What thing to thee can
mischief
do?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
Wishing for a last look at Jones, he turned
once, and saw the three standing, and the chocolate brick of the
cabin, and the windmill white and idle in the sun.
“He'll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.
"I ain't buryin' him, then," said Ephraim.
“Nor 1,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it's time I was getting
to Tucson. ”
He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and
rode away. Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and
here is the final conclusion they came to, after three hours of
discussion as to who took the chain and who had it just then:-
Ephraim — Jones, he hadn't no cash.
Mr. Adams The kid, he hadn't no sense.
Ephraim — The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.
Mr. Adams — Jones, he goes off with his chain.
Both — What damn fools everybody is, anyway!
And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention
his relations with Jones's pistol. Let it be said in extenuation
of that performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going
to Tucson, where he said he was going, and where a job and a
salary were awaiting him. In Tucson an unloaded pistol, in the
holster of so handy a man on the drop as was Specimen, would
keep people civil, because they would not know, any more than
the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere possession of it
would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten — though it was
(
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OWEN WISTER
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(
(
>
undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope.
But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in
his mind as to whether he would do what was good for himself,
or what was good for another, had kept him sullen ever since he
got up. Now it was settled, and Jones in serene humor again.
Of course he had started on the Tucson road, for the benefit of
Ephraim and Mr. Adams.
The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon
the deadly silence; and the world was no longer of crystal, but a
mesa, dull and gray and hot. The pony's hoofs grated in the
gravel; and after a time the road dived down and up among
lumpy hills of stone and cactus, always nearer the fierce glaring
Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so abruptly in and out of the
shallow sudden ravines, that on coming up from one of these
into the sight of the country again, the tenderfoot's heart jumped
at the close apparition of another rider quickly bearing in upon
him from gullies where he had been moving unseen. But it
was only Specimen Jones.
“Hello! ” said he, joining Cumnor. “Hot, ain't it? ”
"Where are you going? ” inquired Cumnor.
"Up here a ways. ” And Jones jerked his finger generally
towards the Sierra, where they were heading.
“Thought you had a job in Tucson. ”
« That's what I have. ”
Specimen Jones had no more to say; and they rode for a
while, their ponies' hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the
milk-cans lightly clanking on the burro's pack. The bunched
blades of the yuccas bristled steel-stiff; and as far as you could
see, it was a gray waste of mounds and ridges sharp and blunt,
up to the forbidding boundary walls of the Tortilita one way and
the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered if Jones had
found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it for several
weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.
“You'll excuse my meddling with your business ? ” the boy
hazarded.
Jones looked inquiring.
“Something's wrong with your saddle-pocket. ”
Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it; but perceiv-
ing Cumnor was grinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at
the boy rapidly, and looked away again; and as he rode, still in
»
## p. 16118 (#464) ##########################################
16118
OWEN WISTER
»
silence, he put the chain back round his neck below the flannel
shirt-collar.
“Say, kid,” he remarked after some time, “what does J. stand
for? ”
"J. ? Oh, my name! Jock. ”
"Well, Jock, will you explain to me as a friend how you ever
come to be such a fool as to leave yer home — wherever and
whatever it was— in exchange for this here God-forsaken and
iniquitous hole ? »
"If you'll explain to me,” said the boy, greatly heartened,
“how you come to be ridin' in the company of a fool, instead of
goin' to your job at Tucson. ”
The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had
framed his reply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismem-
bered human stumps lay in the road. This was what had hap-
pened to the Miguels and Serapios and the concertina. Jones
and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles to exclude all expres-
sions of growing mutual esteem from their speech, had forgotten
their journey; and a sudden bend among the rocks where the
road had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring
them in the face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its
splintered, blazing boards slid down as they burned, into the fiery
heap on the ground; packages of soda and groceries and medi-
cines slid with them, bursting into chemical spots of green and
crimson flame; a wheel crushed in and sank, spilling more pack-
ages that flickered and hissed; the garbage of combat and murder
littered the earth; and in the air hung an odor that Cumnor
knew, though he had never smelled it before. Morsels of dropped
booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians had gone;
and one horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in
his belly.
“We'll just kill him,” said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly,
and snapped again, as his eye caught a motion - a something -
- –
two hundred yards up among the bowlders on the hill. He
whirled round. The enemy was behind them also. There was
no retreat. “Yourn's no good! ” yelled Jones fiercely, for Cum-
was getting out his little foolish revolver. "Oh, what a
trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse, kid; drop, and do
Shootin's no good here, even if I was loaded. They
shot, and look at them now. God bless them ice-cream freezers
nor
like me.
## p. 16119 (#465) ##########################################
OWEN WISTER
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-(
of yourn, kid! Did you ever see a crazy man? If you 'ain't,
make it up as you go along ! ”
More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones
ripped off the burro's pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the
ground. The burro began grazing quietly, with now and then a
step towards new patches of grass. The horses stood where their
riders had left them, their reins over their heads, hanging and
dragging From two hundred yards on the hill the ambushed
Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figures appearing cautiously
one by one, watching with suspicion. Specimen Jones seized up
one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.
“You kin dance, kid, and I kin sing, and we'll go to it,” said
Jones. He rambled in a wavering loop, and diving eccentrically
at Cumnor, clashed the milk-cans together. «Es schallt ein Ruf
wie Donnerhall, he bawled, beginning the song of Die Wacht
” ”
'
am Rhein. ' “Why don't you dance ? he shouted sternly. The
boy saw the terrible earnestness of his face, and clashing his
milk-cans in turn, he shuffled a sort of jig. The two went over
the sand in loops, toe and heel; the donkey continued his quiet
grazing, and the flames rose hot and yellow from the freight-
wagon,
And all the while the stately German hymn pealed
among the rocks, and the Apaches crept down nearer the bow-
ing, scraping men. The sun shone bright, and their bodies
poured with sweat. Jones flung off his shirt; his damp, matted
hair was half in ridges and half glued to his forehead, and the
delicate gold chain swung and struck his broad, naked breast.
The Apaches drew nearer again, their bows and arrows held
uncertainly. They came down the hill, fifteen or twenty, taking
a long time, and stopping every few yards. The milk-cans
clashed, and Jones thought he felt the boy's strokes weakening.
Die Wacht am Rhein was finished, and now it was “Ha-ve
you seen my Flora pass this way ? ) » «You mustn't play out,
kid,” said Jones, very gently,– indeed you mustn't;” and he at
once resumed his song.
The silent Apaches had now reached the bottom of the hill.
They stood some twenty yards away, and Cumnor had a good
chance to see his first Indians. He saw them move, and the
color and slim shape of their bodies, their thin arms, and their
long, black hair. It went through his mind that if he had no
more clothes on than that, dancing would come easier. His boots
(
## p. 16120 (#466) ##########################################
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OWEN WISTER
(
were growing heavy to lift, and his overalls seemed to wrap his
sinews in wet, strangling thongs. He wondered how long he had
been keeping this up. The legs of the Apaches were free, with
light moccasins only half-way to the thigh, slenderly held up by
strings from the waist. Cumnor envied their unincumbered steps
as he saw them again walk nearer to where he was dancing. It
was long since he had eaten, and he noticed a singing dullness
in his brain, and became frightened at his thoughts, which were
running and melting into one fixed idea. This idea was to take
off his boots, and offer to trade them for a pair of moccasins. It
terrified him this endless, molten rush of thoughts; he could
see them coming in different shapes from different places in his
head, but they all joined immediately, and always formed the
same fixed idea. He ground his teeth to master this encroach-
ing inebriation of his will and judgment. He clashed his can
more loudly to wake him to reality, which he still could rec-
ognize and appreciate. For a time he found it a good plan to
listen to what Specimen Jones was singing, and tell himself the
name of the song, if he knew it. At present it was Yankee
Doodle,' to which Jones was fitting words of his own. These
ran, Now I'm going to try a bluff, And mind you do what I
do;” and then again, over and over. Cumnor waited for the
word “bluff"; for it was hard and heavy, and fell into his
thoughts, and stopped them for a moment. The dance was SO
long now he had forgotten about that. A numbness had been
spreading through his legs, and he was glad to feel a sharp pain
in the sole of his foot. It was a piece of gravel that had some-
how worked its way in, and was rubbing through the skin into
the flesh. “That's good,” he said aloud. The pebble was eating
the numbness away, and Cumnor drove it hard against the raw
spot, and relished the tonic of its burning friction.
