University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

WHERE are you going, St. Elmo? I know it is
one of your amiable decrees that your movements
are not to be questioned, but I dare to
brave your ire.”

“I am going to that blessed retreat familiarly known as
`Murray's den,' where, secure from feminine intrusion, as
if in the cool cloisters of Coutloumoussi, I surrender my
happy soul to science and cigars, and revel in complete
forgetfulness of that awful curse which Jove hurled against
all mankind, because of Prometheus's robbery.”

“There are asylums for lunatics and inebriates, and I
wonder it has never occurred to some benevolent millionaire
to found one for such abominable cynics as you, my
most angelic cousin! where the snarling brutes can only
snap at and worry one another.”

“An admirable idea, Estelle, which I fondly imagined I
had successfully carried out when I built those rooms of
mine.”

“You are as hateful as Momus, minus his wit! He was
kicked out of heaven for grumbling, and you richly deserve
his fate.”

“I have a vague recollection that the Goddess Discord
shared the fate of the celestial growler. I certainly plead
guilty to an earnest sympathy with Momus's dissatisfaction
with the house that Minerva built, and only wish that
mine was movable, as he recommended, in order to escape
bad neighborhoods and tiresome companions.”

“Hospitable, upon my word! You spin some spiteful
idea out of every sentence I utter, and are not even entitled
to the compliment which Chesterfield paid old Samuel Johnson,
`The utmost I can do for him is to consider him a respectable
Hottentot.' If I did not know that instead of
proving a punishment it would gratify you beyond measure,
I would take a vow not to speak to you again for a month;
but the consciousness of the happiness I should thereby bestow
upon you vetoes, the resolution. Do you know that even a
Comanche chief, or a Bechuana of the desert, shames your
inhospitality? I assure you I am the victim of hopeless
ennui, am driven to the verge of desperation; for Mr. Allston
will probably not return until to-morrow, and it is
raining so hard that I can not wander out of doors. Here
I am shut up in this dreary house, which reminds me of the
descriptions of that doleful retreat for sinners in Normandy,
where the inmates pray eleven hours a day, dig their own
graves every evening, and if they chance to meet one
another, salute each other with `Memento mori!' Ugh!
if there remains one latent spark of chivalry in your soul,
I beseech you be merciful! Do not go off to your den, but
stay here and entertain me. It is said that you read bewitchingly,
and with unrivalled effect; pray favor me this
morning. I will promise to lay my hand on my lips; is it
not white enough for a flag of truce? I will be meek,
amiable, docile, absolutely silent.”

Estelle swept aside a mass of papers from the corner of
the sofa, and, taking Mr. Murray's hand, drew him to a
seat beside her.

“Your `amiable silence,' my fair cousin, is but a cunningly
fashioned wooden horse. Timeo Danaos et dona
ferentes! I am to understand that you actually offer me
your hand as a flag of truce? It is wonderfully white and
pretty; but excuse me, C'est une main de fer, gantée de
velours! Your countenance, so serenely radiant, reminds
me of what Madame Noblet said of M. de Vitri, `His face

looked just like a stratagem!' Reading aloud is a practice in
which I never indulge, simply because I cordially detest it
and knowing this fact, it is a truly feminine refinement of
cruelty on your part to select this mode of penance. Nevertheless,
you appeal to my chivalry, which always springs
up, armed cap-à-pie `to do or die;' and since read I must,
I only stipulate that I may be allowed to select my book.
Just now I am profoundly interested in a French work on
infusoria, by Dujardin; and as you have probably not
studied it, I will select those portions which treat of the
animalcula that inhabit grains of sugar and salt and drops
of water; so that by the time lunch is ready, your appetite
will be whetted by a knowledge of the nature of your repast.
According to Leeuwenhoek, Müller, Gleichen, and
others, the campaigns of Zenzis-Khan, Alexander, Attila,
were not half so murderous as a single fashionable dinner;
and the battle of Marengo was a farce in comparison with
the swallowing of a cup of tea, which contains—”

“For shame, you tormentor! when you know that I love
tea as well as did your model of politeness, Dr. Johnson!
Not one line of all that nauseating scientific stuff shall you
read to me. Here is a volume of poems of the `Female
Poets;' do be agreeable for once in your life, and select
me some sweet little rhythmic gem of Mrs. Browning, or
Mrs. Norton, or L. E. L.”

