shape of the human body is, and that to alter it arbitrarily is a habit of the lowest savagery. The shape of the body is the result of its natural activities, and cannot be altered without injury to them. She would learn that to interfere with the human shape, moulding it to lines that have nothing to do with the living structure and its complex functions, is as offensive and ridiculous as it would be to alter the shape of a horse.
Should we not laugh to see a horse in corsets? The time is coming when we shall so laugh to see a woman.
She would learn to measure beauty, human beauty, by full health and vigor first of all, right proportion, full possession of all natural power, and that the human animal is by nature swift, agile, active to a high degree, and should remain so throughout life. So trained, she would regard being “put on a car” by the elbow as an insult, not a compliment.
Then at last we should begin to have some notion of what to expect in children, and how to get it. The girl would look forward not merely to some vague little ones to love and care for, but to having finer children than anyone else–if she could! And she would naturally have a new standard of fatherhood, and sternly refuse to accept disease and the vice which makes disease.
Then, when the children came, she would know the size and weight that was normal, the way to feed and clothe the little body so as to promote the best growth; the kind of exercise and training essential to develop that legitimate human beauty and power which ought to belong to all of us.
We have our vulgar “Baby Shows,” where fat-cheeked, over-fed younglings are proudly exhibited. A time is coming when, without public exhibitions, without prize-money or clamorous vote, we shall raise a new standard in child culture–and live up to it.
HEAVEN FORBID!
When I was seventeen, you’d find
No youth so brash as I;
Things must be settled to my mind,
Or I’d know why!
I knew it all, and somewhat more,
What I believed was true;
The future held no task in store
I could not do!
If I had died in my youthful pride–
And no man can say when–
Should I have been immortal
As I was then? (Heaven forbid!)
When I was forty-two I stood
Successful, proud and strong;
Little I cared for bad or good–
My purse was long.
My breakfast, newspaper and train,–
My office,–the Exchange–
My work, my pleasure, and my gain– A narrow range.
If I had died in my business pride–
And no man can say when–
Should I have been immortal
As I was then? (Heaven forbid!)
Now I am old, and yet I keep
Intelligent content;
I wake and sleep in the quiet deep
Of disillusionment.
I don’t believe, nor disbelieve–
I simply do not know.
I fear no grave–no heaven crave–
Am quite prepared to go.
But when I die–and I would not stay, Though a friend should show me how,
Shall I become immortal,
As I am now? (Heaven forbid!)
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER VII.
HERESY AND SCHISM.
You may talk about religion with a free and open mind, For ten dollars you may criticize a judge; You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, But there’s one place where the brain must never budge!
CHORUS.
Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect!
And all its works within!
To say a word about it–
To criticize or doubt it–
To seek to mend or move it–
To venture to improve it–
Is The Unpardonable Sin!
–“Old Song.”
Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same. All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited.
So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire in “the chair” flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near it as she could.
At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her–even some opera glasses.
“She’s a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion.
“She’s a peach,” was another, “Tell you–the chap that gets her is well heeled!” said a third.
The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles.
On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty.
In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of “the right people.”
Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston A. Marrow (“one of the Boston Marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as ‘a journalist,’ who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended–led the more radical element.
Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as “conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still.
Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs. Dankshire’s generalship to keep them content with marking time.
On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question.
Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs.
In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: “The meeting will please come to order,” “We will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously through officer’s reports and committees reports to “new business.”
Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically.
“Members—and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests of The Home–those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human heart.”
A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands.
“Its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of Culture in this community. Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height”–(“proof of arboreal ancestry that,” Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)–“but in the more intimate fields of daily experience.”
“Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still–and find in this our highest honor–wives and mothers.” These novel titles called forth another round of applause.
“As such,” continued Mrs. Dankshire, “we all recognize the difficult–the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”–she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention–“domestic question.”
“We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”–(“I yawn while I’m attending–eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)–while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!–in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter.”
Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued:
“Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life.” A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman’s club.
“We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,”–Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question–The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this problem she has consented to address us–I take pleasure in introducing Miss Diantha Bell.”
Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear, short, and to some minds convincing.
She set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures–as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the “general.”
A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women.
“The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants,” said Diantha.
A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly:
“Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.”
The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter.
Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation.
“We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”–here Diantha grew solemn;–“So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety–the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate.”
A shocked silence met this statement.
“In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of ‘sleeping in’–their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.”
Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued:
“Let us now consider the economic side of the question. ‘Domestic economy’ is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him–fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste 47 per cent. of the labor.
“But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks–$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons!
“Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts.
“To what does all this lead?” asked Diantha pleasantly.
Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition.
“The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called “co-operative housekeeping.”
At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope was relit in darkened countenances.
“The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them,” said Diantha. This was of dubious import. “Why should we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone.”
Again an uncertain reception.
“Every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “Its needs are separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the home. But the separate home may be served by a common water company, by a common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith’s shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. That is the way to elevate–to enoble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service–and become world service.”
Suddenly and quietly she sat down.
Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others.
“Madam President! Madam President!” resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone–Mrs. Thaddler–no! yes–they really were both on their feet. Applause was going on–irregularly–soon dropped. Only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent.
Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward.
“Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the–we will now–the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!” And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was more aggressive.
“I wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that I was against this–unfortunate experiment–from the first. And I trust it will never be repeated!” She sat down.
Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of Diantha’s mouth.
“Madam Weatherstone?” said the President, placatingly.
Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each.
“Order!” said Mrs. Dankshire, “ORDER, please!” and rapped three times with the gavel.
“I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said Madam Weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. I trust that the–doubtless well meant–attempt to throw light on this subject–from the wrong quarter–has been a lesson to us all. No club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” And she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar.
“Madam President!” broke forth Miss Eagerson. “I was up first–and have been standing ever since–“
“One moment, Miss Eagerson,” said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, “The Rev. Dr. Eltwood.”
If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be “advanced” and was new to the place.
“Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?”
Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right.
“Ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and employed!–and gentlemen–whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”–he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire–“by your honored President.
“And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded women–and men–in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen–Miss Bell.”
He bowed again–to Miss Bell–and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself.
“Mr. Eltwood is right!” she said. “Miss Bell is right! This is the true presentation of the subject, ‘by one who knows.’ Miss Bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don’t know where we’re standing–but she knows! Housework is a business–like any other business–I’ve always said so, and it’s got to be done in a business way. Now I for one–” but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward.
“It is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!”
She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion.
But another voice was heard–for the first time in that assembly–Mrs. Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam Weatherstone, was on her feet with “Madam President! I wish to speak to this motion.”
“Won’t you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?” asked Mrs. Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high.
All sat silent, all expected–what was not forthcoming.
“I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks.”