The Apaches had drawn into a circle. Standing at some
interval apart, they entirely surrounded the arena. Shrewd, half
,
convinced, and yet with awe, they watched the dancers, who
clashed their cans slowly now in rhythm to Jones's hoarse,
parched singing. He was quite master of himself, and led the
jig round the still blazing wreck of the wagon, and circled in
figures of eight between the corpses of the Mexicans, clashing
the milk-cans above each one. Then, knowing his strength was
coming to an end, he approached an Indian whose splendid fillet
## p. 16121 (#467) ##########################################
OWEN WISTER
16121
and trappings denoted him of consequence; and Jones was near
shouting with relief when the Indian shrank backward.
denly he saw Cumnor let his can drop; and without stopping to
see why, he caught it up, and slowly rattling both, approached
each Indian in turn with tortuous steps. The circle that had
never uttered a sound till now, receded, chanting almost in a
whisper some exorcising song which the man with the fillet had
begun. They gathered round him, retreating always; and the
strain, with its rapid muttered words, rose and fell softly among
them. Jones had supposed the boy was overcome by faintness,
and looked to see where he lay. But it was not faintness.
Cumnor, with his boots off, came by and walked after the
Indians in a trance. They saw him, and quickened their pace,
often turning to be sure he was not overtaking them. He called
to them unintelligibly, stumbling up the sharp hill, and pointing
to the boots. Finally he sat down. They continued ascending
the mountain, herding close round the man with the feathers,
until the rocks and the filmy tangles screened them froin sight;
and like a wind that hums uncertainly in grass, their chanting
died away.
The sun was half behind the western range when Jones next
moved. He called, and getting no answer, he crawled painfully
to where the boy lay on the hill. Cumnor was sleeping heavily;
his head was hot, and he moaned. So Jones crawled down,
and fetched blankets and the canteen of water. He spread the
blankets over the boy, wet a handkerchief and laid it on his
forehead; then he lay down himself.
The earth was again magically smitten to crystal. Again the
sharp cactus and the sand turned beautiful, and violet floated
among the mountains, and rose-colored orange in the sky above
them.
Jock,” said Specimen at length.
The boy opened his eyes.
“ Your foot is awful, Jock. Can you eat? ”
« Not with my foot. ”
"Ah, God bless you, Jock! You ain't turruble sick.
But can
you eat ? »
Cumnor shook his head.
“Eatin's what you need, though. Well, here. ” Specimen
poured a judicious mixture of whisky and water down the boy's
## p. 16122 (#468) ##########################################
16122
OWEN WISTER
1
throat, and wrapped the awful foot in his own flannel shirt.
« They'll fix you over to Grant. It's maybe twelve miles through
the cañon. It ain't a town any more than Carlos is, but the
soldiers 'll be good to us. As soon as night comes, you and me
must somehow git out of this. ”
Somehow they did, -Jones walking and leading his horse and
the imperturbable little burro, and also holding Cumnor in the
saddle. And when Cumnor was getting well in the military hos-
pital at Grant, he listened to Jones recounting to all that chose
to hear how useful a weapon an ice-cream freezer can be, and
how if you'll only chase Apaches in your stocking feet they are
sure to run away. And then Jones and Cumnor both enlisted;
and I suppose Jones's friend is still expecting him in Tucson.
## p. 16123 (#469) ##########################################
16123
GEORGE WITHER
(1588-1667)
HERE is delightful spontaneity and enjoyment of life in
George Wither's early poems. The young cavalier found
the world rich and beautiful. His Chaucer-like spirit ex-
ulted in nature, in
the murmurs of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,"
(
-
and he was intolerant of all meanness and artifice. He was ambitious
of royal favor, and meant to merit it. But the state of corruption
he found at the court of James I. revolted
him, and inspired one of his earliest works.
Abuses Stript and Whipt' is a satire far
milder than its title, upon society's moral
obliquities. In spite of its general, imper-
sonal tone, the poem invited resentment,
and its author was punished by imprison-
ment in the Marshalsea. There he beguiled
the tedium by writing The Shepherd's
Hunting,' - a pleasant pastoral, and one of
his most beautiful poems.
Another fine
example of his cavalier period is “The Mis-
tress of Philarete,' — probably the longest
love panegyric in the language. Its gently GEORGE WITHER
rambling eclogues are sweet though some-
times tedious; and they end with lovely lyrics, which establish With-
er's fame.
The Motto (1618) is a long naively egotistic poem in three
parts; the motto being “Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo. ” There is
quaint charm in the treatment, and the lines reveal much of his own
simple high-minded personality. Perhaps his melody and lyric gift
are best exemplified in the well-known “Shall I, wasting in despair,”
and The Steadfast Shepherd. ' In later life, when depressed with
poverty and Puritanism, Wither repented of much of his early work
as sinful. But in a time of license and coarse expression, he was
noteworthy for delicacy of sentiment and refinement of taste, which
kept him clear of impropriety.
George Wither was born at Brentworth in Hampshire in 1588.
Perhaps the two happiest years of his youth were those he spent at
>
a
## p. 16124 (#470) ##########################################
16124
GEORGE WITHER
Magdalen College, Oxford. Unfortunately his father desired his aid
in the management of his estate, and George was not allowed to take
his degree. But he soon tired of country life, and went to London.
It was there he formed the friendship with his fellow-poet, William
Browne, to whose influence something of his grace and technical skill
is due. Few poets have more ably handled octosyllabic verse.
With the outbreak of the civil war, Wither cast off King and
court, and became an ardent Puritan. He sold his lands to equip
a company of horse for the Parliamentary army; and henceforth all
he wrote reflected his change of view. He was no longer the singer
of love songs and light delights. Instead he composed Hymns and
Songs of the Church (1623); Britain's Remembrancer' (1628); “Hal-
lelujah' (1641); and other collections of religious and political poems.
Writing thus with a didactic purpose, he lost much of his earlier
lyric quality; and these later verses do not entitle him to remem-
brance.
A ROCKING HYMN
S**
WEET baby, sleep: what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear;
His holy Spouse thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be:
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
## p. 16125 (#471) ##########################################
GEORGE WITHER
16125
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy Protector threatened are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in his sight.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was he,
And strength in weakness then was laid
Upon his virgin Mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay, and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that he did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by his torments and his pain,
Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then, forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast yet more to perfect this,-
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
## p. 16126 (#472) ##########################################
16126
GEORGE WITHER
THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET
S"
HALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best :
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind.
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do,
That without them dares her woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair.
If she love me (this believe),
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
## p. 16127 (#473) ##########################################
GEORGE WITHER
16127
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
Sº
O NOW is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids and girls and boys
Give life to one another's joys,
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things here aboundeth.
The country folk themselves advance,
For Crowdy-mutton's come out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.
Ned Swash hath fetched his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel ;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.
The wenches with their wassail-bowls
About the street are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.
## p. 16128 (#474) ##########################################
16128
GEORGE WITHER
Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller ?
No: let us sing our roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller;
And whilest thus inspired we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring :
Woods, and hills, and everything
Bear witness we are merry.
FOR SUMMER-TIME
N"
ow the glories of the year
May be viewed at the best,
And the earth doth now appear
In her fairest garments dressed:
Sweetly smelling plants and flowers
Do perfume the garden bowers;
Hill and valley, wood and field,
Mixed with pleasure profits yield.
Much is found where nothing was;
Herds on every mountain go;
In the meadows flowery grass
Makes both inilk and honey Aow.
Now each orchard banquets giveth;
Every hedge with fruit relieveth;
And on every shrub and tree
Useful fruits or berries be.
Walks and ways which winter marred,
By the winds are swept and dried;
Moorish grounds are now so hard
That on them we safe may ride;
Warmth enough the sun doth lend us,
From his heat the shades defend us.
And thereby we share in these,
Safety, profit, pleasure, ease.
Other blessings, many more,
At this time enjoyed may be,
And in this my song therefore
Praise I give, O Lord! to thee:
Grant that this my free oblation
May have gracious acceptation,
And that I may well employ
Everything which I enjoy.
## p. 16129 (#475) ##########################################
16129
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
(1759-1797)
M
ARY WOLLSTONECRAFT might be regarded as the embodiment
of the finer and saner forces of the French Revolution; or
rather of that spirit through which the eighteenth century
was merged into the nineteenth, and which expressed itself as much
in the lives of individuals as in revolutions. The author of the
(Vindication of the Rights of Women' was perhaps the most pro-
phetic character of her time; since she alone, in a generation rabid
for the rights of man, understood the subtle truth that the emancipa-
tion of men is largely dependent upon the
emancipation of women,- seeing that the
unity of the sexes transcends their diver-
sity.
