cruelty of the environment. Love, one with the family; the family one with the home; the home, for generation after generation—one room!
*
A miracle! Some daughter of this house, strayed as a child, found by eccentric travellers, taken to England, reared with love and care to strange exotic beauty, marrying a great landowner so lost in passionate devotion that he gave her all he had, and, dying, left her heir to vast estates.
She following, her family inherit the estate, and come to take possession.
They enter the tall pillared gates; they wander up the shaded avenue, a little group, huddled and silent, timid, ill at ease. They mount the wide, white marble-terraced steps, the children crowding close, the mother frightened, the father striving to hold up this new strange pride under his time-swollen burden of humility and fear.
These towering halls, these broad-curved stairways, these lofty chambers, even the great kitchens and their clustering offices, are to this timid group as wide and desolate as deserts or the sea.
They seek a room, a room that shall be small enough and low enough and dark enough; they reach at last one friendly sheltering little room—crowd into it with tumultuous affection, and find a home!
*
It is home where the heart is!
A new age where new power has conquered a new element, and sky-sailors seek for large discoveries compared to which the old "new world" was but a dooryard venture. Our little world now known from coast to coast and pole to pole; its problems solved, its full powers mastered; its sweet serviceableness and unfailing comfort the common joy of all.
Later science, piling wonder upon wonder, handling radiant energy, packing compressed air for long excursions into outer space, sends out some skyship on tremendous errands of interstellar search. Days, weeks, they flit, with speed incredible, our earth a speck, our moon invisible, our sun a star among the others now; then having done their work, turn the sharp prow and study their vast charts for the return.
Out of that blackness, wider than our minds, back from the awful strangeness of new stars, they turn and fly. All know their charts, all have their telescopes, all see that old familiar system swinging nearer. They greet the sun as we Fire Island—the moon like Sandy Hook.
But that small star, bigger and bigger now, its heavenly radiance fading softly down to the warm glow of earthly beauty, coming out round and full at last—ah! how they choke, how they cry out to see it!
Nearer—the blue skin of the all-enclosing sea, the green of interrupting continents; now they can recognize the hemisphere—the tears come—this is home!
*
It is home where the heart is.
I never thought much of the folks who prayThe Lord to make them thankful for a mealExpecting Him to furnish all the foodAnd then provide them with the gratitudeThey haven't grace to feel.
I never thought much of this yearly thanks,Either for what once happened long ago,Or for "our constant mercies." To my mindIf we're to thank a Power that's daily kind,Our annual's too slow.
Suppose we spread Thanksgiving—hand it round—Give God an honest heartful every day;And, while we're being thankful, why not giveSome gratitude to those by whom we live—As well as stingy pay?
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE, or THE MAN-MADE WORLD
Let us begin, inoffensively, with sheep. The sheep is a beast with which we are all familiar, being much used in religious imagery; the common stock of painters; a staple article of diet; one of our main sources of clothing; and an everyday symbol of bashfulness and stupidity.
In some grazing regions the sheep is an object of terror, destroying grass, bush and forest by omnipresent nibbling; on the great plains, sheep-keeping frequently results in insanity, owing to the loneliness of the shepherd, and the monotonous appearance and behavior of the sheep.
By the poet, young sheep are preferred, the lamb gambolling gaily; unless it be in hymns, where "all we like sheep" are repeatedly described, and much stress is laid upon the straying propensities of the animal.
To the scientific mind there is special interest in the sequacity of sheep, their habit of following one another with automatic imitation. This instinct, we are told, has been developed by ages of wild crowded racing on narrow ledges, along precipices, chasms, around sudden spurs and corners, only the leader seeing when, where and how to jump. If those behind jumped exactly as he did, they lived. If they stopped to exercise independent judgment, they were pushed off and perished; they and their judgment with them.
All these things, and many that are similar, occur to us when we think of sheep. They are also ewes and rams. Yes, truly; but what of it? All that has been said was said of sheep,genus ovis,that bland beast, compound of mutton, wool, and foolishness. so widely known. If we think of the sheep-dog (and dog-ess), the shepherd (and shepherd-ess), of the ferocious sheep-eating bird of New Zealand, the Kea (and Kea-ess), all these herd, guard, or kill the sheep, both rams and ewes alike. In regard to mutton, to wool, to general character, we think only of their sheepishness, not at all of their ramishness or eweishness. That which is ovine or bovine, canine, feline or equine, is easily recognized as distinguishing that particular species of animal, and has no relation whatever to the sex thereof.