“I second the motion,” came from all quarters.
“There is another motion before the house,” from others.
Cries of “Madam President” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor.
“I move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing tones. “Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell’s paper–and has any sense of decency–stand up!”
Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up–very informally. Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson, Miss Bell and their views.
“I move you, Madam President,” cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!”
“We hereby resign!” cried Miss Eagerson. “_We_ drop _you!_ We’ll have a New Woman’s Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head–even if it hasn’t as much money in its pocket!”
Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “Order–order,” and frantic “Motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction.
Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it.
Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the New Woman’s Club of Orchardina.
THE HOUSE OF APPLES
There was a certain King; young and inexperienced, but a man of resource and initiative; an efficacious King if he did but know it. Being new to his business, however, he did not, as yet, exert himself particularly.
This King, as it happened, was mightily fond of apples; but he was, as aforesaid, youthful and inexperienced; and too much overwhelmed with new duties, glories, and responsibilities, to be very exacting.
As a matter of expediency his stewards and servants strove to please him. As a matter of course they gave him what he wanted, when they could. As a matter of fact his table was provided with the best the market could afford.
The market, however, could not afford to do very well; at least its products did not satisfy the King.
“What is the trouble with these apples!” said the King, “Bring me another kind!”
They brought him several kinds–as many as three or four.
“Bring me more kinds!” said the King.
“These are all that the market affords, O King,” they replied.
“Confound the market!” said the King, “I will consider this business myself.”
Then the King consulted his books about apples; and the heads of departments in his Bureaus of horticulture and of Commerce. Having thus added to his information, he then went out to study the facts; and he found that the facts were these:
Apples grew as easily as ever they did; and there were really more kinds instead of less. People liked apples as well as ever they did, and there were more people instead of less.
Yet in the country the orchards were neglected and the apples fed to pigs or left to rot; and in the city, the fruit-stalls were loaded with the monotonous tasteless apples of commerce, cold-stored from time unknown; and those that were cheap were nasty, and those that were not nasty and not cheap were by mo means as high in quality as they were in price.
Then the King issued a Mandate, ordering his subjects far and wide to send him samples of all kinds of apples that were grown; with their names and histories and habits.
After this he made a tour of state, visiting his kingdom far and wide, and studying Appleculture in every quarter. And he consulted the people separately, in different places, saying, “Why do you not raise more apples of this sort and of this?”
And with one accord the people answered him–“It does not pay!”
This his Financial Advisers explained to him, outwardly with deep respect, but inwardly with derision at his inexperience, that there was no market for these varieties of apples, and they discoursed on The Law of Supply and Demand.
Then the King called upon his people to write everyone a postal card to him, stating the kind of apples they would buy if they could; and how many barrels or bushels or pecks or quarts they would like to use in a season, if the price was $2.00 a barrel, or five cents a quart.
This furnished employment to many mathematicians and staticians and tabulators for many days; but when all was done the King found that the desire of his people for apples averaged a barrel apiece per year. And the King briskly multiplied the number of his people by the price of a barrel of apples, and obtained a great sum.
“Ah!” said the King. “This is ‘The Market,’ is it not?”
But his Financial Advisers laughed in their sleeves, saying solemnly to him. “No, O King–this is merely an estimate of the idle desires of the people–with two large Ifs in it.”
“But this is ‘the Demand’ is it not?” said the King.
And his Financial Advisers put down their sleeves and said, “No, O King this is but a desire–not a demand.”
But the King was fond of apples, and obstinate.
So he caused to be built in every city a House of Apples; and appointed to each an Apple-Master, to carry out his will. And he commanded all his common carriers to carry apples in their season, so many carloads to a city, according to the desires of his people. And he offered to all fruit-raisers, from the humble Farmer to the haughty Horticulturist, such and such a price for such and such apples; the number thereof to increase as the population increased from year to year.
In the House of Apples was an Exhibition Hall, showing waxen examples of every Apple upon earth; and a market where Apples were sold; the short-lived Apples in their season, and the long-lived Apples the year around, and some were costly and some were cheap; and in the autumn the market was flooded–so that then all people could buy apples for a song–to their hearts’ content and their bodies’ comfort.
Golden Porters, crystalline and winy, were to be had in their brief season; and succulent sweetings, to bake with molasses; and gilliflowers, purple and mealy, and little scarlet sapsons, of which one eats without counting. Then the people bought more even than they had intended; and the farms found apples were a paying crop and cultivated them; and the common carriers lost nothing, for their carrying grew greater and the payment was steady and sure.
Now the King was really pleased at this, for he loved Apples and he loved having his own way–as Kings do. Also he delighted in the glorious array of Apples in his Houses; to look at, to eat, and to smell.
“It is worth the Price!” said the King. “I know what I want and I’m willing to pay for it.”
But when the Reports of The Apple Masters came in, Lo! There was a Great Profit for the King.
“There is no harm in that!” said he. And he showed the report to his Financial Advisers–and his sleeve was across his mouth.
And the name of that King was Demos.
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD
VII.
ETHICS AND RELIGION.
The laws of physics were at work before we were on earth, and continued to work on us long before we had intelligence enough to perceive, much less understand, them. Our proven knowledge of these processes constitutes “the science of physics”; but the laws were there before the science.
Physics is the science of material relation, how things and natural forces work with and on one another. Ethics is the science of social relation, how persons and social forces work with and on one another.
Ethics is to the human world what physics is to the material world; ignorance of ethics leaves us in the same helpless position in regard to one another that ignorance of physics left us in regard to earth, air, fire and water.
To be sure, people lived and died and gradually improved, while yet ignorant of the physical sciences; they developed a rough “rule of thumb” method, as animals do, and used great forces without understanding them. But their lives were safer and their improvement more rapid as they learned more, and began to make servants of the forces which had been their masters.
We have progressed, lamely enough, with terrible loss and suffering, from stark savagery to our present degree of civilization; we shall go on more safely and swiftly when we learn more of the science of ethics.
Let us note first that while the underlying laws of ethics remain steady and reliable, human notions of them have varied widely and still do so. In different races, ages, classes, sexes, different views of ethics obtain; the conduct of the people is modified by their views, and their prosperity is modified by their conduct.
Primitive man became very soon aware that conduct was of importance. As consciousness increased, with the power to modify action from within, instead of helplessly reacting to stimuli from without, there arose the crude first codes of ethics, the “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not” of the blundering savage. It was mostly “Thou shalt not.” Inhibition, the checking of an impulse proven disadvantageous, was an earlier and easier form of action than the later human power to consciously decide on and follow a course of action with no stimulus but one’s own will.
Primitive ethics consists mostly of Tabus–the things that are forbidden; and all our dim notions of ethics to this day, as well as most of our religions, deal mainly with forbidding.