“Estelle, did you ever hear of the Peishwah of the Mahrattas?”

“I most assuredly never had even a hint of a syllable on
the subject. What of him, her, or it?”

“Enough, that though you are evidently ambitious of
playing his despotic rôle at Le Bocage, you will never succeed
in reducing me to that condition of abject subjugation
necessary to make me endure the perusal of `female
poetry.' I have always desired an opportunity of voting
my cordial thanks to the wit who expressed so felicitously
my own thorough conviction, that Pegasus has an unconquerable

repugnance, hatred, to side-saddles. You vow
you will not listen to science; and I swear I won't read
poetry! Suppose we compromise on this new number
of the — Magazine? It is the ablest periodical published
in this country. Let me see the contents of this
number.”

It was a dark, rainy morning in July. Mrs. Murray was
winding a quantity of zephyr wool, of various bright colors,
which she had requested Edna to hold in her hands; and
at the mention of the magazine the latter looked up suddenly
at the master of the house.

Holding his cigar between his thumb and third finger,
his eye ran over the table of contents.

“`Who smote the Marble Gods of Greece?' Humph!
rather a difficult question to answer after the lapse of
twenty-two centuries. But doubtless our archæologists are
so much wiser than the Athenian Senate of Five Hundred,
who investigated the affair the day after it happened, that
a perusal will be exceedingly edifying. Now, then, for a
solution of this classic mystery of the nocturnal iconoclasm;
which, in my humble opinion, only the brazen lips of Minerva
Promachus could satisfactorily explain.”

Turning to the article he read it aloud, without pausing
to comment, while Edna's heart bounded so rapidly that she
could scarcely conceal her agitation. It was, indeed, a treat
to listen to him; and as his musical voice filled the room,
she thought of Jean Paul Richter's description of Goethe's
reading: “There is nothing comparable to it. It is like
deep-toned thunder blended with whispering rain-drops.”

But the orphan's pleasure was of short duration, and as
Mr. Murray concluded the perusal, he tossed the magazine
contemptuously across the room, and exclaimed:

“Pretentious and shallow! A tissue of pedantry and
error from beginning to end—written, I will wager my
head, by some scribbler who never saw Athens! Moreover,
the whole article is based upon a glaring blunder; for, according

to Plutarch and Diodorus, on the memorable night
in question there was a new moon. Pshaw! it is a taste
less, insipid plagiarism from Grote; and if I am to be bored
with such insufferable twaddle, I will stop my subscription.
For some time I have noticed symptoms of deterioration,
but this is altogether intolerable; and I shall write to Manning
that, if he can not do better, it would be advisable for
him to suspend at once before his magazine loses its reputation.
If I were not aware that his low estimate of female
intellect coïncides fully with my own, I should be tempted
to suppose that some silly but ambitious woman wrote that
stuff, which sounds learned and is simply stupid.”

He did not even glance toward Edna, but the peculiar
emphasis of his words left no doubt in her mind that he
suspected, nay, felt assured, that she was the luckless
author. Raising her head which had been drooped over
the woolen skeins, she said, firmly yet very quietly:

“If you will permit me to differ with you, Mr. Murray,
I will say that it seems to me all the testimony is in favor
of the full-moon theory. Besides, Grote is the latest and
best authority; he has carefully collected and sifted the
evidence, and certainly sanctions the position taken by the
author of the article which you condemn.”

“Ah! how long since you investigated the matter? The
affair is so essentially paganish that I should imagine it
possessed no charm for so orthodox a Christian as yourself.
Estelle, what say you, concerning this historic sphinx?”

“That I am blissfully ignorant of the whole question,
and have a vague impression that it is not worth the paper
it is written on, much less a quarrel with you, Monsieur
`Le Hutin;' that it is the merest matter of moonshine—new
moon versus full moon, and must have been written by a
lunatic. But, my Chevalier Bayard, one thing I do intend
to say most decidedly, and that is, that your lunge at female
intellect was as unnecessary and ill-timed and ill-bred as
it was ill-natured. The mental equality of the sexes is now

as unquestioned, as universally admitted, as any other well-established
fact in science or history; and the sooner you
men gracefully concede us our rights, the sooner we shall
cease wrangling, and settle back into our traditional amiability.”