Returning to our muttons, let us consider the ram, and wherein his character differs from the sheep. We find he has a more quarrelsome disposition. He paws the earth and makes a noise. He has a tendency to butt. So has a goat—Mr. Goat. So has Mr. Buffalo, and Mr. Moose, and Mr. Antelope. This tendency to plunge head foremost at an adversary—and to find any other gentleman an adversary on sight—evidently does not pertain to sheep, togenus ovis;but to any male creature with horns.
As "function comes before organ," we may even give a reminiscent glance down the long path of evolution, and see how the mere act of butting—passionately and perpetually repeated—born of the beliggerent spirit of the male—produced horns!
The ewe, on the other hand, exhibits love and care for her little ones, gives them milk and tries to guard them. But so does a goat—Mrs. Goat. So does Mrs. Buffalo and the rest. Evidently this mother instinct is no peculiarity ofgenus ovis,but of any female creature.
Even the bird, though not a mammal, shows the same mother-love and mother-care, while the father bird, though not a butter, fights with beak and wing and spur. His competition is more effective through display. The wish to please, the need to please, the overmastering necessity upon him that he secure the favor of the female, has made the male bird blossom like a butterfly. He blazes in gorgeous plumage, rears haughty crests and combs, shows drooping wattles and dangling blobs such as the turkey-cock affords; long splendid feathers for pure ornament appear upon him; what in her is a mere tail-effect becomes in him a mass of glittering drapery.
Partridge-cock, farmyard-cock, peacock, from sparrow to ostrich, observe his mien! To strut and languish; to exhibit every beauteous lure; to sacrifice ease, comfort, speed, everything—to beauty—for her sake—this is the nature of the he-bird of any species; the characteristic, not of the turkey, but of the cock! With drumming of loud wings, with crow and quack and bursts of glorious song, he woos his mate; displays his splendors before her; fights fiercely with his rivals. To butt—to strut—to make a noise—all for love's sake; these acts are common to the male.
We may now generalize and clearly state: That is masculine which belongs to the male—to any or all males, irrespective of species. That is feminine which belongs to the female, to any or all females, irrespective of species. That is ovine, bovine, feline, canine, equine or asinine which belongs to that species, irrespective of sex.
In our own species all this is changed. We have been so taken up with the phenomena of masculinity and femininity, that our common humanity has largely escaped notice. We know we are human, naturally, and are very proud of it; but we do not consider in what our humanness consists; nor how men and women may fall short of it, or overstep its bounds, in continual insistence upon their special differences. It is "manly" to do this; it is "womanly" to do that; but what a human being should do under the circumstances is not thought of.
The only time when we do recognize what we call "common humanity" is in extreme cases, matters of life and death; when either man or woman is expected to behave as if they were also human creatures. Since the range of feeling and action proper to humanity, as such, is far wider than that proper to either sex, it seems at first somewhat remarkable that we have given it so little recognition.
A little classification will help us here. We have certain qualities in common with inanimate matter, such as weight, opacity, resilience. It is clear that these are not human. We have other qualities in common with all forms of life; cellular construction, for instance, the reproduction of cells and the need of nutrition. These again are not human. We have others, many others, common to the higher mammals; which are not exclusively ours—are not distinctively "human." What then are true human characteristics? In what way is the human species distinguished from all other species?
Our human-ness is seen most clearly in three main lines: it is mechanical, psychical and social. Our power to make and use things is essentially human; we alone have extra-physical tools. We have added to our teeth the knife, sword, scissors, mowing machine; to our claws the spade, harrow, plough, drill, dredge. We are a protean creature, using the larger brain power through a wide variety of changing weapons. This is one of our main and vital distinctions. Ancient animal races are traced and known by mere bones and shells, ancient human races by their buildings, tools and utensils.
That degree of development which gives us the human mind is a clear distinction of race. The savage who can count a hundred is more human than the savage who can count ten.
More prominent than either of these is the social nature of humanity. We are by no means the only group-animal; that ancient type of industry the ant, and even the well-worn bee, are social creatures. But insects of their kind are found living alone. Human beings never. Our human-ness begins with some low form of social relation and increases as that relation develops.