This is almost the whole of our nursery government, to an extent shown by the well-worn tale of the child who said her name was “Mary.” “Mary what?” they asked her. And she answered, “Mary Don’t.” It is also the main body of our legal systems–a complex mass of prohibitions and preventions. And even in manners and conventions, the things one should not do far outnumber the things one should. A general policy of negation colors our conceptions of ethics and religion.
When the positive side began to be developed, it was at first in purely arbitrary and artificial form. The followers of a given religion were required to go through certain motions, as prostrating themselves, kneeling, and the like; they were required to bring tribute to the gods and their priests, sacrifices, tithes, oblations; they were set little special performances to go through at given times; the range of things forbidden was broad; the range of things commanded was narrow. The Christian religion, practically interpreted, requires a fuller “change of heart” and change of life than any preceding it; which may account at once for its wide appeal to enlightened peoples, and to its scarcity of application.
Again, in surveying the field, it is seen that as our grasp of ethical values widened, as we called more and more acts and tendencies “right” and “wrong,” we have shown astonishing fluctuations and vagaries in our judgment. Not only in our religions, which have necessarily upheld each its own set of prescribed actions as most “right,” and its own special prohibitions as most “wrong”; but in our beliefs about ethics and our real conduct, we have varied absurdly.
Take, for instance, the ethical concept among “gentlemen” a century or so since, which put the paying of one’s gambling debts as a well-nigh sacred duty, and the paying of a tradesman who had fed and clothed one as a quite negligible matter. If the process of gambling was of social service, and the furnishing of food and clothes was not, this might be good ethics; but as the contrary is true, we have to account for this peculiar view on other grounds.
Again, where in Japan a girl, to maintain her parents, is justified in leading a life of shame, we have a peculiar ethical standard difficult for Western minds to appreciate. Yet in such an instance as is described in “Auld Robin Gray,” we see precisely the same code; the girl, to benefit her parents, marries a rich old man she does not love–which is to lead a life of shame. The ethical view which justifies this, puts the benefit of parents above the benefit of children, robs the daughter of happiness and motherhood, injures posterity to assist ancestors.
This is one of the products of that very early religion, ancestor worship; and here we lay a finger on a distinctly masculine influence.
We know little of ethical values during the matriarchate; whatever they were, they must have depended for sanction on a cult of promiscuous but efficient maternity. Our recorded history begins in the patriarchal period, and it is its ethics alone which we know.
The mother instinct, throughout nature, is one of unmixed devotion, of love and service, care and defence, with no self-interest. The animal father, in such cases as he is of service to the young, assists the mother in her work in similar fashion. But the human father in the family with the male head soon made that family an instrument of desire, and combat, and self-expression, following the essentially masculine impulses. The children were his, and if males, valuable to serve and glorify him. In his dominance over servile women and helpless children, free rein was given to the growth of pride and the exercise of irresponsible tyranny. To these feelings, developed without check for thousands of years, and to the mental habits resultant, it is easy to trace much of the bias of our early ethical concepts.
Perhaps it is worth while to repeat here that the effort of this book is by no means to attribute a wholly evil influence to men, and a wholly good one to women; it is not even claimed that a purely feminine culture would have advanced the world more successfully. It does claim that the influence of the two together is better than that of either one alone; and in especial to point out what special kind of injury is due to the exclusive influence of one sex heretofore.
We have to-day reached a degree of human development where both men and women are capable of seeing over and across the distinctions of sex, and mutually working for the advancement of the world. Our progress is, however, seriously impeded by what we may call the masculine tradition, the unconscious dominance of a race habit based on this long androcentric period; and it is well worth while, in the interests of both sexes, to show the mischievous effects of the predominance of one.
We have in our ethics not only a “double standard” in one special line, but in nearly all. Man, as a sex, has quite naturally deified his own qualities rather than those of his opposite. In his codes of manners, of morals, of laws, in his early concepts of God, his ancient religions, we see masculinity written large on every side. Confining women wholly to their feminine functions, he has required of them only what he called feminine virtues, and the one virtue he has demanded, to the complete overshadowing of all others, is measured by wholly masculine requirements.
ln the interests of health and happiness, monogamous marriage proves its superiority in our race as it has in others. It is essential to the best growth of humanity that we practice the virtue of chastity; it is a human virtue, not a feminine one. But in masculine hands this virtue was enforced upon women under penalties of hideous cruelty, and quite ignored by men. Masculine ethics, colored by masculine instincts, always dominated by sex, has at once recognized the value of chastity in the woman, which is right; punished its absence unfairly, which is wrong; and then reversed the whole matter when applied to men, which is ridiculous.
Ethical laws are laws–not idle notions. Chastity is a virtue because it promotes human welfare–not because men happen to prize it in women and ignore it themselves. The underlying reason for the whole thing is the benefit of the child; and to that end a pure and noble fatherhood is requisite, as well as such a motherhood. Under the limitations of a too masculine ethics, we have developed on this one line social conditions which would be absurdly funny if they were not so horrible.
Religion, be it noticed, does not bear out this attitude. The immense human need of religion, the noble human character of the great religious teachers, has always set its standards, when first established, ahead of human conduct.
Some there are, men of learning and authority, who hold that the deadening immobility of our religions, their resistance to progress and relentless preservation of primitive ideals, is due to the conservatism of women. Men, they say, are progressive by nature; women are conservative. Women are more religious than men, and so preserve old religious forms unchanged after men have outgrown them.
If we saw women in absolute freedom, with a separate religion devised by women, practiced by women, and remaining unchanged through the centuries; while men, on the other hand, bounded bravely forward, making new ones as fast as they were needed, this belief might be maintained. But what do we see? All the old religions made by men, and forced on the women whether they liked it or not. Often women not even considered as part of the scheme–denied souls–given a much lower place in the system–going from the service of their father’s gods to the service of their husbands–having none of their own. We see religions which make practically no place for women, as with the Moslem, as rigidly bigoted and unchanging as any other.
We see also this: that the wider and deeper the religion, the more human, the more it calls for practical applications in Christianity–the more it appeals to women. Further, in the diverging sects of the Christian religion, we find that its progressiveness is to be measured, not by the numbers of its women adherents, but by their relative freedom. The women of America, who belong to a thousand sects, who follow new ones with avidity, who even make them, and who also leave them all as men do, are women, as well as those of Spain, who remain contented Romanists, but in America the status of women is higher.
The fact is this: a servile womanhood is in a state of arrested development, and as such does form a ground for the retention of ancient ideas. But this is due to the condition of servility, not to womanhood. That women at present are the bulwark of the older forms of our religions is due to the action of two classes of men: the men of the world, who keep women in their restricted position, and the men of the church, who take every advantage of the limitations of women. When we have for the first time in history a really civilized womanhood, we can then judge better of its effect on religion.