“The universality of the admission I should certainly
deny, were the subject of sufficient importance to justify a
discussion. However, I have been absent so long from
America, that I confess my ignorance of the last social
advance in the striding enlightenment of this most progressive
people. According to Moleschott's celebrated
dictum—`Without phosphorus no thought,' and if there be
any truth in physiology and phrenology, you women have
been stinted by nature in the supply of phosphorus. Peacock's
measurements prove that in the average weight of
male and female brains, you fall below our standard by not
less than six ounces. I should conjecture that in the scales
of equality six ounces of ideas would turn the balance in
favor of our superiority.”

“If you reduce it to a mere question of avoirdupois,
please be so good as to remember that even greater difference
exists among men. For instance, your brain (which
is certainly not considered over average) weighs from three
to three and a half pounds, while Cuvier's brain weighed
over four pounds, giving him the advantage of more than
eight ounces over our household oracle! Accidental difference
in brain weight proves nothing; for you will not admit
your mental inferiority to any man, simply because his head
requires a larger hat than yours.”

“Pardon me, I always bow before facts, no matter how
unflattering, and I consider one of Cuvier's ideas worthy of
just exactly eight degrees more of reverence than any
phosphorescent sparkle which I might choose to hold up for
public acceptance and guidance. Without doubt, the most
thoroughly ludicrous scene I ever witnessed was furnished
by a `woman's rights' meeting,' which I looked in upon

one night in New-York, as I returned from Europe. The
speaker was a raw-boned, wiry, angular, short-haired,
lemon-visaged female of uncertain age; with a hand like
a bronze gauntlet, and a voice as distracting as the shrill
squeak of a cracked cornet-a-piston. Over the wrongs and
grievances of her down-trodden, writhing sisterhood she
ranted and raved and howled, gesticulating the while with
a marvelous grace, which I can compare only to the antics
of those inspired goats who strayed too near the Pythian
cave, and were thrown into convulsions. Though I pulled
my hat over my eyes and clapped both hands to my ears,
as I rushed out of the hall after a stay of five minutes, the
vision of horror followed me, and for the first and only time
in my life, I had such a hideous nightmare that night, that
the man who slept in the next room broke open my door
to ascertain who was strangling me. Of all my pet aversions
my most supreme abhorrence is of what are denominated
`gifted women;' strong-minded, (that is, weak-brained
but loud-tongued,) would-be literary females, who, puffed up
with insufferable conceit, imagine they rise to the dignity
and height of man's intellect, proclaim that their `mission'
is to write or lecture, and set themselves up as shining
female lights, each aspiring to the rank of protomartyr of
reform. Heaven grant us a Bellerophon to relieve the age
of these noisy Amazons! I should really enjoy seeing them
tied down to their spinning-wheels, and gagged with their
own books, magazines, and lectures! When I was abroad
and contrasted the land of my birth with those I visited,
the only thing for which, as an American, I felt myself
called on to blush, was my countrywomen. An insolent
young count who had traveled through the Eastern and
Northern States of America, asked me one day in Berlin, if
it were really true that the male editors, lawyers, doctors,
and lecturers in the United States were contemplating a
hegira, in consequence of the rough elbowing by the women,
and if I could inform him at what age the New-England
girls generally commenced writing learned articles, and affixing
LL.D., F.E.S., F.S.A., and M.M.S.S. to their signatures?
Whereupon I kicked his inquisitive lordship down
the steps of the hotel, and informed him that though I
might possibly resemble an American, I rejoiced in being
a native of Crim Tartary, where the knowledge of woman
is confined exclusively to the roasting of horse-flesh and the
preparation of most delicious kimis.”