Human life of any sort is dependent upon what Kropotkin calls "mutual aid," and human progress keeps step absolutely with that interchange of specialized services which makes society organic. The nomad, living on cattle as ants live on theirs, is less human than the farmer, raising food by intelligently applied labor; and the extension of trade and commerce, from mere village market-places to the world-exchanges of to-day, is extension of human-ness as well.
Humanity, thus considered, is not a thing made at once and unchangeable, but a stage of development; and is still, as Wells describes it, "in the making." Our human-ness is seen to lie not so much in what we are individually, as in our relations to one another; and even that individuality is but the result of our relations to one another. It is in what we do and how we do it, rather than in what we are. Some, philosophically inclined, exalt "being" over "doing." To them this question may be put: "Can you mention any form of life that merely 'is,' without doing anything?"
Taken separately and physically, we are animals,genus homo; taken socially and psychically, we are, in varying degree, human; and our real history lies in the development of this human-ness.
Our historic period is not very long. Real written history only goes back a few thousand years, beginning with the stone records of ancient Egypt. During this period we have had almost universally what is here called an Androcentric Culture. The history, such as it was, was made and written by men.
The mental, the mechanical, the social development, was almost wholly theirs. We have, so far, lived and suffered and died in a man-made world. So general, so unbroken, has been this condition, that to mention it arouses no more remark than the statement of a natural law. We have taken it for granted, since the dawn of civilization, that "mankind" meant men-kind, and the world was theirs.
Women we have sharply delimited. Women were a sex, "the sex," according to chivalrous toasts; they were set apart for special services peculiar to femininity. As one English scientist put it, in 1888, "Women are not only not the race—they are not even half the race, but a subspecies told off for reproduction only."
This mental attitude toward women is even more clearly expressed by Mr. H. B. Marriot-Watson in his article on "The American Woman" in the "Nineteenth Century" for June, 1904, where he says: "Her constitutional restlessness has caused her to abdicate those functions which alone excuse or explain her existence." This is a peculiarly happy and condensed expression of the relative position of women during our androcentric culture. The man was accepted as the race type without one dissentient voice; and the woman—a strange, diverse creature, quite disharmonious in the accepted scheme of things—was excused and explained only as a female.
She has needed volumes of such excuse and explanation; also, apparently, volumes of abuse and condemnation. In any library catalogue we may find books upon books about women: physiological, sentimental, didactic, religious—all manner of books about women, as such. Even to-day in the works of Marholm—poor young Weininger, Moebius, and others, we find the same perpetual discussion of women—as such.
This is a book about men—as such. It differentiates between the human nature and the sex nature. It will not go so far as to allege man's masculine traits to be all that excuse, or explain his existence: but it will point out what are masculine traits as distinct from human ones, and what has been the effect on our human life of the unbridled dominance of one sex.
We can see at once, glaringly, what would have been the result of giving all human affairs into female hands. Such an extraordinary and deplorable situation would have "feminized" the world. We should have all become "effeminate."
See how in our use of language the case is clearly shown. The adjectives and derivatives based on woman's distinctions are alien and derogatory when applied to human affairs; "effeminate"—too female, connotes contempt, but has no masculine analogue; whereas "emasculate"—not enough male, is a term of reproach, and has no feminine analogue. "Virile"—manly, we oppose to "puerile"—childish, and the very word "virtue" is derived from "vir"—a man.
Even in the naming of other animals we have taken the male as the race type, and put on a special termination to indicate "his female," as in lion, lioness; leopard, leopardess; while all our human scheme of things rests on the same tacit assumption; man being held the human type; woman a sort of accompaniment aud subordinate assistant, merely essential to the making of people.
She has held always the place of a preposition in relation to man. She has been considered above him or below him, before him, behind him, beside him, a wholly relative existence—"Sydney's sister," "Pembroke's mother"—but never by any chance Sydney or Pembroke herself.
Acting on this assumption, all human standards have been based on male characteristics, and when we wish to praise the work of a woman, we say she has "a masculine mind."
It is no easy matter to deny or reverse a universal assumption. The human mind has had a good many jolts since it began to think, but after each upheaval it settles down as peacefully as the vine-growers on Vesuvius, accepting the last lava crust as permanent ground.
What we see immediately around us, what we are born into and grow up with, be it mental furniture or physical, we assume to be the order of nature.
If a given idea has been held in the human mind for many generations, as almost all our common ideas have, it takes sincere and continued effort to remove it; and if it is one of the oldest we have in stock, one of the big, common, unquestioned world ideas, vast is the labor of those who seek to change it.