Meanwhile, we can see quite clearly the effect of manhood. Keeping in mind those basic masculine impulses–desire and combat–we see them reflected from high heaven in their religious concepts. Reward! Something to want tremendously and struggle to achieve! This is a concept perfectly masculine and most imperfectly religious. A religion is partly explanation–a theory of life; it is partly emotion–an attitude of mind, it is partly action–a system of morals. Man’s special effect on this large field of human development is clear. He pictured his early gods as like to himself, and they behaved in accordance with his ideals. In the dimmest, oldest religions, nearest the matriarchate, we find great goddesses–types of Motherhood, Mother-love, Mother-care and Service. But under masculine dominance, Isis and Ashteroth dwindle away to an alluring Aphrodite–not Womanhood for the child and the World–but the incarnation of female attractiveness for man.
As the idea of heaven developed in the man’s mind it became the Happy Hunting Ground of the savage, the beery and gory Valhalla of the Norseman, the voluptuous, many-houri-ed Paradise of the Mohammedan. These are men’s heavens all. Women have never been so fond of hunting, beer or blood; and their houris would be of the other kind. It may be said that the early Christian idea of heaven is by no means planned for men. That is trite, and is perhaps the reason why it has never had so compelling an attraction for them.
Very early in his vague efforts towards religious expression, man voiced his second strongest instinct–that of combat. His universe is always dual, always a scene of combat. Born with that impulse, exercising it continually, he naturally assumed it to be the major process in life. It is not. Growth is the major process. Combat is a useful subsidiary process, chiefly valuable for its initial use, to transmit the physical superiority of the victor. Psychic and social advantages are not thus secured or transmitted.
In no one particular is the androcentric character of our common thought more clearly shown than in the general deification of what are now described as “conflict stimuli.” That which is true of the male creature as such is assumed to be true of life in general; quite naturally, but by no means correctly. To this universal masculine error we may trace in the field of religion and ethics the great devil theory, which has for so long obscured our minds. A God without an Adversary was inconceivable to the masculine mind. From this basic misconception we find all our ideas of ethics distorted; that which should have been treated as a group of truths to be learned and habits to be cultivated was treated in terms of combat, and moral growth made an everlasting battle. This combat theory we may follow later into our common notions of discipline, government, law and punishment; here is it enough to see its painful effects in this primary field of ethics and religion?
The third essential male trait of self-expression we may follow from its innocent natural form in strutting cock or stamping stag up to the characteristics we label vanity and pride. The degradation of women in forcing them to adopt masculine methods of personal decoration as a means of livelihood, has carried with the concomitant of personal vanity: but to this day and at their worst we do not find in women the _naive_ exultant glow of pride which swells the bosom of the men who march in procession with brass bands, in full regalia of any sort, so that it be gorgeous, exhibiting their glories to all.
It is this purely masculine spirit which has given to our early concepts of Deity the unadmirable qualities of boundless pride and a thirst for constant praise and prostrate admiration, characteristics certainly unbefitting any noble idea of God. Desire, combat and self-expression all have had their unavoidable influence on masculine religions. What deified Maternity a purely feminine culture might have put forth we do not know, having had none such. Women are generally credited with as much moral sense as men, and as much religious instinct; but so far it has had small power to modify our prevailing creeds.
As a matter of fact, no special sex attributes should have any weight in our ideas of right and wrong. Ethics and religion are distinctly human concerns; they belong to us as social factors, not as physical ones. As we learn to recognize our humanness, and to leave our sex characteristics where they belong, we shall at last learn something about ethics as a simple and practical science, and see that religions grow as the mind grows to formulate them.
If anyone seeks for a clear, simple, easily grasped proof of our ethics, it is to be found in a popular proverb. Struggling upward from beast and savage into humanness, man has seen, reverenced, and striven to attain various human virtues.
He was willing to check many primitive impulses, to change many barbarous habits, to manifest newer, nobler powers. Much he would concede to Humanness, but not his sex–that was beyond the range of Ethics or Religion. By the state of what he calls “morals,” and the laws he makes to regulate them, by his attitude in courtship and in marriage, and by the gross anomaly of militarism, in all its senseless waste of life and wealth and joy, we may perceive this little masculine exception:
“All’s fair in love and war.”
COMMENT AND REVIEW
“Inspired Millionaires,” by Gerald Stanley Lee, has certainly inspired one. We read among the quoted letters on the paper cover one from Mr. Joseph Fels saying, “I want twenty-five copies of the book to distribute among the millionaires here. If the books are well received I will increase the order.”
The impression to the lay mind, not too profusely acquainted with millionaires, is of amazement at his opportunities; twenty-five among “the millionaires here,” and a possible demand for more!
The impression deepens as we read Mr. Fels’ second letter, “Please send fifty more copies. I am putting them where they tell.”
Seventy-five millionaires “here”–wherever that was; and in other places more and more and even more of them! Among so many there must be some common humanity, possibly some uncommon humanity; it would appear as if Mr. Lee might be right.
He believes that a millionaire may be a good man, a social enthusiast, an artist and connoisseur, not in spite of his money, but because of it; not by giving it away, pre- or post mortem; but by using it _in his business_.
This is a simple thought after you see it; but it has been generally overlooked. Mr. Lee has clear eyes and a silver tongue. His perceptions are important and his expressions convincing. He speaks plainly also, calling some millionaires by name, and designating others almost as plainly.
“What could be more pathetic, for instance,” he says, “than Mr. —– as an educator–a man who is educating-and-mowing-down two hundred thousand (?) men a day, ten hours a day, for forty years of their lives; that is, who is separating the souls of his employees from their work, bullying them into being linked with a work and a method they despise, and who is trying to atone for it all–this vast terrible schooling, ten hours a fay, forty years, two hundred thousand men’s lives–by piecing together professors and scholars, putting up a little playhouse of learning, before the world, to give a few fresh young boys and girls four years with paper books?–a man the very thought of whom has ruined more men and devastated more faiths and created more cowards and brutes and fools in all walks of life than any other influence in the nineteenth century, and who is trying to eke out at last a spoonful of atonement for it all–all this vast baptism of the business world in despair and force and cursing and pessimism, by perching up before it —– University, like a dove cote on a volcano.
“It may blur people’s eyes for a minute, but everyone really knows in his heart–every man in this nation–that the only real education Mr. —– has established, or ever can establish, is the way he has made his money. Everyone knows also that the only possible, the only real education Mr. —– can give to a man would have to be through the daily thing he gives the man to do, ten hours a day, through the way he lets him do it, through the spirit and expression he allows him to put into it ten hours a day. Mr. —–‘s real school, the one with two hundred thousand men in it, and eighty million helpless spectators in the galleries, is a school which is working out a daily, bitter, lying curse upon the rich, and a bitter, lying curse upon the poor, which it is going to take the world generations to redeem.”