“`Lay on, Macduff!' I wish you distinctly to understand
that my toes are not bruised in the slightest degree; for I
am entirely innocent of any attempt at erudition or authorship,
and the sole literary dream of my life is to improve the
present popular receipt for biscuit glacé. But mark you,
`Sir Oracle,' I must `ope my lips' and bark a little under
my breath at your inconsistencies. Now if there are two
living men whom, above all others, you swear by, they are
John Stuart Mill and John Ruskin. Well do I recollect
your eulogy of both, on that ever-memorable day in Paris
when we dined with that French encyclopædia, Count W—,
and the leading lettered men of the day were discussed. I
was frightened out of my wits, and dared not raise my eyes
higher than the top of my wine-glass, lest I should be
asked my opinion of some book or subject of which I had
never even heard, and in trying to appear well-educated
make as horrible a blunder as poor Madame Talleyrand
committed, when she talked to Denon about his man Friday,
believing that he wrote `Robinson Crusoe.' At that
time I had never read either Mill or Ruskin; but my profound
reverence for the wisdom of your opinions taught me
how shamefully ignorant I was, and thus, to fit myself for
your companionship, I immediately bought their books. Lo,
to my indescribable amazement, I found that Mill claimed
for women what I never once dreamed we were worthy of—
not only equality, but the right of suffrage. He, the foremost
dialectician of England and the most learned of political
economists, demands that, for the sake of equity and

`social improvement,' we women (minus the required six
ounces of brains) should be allowed to vote. Behold the
Corypheus of the `woman's rights' school! Were I to
follow his teachings, I should certainly begin to clamor for
my right of suffrage—for the ladylike privilege of elbowing
you away from the ballot-box at the next election.”

“I am quite as far from admitting the infallibility of
man as the equality of the sexes. The clearest thinkers of
the world have had soft spots in their brains; for instance,
the dæmon belief of Socrates and the ludicrous superstitions
of Pythagoras; and you have laid your finger on the softened
spot in Mill's skull, `suffrage.' That is a jaded, spavined
hobby of his, and he is too shrewd a logician to involve
himself in the inconsistency of `extended suffrage'
which excludes women. When I read his `Representative
Government' I saw that his reason had dragged anchor, the
prestige of his great name vanished, and I threw the book
into the fire and eschewed him henceforth. Sic transit.”

Here Mrs. Murray looked up and said:

“John Stuart Mill—let me see—Edna, is he not the man
who wrote that touching dedication of one of his books to
his wife's memory? You quoted it for me a few days ago,
and said that you had committed it to memory because it
was such a glowing tribute to the interlectual capacity of
woman. My dear, I wish you would repeat it how; I should
like to hear it again.”

With her fingers full of purple woolen skeins, and her
eyes bent down, Edna recited, in a low, sweet voice the
most eloquent panegyric which man's heart ever pronounced
on woman's intellect:

“To the beloved and deplored memory of her who was
the inspirer, and in part, the author, of all that is best in my
writings, the friend and wife whose exalted sense of truth
and right was my strongest incitement and whose approbation
was my chief reward, I dedicate this volume. Like all
that I have written for many years, it belongs as much to

her as to me; but the work as it stands has had, in a very
insufficient degree, the inestimable advantage of her revision;
some of the most important portions having been reserved
for a more careful reëxamination, which they are now never
destined to receive. Were I but capable of interpreting to
the world one half the great thoughts and noble feelings
which are buried in her grave, I should be the medium of a
greater benefit to it than is ever likely to arise from any
thing that I can write unprompted and unassisted by her
all but unrivalled wisdom.”

“Where did you find that dedication?” asked Mr. Murray.

“In Mill's book on Liberty.”

“It is not in my library.”

“I borrowed it from Mr. Hammond.”

“Strange that a plant so noxious should be permitted in
such a sanctified atmosphere! Do you happen to recollect
the following sentences? `I regard utility as the ultimate
appeal on all ethical questions!' `There is a Greek ideal
of self-development which the Platonic and Christian ideal
of self-government blends with but does not supersede. It
may be better to be a John Knox than an Alcibiades, but it
is better to be a Pericles than either.'”

“Yes, sir. They occur in the same book; but, Mr. Murray,
I have been advised by my teacher to bear always in
mind that noble maxim, `I can tolerate every thing else
but every other man's intolerance;' and it is with his consent
and by his instructions that I go like Ruth, gleaning
in the great fields of literature.”

