myself, that we have high respect for those who "cook something good,"
who create and preserve fair order in houses, and prepare therein the
shining raiment for worthy inmates, worthy guests. Only these
"functions" must not be a drudgery, or enforced necessity, but a part
of life. Let Ulysses drive the beeves home, while Penelope there piles
up the fragrant loaves; they are both well employed if these be done
in thought and love, willingly. But Penelope is no more meant for a
baker or weaver solely, than Ulysses for a cattle-herd.

The sexes should not only correspond to and appreciate, but prophesy
to one another. In individual instances this happens. Two persons love
in one another the future good which they aid one another to unfold.
This is imperfectly or rarely done in the general life. Man has gone
but little way; now he is waiting to see whether Woman can keep step
with him; but, instead of calling but, like a good brother, "You can
do it, if you only think so," or impersonally, "Any one can do what he
tries to do;" he often discourages with school-boy brag: "Girls can't
do that; girls can't play ball." But let any one defy their taunts,
break through and be brave and secure, they rend the air with shouts.

This fluctuation was obvious in a narrative I have lately seen, the
story of the life of Countess Emily Plater, the heroine of the last
revolution in Poland. The dignity, the purity, the concentrated
resolve, the calm, deep enthusiasm, which yet could, when occasion
called, sparkle up a holy, an indignant fire, make of this young
maiden the figure I want for my frontispiece. Her portrait is to be
seen in the book, a gentle shadow of her soul. Short was the career.
Like the Maid of Orleans, she only did enough to verify her
credentials, and then passed from a scene on which she was, probably,
a premature apparition.