Nevertheless, if the matter is one of importance, if the previous idea was a palpable error, of large and evil effect, and if the new one is true and widely important, the effort is worth making.
The task here undertaken is of this sort. It seeks to show that what we have all this time called "human nature" and deprecated, was in great part only male nature, and good enough in its place; that what we have called "masculine" and admired as such, was in large part human, and should be applied to both sexes: that what we have called "feminine" and condemned, was also largely human and applicable to both. Our androcentric culture is so shown to have been, and still to be, a masculine culture in excess, and therefore undesirable.
In the preliminary work of approaching these facts it will be well to explain how it can be that so wide and serious an error should have been made by practically all men. The reason is simply that they were men. They were males, avid saw women as females—and not otherwise.
So absolute is this conviction that the man who reads will say, "Of course! How else are we to look at women except as females? They are females, aren't they?" Yes, they are, as men are males unquestionably; but there is possible the frame of mind of the old marquise who was asked by an English friend how she could bear to have the footman serve her breakfast in bed—to have a man in her bed-chamber—and replied sincerely, "Call you that thing there a man?"
The world is full of men, but their principal occupation is human work of some sort; and women see in them the human distinction preponderantly. Occasionally some unhappy lady marries her coachman—long contemplation of broad shoulders having an effect, apparently; but in general women see the human creature most; the male creature only when they love.
To the man, the whole world was his world; his because he was male; and the whole world of woman was the home; because she was female. She had her prescribed sphere, strictly limited to her feminine occupations and interests; he had all the rest of life; and not only so, but, having it, insisted on calling it male.
This accounts for the general attitude of men toward the now rapid humanization of women. From her first faint struggles toward freedom and justice, to her present valiant efforts toward full economic and political equality, each step has been termed "unfeminine" and resented as an intrusion upon man's place and power. Here shows the need of our new classification, of the three distinct fields of life—masculine, feminine and human.
As a matter of fact, there is a "woman's sphere," sharply defined and quite different from his; there is also a "man's sphere," as sharply defined and even more limited; but there remains a common sphere—that of humanity, which belongs to both alike.
In the earlier part of what is known as "the woman's movement," it was sharply opposed on the ground that women would become "unsexed." Let us note in passing that they have become unsexed in one particular, most glaringly so, and that no one has noticed or objected to it.
As part of our androcentric culture we may point to the peculiar reversal of sex characteristics which make the human female carry the burden of ornament. She alone, of all human creatures, has adopted the essentially masculine attribute of special sex-decoration; she does not fight for her mate as yet, but she blooms forth as the peacock and bird of paradise, in poignant reversal of nature's laws, even wearing masculine feathers to further her feminine ends.
Woman's natural work as a female is that of the mother; man's natural work as a male is that of the father; their mutual relation to this end being a source of joy and well-being when rightly held: but human work covers all our life outside of these specialties. Every handicraft, every profession, every science, every art, all normal amusements and recreations, all government, education, religion; the whole living world of human achievement: all this is human.
That one sex should have monopolized all human activities, called them "man's work," and managed them as such, is what is meant by the phrase "Androcentric Culture."
Why criticize?
Why does anybody criticize anything? And why does THE FORERUNNER criticize—the things herein treated?
On examination, we find several sources of criticism. The earliest and commonest is the mere expression of personal opinion, as is heard where young persons are becoming acquainted, the voluble "I like this!" and "Don't you like that?" and "Isn't such a thing horrid?" For hours do the impressionable young exchange their ardent sentiments; and the same may be heard from older persons in everyday discussion.
This form of criticism has its value. It serves to show, even relentlessly to expose, the qualities and deficiencies of the critic. What one "likes" merely shows what one is like.
The vitality dies out of it, however, when one learns two things; first, that likings change with growth of character and new experience, and, second, that few people are interested in an inventory of limitations.
Following this comes another painfully common source of criticism—the desire to exhibit superiority. The aged are prone to this fault in discussion of the young and their achievements. The elect in general show it, seeking to prove to common people that these are not as they are; the conservative rests his objection to anything new and different on the same broad base; and the critic, the real, professional critic, can hardly trust himself to approve warmly of anything, lest it weaken his reputation. If he does, it must be something which is caviar to the general.
