"Arms and the man, I sing," said the great Virgil, thousands ofyears ago, and all the little Virgils have been singing the man eversince. But who ever sings the woman? Occasionally a Debora or a Joan ofArc, a kind of a female monstrosity, comes to the front and receivesrecognition, but their conspicuousness is due more to the low level oftheir surroundings, than to their individual pre-eminence. They were outof their spheres in what gave them notoriety, and they have been sovoted by universal consent through the ages. It was not specially totheir credit that they successfully commanded armies, but it was to theunutterable shame of the men of their period that they had to, or let itgo undone. No thanks to Betsey for killing the bear. She had to, or thebear would have killed the baby, but everlasting shame upon herworthless husband for making it necessary for her to do what he ought tohave done. Betsey was out of her sphere when killing the bear, and sowas the cowardly man when letting her do it.
The great Virgil graciously introduces a Dido into his song, but he doesit apologetically, and only because it was necessary in order to make alove story out of it, and all the little Virgils—all the writers oflove stories from that day to this—have treated her in literature as ifshe were indispensable to point a moral or to adorn a tale, and reallyfit for little else—that it was her mission to love and be loved, allof which was easy enough on her part; and that, having filled thismission, she ought to be happy and die contented, and to be held ineverlasting remembrance. This outrage upon woman's rights and woman'sworth has been carried so far that it has become common to assume thatit is her prerogative to monopolize the love of the household—at leastto possess and manage the greater part of it; and some women have heardthis so often that they more than half believe it themselves, so thatfrom away back men, and even some women, talk of a woman's love as beinga little purer and a great deal stronger than a man's love. There is nota word of truth in it. It is one of the unfounded legends which have[Pg 2]descended through the ages, transmitted from father to son, while themothers and daughters, all unconscious of the great wrong they suffer byit, have never denied it. It is not only false, but it is absurd. Howcould it be true? A man is not lovable as a woman is. How can she lovehim as he loves her, who is the personification and incarnation ofbeauty and gentleness and sweetness? That is, some are, for it must beconceded that woman is like Jeremiah's figs, the good are very, verygood, while the bad are very naughty—too bad for any use.
This wrong against woman has gone even farther than that. In the battlesof life, however nobly she fights them, she receives no properrecognition. The man who fights well is a hero, but the woman who fightsequally well, or even better, is only a heroine. I despise the wordbecause I detest the discrimination it implies. We do not call thedevout Christian woman a saintess, nor the eloquent woman an oratrix,but the woman who excels in endurance and bravery and in the virtuesthat constitute a man a hero, is only a heroine, as if he