“Take care you don't find Boaz instead of barley!
After all, the universal mania for match-making schemes,
and manœuvers which continually stir society from its
dregs to the painted foam-bubble dancing on its crested
wave, is peculiar to no age or condition, but is an immemorial
and hereditary female proclivity; for I defy Paris or
London to furnish a more perfectly developed specimen of

a `manœuvring mamma' than was crafty Naomi, when she
sent that pretty little Moabitish widow out husband-hunting.”

“I heartily wish she was only here to outwit you!”
laughed his cousin, nestling her head against his arm as
they sat together on the sofa.

“Who? The widow or the match-maker?”

“Oh! the match-maker, of course. There is more than one
Ruth already in the field.”

The last clause was whispered so low that only St. Elmo
heard it, and any other woman but Estelle Harding would
have shrunk away in utter humiliation from the eye and the
voice that answered:

“Yourself and Mrs. Powell! Eat Boaz's barley as long
as you like—nay, divide Boaz's broad fields between you;
an you love your lives, keep out of Boaz's way.”

“You ought both to be ashamed of yourselves. I am
surprised at you, Estelle, to encourage St. Elmo's irreverence,”
said Mrs. Murray severely.

“I am sure, Aunt Ellen, I am just as much shocked as
you are; but when he does not respect even your opinions,
how dare I presume to hope he will show any deference to
mine? St. Elmo, what think you of the last Sibylline leaves
of your favorite Ruskin? In looking over his new book,
I was surprised to find this strong assertion... Here
is the volume now—listen to this, will you?”

“`Shakespeare has no heroes; he has only heroines. In
his labored and perfect plays, you find no hero, but almost
always a perfect woman; steadfast in grave hope and
errorless purpose. The catastrophe of every play is caused
always by the folly or fault of a man; the redemption,
if there be any, is by the wisdom and virtue of a woman;
and failing that, there is none!'”

“For instance, Lady Macbeth, Ophelia, Regan, Goneril,
and last, but not least, Petruchio's sweet and gentle Kate!
De gustibus!” answered Mr. Murray.

“Those are the exceptions, and of course you pounce
upon them. Ruskin continues: `In all cases with Scott, as
with Shakespeare, it is the woman who watches over, teaches
and guides the youth; it is never by any chance the man
who watches over or educates her; and thus—'”

“Meg Merrilies, Madge Wildfire, Mause Headrigg, Effie
Deans, and Rob Roy's freckle-faced, red-haired, angelic
Helen!” interrupted her cousin.

“Don't be rude, St. Elmo. You fly in my face like an exasperated
wasp. I resume: `Dante's great poem is a song
of praise for Beatrice's watch over his soul; she saves him
from hell, and leads him star by star up into heaven—'”

“Permit me to suggest that conjugal devotion should
have led him to apostrophize the superlative charms of his
own wife, Gemma, from whom he was forced to separate;
and that his vision of hell was a faint reflex of his domestic
felicity.”

“Mask your battery, sir, till I finish this page, which I
am resolved you shall hear: `Greek literature proves the
same thing, as witness the devoted tenderness of Andromache,
the wisdom of Cassandra, the domestic excellence
of Penelope, the love of Antigone, the resignation of Iphigenia,
the faithfulness of—'”

“Allow me to assist him in completing the list: the
world-renowned constancy of Helen to Menelaus, the devotion
of Clytemnestra to her Agamemnon, the sublime
filial affection of Medea, and the bewitching—”

“Hush, sir! Aunt Ellen, do call him to order! I will have
a hearing, and I close the argument by the unanswerable
assertion of Ruskin: `That the Egyptians and Greeks (the
most civilized of the ancients) both gave to their spirit of
wisdom the form of a woman, and for symbols, the weaver's
shuttle and the olive!'”