This is a long quotation; but it shows our prophet is not blinded by sentiment; he knows an un-inspired millionaire when he sees him.
He makes this observation of one of the first important acts of Governor Hughes. “He did one of the most memorable and enlightened silences that has ever been done by any man in the United States.” And then he goes on to show the power that lies in simply being right.
There are plenty of epigrams in the book, plenty of imagination, plenty of hard sense; and some mistakes. Various readers will assort these to suit their several minds. But it is funny, having so many men, with so much money, and so little idea of what to do with it, is it not?
Why shouldn’t they, or some of them at least, really do business with it as Mr. Lee suggests?
PERSONAL PROBLEMS
Question:–What can one do with a bore? I am not over strong, and very sensitive to people. When some people come to see me–and stay–and they always do stay–it makes me ill–I cannot work well next day.
–Sufferer.
Answer:–My dear Sufferer. Your problem is a serious one. Bores are disagreeable to all and dangerous to some. They cannot be arrested or imprisoned; and kerosene does not lessen their numbers. They commit no active offence–it is not by doing that they affect us so painfully, but simply by being. Especially by being there.
Sub-question:–Can a bore be a bore when no one else is present.
Sub-answer:–We suspect they can. It is because he bores himself when alone that he seeks continually to bore others.
Yet some of them are well-intentioned persons who would be grieved to know they were injurious. Even the dull and thick-skinned are open to offence if it is forced upon them.
We suspect that the only real cure is courage on the part of the victim. If the suffering host or hostess frankly said, “My dear Sir–or Madam–you are making me very tired. I wish you would go away,” the result would leave nothing to be desired. “But,” says the sufferer in alarm, “they would never come to see us again!”
Well. Do you want them to?
“But–sometimes I like to see them.” Or, “I cannot afford to quarrel with So and So!”
Ah! We will now quote Emerson. “It you want anything, pay for it and take it, says God.”
Question:–“I have a sick parent. What is my whole duty in the case?”
–Filial Devotee.
Answer:–It depends on your sex. If you are a man, your duty is to provide a home for the patient, a servant, a nurse, a physician, food, medicine, and two short calls a day. You will be called “A Devoted Son.”
If you are a woman, you need provide none of these things; but must wait upon the patient with your own hands as nurse and servant; regardless of your special ability. If you do at does a devoted son you will be called “An Unnatural Daughter.”
Question:–“Why do the shapes of shoes change from year to year? Surely the shapes of our feet do not.
Answer:–This is one of the inscrutable minor problems of Fashion and The Market. The desire for novelty; the lack of a real feeling for beauty; a savage indifference to physical comfort, the pressure of necessity or greediness urging the manufacturer to sell more shoes than people need; the brow-beaten submissiveness of most purchasers and the persuasive–or insolent–compulsion of salesmen; all these combine to make our feet ugly and painful.
SUFFRAGE
I became an advocate of full suffrage for women as soon as I was old enough to understand the value of democratic government, to see that a true democracy requires the intelligent participation of all the people, and that women are people. With further knowledge I advocate woman suffrage on two grounds: first because a dependent and servile womanhood is an immovable obstacle to race development; second because the major defects of our civilization are clearly traceable to the degradation of the female and the unbalanced predominance of the male, which unnatural relation is responsible for the social evil, for the predatory and combative elements in our economic processes, and for that colossal mingling of folly, waste, and horror, that wholly masculine phenomenon–war.
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THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN’S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK
AS TO PURPOSE:
_What is The Forerunner?_ It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon; dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
_What is it For?_ It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to make.
_What is it about?_ It is about people, principles, and the questions of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.
_Is it a Woman’s magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our existence–male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important citizen.
_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious humanity is to promote Socialization.
_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.
AS TO ADVERTISING:
We have long heard that “A pleased customer is the best advertiser.” The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be true.
AS TO CONTENTS:
The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a new name:–
_”Our Androcentric Culture.”_ this is a study of the historic effect on normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization. It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the more human, may do to change it.
_”What Diantha Did.”_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of true love running very crookedly–as it so often does–among the obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem–and solves that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)
Among the short articles will appear:
“Private Morality and Public Immorality.” “The Beauty Women Have Lost”
“Our Overworked Instincts.”
“The Nun in the Kitchen.”
“Genius: Domestic and Maternal.”
“A Small God and a Large Goddess.”
“Animals in Cities.”
“How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money.” “Prize Children”
“Kitchen-Mindedness”
“Parlor-Mindedness”
“Nursery-Mindedness”
There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue. The department of “Personal Problems” does not discuss etiquette, fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be answered, unless at peril of the asker.
AS TO VALUE:
If you take this magazine one year you will have:
One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman Besides “Comment and Review” . . . By C. P. Gilman “Personal Problems” . . . By C. P. Gilman And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman
DON’T YOU THINK IT’S WORTH A DOLLAR?
THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN’S MAGAZINE CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK
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Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to “The Forerunner” from _____ 19___ to _____ 19___
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TO RENT
A Summer Cottage
on Lake Champlain
Near the Adirondacks
This is a six-room two-story cottage, natural wood finish, unplastered, on two and a half acres of land, 600 feet on the lake, with an old apple orchard and many other trees. It has on two sides covered piazzas, outside blinds, open fireplaces in two rooms; and new white enameled open plumbing, with hot and cold water. It is about a mile and a half from Essex Village, and about one-quarter of a mile from the post office, at the Crater Club, an exclusive summer colony. Access by boat and train.
I have not seen this cottage, but I’ve seen plans, elevations and photographs of it, and of views from it. It stands on a bluff, close to the lake, the Green Mountains far in the east, and the Adirondacks some twelve miles to the west. The people who own it will answer further questions and state facts fully on request, both advantages and disadvantages.