Her troubled life was in many ways a
preparation for her pioneership in the vin-
dication of womanliness. She was literally
badgered into the office of apostle. Her
experiences forced her into extreme opin-
ions, especially on the subject of marriage;
but extreme opinions were necessary in the
eighteenth century. She was born in the piv-
otal period of the age of Light, in the year
1759. Family troubles had begun long be- MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
fore her birth; and she found herself ham-
pered in infancy with a good-for-nothing father, and a mother who
submitted to be beaten by him. She was the second of six children,
all of whom in later years were to depend upon her to aid them
in their struggles with the world. The passion of pity - for it was
less a sentiment than a passion with her — was early developed; her
motherhood, begun in the care of her wretched parents and their
helpless offspring, was later to include the race.
Her childhood was spent in a vagrancy which might well have
demoralized a less earnest spirit. The irresponsible father was always
moving his family from one town to another in the hope of better
luck. They went from Hoxton to Edmonton; thence to Essex; from
Essex to Beverley in Yorkshire; then to London. Mary had snatches of
education in these places: books however were kept strictly subordi-
nate to life, through the vagaries of her father. Her first stimulus to
cultivation was received through a young girl, Fanny Blood, for whom
she conceived a romantic affection. Her friend's accomplishments
XXVII-1009
-
## p. 16130 (#476) ##########################################
16130
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
9
awakened her spirit of emulation. With her, love was synonymous
with growth and expression. In whatever form it expressed itself, it
was the mainspring of her character; which is indeed most clearly
intelligible through the medium of her affections.
In 1780 her mother died, worn out by the brutalities of her hus-
band. Mary went for a time to the home of Fanny Blood, where she
supported herself by needlework. Her friend's father, like her own
father, made his household wretched through his dissipations. From
childhood Mary Wollstonecraft had had before her the spectacle of
unhappy marriages, made so by the tyranny of the husbands. The
long and dreary courtship of her friend Fanny, by a man who played
with her love; the miserable union of her sister Eliza with a man
whose caprice and selfishness finally drove his wife into insanity, -
were further to increase her sense of outrage against a social system
under which such evils could exist, and to prepare her for her cham-
pionship of her sex. She first threw down the gauntlet to conven-
tional opinion when she helped her sister Eliza to escape from her
husband's roof. In so doing she displayed those forces of character
which were afterwards to inspire the Vindication': the love of just-
ice, the hatred of oppression, indomitable courage, and above all, a
fund of common-sense which amounted to genius.
The two sisters and Fanny Blood opened a school at Newington
Green, which at first was successful. About this time Mary was
introduced to Dr. Johnson, who seems to have had some appreciation
of her extraordinary powers. In 1785 Fanny Blood married her un-
certain lover, and went with him to Lisbon. A few months later,
Mary followed her there to nurse her in what proved to be her last
illness. After the death of her beloved friend she commemorated
their friendship in her first novel, — Mary: a Fiction. ' On her return
to England she gave up her school, and accepted the position of gov-
erness in the family of Lord Kingsborough in Ireland. After holding
this a year, she became a “reader” for the publisher Johnson, in
London: it was owing to his encouragement that she resolved to give
herself up entirely to literary work. She translated Salzmann's Ele-
ments of Morality) from the German, and Lavater's Physiognomy)
from the French; besides writing some tales for children, published
as Original Stories from Real Life,' with illustrations by Blake.
In 1789 Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution,' written
from the standpoint of a Tory and a Conservative, aroused great in-
dignation among the Liberals of England. Its scorn of the common
people and their rights, its support of tradition merely as tradi-
tion, outraged the spirit of justice and mercy which dwelt continually
with Mary Wollstonecraft. She published a pamphlet entitled Vin-
dication of the Rights of Man, in which she challenged the assump-
tions of Burke with more zeal perhaps than discretion, but with a
## p. 16131 (#477) ##########################################
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
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wonderful passion for truth and charity, liberty and advancement.
Amid the emotional confusions of the pamphlet, the clear outlines of
logic can here and there be traced. Referring to Burke's reliance on
mediæval precedent for authority, she asks: “Does Burke recommend
night as the fittest time to analyze a ray of light ? »
The Vindication of the Rights of Women,' on which Mary Woll-
stonecraft's reputation as an author rests, was published in 1792.
Although now little read, — its assertions, so startling in the last cen-
tury, having become truisms in this, — it must be ranked among the
epoch-making books. It is the prophecy of the nineteenth century by
a woman who endured the tyranny of the eighteenth over her sex.
In her dedication of the work to Talleyrand, she sets forth its argu-
ment:—“Contending for the rights of woman, my main argument
is built on this simple principle,— that if she be not prepared by edu-
cation to become the companion of man, she will stop the progress
of knowledge; for truth must be common to all, or it will be ineffi-
cacious with respect to its influence on the general practice. ”
The book as a whole is an elaborate demonstration of this prin-
ciple. The author contends that no great improvement of society
can be expected, unless women are regarded by men not as dolls
made for their pleasure, but as rational beings on whose nobility of
character the welfare of the family — and through the family, of the
State-depends. She uncovers the falsity of Rousseau's ideal of
women, as mere ministrants to the sentimentality of men; and pro-
ceeds to show that this ideal, governing the education of girls, has
made them the inferior irrational beings which men find them. She
urges as remedies, the freer mingling of the sexes in childhood,
more out-of-door life for girls, and the training them to look upon
marriage not as a means of support, or as a coveted dignity, but
as the highest expression of love and friendship. She emphasizes the
necessity of this friendship, which depends upon the intellectual con-
geniality of husband and wife. She affirms that intellectual compan-
ionship, indeed, is the chief as it is the lasting happiness of marriage.
It is difficult to believe that this reasonable and noble idea of
woman's place in the family should have aroused the resentment
of Hannah More, and of the majority of the English reading public.
But like all books which mark a step in advance of prevailing cus-
tom and sentiment, it had to undergo stoning by the mob. Mary
Wollstonecraft had uncovered the source of the frivolity of the
eighteenth century, the source also of its soullessness, its deadening
rationality: this was its contemptible view of women. It is small
wonder that she incurred the resentment of her generation.
In 1792 she went to Paris to study the phenomena of the French
Revolution, then in progress. She afterwards published the first vol-
ume of a work entitled (An Historical and Moral View of the Origin
## p. 16132 (#478) ##########################################
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
and Progress of the French Revolution. During her stay in Paris
she entered upon the tragedy of her life, which came to her through
her love for Gilbert Imlay, an American. His desertion of her,-
“my best friend and wife,” as he calls her in a business document,
- whatever it proved to the world, proved to those who knew the
integrity of Mary's character, that he was not able to appreciate the
honorableness of her love, nor the sublimed purity of her nature,–
a purity dangerous perhaps to society, through its rare and exquisite
quality.
In 1797 she became the wife of William Godwin, the author of
Political Equality,' — in his way also an idealist, who placed the
individual before society. The other-worldliness of the pair was
primeval. In this union Mary knew the first serenity of her short,
troubled life; but it was not to be of long duration. She died in the
year of her marriage, ten days after the birth of the daughter who
was to become the wife of Shelley.
She was more guided by reasonableness in her books than in her
life, which was ruled by her affections,— being, as she was, a woman
wholly womanly. Both her books and her life were necessary to her
generation, to reveal to it the unsuspected forces of which its ignor-
ance took little account in its estimate of the social order.
MODERN IDEAL OF WOMANHOOD
From (A Vindication of the Rights of Women'
Tº
ACCOUNT for and excuse the tyranny of man, many ingenious
arguments have been brought forward to prove that the two
sexes, in the acquirement of virtue, ought to aim at attain-
ing a very different character; or to speak explicitly, women are
not allowed to have sufficient strength of mind to acquire what
really deserves the name of virtue. Yet it should seem, allow-
ing them to have souls, that there is but one way appointed by
Providence to lead mankind to either virtue or happiness.
If then women are not a swarm of ephemeron triflers, why
should they be kept in ignorance under the specious name of
innocence ? Men complain, and with reason, of the follies and
caprices of our sex, when they do not keenly satirize our head-
strong passions and groveling vices. Behold, I should answer,
the natural effect of ignorance! The mind will ever be unstable
that has only prejudices to rest on, and the current will run with
destructive fury when there are no barriers to break its force.
Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
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((
of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness,
justly termed cunning, softness of temper, outward obedience, and
a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety, will obtain
for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful,
everything else is needless, for at least twenty years of their
lives.
Thus Milton describes our first frail mother; though when he
tells us that women are formed for softness and sweet attract-
ive grace, I cannot comprehend his meaning, - unless in the true
Mahometan strain, he meant to deprive us of souls, and insinuate
that we were beings only designed, by sweet attractive grace and
docile blind obedience, to gratify the senses of man when he can
no longer soar on the wing of contemplation.