Then comes that amiable desire to instruct and assist, born of parental instinct, fostered by pedagogy, intrusted by St. Paul to the "husband at home." Moved by this feeling, we point out the errors of our friends and mark examination papers; and thus does the teacher of painting move among his pupils and leave them in ranks of glimmering hope or dark despair.
Another fruitful source of criticism is a natural wish to free one's mind; as the hapless public sputters on the street, or in letters to the papers, protesting against the stupidity and cruelty of its many aggressors. Under this impulse bursts forth the chattering flood of discussion after play or lecture, merely to relieve the pressure.
Then comes a very evil cause—the desire to give pain, to injure. Certain persons, and publications, use their critical ability with great effect to this end. In England it seems to be a sort of game, great literary personages rush out into the open and belabor each other mercilessly; while the public rejoices as at a prize-fight. We sometimes see a newspaper offering its readers a form of entertainment which is not even a fight, nor yet a prompt and needed execution, but a sort of torture-chamber exhibition, where the dumb victim is vilified and ridiculed, grilled and "roasted," to make an American holiday.
There is one more cause of criticism—the need of money. Some people are hired to criticize others, the nature of their attentions wholly dictated by the employer. A shadowy bridge is opened here, connecting criticism with advertisement. Many cross it.
*
For any criticism to have value it must rest clearly and honestly upon a definite point of view.
"The Toad beneath the harrow knowsExactly where each tooth point goes.The Butterfly upon the roadPreaches contentment to that Toad."
If one elects, for instance, to criticize an illustration in particular—or a particular illustration—or the present status of popular illustration in general—the position of the critic must be frankly chosen and firmly held. If it is that of the technician, either the original artist or the reproducer or even the publisher, then a given picture in a magazine may be discussed merely as a picture, as a half-tone, or as a page effect, intelligently and competently. If the purely aesthetic viewpoint is chosen, all the above considerations may be waived and the given picture judged as frankly ugly, or as beautiful, quite apart from its technique. If, again, the base of judgment is that of the reader, in whose eyes an illustration should illustrate—i.e., give light, make clear the meaning of the text—then we look at a given picture to see if it carries out the ideas expressed in the tale or article, and value it by that.
On this base also stands the author, only one person, to be sure, as compared with the multitude of readers, but not a dog, for all that. The author, foaming at the mouth, remote and helpless, here makes common ground with the reader and expects an illustration to illustrate. Perhaps, we should say, "the intelligent reader"—leaving out such as the young lady in the tale, who said they might read her anything, "if it was illustrated by Christie."*
[*—This does not by any means deny intelligence to all appreciators of Mr. Christie's work, but merely to such as select literature for the pictures attached.]
THE FORERUNNER believes that it may voice the feelings of many writers and more readers; almost all readers, in fact, if it here and now records a protest against an all too frequent illustrative sin: where the gentleman, or lady, who is engaged and paid to illustrate a story, prefers to insert pictures of varying attractiveness which bear no relation to the text. This is not illustration. It is not even honest business. It does not deliver the goods paid for. It takes advantage of author, publisher and public, and foists upon them all an art exhibition which was not ordered.
To select a recent popular, easily obtainable, instance of vice and virtue in illustration, let us take up the "American Magazine" for August. Excellent work among the advertisements—there the artist is compelled to "follow copy"; his employer will take no nonsense. That's one reason why people like to look at them—the pictures are intelligible. Admirable pictures by Worth Brehm to Stewart White's story—perfect. You see the people, Mr. White's people, see them on the page as you saw them in your mind, and better. Good drawing, andpersonal character—those special people and not others. The insight and appreciation shown in the frontispiece alone makes as fine an instance of what illustration ought to be as need be given.
Those light sketches to the airy G. G. Letters are good, too—anything more definite would not belong to that couple.
But Mr. Cyrus Cuneo shows small grasp of what Mr. Locke was writing about in his "Moonlight Effect." The tailpiece, by somebody else, is the best picture of the lot.
Mr. Leone Brackner does better in Jack London's story, though falling far short of the extreme loathsomeness Mr. London heaps so thickly. J. Scott Williams follows "Margherita's Soul" with a running accompaniment and variations, in pleasant accord with the spirit of that compelling tale. He gives more than the scene represented, gives it differently, and yet gives it.
Mr. McCutcheon and George Fitch are also harmonious in clever fooling of pen and pencil, and Thomas Fogarty, though by no means convincing, goes well enough with Mr. O'Higgins' story, which is not convincing, either. The hat and dress pictures are photographs, and do artificial justice to their artificial subjects in Mrs. Woodrow's arraignment of the Fantastic Feminine.