“An inevitable consequence of the fact, that they considered
wisdom as synonymous with sleepless and unscrupulous
cunning! Schiller declares that `man depicts himself

in his gods;' and even a cursory inspection of the classics
proves that all the abhorred and hideous ideas of the ancients
were personified by women. Pluto was affable, and
beneficent, and gentlemanly, in comparison with Brimo;
ditto might be said of Loke and Hela, and the most appalling
idea that ever attacked the brain of mankind, found
incarnation in the Fates and Furies, who are always women.
Unfortunately the mythologies of the world crystallized
before the age of chivalry, and a little research will
establish the unflattering fact that human sins and woes are
traced primarily to female agency; while it is patent that
all the rows and squabbles that disgraced Olympus were
stirred up by scheming goddesses!”

“Thank heaven! here comes Mr. Allston; I can smooth
the ruffled plumes of my self-love in his sunny smiles, and
forget your growls. Good morning, Mr. Allston; what
happy accident brought you again so soon to Le Bocage
and its disconsolate inmates?”

Edna picked up the magazine which lay in one corner,
and made her escape.

The gratification arising from the acceptance and prompt
publication of her essay, was marred by Mr. Murray's sneering
comments; but still her heart was happier than it had
been for many weeks, and as she turned to the Editors'
Table and read a few lines complimenting “the article of a
new contributor,” and promising another from the same
pen, for the ensuing month, her face flushed joyfully.

While she felt it difficult to realize that her writings had
found favor in Mr. Manning's critical eyes, she thanked
God that she was considered worthy of communicating with
her race through the medium of a magazine so influential
and celebrated. She thought it probable that Mr. Manning
had written her a few lines, and wondered whether at
that moment a letter was not hidden in St. Elmo's pocket.

Taking the magazine, she went into Mrs. Murray's room,
and found her resting on a lounge. Her face wore a troubled

expression, and Edna saw traces of tears on the pillow.

“Come in, child; I was just thinking of you.”

She put out her hand, drew the girl to a seat near the
lounge, and sighed heavily.

“Dear Mrs. Murray, I am very, very happy, and I have
come to make a confession and ask your congratulations.”

She knelt down beside her, and, taking the white fingers
of her benefactress, pressed her forehead against them.

“A confession, Edna! What have you done?”

Mrs. Murray started up and lifted the blushing face.

“Some time ago you questioned me concerning some
letters which excited your suspicion, and which I promised
to explain at some future day. I dare say you will think
me very presumptuous when I tell you that I have been aspiring
to authorship; that I was corresponding with Mr.
Manning on the subject of some MS. which I had sent for
his examination, and now I have come to show you what I
have been doing. You heard Mr. Murray read an essay
this morning from the — Magazine, which he ridiculed
very bitterly, but which Mr. Manning at least thought
worthy of a place in his pages. Mrs. Murray, I wrote that
article.”

“Is it possible? Who assisted you—who revised it?
Mr. Hammond? I did not suppose that you, my child,
could ever write so elegantly, so gracefully.”

“No one saw the MS. until Mr. Manning gave it to the
printers. I wished to surprise Mr. Hammond, and therefore
told him nothing of my ambitious scheme. I was very
apprehensive that I should fail, and for that reason was unwilling
to acquaint you with the precise subject of the correspondence
until I was sure of success. O Mrs. Murray!
I have no mother, and feeling that I owe every thing to you
—that without your generous aid and protection I should
never have been able to accomplish this one hope of my
life, I come to you to share my triumph, for I know you

will fully sympathize with me. Here is the magazine containing
Mr. Manning's praise of my work, and here are the
letters which I was once so reluctant to put into your
hands. When I asked you to trust me, you did so nobly
and freely; and thanking you more than my feeble words
can express, I want to show you that I was not unworthy
of your confidence.”

She laid magazine and letters on Mrs. Murray's lap, and
in silence the proud, reserved woman wound her arms
tightly around the orphan, pressing the bright young face
against her shoulder, and resting her own cheek on the
girl's fair forehead.

The door was partially ajar, and at that instant St. Elmo
entered.

He stopped, looked at the kneeling figure locked so
closely in his mother's arms, and over his stern face broke
a light that transformed it into such beauty as Lucifer's
might have worn before his sin and banishment, when
God—

Yearningly he extended his arms toward the two, who, absorbed
in their low talk, were unconscious of his presence;
then the hands fell heavily to his side, the brief smile was
swallowed up by scowling shadows, and he turned silently
away and went to his own gloomy rooms.