How grossly do they insult us who thus advise us only to ren-
der ourselves gentle domestic brutes! For instance, the winning
softness so warmly and frequently recommended, that governs by
obeying. What childish expressions; and how insignificant is the
being — can it be an immortal one? — who will condescend to
govern by such sinister methods! “Certainly,” says Lord Bacon,
!
man is of kin to the beasts by his body; and if he be not of kin
to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble creature. ” Men,
indeed, appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner,
when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempt-
ing to keep them always in a state of childhood. Rousseau was
more consistent when he wished to stop the progress of reason
in both sexes: for if men eat of the tree of knowledge, women
will come in for a taste; but from the imperfect cultivation
which their understandings now receive, they only attain a
knowledge of evil.
Children, I grant, should be innocent; but when the epithet is
applied to men or women, it is but a civil term for weakness.
For if it be allowed that women were destined by Providence to
acquire human virtues, and by the exercise of their understand-
ings that stability of character which is the firmnest ground to
rest our future hopes upon, they must be permitted to turn to
the fountain of light, and not forced to shape their course by the
twinkling of a mere satellite. Milton, I grant, was of a very
different opinion, for he only bends to the indefeasible right of
beauty; though it would be difficult to render two passages which
I now mean to contrast, consistent. But into similar inconsisten-
cies are great men often led by their senses.
а
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
((
“To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned:-
My author and disposer, what thou bid'st
Unargued I obey: so God ordains;
God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. ”
These are exactly the arguments that I have used to children:
but I have added, Your reason is now gaining strength, and till
it arrives at some degree of maturity you must look up to me
for advice; then you ought to think, and only rely on God.
Yet in the following lines Milton seems to coincide with me,
when he makes Adam thus expostulate with his Maker:-
“Hast thou not made me here thy substitute,
And these inferior far beneath me set ?
Among unequals what society
Can sort, what harmony or true delight?
Which must be mutual, in proportion due
Given and received; but in disparity
The one intense, the other still remiss
Cannot well suit with either, but soon prove
Tedious alike: of fellowship I speak,
Such as I seek, fit to participate
All rational delight. ”
In treating therefore of the manners of women, let us, dis-
regarding sensual arguments, trace what we should endeavor to
make them in order to co-operate — if the expression be not too
bold — with the Supreme Being.
By individual education I mean - for the sense of the word is
not precisely defined — such an attention to a child as will slowly
sharpen the senses, form the temper, regulate the passions as
they begin to ferment, and set the understanding to work before
the body arrives at maturity; so that the man may only have
to proceed, not to begin, the important task of learning to think
and reason.
To prevent any misconstruction, I must add that I do not be-
lieve that a private education can work the wonders which some
sanguine writers have attributed to it. Men and women must
be educated, in a great degree, by the opinions and manners of
the society they live in. In every age there has been a stream
of popular opinion that has carried all before it, and given a fam-
ily character, as it were, to the century. It may then fairly be
inferred that till society be differently constituted, much cannot
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
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save
rea-
be expected from education. It is however sufficient for my pres-
ent purpose to assert, that whatever effect circumstances have on
the abilities, every being may become virtuous by the exercise
of its own reason; for if but one being was created with vicious
inclinations,—that is, positively bad,- what can
—
us from
atheism ? or if we worship a God, is not that God a devil ?
Consequently, the most perfect education, in my opinion, is
such an exercise of the understanding as is best calculated to
strengthen the body and form the heart; or in other words, to
enable the individual to attain such habits of virtue as will render
it independent. In fact, it is a farce to call any being virtuous
whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own
son. This was Rousseau's opinion respecting men: I extend it to
women, and confidently assert that they have been drawn out
of their sphere by false refinement, and not by an endeavor to
acquire masculine qualities. Still, the regal homage which they
receive is so intoxicating, that until the manners of the times are
changed, and formed on more reasonable principles, it may be
impossible to convince them that the illegitimate power which
they obtain by degrading themselves is a curse, and that they
must return to nature and equality if they wish to secure the
placid satisfaction that unsophisticated affections impart. But
for this epoch we must wait; wait perhaps till kings and nobles,
cnlightened by reason, and preferring the real dignity of man to
childish state, throw off their gaudy hereditary trappings; and if
then women do not resign the arbitrary power of beauty — they
will prove that they have less mind than man.
I may be accused of arrogance: still I must declare what I
firmly believe, that all the writers who have written on the
subject of female education and manners, from Rousseau to Dr.
Gregory, have contributed to render women more artificial weak
characters than they would otherwise have been; and conse-
quently more useless members of society. I might have expressed
this conviction in a lower key; but I am afraid it would have
been the whine of affectation, and not the faithful expression of
my feelings,- of the clear result which experience and reflec-
tion have led me to draw. When I come to that division of the
subject, I shall advert to the passages that I more particularly
disapprove of, in the works of the authors I have just alluded
to; but it is first necessary to observe that my objection extends
to the whole purport of those books, which tend in my opinion to
5
-
## p. 16136 (#482) ##########################################
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
degrade one half of the human species, and render women pleas-
ing at the expense of every solid virtue.
Though, to reason on Rousseau's ground, if man did attain a
degree of perfection of mind when his body arrived at maturity,
it might be proper, in order to make a man and his wife one,
that she should rely entirely on his understanding; and the grace-
ful ivy, clasping the oak that supported it, would form a whole
in which strength and beauty would be equally conspicuous. But
alas! husbands, as well as their helpmates, are often only over-
grown children, - nay, thanks to early debauchery, scarcely men
in their outward form, - and if the blind lead the blind, one need
not come from heaven to tell us the consequence.
Many are the causes that, in the present corrupt state of soci.
ety, contribute to enslave women by cramping their understand-
ings and sharpening their senses. One, perhaps, that silently does
more mischief than all the rest, is their disregard of order.
To do everything in an orderly manner is a most important
precept, which women — who, generally speaking, receive only a
disorderly kind of education — seldom attend to with that degree
of exactness that men, who from their infancy are broken into
method, observe. This negligent kind of guesswork — for what
other epithet can be used to point out the random exertions of
a sort of instinctive common-sense never brought to the test of
reason ? - prevents their generalizing matters of fact; so they do
to-day what they did yesterday, merely because they did it yester-
day.
This contempt of the understanding in early life has more
baneful consequences than is commonly supposed: for the little
knowledge which women of strong minds attain is, from various
circumstances, of a more desultory kind than the knowledge of
men; and it is acquired more by sheer observations on real life
than from comparing what has been individually observed with
the results of experience generalized by speculation.
by speculation. Led by
their dependent situation and domestic employments more into
society, what they learn is rather by snatches; and as learning
is with them in general only a secondary thing, they do not
pursue any one branch with that persevering ardor necessary to
give vigor to the faculties and clearness to the judgment. In the
present state of society, a little learning is required to support
the character of a gentleman, and boys are obliged to submit to
a few years of discipline. But in the education of women, the
## p. 16137 (#483) ##########################################
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
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cultivation of the understanding is always subordinate to the
acquirement of some corporeal accomplishment. Even while ener.
vated by confinement and false notions of modesty, the body is
prevented from attaining that grace and beauty which relaxed
half-formed limbs never exhibit. Besides, in youth their faculties
are not brought forward by emulation; and having no serious
scientific study, if they have natural sagacity it is turned too
soon on life and manners. They dwell on effects and modifica-
tions, without tracing them back to causes; and complicated rules
to adjust behavior are a weak substitute for simple principles.
As a proof that education gives this appearance of weakness
to females, we may instance the example of military men; who
are, like them, sent into the world before their minds have been
stored with knowledge or fortified by principles. The conse-
quences are similar: soldiers acquire a little superficial knowl-
edge, snatched from the muddy current of conversation; and from
continually mixing with society, they gain what is termed a
knowledge of the world: and this acquaintance with manners
and customs has frequently been confounded with a knowledge
of the human heart. But can the crude fruit of casual observa-
tion, never brought to the test of judgment formed by comparing
speculation and experience, deserve such a distinction ? Soldiers,
as well as women, practice the minor virtues with punctilious
politeness. Where is, then, the sexual difference when the edu-
cation has been the same ? . All the difference that I can discern
arises from the superior advantage of liberty, which enables the
former to see more of life.
It is wandering from my present subject, perhaps, to make a
political remark; but as it was produced naturally by the train
of my reflections, I shall not pass it silently over.
Standing armies can never consist of resolute, robust men;
they may be well-disciplined machines, but they will seldom con-
tain men under the influence of strong passions, or with very
vigorous faculties: and as for any depth of understanding, I will
venture to affirm that it is as rarely to be found in the army as
amongst women. And the cause, I maintain, is the same.
be further observed that officers are also particularly attentive to
their persons, fond of dancing, crowded rooms, adventures, and rid-
icule.
once, and saw the three standing, and the chocolate brick of the
cabin, and the windmill white and idle in the sun.