But—. Go to your library after, or send your ten cents for, or look up on your own shelves, that August number, and turn to Lincoln Colcord's story of "Anjer," to see what an illustrator dare do. Here's a story, the merits of which need not be discussed, but in which great stress is laid on a certain Malay Princess, the free nobility of whose savage love healed the sick heart of an exhausted man. "I saw how beautiful she was," says the narrator: "her breast was bare in a long slit, and shadowed like the face of the pool." "The most glorious native woman of the East I've ever seen." "She walked like a tiger, with a crouching step of absolute grace." "Her eyes called as if they'd spoken words of love: the beauty of her face was beyond speech—almost beyond thought." Thus Mr. Colcord.
And how Mr. Townshend? It is on Page 334, Mr. Townshend's "illustration." ("Whit way do we ca' it the Zoo?" "If it wasna' ca'd the Zoo, what would we ca' it?") A bit of railing and a pillar is the only concession to the scene described; that and the fact that there is a man and a woman there. One more detail is granted—a forehead ornament, as alleged. For the rest?
Since the picture is so unjust to the words of the author, can the words of the critic do any justice to the picture? The man will do, as well one man as another, apparently. The big blob of an object that seems to have been suggested by a Gargantuan ginger jar, and to be put in for tropical effect, as also a set of wooden bananas, may be forgiven.
But the Princess—the tigress—the free, graceful, passionate woman—the beauty beyond speech. Look at it.
A crooked, crouching, awkward negroid type, a dress of absurd volume and impossible outlines, the upper part a swathed bath towel, one stiff, ugly arm hung helpless, one lifted and ending in ahoof,a plain pig's hoof; the head bent, chin sunk on chest like a hunchback's; and the face—! One could forgive the gross, unusual ugliness; but why no hint of interest in her lover? Why this expression as of a third generation London pauper in a hospital? What explanation is there of this meagre, morbid, deformed female in the midst of that story?
Frank incapacity on the part of an artist is possible. To try and try and try again and utterly fail is possible. To write to the author and say, "I cannot visualize your character, or express it, and must decline to undertake the order," or to the editor and refuse the job, is possible. But to take the order, to read the story (if he did read it), to send in and accept pay for a picture like that—"Whit way would ye ca' it?"
A passionate interest is shown by many persons in consulting anonymous advisers through the columns of various publications. Their inquiries are mainly as to small matters of etiquette, and the care of the complexion.
In one of the current women's papers we find such questions as these:"When one is introduced, how does one acknowledge the introduction?Must it be by a mention of the weather? How should one receive a smallgift?" (x) All these by one breathless inquirer.
Another asks pathetically: "Will you tell me how soon after a husband's death it is permitted to a widow to return formal calls? What is the present form of visiting cards for a widow?" (y)
Another rudderless ship, in a somewhat less recent issue of a very popular woman's paper, writes: "I am wearing mourning. In the hot weather I find the veil very heavy and close, and wish to throw it back. What shall I do?" (z)
These are apparently bona fide questions, but in most cases they are answered in a style too palpably oracular. If the questioners are genuine and want help they get precious little. If it is merely a game, it seems rather a flat one. But the popularity of the pastime continues.
The Forerunner will give no answers to foolish questions; unless at peril of the asker. But to sincere inquirers, who are interested in some moot point of conduct, some balance of conflicting duties, honest attention will be given, and their questions answered as sincerely.
The intention is to promote discussion of the real problems of life, and to apply to them the new standards afforded by the larger knowledge and deeper religious sense of to-day.
If any of the above questions were sent to this office they would be thus dismissed:
(x) Read "How To Do It," by E. E. Hale. Learn to be sincere; have real feelings and express them honestly.
(y) If you are truly prostrated by grief you cannot return calls. If you are able—and like to do it—what are you afraid of? Whose "permission" are you asking? See answer to x.
(z) Mourning is a relic of barbarism, kept up by women because of their retarded social development. But if you must wear a heavy veil and wish to throw it back—why don't you?
These persons would be displeased and not write again. Truly. Such questions are not wanted by The Forerunner. They would discontinue their subscription. Doubtless. But this is a waste of anxiety, for such would never have subscribed for The Forerunner in the first place.