The list of furnishings is accurate and circumstantial, as follows:
INVENTORY OF CONTENTS OF COTTAGE
LIVING ROOM
Mahogany sofa, small mahogany table
Marble-topped table and “Crowning of Esther” 4 rosewood chairs, steamer chair
Whatnot, wall-bracket, books, basket Mahogany table, small round 3-legged
Long mantel mirror, gilt frame
3 oil paintings, 3 engravings
Rustic seat (filled with wood)
Old-fashioned heating stove, crated Candle-lantern, 2 Japanese trays
Door-scraper, woodbasket
Tongs-holder, hearth brush
Child’s garden tools
2 sofa cushions
Various small ornaments
KITCHEN
Ironing Table, stand, wax, bosom board Tin pail, dipper, basin
1 new broom, 1 old broom
Tool box, tools, nails, saw, hatchet Hammock, barrel hammock, tie ropes
Soap rack, dustpan, scrap basket
Folding hat rack, ladder
Carving set, 6 knives (very old)
Coffee pot, toaster, egg whip, egg beater 5 large white china plates
5 medium and 6 small ditto
6 demi tasse and saucers, same
2 tea cups, 6 saucers, same
2 egg stands, green; 2 sugar bowls
1 butterfly cup and saucer
6 glasses, 1 lemon squeezer
1 mechanical red-glass lamp
2 reading lamps, 3 small hand lamps 3 small bracket lamps, 1 shade
White shades at all windows
GREEN BEDROOM
Green bedstead (three-quarter)
2 mattresses, 2 pillows, madras cover Green bureau; green washstand
Green table; green rocking chair
Oak chair; 2 pictures; 1 chamber
LARGE EAST BEDROOM
Oak bedstead (double)
Oak bureau, oak washstand
2 mattresses, 2 feather beds, 1 bolster 2 pillows, madras spread
1 box cot, 1 mattress, straw pillow 2 chairs, 2 towel racks
Bureau cover, pen cushion, etc.
3 pictures
SOUTHWEST BEDROOM
Black walnut single bedstead
1 hair mattress and bolster
1 pillow, 1 feather bed, 1 madras spread Bureau (mirror broken), 2 towel racks
Mahogany washstand, mirror
Small 3-legged table
3 rosewood chairs
Bureau cover, pin cushion, etc.
Shoebag on wall
Oil painting, on copper
Brass stair rods, in closet
NORTHWEST BEDROOM
2 mahogany bureaus, empty trunk
Portable bath-tub, clothes basket
On shelves: 7 sheets, 7 pillow cases 3 table cloths, 10 doilies
4 towels, dish cloths and towels
Bureau and tray cloths
Curtains, enough for doors
Curtains for some windows
Apply to “Summer Cottage,” care of The Forerunner or to John B. Burnham, Agent, Essex, N.Y.
THE FORERUNNER
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER
1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY
Volume 1. No. 8
JUNE, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman
Clothing is for five purposes: Decoration, Protection, Warmth, Modesty, and Symbolism. Can you explain yours?
THE PURITAN
“Where is God?” I cried. “Let me hear!” “I long for the voice of God!”
And I smote and trod
On all things clamoring near;
Small voices dear,
That wept and murmured and sung
Till my heart was wrung;
That shrieked, shrieked loud and clear, As I with hammer and sword
Slew them in the name of the Lord.
Where is God?” I cried. “Let me hear!” But my ears were ringing yet
With cries I could not forget;
The blood was flowing still,
From the thing I could not kill;
A smothered sobbing cry
Filled all the red, wet earth, the cold, hard sky– God came not near.
Then long I lived alone,
On the desolate land; a stone
On the thing I could not kill.
I bent to my hardened will
All things that lived below;
I strove to climb above,
To the land of living love
I had dreamed of long ago,
But I could not see–not know.
“O God!” I cried, “Come near!
Speak! Let thy servant hear!
Have I not utterly slain
With tears of blood, with sweat of pain, In this base heart of mine
All voices old and dear–to hear but Thine! And if there struggleth still
The thing I could not kill,
Have I not put a stone
On its head? O Thou alone
Whom I would follow and fear–
Speak! Let Thy servant hear!”
Silent I lay, and weak;
Then did the darkness speak;
“Child of the World! My love
Is beneath as well as above!
Thou art not always led
By a light that shines ahead!
But pushed by an impulse blind–
A mighty Power behind!
Lifted, as all things grow,
By forces from below!
Fear not for thy long mistake–
Listen! And there shall wake
The voice that has found the way
From the beginning, upward ever, into the light of day! Lo! I am with thee still–
The thing thou couldst not kill!
MAKING A LIVING
“There won’t be any litigation and chicanery to help you out, young man. I’ve fixed that. Here are the title deeds of your precious country-place; you can sit in that hand-made hut of yours and make poetry and crazy inventions the rest of your life! The water’s good–and I guess you can live on the chestnuts!”
“Yes, sir,” said Arnold Blake, rubbing his long chin dubiously. “I guess I can.”
His father surveyed him with entire disgust. “If you had wit enough you might rebuild that old saw-mill and make a living off it!”
“Yes, sir,” said Arnold again. “I had thought of that.”
“You had, had you?” sneered his father. “Thought of it because it rhymed, I bet you! Hill and mill, eh? Hut and nut, trees and breeze, waterfall–beat-’em-all? I’m something of a poet myself, you see! Well,–there’s your property. And with what your Mother left you will buy books and writing paper! As for my property–that’s going to Jack. I’ve got the papers for that too. Not being an idiot I’ve saved out enough for myself–no Lear business for mine! Well, boy–I’m sorry you’re a fool. But you’ve got what you seem to like best.”
“Yes, sir,” said Arnold once more. “I have, and I’m really much obliged to you, Father, for not trying to make me take the business.”
Then young John Blake, pattern and image of his father, came into possession of large assets and began to use them in the only correct way; to increase and multiply without end.
Then old John Blake, gazing with pride on his younger son, whose acumen almost compensated him for the bitter disappointment of being father to a poet; set forth for a season of rest and change.
“I’m going to see the world! I never had time before!” quoth he; and started off for Europe, Asia, and Africa.
Then Arnold Blake, whose eyes were the eyes of a poet, but whose mouth had a touch of resemblance to his father’s, betook himself to his Hill.
But the night before they separated, he and his brother both proposed to Ella Sutherland. John because he had made up his mind that it was the proper time for him to marry, and this was the proper woman; and Arnold because he couldn’t help it.
John got to work first. He was really very fond of Ella, and made hot love to her. It was a painful surprise to him to be refused. He argued with her. He told her how much he loved her.
“There are others!” said Miss Ella.
He told her how rich he was.
“That isn’t the point,” said Ella.
He told her how rich he was going to be.
“I’m not for sale!” said Ella, “even on futures!”
Then he got angry and criticised her judgement.
“It’s a pity, isn’t it,” she said, “for me to have such poor judgment–and for you to have to abide by it!”
“I won’t take your decision,” said John. “You’re only a child yet. In two years’ time you’ll be wiser. I’ll ask you again then.”
“All right,” said Ella. “I’ll answer you again then.”
John went away, angry, but determined.
Arnold was less categorical.
“I’ve no right to say a word,” he began, and then said it. Mostly he dilated on her beauty and goodness and his overmastering affection for her.
“Are you offering marriage?” she inquired, rather quizzically.
“Why yes–of course!” said he, “only–only I’ve nothing to offer.”