“He'll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.
"I ain't buryin' him, then," said Ephraim.
“Nor 1,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it's time I was getting
to Tucson. ”
He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and
rode away. Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and
here is the final conclusion they came to, after three hours of
discussion as to who took the chain and who had it just then:-
Ephraim — Jones, he hadn't no cash.
Mr. Adams The kid, he hadn't no sense.
Ephraim — The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.
Mr. Adams — Jones, he goes off with his chain.
Both — What damn fools everybody is, anyway!
And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention
his relations with Jones's pistol. Let it be said in extenuation
of that performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going
to Tucson, where he said he was going, and where a job and a
salary were awaiting him. In Tucson an unloaded pistol, in the
holster of so handy a man on the drop as was Specimen, would
keep people civil, because they would not know, any more than
the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere possession of it
would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten — though it was
(
## p. 16117 (#463) ##########################################
OWEN WISTER
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(
(
>
undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope.
But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in
his mind as to whether he would do what was good for himself,
or what was good for another, had kept him sullen ever since he
got up. Now it was settled, and Jones in serene humor again.
Of course he had started on the Tucson road, for the benefit of
Ephraim and Mr. Adams.
The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon
the deadly silence; and the world was no longer of crystal, but a
mesa, dull and gray and hot. The pony's hoofs grated in the
gravel; and after a time the road dived down and up among
lumpy hills of stone and cactus, always nearer the fierce glaring
Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so abruptly in and out of the
shallow sudden ravines, that on coming up from one of these
into the sight of the country again, the tenderfoot's heart jumped
at the close apparition of another rider quickly bearing in upon
him from gullies where he had been moving unseen. But it
was only Specimen Jones.
“Hello! ” said he, joining Cumnor. “Hot, ain't it? ”
"Where are you going? ” inquired Cumnor.
"Up here a ways. ” And Jones jerked his finger generally
towards the Sierra, where they were heading.
“Thought you had a job in Tucson. ”
« That's what I have. ”
Specimen Jones had no more to say; and they rode for a
while, their ponies' hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the
milk-cans lightly clanking on the burro's pack. The bunched
blades of the yuccas bristled steel-stiff; and as far as you could
see, it was a gray waste of mounds and ridges sharp and blunt,
up to the forbidding boundary walls of the Tortilita one way and
the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered if Jones had
found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it for several
weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.
“You'll excuse my meddling with your business ? ” the boy
hazarded.
Jones looked inquiring.
“Something's wrong with your saddle-pocket. ”
Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it; but perceiv-
ing Cumnor was grinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at
the boy rapidly, and looked away again; and as he rode, still in
»
## p. 16118 (#464) ##########################################
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»
silence, he put the chain back round his neck below the flannel
shirt-collar.
“Say, kid,” he remarked after some time, “what does J. stand
for? ”
"J. ? Oh, my name! Jock. ”
"Well, Jock, will you explain to me as a friend how you ever
come to be such a fool as to leave yer home — wherever and
whatever it was— in exchange for this here God-forsaken and
iniquitous hole ? »
"If you'll explain to me,” said the boy, greatly heartened,
“how you come to be ridin' in the company of a fool, instead of
goin' to your job at Tucson. ”
The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had
framed his reply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismem-
bered human stumps lay in the road. This was what had hap-
pened to the Miguels and Serapios and the concertina. Jones
and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles to exclude all expres-
sions of growing mutual esteem from their speech, had forgotten
their journey; and a sudden bend among the rocks where the
road had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring
them in the face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its
splintered, blazing boards slid down as they burned, into the fiery
heap on the ground; packages of soda and groceries and medi-
cines slid with them, bursting into chemical spots of green and
crimson flame; a wheel crushed in and sank, spilling more pack-
ages that flickered and hissed; the garbage of combat and murder
littered the earth; and in the air hung an odor that Cumnor
knew, though he had never smelled it before. Morsels of dropped
booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians had gone;
and one horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in
his belly.
“We'll just kill him,” said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly,
and snapped again, as his eye caught a motion - a something -
- –
two hundred yards up among the bowlders on the hill. He
whirled round. The enemy was behind them also. There was
no retreat. “Yourn's no good! ” yelled Jones fiercely, for Cum-
was getting out his little foolish revolver. "Oh, what a
trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse, kid; drop, and do
Shootin's no good here, even if I was loaded. They
shot, and look at them now. God bless them ice-cream freezers
nor
like me.
## p. 16119 (#465) ##########################################
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-(
of yourn, kid! Did you ever see a crazy man? If you 'ain't,
make it up as you go along ! ”
More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones
ripped off the burro's pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the
ground. The burro began grazing quietly, with now and then a
step towards new patches of grass. The horses stood where their
riders had left them, their reins over their heads, hanging and
dragging From two hundred yards on the hill the ambushed
Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figures appearing cautiously
one by one, watching with suspicion. Specimen Jones seized up
one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.
“You kin dance, kid, and I kin sing, and we'll go to it,” said
Jones. He rambled in a wavering loop, and diving eccentrically
at Cumnor, clashed the milk-cans together. «Es schallt ein Ruf
wie Donnerhall, he bawled, beginning the song of Die Wacht
” ”
'
am Rhein. ' “Why don't you dance ? he shouted sternly. The
boy saw the terrible earnestness of his face, and clashing his
milk-cans in turn, he shuffled a sort of jig. The two went over
the sand in loops, toe and heel; the donkey continued his quiet
grazing, and the flames rose hot and yellow from the freight-
wagon,
And all the while the stately German hymn pealed
among the rocks, and the Apaches crept down nearer the bow-
ing, scraping men. The sun shone bright, and their bodies
poured with sweat. Jones flung off his shirt; his damp, matted
hair was half in ridges and half glued to his forehead, and the
delicate gold chain swung and struck his broad, naked breast.
The Apaches drew nearer again, their bows and arrows held
uncertainly. They came down the hill, fifteen or twenty, taking
a long time, and stopping every few yards. The milk-cans
clashed, and Jones thought he felt the boy's strokes weakening.
Die Wacht am Rhein was finished, and now it was “Ha-ve
you seen my Flora pass this way ? ) » «You mustn't play out,
kid,” said Jones, very gently,– indeed you mustn't;” and he at
once resumed his song.
The silent Apaches had now reached the bottom of the hill.
They stood some twenty yards away, and Cumnor had a good
chance to see his first Indians. He saw them move, and the
color and slim shape of their bodies, their thin arms, and their
long, black hair. It went through his mind that if he had no
more clothes on than that, dancing would come easier. His boots
(
## p. 16120 (#466) ##########################################
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(
were growing heavy to lift, and his overalls seemed to wrap his
sinews in wet, strangling thongs. He wondered how long he had
been keeping this up. The legs of the Apaches were free, with
light moccasins only half-way to the thigh, slenderly held up by
strings from the waist. Cumnor envied their unincumbered steps
as he saw them again walk nearer to where he was dancing. It
was long since he had eaten, and he noticed a singing dullness
in his brain, and became frightened at his thoughts, which were
running and melting into one fixed idea. This idea was to take
off his boots, and offer to trade them for a pair of moccasins. It
terrified him this endless, molten rush of thoughts; he could
see them coming in different shapes from different places in his
head, but they all joined immediately, and always formed the
same fixed idea. He ground his teeth to master this encroach-
ing inebriation of his will and judgment. He clashed his can
more loudly to wake him to reality, which he still could rec-
ognize and appreciate. For a time he found it a good plan to
listen to what Specimen Jones was singing, and tell himself the
name of the song, if he knew it. At present it was Yankee
Doodle,' to which Jones was fitting words of his own. These
ran, Now I'm going to try a bluff, And mind you do what I
do;” and then again, over and over. Cumnor waited for the
word “bluff"; for it was hard and heavy, and fell into his
thoughts, and stopped them for a moment. The dance was SO
long now he had forgotten about that. A numbness had been
spreading through his legs, and he was glad to feel a sharp pain
in the sole of his foot. It was a piece of gravel that had some-
how worked its way in, and was rubbing through the skin into
the flesh. “That's good,” he said aloud. The pebble was eating
the numbness away, and Cumnor drove it hard against the raw
spot, and relished the tonic of its burning friction.
