nobly shone forth in any form of excellence, men have received her,
not only willingly, but with triumph. Their encomiums, indeed, are
always, in some sense, mortifying; they show too much surprise. "Can
this be you?" he cries to the transfigured Cinderella; "well, I should
never have thought it, but I am very glad. We will tell every one that
you have '_surpassed your sex_.'"

In every-day life, the feelings of the many are stained with vanity.
Each wishes to be lord in a little world, to be superior at least over
one; and he does not feel strong enough to retain a life-long
ascendency over a strong nature. Only a Theseus could conquer before
he wed the Amazonian queen. Hercules wished rather to rest with
Dejanira, and received the poisoned robe as a fit guerdon. The tale
should be interpreted to all those who seek repose with the weak.

But not only is Man vain and fond of power, but the same want of
development, which thus affects him morally, prevents his
intellectually discerning the destiny of Woman: The boy wants no
woman, but only a girl to play ball with him, and mark his pocket
handkerchief.

Thus, in Schiller's Dignity of Woman, beautiful as the poem is, there
is no "grave and perfect man," but only a great boy to be softened and
restrained by the influence of girls. Poets--the elder brothers of
their race--have usually seen further; but what can you expect of
every-day men, if Schiller was not more prophetic as to what women
must be? Even with Richter, one foremost thought about a wife was that
she would "cook him something good." But as this is a delicate
subject, and we are in constant danger of being accused of slighting
what are called "the functions," let me say, in behalf of Miranda and