“There’s you!” said Ella.
“But that’s so little!” said Arnold. “O! if you will wait for me!–I will work!–“
“What will you work at?” said Ella.
Arnold laughed. Ella laughed. “I love to camp out!” said she.
“Will you wait for me a year?” said Arnold.
“Ye-es,” said Ella. I’ll even wait two–if I have to. But no longer!”
“What will you do then?” asked Arnold miserably.
“Marry you,” said Ella.
So Arnold went off to his Hill.
What was one hill among so many? There they arose about him, far green, farther blue, farthest purple, rolling away to the real peaks of the Catskills. This one had been part of his mother’s father’s land; a big stretch, coming down to them from an old Dutch grant. It ran out like a promontory into the winding valley below; the valley that had been a real river when the Catskills were real mountains. There was some river there yet, a little sulky stream, fretting most of the year in its sunken stony bed, and losing its temper altogether when the spring floods came.
Arnold did not care much for the river–he had a brook of his own; an ideal brook, beginning with an over-flowing spring; and giving him three waterfalls and a lake on his own land. It was a very little lake and handmade. In one place his brook ran through a narrow valley or valleyette–so small it was; and a few weeks of sturdy work had damned the exit and made a lovely pool. Arnold did that years ago, when he was a great hulking brooding boy, and used to come up there with his mother in summer; while his father stuck to the office and John went to Bar Harbor with his chums. Arnold could work hard even if he was a poet.
He quarried stone from his hill–as everyone did in those regions; and built a small solid house, adding to it from year to year; that was a growing joy as long as the dear mother lived.
This was high up, near the dark, clear pool of the spring; he had piped the water into the house–for his mother’s comfort. It stood on a level terrace, fronting south-westward; and every season he did more to make it lovely. There was a fine smooth lawn there now and flowering vines and bushes; every pretty wild thing that would grow and bloom of itself in that region, he collected about him.
That dear mother had delighted in all the plants and trees; she studied about them and made observations, while he enjoyed them–and made poems. The chestnuts were their common pride. This hill stood out among all the others in the flowering time, like a great pompon, and the odor of it was by no means attractive–unless you happened to like it, as they did.
The chestnut crop was tremendous; and when Arnold found that not only neighboring boys, but business expeditions from the city made a practice of rifling his mountain garden, he raged for one season and acted the next. When the first frost dropped the great burrs, he was on hand, with a posse of strong young fellows from the farms about. They beat and shook and harvested, and sack upon sack of glossy brown nuts were piled on wagons and sent to market by the owner instead of the depredator.
Then he and his mother made great plans, the eager boy full of ambition. He studied forestry and arboriculture; and grafted the big fat foreign chestnut on his sturdy native stocks, while his father sneered and scolded because he would not go into the office.
Now he was left to himself with his plans and hopes. The dear mother was gone, but the hill was there–and Ella might come some day; there was a chance.
“What do you think of it?” he said to Patsy. Patsy was not Irish. He was an Italian from Tuscany; a farmer and forester by birth and breeding, a soldier by compulsion, an American citizen by choice.
“Fine!” said Patsy. “Fine. Ver’ good. You do well.”
They went over the ground together. “Could you build a little house here?” said Arnold. “Could you bring your wife? Could she attend to my house up there?–and could you keep hens and a cow and raise vegetables on this patch here–enough for all of us?–you to own the house and land–only you cannot sell it except to me?”
Then Patsy thanked his long neglected saints, imported his wife and little ones, took his eldest daughter out of the box factory, and his eldest son out of the printing office; and by the end of the summer they were comfortably established and ready to attend to the chestnut crop.
Arnold worked as hard as his man. Temporarily he hired other sturdy Italians, mechanics of experience; and spent his little store of capital in a way that would have made his father swear and his brother jeer at him.
When the year was over he had not much money left, but he had by his second waterfall a small electrical plant, with a printing office attached; and by the third a solid little mill, its turbine wheel running merrily in the ceaseless pour. Millstones cost more money than he thought, but there they were–brought up by night from the Hudson River–that his neighbors might not laugh too soon. Over the mill were large light rooms, pleasant to work in; with the shade of mighty trees upon the roof; and the sound of falling water in the sun.
By next summer this work was done, and the extra workmen gone. Whereat our poet refreshed himself with a visit to his Ella, putting in some lazy weeks with her at Gloucester, happy and hopeful, but silent.
“How’s the chestnut crop?” she asked him.
“Fine. Ver’ good,” he answered. “That’s what Patsy says–and Patsy knows.”
She pursued her inquiries. “Who cooks for you? Who keeps your camp in order? Who washes your clothes?”
“Mrs. Patsy,” said he. “She’s as good a cook as anybody need want.”
“And how is the prospect?” asked Ella.
Arnold turned lazily over, where he lay on the sand at her feet, and looked at her long and hungrily. “The prospect,” said he, “is divine.”
Ella blushed and laughed and said he was a goose; but he kept on looking.
He wouldn’t tell her much, though. “Don’t, dear,” he said when she urged for information. “It’s too serious. If I should fail–“
“You won’t fail!” she protested. “You can’t fail! And if you do–why–as I told you before, I like to camp out!”
But when he tried to take some natural advantage of her friendliness she teased him–said he was growing to look just like his father! Which made them both laugh.
Arnold returned and settled down to business. He purchased stores of pasteboard, of paper, of printers ink, and a little machine to fold cartons. Thus equipped he retired to his fastness, and set dark-eyed Caterlina to work in a little box factory of his own; while clever Guiseppe ran the printing press, and Mafalda pasted. Cartons, piled flat, do not take up much room, even in thousands.
Then Arnold loafed deliberately.
“Why not your Mr. Blake work no more?” inquired Mrs. Patsy of her spouse.
“O he work–he work hard,” replied Patsy. “You women–you not understand work!”
Mrs. Patsy tossed her head and answered in fluent Italian, so that her husband presently preferred out of doors occupation; but in truth Arnold Blake did not seem to do much that summer. He loafed under his great trees, regarding them lovingly; he loafed by his lonely upper waterfall, with happy dreaming eyes; he loafed in his little blue lake–floating face to the sky, care free and happy as a child. And if he scribbled a great deal–at any sudden moment when the fit seized him, why that was only his weakness as a poet.
Toward the end of September, he invited an old college friend up to see him; now a newspaper man–in the advertising department. These two seemed to have merry times together. They fished and walked and climbed, they talked much; and at night were heard roaring with laughter by their hickory fire.
“Have you got any money left?” demanded his friend.
“About a thou–” said Arnold. “And that’s got to last me till next spring, you know.”
“Blow it in–blow in every cent–it’ll pay you. You can live through the winter somehow. How about transportation?”