The Apaches had drawn into a circle. Standing at some
interval apart, they entirely surrounded the arena. Shrewd, half
,
convinced, and yet with awe, they watched the dancers, who
clashed their cans slowly now in rhythm to Jones's hoarse,
parched singing. He was quite master of himself, and led the
jig round the still blazing wreck of the wagon, and circled in
figures of eight between the corpses of the Mexicans, clashing
the milk-cans above each one. Then, knowing his strength was
coming to an end, he approached an Indian whose splendid fillet
## p. 16121 (#467) ##########################################
OWEN WISTER
16121
and trappings denoted him of consequence; and Jones was near
shouting with relief when the Indian shrank backward.
denly he saw Cumnor let his can drop; and without stopping to
see why, he caught it up, and slowly rattling both, approached
each Indian in turn with tortuous steps. The circle that had
never uttered a sound till now, receded, chanting almost in a
whisper some exorcising song which the man with the fillet had
begun. They gathered round him, retreating always; and the
strain, with its rapid muttered words, rose and fell softly among
them. Jones had supposed the boy was overcome by faintness,
and looked to see where he lay. But it was not faintness.
Cumnor, with his boots off, came by and walked after the
Indians in a trance. They saw him, and quickened their pace,
often turning to be sure he was not overtaking them. He called
to them unintelligibly, stumbling up the sharp hill, and pointing
to the boots. Finally he sat down. They continued ascending
the mountain, herding close round the man with the feathers,
until the rocks and the filmy tangles screened them froin sight;
and like a wind that hums uncertainly in grass, their chanting
died away.
The sun was half behind the western range when Jones next
moved. He called, and getting no answer, he crawled painfully
to where the boy lay on the hill. Cumnor was sleeping heavily;
his head was hot, and he moaned. So Jones crawled down,
and fetched blankets and the canteen of water. He spread the
blankets over the boy, wet a handkerchief and laid it on his
forehead; then he lay down himself.
The earth was again magically smitten to crystal. Again the
sharp cactus and the sand turned beautiful, and violet floated
among the mountains, and rose-colored orange in the sky above
them.
Jock,” said Specimen at length.
The boy opened his eyes.
“ Your foot is awful, Jock. Can you eat? ”
« Not with my foot. ”
"Ah, God bless you, Jock! You ain't turruble sick.
But can
you eat ? »
Cumnor shook his head.
“Eatin's what you need, though. Well, here. ” Specimen
poured a judicious mixture of whisky and water down the boy's
## p. 16122 (#468) ##########################################
16122
OWEN WISTER
1
throat, and wrapped the awful foot in his own flannel shirt.
« They'll fix you over to Grant. It's maybe twelve miles through
the cañon. It ain't a town any more than Carlos is, but the
soldiers 'll be good to us. As soon as night comes, you and me
must somehow git out of this. ”
Somehow they did, -Jones walking and leading his horse and
the imperturbable little burro, and also holding Cumnor in the
saddle. And when Cumnor was getting well in the military hos-
pital at Grant, he listened to Jones recounting to all that chose
to hear how useful a weapon an ice-cream freezer can be, and
how if you'll only chase Apaches in your stocking feet they are
sure to run away. And then Jones and Cumnor both enlisted;
and I suppose Jones's friend is still expecting him in Tucson.
## p. 16123 (#469) ##########################################
16123
GEORGE WITHER
(1588-1667)
HERE is delightful spontaneity and enjoyment of life in
George Wither's early poems. The young cavalier found
the world rich and beautiful. His Chaucer-like spirit ex-
ulted in nature, in
the murmurs of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,"
(
-
and he was intolerant of all meanness and artifice. He was ambitious
of royal favor, and meant to merit it. But the state of corruption
he found at the court of James I. revolted
him, and inspired one of his earliest works.
Abuses Stript and Whipt' is a satire far
milder than its title, upon society's moral
obliquities. In spite of its general, imper-
sonal tone, the poem invited resentment,
and its author was punished by imprison-
ment in the Marshalsea. There he beguiled
the tedium by writing The Shepherd's
Hunting,' - a pleasant pastoral, and one of
his most beautiful poems.
Another fine
example of his cavalier period is “The Mis-
tress of Philarete,' — probably the longest
love panegyric in the language. Its gently GEORGE WITHER
rambling eclogues are sweet though some-
times tedious; and they end with lovely lyrics, which establish With-
er's fame.
The Motto (1618) is a long naively egotistic poem in three
parts; the motto being “Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo. ” There is
quaint charm in the treatment, and the lines reveal much of his own
simple high-minded personality. Perhaps his melody and lyric gift
are best exemplified in the well-known “Shall I, wasting in despair,”
and The Steadfast Shepherd. ' In later life, when depressed with
poverty and Puritanism, Wither repented of much of his early work
as sinful. But in a time of license and coarse expression, he was
noteworthy for delicacy of sentiment and refinement of taste, which
kept him clear of impropriety.
George Wither was born at Brentworth in Hampshire in 1588.
Perhaps the two happiest years of his youth were those he spent at
>
a
## p. 16124 (#470) ##########################################
16124
GEORGE WITHER
Magdalen College, Oxford. Unfortunately his father desired his aid
in the management of his estate, and George was not allowed to take
his degree. But he soon tired of country life, and went to London.
It was there he formed the friendship with his fellow-poet, William
Browne, to whose influence something of his grace and technical skill
is due. Few poets have more ably handled octosyllabic verse.
With the outbreak of the civil war, Wither cast off King and
court, and became an ardent Puritan. He sold his lands to equip
a company of horse for the Parliamentary army; and henceforth all
he wrote reflected his change of view. He was no longer the singer
of love songs and light delights. Instead he composed Hymns and
Songs of the Church (1623); Britain's Remembrancer' (1628); “Hal-
lelujah' (1641); and other collections of religious and political poems.
Writing thus with a didactic purpose, he lost much of his earlier
lyric quality; and these later verses do not entitle him to remem-
brance.
A ROCKING HYMN
S**
WEET baby, sleep: what ails my dear?
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear;
His holy Spouse thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be:
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
## p. 16125 (#471) ##########################################
GEORGE WITHER
16125
Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy Protector threatened are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in his sight.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was he,
And strength in weakness then was laid
Upon his virgin Mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay, and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that he did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by his torments and his pain,
Thy rest and ease secured be.
My baby, then, forbear to weep:
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast yet more to perfect this,-
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.
Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
## p. 16126 (#472) ##########################################
16126
GEORGE WITHER
THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET
S"
HALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair ?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are ?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind ?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love ?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best :
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind.
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do,
That without them dares her woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair.
If she love me (this believe),
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
## p. 16127 (#473) ##########################################
GEORGE WITHER
16127
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
Sº
O NOW is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids and girls and boys
Give life to one another's joys,
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things here aboundeth.
The country folk themselves advance,
For Crowdy-mutton's come out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.
Ned Swash hath fetched his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel ;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel.
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.
The wenches with their wassail-bowls
About the street are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.
## p. 16128 (#474) ##########################################
16128
GEORGE WITHER
Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller ?
No: let us sing our roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller;
And whilest thus inspired we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring :
Woods, and hills, and everything
Bear witness we are merry.
FOR SUMMER-TIME
N"
ow the glories of the year
May be viewed at the best,
And the earth doth now appear
In her fairest garments dressed:
Sweetly smelling plants and flowers
Do perfume the garden bowers;
Hill and valley, wood and field,
Mixed with pleasure profits yield.
Much is found where nothing was;
Herds on every mountain go;
In the meadows flowery grass
Makes both inilk and honey Aow.
Now each orchard banquets giveth;
Every hedge with fruit relieveth;
And on every shrub and tree
Useful fruits or berries be.
Walks and ways which winter marred,
By the winds are swept and dried;
Moorish grounds are now so hard
That on them we safe may ride;
Warmth enough the sun doth lend us,
From his heat the shades defend us.
And thereby we share in these,
Safety, profit, pleasure, ease.
Other blessings, many more,
At this time enjoyed may be,
And in this my song therefore
Praise I give, O Lord! to thee:
Grant that this my free oblation
May have gracious acceptation,
And that I may well employ
Everything which I enjoy.
## p. 16129 (#475) ##########################################
16129
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
(1759-1797)
M
ARY WOLLSTONECRAFT might be regarded as the embodiment
of the finer and saner forces of the French Revolution; or
rather of that spirit through which the eighteenth century
was merged into the nineteenth, and which expressed itself as much
in the lives of individuals as in revolutions. The author of the
(Vindication of the Rights of Women' was perhaps the most pro-
phetic character of her time; since she alone, in a generation rabid
for the rights of man, understood the subtle truth that the emancipa-
tion of men is largely dependent upon the
emancipation of women,- seeing that the
unity of the sexes transcends their diver-
sity.