Suppose, however, that a question like this is sent in:
"I am a girl of twenty. My mother is an invalid. My father is in business difficulties. They want me to marry an old friend of father's—a good man, but forty years older then I am. Is it my duty to marry him—for their sake?" (B)
Answer. (B) Marriage is not an institution for the support of parents, or the settling of business difficulties. If you loved that old man you would not be asking advice. To marry a man you do not love is immoral. Marriage is to serve the best interests of children and to give happiness to the contracting parties. If your parents need your financial aid go to work and give them your earnings, but do not make a business of matrimony.
Or again: Query. "My mother is a widow living on a moderate income. She has two married children, but does not like to live with them. I am a college graduate and wish to work at a profession. She says it is not necessary for me to work, and wants me to live with her—says she needs me, claims my filial duty. Is this right?" (F)
Answer. (F) No, it is dead wrong. Parental duty is a natural obligation—not a loan. Filial duty is the same from son and daughter. You owe your mother care and service if needed, just as your brother would. She has no more right to prevent your going to work than if you were a son. By all means live with her if you both like it, but live your own life. You have a duty of citizenship as well as of daughtership.
Or again: Query. "My wife is spending more of my income on dress than I can afford. How can I stop her?" (G)
There is not room to answer this in this issue.
Thankful are we for lifeAnd the joy of living.Baby-pleasure of taking;Mother-glory of giving.
Thankful are we for lightAnd the joy of seeing.Stir of emotion strong,And the peace of being.
Thankful are we for power,And the pride ensuing;Baby-pleasure of having,Father-glory of doing.
[Advertisement]
I speak as one who has cared little for candy of any kind and less for chocolate candy.
I don't like chocolate cake, nor chocolateblanc mange,nor chocolate pudding, nor chocolate to drink—unless it is cocoa, very hot, not too sweet, and strained carefully.
Nevertheless I fell in with friends, who feasted upon Lowney's; they beguiled me into feasting upon Lowney's, and since then my attitude has changed as to candy.
I had a box of Lowney's, a particularly well-made, attractive box, that is still kept to put small treasures in, and brought it home for my family to eat.
Always before, I had looked on with the unselfishness of a pelican, to see others eat candy; but now I strove with them, like a frigate bird, and made them give up some of it. I wanted it myself.
Furthermore, I bought a small box of Lowney's chocolate almonds in Portland, Oregon, on the fourteenth of June, and with severe self-denial, brought it home on the twenty-ninth of July.
Then it was eaten, largely by me, and every single one of those chocolate almonds was fresh and good.
I can state further, on the evidence of personal friends, that all theLowney preparations are pure and honest and perfectly reliable.
They are as good as the best in the world.
As to the candy,—That's better.
Walter M. Lowney Co.
Please mention THE FORERUNNER when purchasing
[Advertisement]
I took a trolley trip in New England, one Summer, carrying for my only baggage a neat thin German "mappe"—about 15 by 12 by 2.
"But what do you do for clean underwear?" inquired my friends.
Then I produced from one corner of that restricted space, a neat small box, and a piece of a cake of Fels-Naptha.
"Wash 'em over night, they are dry in the morning," said I.
"But are they clean?"
"Of course, they are clean, chemically clean,—if you use Fels-Naptha."
Suppose you are camping, and hot water is hard to come by; or travelling in places where it may not be had at all; or that you merely live in the country and have to heat it "by hand," as it were; it is warm weather, very warm weather, and the mere thought of hot water is unpleasant; or that you burn gas,—and gas costs money, as indeed does other fuel; or that your laundress is unreliable and will not boil the clothes:—
In any or all of these cases, use Fels-Naptha, and use it according to directions.
It is easy, it is quick, it is inexpensive, and the clothes are clean, artistically and antiseptically clean.
This soap has been a solid comfort my kitchen for years. It is a steady travelling companion, and I have recommended it to many grateful friends before now.
Fels & Co., Philadelphia, Pa.
Please mention THE FORERUNNER when purchasing
[Advertisement]
Few women like to darn stockings, but most women have to.
They have to darn their own,—not many; their husband's—more; and their childrens'—most.
The amount of time they waste in this Sisyphean task would, even at charwoman's wages, buy socks and stockings for a dozen families.
Spent in reading, it would improve their minds—darning doesn't. Spent in rest, it would improve their health—darning doesn't. Darning stockings is one of the most foolish things women are expected to do.
"But what are we to do? Stockings will wear out," protest the darners.