Her troubled life was in many ways a
preparation for her pioneership in the vin-
dication of womanliness. She was literally
badgered into the office of apostle. Her
experiences forced her into extreme opin-
ions, especially on the subject of marriage;
but extreme opinions were necessary in the
eighteenth century. She was born in the piv-
otal period of the age of Light, in the year
1759. Family troubles had begun long be- MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
fore her birth; and she found herself ham-
pered in infancy with a good-for-nothing father, and a mother who
submitted to be beaten by him. She was the second of six children,
all of whom in later years were to depend upon her to aid them
in their struggles with the world. The passion of pity - for it was
less a sentiment than a passion with her — was early developed; her
motherhood, begun in the care of her wretched parents and their
helpless offspring, was later to include the race.
Her childhood was spent in a vagrancy which might well have
demoralized a less earnest spirit. The irresponsible father was always
moving his family from one town to another in the hope of better
luck. They went from Hoxton to Edmonton; thence to Essex; from
Essex to Beverley in Yorkshire; then to London. Mary had snatches of
education in these places: books however were kept strictly subordi-
nate to life, through the vagaries of her father. Her first stimulus to
cultivation was received through a young girl, Fanny Blood, for whom
she conceived a romantic affection. Her friend's accomplishments
XXVII-1009
-
## p. 16130 (#476) ##########################################
16130
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
9
awakened her spirit of emulation. With her, love was synonymous
with growth and expression. In whatever form it expressed itself, it
was the mainspring of her character; which is indeed most clearly
intelligible through the medium of her affections.
In 1780 her mother died, worn out by the brutalities of her hus-
band. Mary went for a time to the home of Fanny Blood, where she
supported herself by needlework. Her friend's father, like her own
father, made his household wretched through his dissipations. From
childhood Mary Wollstonecraft had had before her the spectacle of
unhappy marriages, made so by the tyranny of the husbands. The
long and dreary courtship of her friend Fanny, by a man who played
with her love; the miserable union of her sister Eliza with a man
whose caprice and selfishness finally drove his wife into insanity, -
were further to increase her sense of outrage against a social system
under which such evils could exist, and to prepare her for her cham-
pionship of her sex. She first threw down the gauntlet to conven-
tional opinion when she helped her sister Eliza to escape from her
husband's roof. In so doing she displayed those forces of character
which were afterwards to inspire the Vindication': the love of just-
ice, the hatred of oppression, indomitable courage, and above all, a
fund of common-sense which amounted to genius.
The two sisters and Fanny Blood opened a school at Newington
Green, which at first was successful. About this time Mary was
introduced to Dr. Johnson, who seems to have had some appreciation
of her extraordinary powers. In 1785 Fanny Blood married her un-
certain lover, and went with him to Lisbon. A few months later,
Mary followed her there to nurse her in what proved to be her last
illness. After the death of her beloved friend she commemorated
their friendship in her first novel, — Mary: a Fiction. ' On her return
to England she gave up her school, and accepted the position of gov-
erness in the family of Lord Kingsborough in Ireland. After holding
this a year, she became a “reader” for the publisher Johnson, in
London: it was owing to his encouragement that she resolved to give
herself up entirely to literary work. She translated Salzmann's Ele-
ments of Morality) from the German, and Lavater's Physiognomy)
from the French; besides writing some tales for children, published
as Original Stories from Real Life,' with illustrations by Blake.
In 1789 Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution,' written
from the standpoint of a Tory and a Conservative, aroused great in-
dignation among the Liberals of England. Its scorn of the common
people and their rights, its support of tradition merely as tradi-
tion, outraged the spirit of justice and mercy which dwelt continually
with Mary Wollstonecraft. She published a pamphlet entitled Vin-
dication of the Rights of Man, in which she challenged the assump-
tions of Burke with more zeal perhaps than discretion, but with a
## p. 16131 (#477) ##########################################
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
16131
wonderful passion for truth and charity, liberty and advancement.
Amid the emotional confusions of the pamphlet, the clear outlines of
logic can here and there be traced. Referring to Burke's reliance on
mediæval precedent for authority, she asks: “Does Burke recommend
night as the fittest time to analyze a ray of light ? »
The Vindication of the Rights of Women,' on which Mary Woll-
stonecraft's reputation as an author rests, was published in 1792.
Although now little read, — its assertions, so startling in the last cen-
tury, having become truisms in this, — it must be ranked among the
epoch-making books. It is the prophecy of the nineteenth century by
a woman who endured the tyranny of the eighteenth over her sex.
In her dedication of the work to Talleyrand, she sets forth its argu-
ment:—“Contending for the rights of woman, my main argument
is built on this simple principle,— that if she be not prepared by edu-
cation to become the companion of man, she will stop the progress
of knowledge; for truth must be common to all, or it will be ineffi-
cacious with respect to its influence on the general practice. ”
The book as a whole is an elaborate demonstration of this prin-
ciple. The author contends that no great improvement of society
can be expected, unless women are regarded by men not as dolls
made for their pleasure, but as rational beings on whose nobility of
character the welfare of the family — and through the family, of the
State-depends. She uncovers the falsity of Rousseau's ideal of
women, as mere ministrants to the sentimentality of men; and pro-
ceeds to show that this ideal, governing the education of girls, has
made them the inferior irrational beings which men find them. She
urges as remedies, the freer mingling of the sexes in childhood,
more out-of-door life for girls, and the training them to look upon
marriage not as a means of support, or as a coveted dignity, but
as the highest expression of love and friendship. She emphasizes the
necessity of this friendship, which depends upon the intellectual con-
geniality of husband and wife. She affirms that intellectual compan-
ionship, indeed, is the chief as it is the lasting happiness of marriage.
It is difficult to believe that this reasonable and noble idea of
woman's place in the family should have aroused the resentment
of Hannah More, and of the majority of the English reading public.
But like all books which mark a step in advance of prevailing cus-
tom and sentiment, it had to undergo stoning by the mob. Mary
Wollstonecraft had uncovered the source of the frivolity of the
eighteenth century, the source also of its soullessness, its deadening
rationality: this was its contemptible view of women. It is small
wonder that she incurred the resentment of her generation.
In 1792 she went to Paris to study the phenomena of the French
Revolution, then in progress. She afterwards published the first vol-
ume of a work entitled (An Historical and Moral View of the Origin
## p. 16132 (#478) ##########################################
16132
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
and Progress of the French Revolution. During her stay in Paris
she entered upon the tragedy of her life, which came to her through
her love for Gilbert Imlay, an American. His desertion of her,-
“my best friend and wife,” as he calls her in a business document,
- whatever it proved to the world, proved to those who knew the
integrity of Mary's character, that he was not able to appreciate the
honorableness of her love, nor the sublimed purity of her nature,–
a purity dangerous perhaps to society, through its rare and exquisite
quality.
In 1797 she became the wife of William Godwin, the author of
Political Equality,' — in his way also an idealist, who placed the
individual before society. The other-worldliness of the pair was
primeval. In this union Mary knew the first serenity of her short,
troubled life; but it was not to be of long duration. She died in the
year of her marriage, ten days after the birth of the daughter who
was to become the wife of Shelley.
She was more guided by reasonableness in her books than in her
life, which was ruled by her affections,— being, as she was, a woman
wholly womanly. Both her books and her life were necessary to her
generation, to reveal to it the unsuspected forces of which its ignor-
ance took little account in its estimate of the social order.
MODERN IDEAL OF WOMANHOOD
From (A Vindication of the Rights of Women'
Tº
ACCOUNT for and excuse the tyranny of man, many ingenious
arguments have been brought forward to prove that the two
sexes, in the acquirement of virtue, ought to aim at attain-
ing a very different character; or to speak explicitly, women are
not allowed to have sufficient strength of mind to acquire what
really deserves the name of virtue. Yet it should seem, allow-
ing them to have souls, that there is but one way appointed by
Providence to lead mankind to either virtue or happiness.
If then women are not a swarm of ephemeron triflers, why
should they be kept in ignorance under the specious name of
innocence ? Men complain, and with reason, of the follies and
caprices of our sex, when they do not keenly satirize our head-
strong passions and groveling vices. Behold, I should answer,
the natural effect of ignorance! The mind will ever be unstable
that has only prejudices to rest on, and the current will run with
destructive fury when there are no barriers to break its force.
Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example
## p. 16133 (#479) ##########################################
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
16133
((
of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness,
justly termed cunning, softness of temper, outward obedience, and
a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety, will obtain
for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful,
everything else is needless, for at least twenty years of their
lives.
Thus Milton describes our first frail mother; though when he
tells us that women are formed for softness and sweet attract-
ive grace, I cannot comprehend his meaning, - unless in the true
Mahometan strain, he meant to deprive us of souls, and insinuate
that we were beings only designed, by sweet attractive grace and
docile blind obedience, to gratify the senses of man when he can
no longer soar on the wing of contemplation.
How grossly do they insult us who thus advise us only to ren-
der ourselves gentle domestic brutes! For instance, the winning
softness so warmly and frequently recommended, that governs by
obeying. What childish expressions; and how insignificant is the
being — can it be an immortal one? — who will condescend to
govern by such sinister methods! “Certainly,” says Lord Bacon,
!
man is of kin to the beasts by his body; and if he be not of kin
to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble creature. ” Men,
indeed, appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner,
when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempt-
ing to keep them always in a state of childhood. Rousseau was
more consistent when he wished to stop the progress of reason
in both sexes: for if men eat of the tree of knowledge, women
will come in for a taste; but from the imperfect cultivation
which their understandings now receive, they only attain a
knowledge of evil.
Children, I grant, should be innocent; but when the epithet is
applied to men or women, it is but a civil term for weakness.
For if it be allowed that women were destined by Providence to
acquire human virtues, and by the exercise of their understand-
ings that stability of character which is the firmnest ground to
rest our future hopes upon, they must be permitted to turn to
the fountain of light, and not forced to shape their course by the
twinkling of a mere satellite. Milton, I grant, was of a very
different opinion, for he only bends to the indefeasible right of
beauty; though it would be difficult to render two passages which
I now mean to contrast, consistent. But into similar inconsisten-
cies are great men often led by their senses.
а
## p. 16134 (#480) ##########################################
16134
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
((
“To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned:-
My author and disposer, what thou bid'st
Unargued I obey: so God ordains;
God is thy law, thou mine : to know no more
Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. ”
These are exactly the arguments that I have used to children:
but I have added, Your reason is now gaining strength, and till
it arrives at some degree of maturity you must look up to me
for advice; then you ought to think, and only rely on God.
Yet in the following lines Milton seems to coincide with me,
when he makes Adam thus expostulate with his Maker:-
“Hast thou not made me here thy substitute,
And these inferior far beneath me set ?
Among unequals what society
Can sort, what harmony or true delight?
Which must be mutual, in proportion due
Given and received; but in disparity
The one intense, the other still remiss
Cannot well suit with either, but soon prove
Tedious alike: of fellowship I speak,
Such as I seek, fit to participate
All rational delight. ”
In treating therefore of the manners of women, let us, dis-
regarding sensual arguments, trace what we should endeavor to
make them in order to co-operate — if the expression be not too
bold — with the Supreme Being.
By individual education I mean - for the sense of the word is
not precisely defined — such an attention to a child as will slowly
sharpen the senses, form the temper, regulate the passions as
they begin to ferment, and set the understanding to work before
the body arrives at maturity; so that the man may only have
to proceed, not to begin, the important task of learning to think
and reason.
To prevent any misconstruction, I must add that I do not be-
lieve that a private education can work the wonders which some
sanguine writers have attributed to it. Men and women must
be educated, in a great degree, by the opinions and manners of
the society they live in. In every age there has been a stream
of popular opinion that has carried all before it, and given a fam-
ily character, as it were, to the century. It may then fairly be
inferred that till society be differently constituted, much cannot
## p. 16135 (#481) ##########################################
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
16135
save
rea-
be expected from education. It is however sufficient for my pres-
ent purpose to assert, that whatever effect circumstances have on
the abilities, every being may become virtuous by the exercise
of its own reason; for if but one being was created with vicious
inclinations,—that is, positively bad,- what can
—
us from
atheism ? or if we worship a God, is not that God a devil ?
Consequently, the most perfect education, in my opinion, is
such an exercise of the understanding as is best calculated to
strengthen the body and form the heart; or in other words, to
enable the individual to attain such habits of virtue as will render
it independent. In fact, it is a farce to call any being virtuous
whose virtues do not result from the exercise of its own
son. This was Rousseau's opinion respecting men: I extend it to
women, and confidently assert that they have been drawn out
of their sphere by false refinement, and not by an endeavor to
acquire masculine qualities. Still, the regal homage which they
receive is so intoxicating, that until the manners of the times are
changed, and formed on more reasonable principles, it may be
impossible to convince them that the illegitimate power which
they obtain by degrading themselves is a curse, and that they
must return to nature and equality if they wish to secure the
placid satisfaction that unsophisticated affections impart. But
for this epoch we must wait; wait perhaps till kings and nobles,
cnlightened by reason, and preferring the real dignity of man to
childish state, throw off their gaudy hereditary trappings; and if
then women do not resign the arbitrary power of beauty — they
will prove that they have less mind than man.
I may be accused of arrogance: still I must declare what I
firmly believe, that all the writers who have written on the
subject of female education and manners, from Rousseau to Dr.
Gregory, have contributed to render women more artificial weak
characters than they would otherwise have been; and conse-
quently more useless members of society. I might have expressed
this conviction in a lower key; but I am afraid it would have
been the whine of affectation, and not the faithful expression of
my feelings,- of the clear result which experience and reflec-
tion have led me to draw. When I come to that division of the
subject, I shall advert to the passages that I more particularly
disapprove of, in the works of the authors I have just alluded
to; but it is first necessary to observe that my objection extends
to the whole purport of those books, which tend in my opinion to
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MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
degrade one half of the human species, and render women pleas-
ing at the expense of every solid virtue.
Though, to reason on Rousseau's ground, if man did attain a
degree of perfection of mind when his body arrived at maturity,
it might be proper, in order to make a man and his wife one,
that she should rely entirely on his understanding; and the grace-
ful ivy, clasping the oak that supported it, would form a whole
in which strength and beauty would be equally conspicuous. But
alas! husbands, as well as their helpmates, are often only over-
grown children, - nay, thanks to early debauchery, scarcely men
in their outward form, - and if the blind lead the blind, one need
not come from heaven to tell us the consequence.
Many are the causes that, in the present corrupt state of soci.
ety, contribute to enslave women by cramping their understand-
ings and sharpening their senses. One, perhaps, that silently does
more mischief than all the rest, is their disregard of order.
To do everything in an orderly manner is a most important
precept, which women — who, generally speaking, receive only a
disorderly kind of education — seldom attend to with that degree
of exactness that men, who from their infancy are broken into
method, observe. This negligent kind of guesswork — for what
other epithet can be used to point out the random exertions of
a sort of instinctive common-sense never brought to the test of
reason ? - prevents their generalizing matters of fact; so they do
to-day what they did yesterday, merely because they did it yester-
day.
This contempt of the understanding in early life has more
baneful consequences than is commonly supposed: for the little
knowledge which women of strong minds attain is, from various
circumstances, of a more desultory kind than the knowledge of
men; and it is acquired more by sheer observations on real life
than from comparing what has been individually observed with
the results of experience generalized by speculation.
by speculation. Led by
their dependent situation and domestic employments more into
society, what they learn is rather by snatches; and as learning
is with them in general only a secondary thing, they do not
pursue any one branch with that persevering ardor necessary to
give vigor to the faculties and clearness to the judgment. In the
present state of society, a little learning is required to support
the character of a gentleman, and boys are obliged to submit to
a few years of discipline. But in the education of women, the
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16137
cultivation of the understanding is always subordinate to the
acquirement of some corporeal accomplishment. Even while ener.
vated by confinement and false notions of modesty, the body is
prevented from attaining that grace and beauty which relaxed
half-formed limbs never exhibit. Besides, in youth their faculties
are not brought forward by emulation; and having no serious
scientific study, if they have natural sagacity it is turned too
soon on life and manners. They dwell on effects and modifica-
tions, without tracing them back to causes; and complicated rules
to adjust behavior are a weak substitute for simple principles.
As a proof that education gives this appearance of weakness
to females, we may instance the example of military men; who
are, like them, sent into the world before their minds have been
stored with knowledge or fortified by principles. The conse-
quences are similar: soldiers acquire a little superficial knowl-
edge, snatched from the muddy current of conversation; and from
continually mixing with society, they gain what is termed a
knowledge of the world: and this acquaintance with manners
and customs has frequently been confounded with a knowledge
of the human heart. But can the crude fruit of casual observa-
tion, never brought to the test of judgment formed by comparing
speculation and experience, deserve such a distinction ? Soldiers,
as well as women, practice the minor virtues with punctilious
politeness. Where is, then, the sexual difference when the edu-
cation has been the same ? . All the difference that I can discern
arises from the superior advantage of liberty, which enables the
former to see more of life.
It is wandering from my present subject, perhaps, to make a
political remark; but as it was produced naturally by the train
of my reflections, I shall not pass it silently over.
Standing armies can never consist of resolute, robust men;
they may be well-disciplined machines, but they will seldom con-
tain men under the influence of strong passions, or with very
vigorous faculties: and as for any depth of understanding, I will
venture to affirm that it is as rarely to be found in the army as
amongst women. And the cause, I maintain, is the same.
be further observed that officers are also particularly attentive to
their persons, fond of dancing, crowded rooms, adventures, and rid-
icule.