“Got a nice electric dray–light and strong. Runs down hill with the load to tidewater, you see, and there’s the old motorboat to take it down. Brings back supplies.”
“Great!–It’s simply great! Now, you save enough to eat till spring and give me the rest. Send me your stuff, all of it! and as soon as you get in a cent above expenses–send me that–I’ll ‘tend to the advertising!”
He did. He had only $800 to begin with. When the first profits began to come in he used them better; and as they rolled up he still spent them. Arnold began to feel anxious, to want to save money; but his friend replied: “You furnish the meal–I’ll furnish the market!” And he did.
He began it in the subway in New York; that place of misery where eyes, ears, nose, and common self-respect are all offended, and even an advertisement is some relief.
“Hill” said the first hundred dollars, on a big blank space for a week. “Mill” said the second. “Hill Mill Meal,” said the third.
The fourth was more explicit.
“When tired of every cereal
Try our new material–
Hill Mill Meal.”
The fifth–
“Ask your grocer if you feel
An interest in Hill Mill Meal.
Samples free.”
The sixth–
“A paradox! Surprising! True!
Made of chestnuts but brand new!
Hill Mill Meal.”
And the seventh–
“Solomon said it couldn’t be done,
There wasn’t a new thing under the sun– He never ate Hill Mill Meal!”
Seven hundred dollars went in this one method only; and meanwhile diligent young men in automobiles were making arrangements and leaving circulars and samples with the grocer. Anybody will take free samples and everybody likes chestnuts. Are they not the crown of luxury in turkey stuffing? The gem of the confection as _marron glaces_? The sure profit of the corner-merchant with his little charcoal stove, even when they are half scorched and half cold? Do we not all love them, roast, or boiled–only they are so messy to peel.
Arnold’s only secret was his process; but his permanent advantage was in the fine quality of his nuts, and his exquisite care in manufacture. In dainty, neat, easily opened cartons (easily shut too, so they were not left gaping to gather dust), he put upon the market a sort of samp, chestnuts perfectly shelled and husked, roasted and ground, both coarse and fine. Good? You stood and ate half a package out of your hand, just tasting of it. Then you sat down and ate the other half.
He made pocket-size cartons, filled with whole ones, crafty man! And they became “The Business Man’s Lunch” forthwith. A pocketful of roast chestnuts–and no mess nor trouble! And when they were boiled–well, we all know how good boiled chestnuts are. As to the meal, a new variety of mush appeared, and gems, muffins, and pancakes that made old epicures feel young again in the joys of a fresh taste, and gave America new standing in the eyes of France.
The orders rolled in and the poetry rolled out. The market for a new food is as wide as the world; and Jim Chamberlin was mad to conquer it, but Arnold explained to him that his total output was only so many bushels a year.
“Nonsense!” said Jim. “You’re a–a–well, a _poet_! Come! Use your imagination! Look at these hills about you–they could grow chestnuts to the horizon! Look at this valley, that rattling river, a bunch of mills could run here! You can support a fine population–a whole village of people–there’s no end to it, I tell you!”
“And where would my privacy be then and the beauty of the place?” asked Arnold, “I love this green island of chestnut trees, and the winding empty valley, just freckled with a few farms. I’d hate to support a village!”
“But you can be a Millionaire!” said Jim.
“I don’t want to be a Millionaire,” Arnold cheerfully replied.
Jim gazed at him, opening and shutting his mouth in silence. “You–confounded old–_poet_!” he burst forth at last.
“I can’t help that,” said Arnold.
“You’d better ask Miss Sutherland about it, I think,” his friend drily suggested.
“To be sure! I had forgotten that–I will,” the poet replied.
Then he invited her to come up and visit his Hill, met her at the train with the smooth, swift, noiseless, smell-less electric car, and held her hand in blissful silence as they rolled up the valley road. They wound more slowly up his graded avenue, green-arched by chestnut boughs.
He showed her the bit of meadowy inlet where the mill stood, by the heavy lower fall; the broad bright packing rooms above, where the busy Italian boys and girls chattered gaily as they worked. He showed her the second fall, with his little low-humming electric plant; a bluestone building, vine-covered, lovely, a tiny temple to the flower-god.
“It does our printing,” said Arnold, “gives us light, heat and telephones. And runs the cars.”
Then he showed her the shaded reaches of his lake, still, starred with lilies, lying dark under the curving boughs of water maples, doubling the sheer height of flower-crowned cliffs.
She held his hand tighter as they wound upward, circling the crown of the hill that she might see the splendid range of outlook; and swinging smoothly down a little and out on the green stretch before the house.
Ella gasped with delight. Gray, rough and harmonious, hung with woodbine and wildgrape, broad-porched and wide-windowed, it faced the setting sun. She stood looking, looking, over the green miles of tumbling hills, to the blue billowy far-off peaks swimming in soft light.
“There’s the house,” said Arnold, “furnished–there’s a view room built on–for you, dear; I did it myself. There’s the hill–and the little lake and one waterfall all for us! And the spring, and the garden, and some very nice Italians. And it will earn–my Hill and Mill, about three or four thousand dollars a year–above _all_ expenses!”
“How perfectly splendid!” said Ella. “But there’s one thing you’ve left out!”
“What’s that?” he asked, a little dashed.
“_You_!” she answered. “Arnold Blake! My Poet!”
“Oh, I forgot,” he added, after some long still moments. “I ought to ask you about this first. Jim Chamberlain says I can cover all these hills with chestnuts, fill this valley with people, string that little river with a row of mills, make breakfast for all the world–and be a Millionaire. Shall I?”
“For goodness sake–_No_!” said Ella. “Millionaire, indeed? And spoil the most perfect piece of living I ever saw or heard of!”
Then there was a period of bliss, indeed there was enough to last indefinitely.
But one pleasure they missed. They never saw even the astonished face, much less the highly irritated mind, of old John Blake, when he first returned from his two years of travel. The worst of it was he had eaten the stuff all the way home-and liked it! They told him it was Chestnut Meal–but that meant nothing to him. Then he began to find the jingling advertisements in every magazine; things that ran in his head and annoyed him.
“When corn or rice no more are nice,
When oatmeal seems to pall,
When cream of wheat’s no longer sweet And you abhor them all–“
“I do abhor them all!” the old man would vow, and take up a newspaper, only to read:
“Better than any food that grows
Upon or in the ground,
Strong, pure and sweet
And good to eat
Our tree-born nuts are found.”
“Bah!” said Mr. Blake, and tried another, which only showed him:
“Good for mother, good for brother,
Good for child;
As for father–well, rather!
He’s just wild.”
He was. But the truth never dawned upon him till he came to this one:
“About my hut
There grew a nut
Nutritious;
I could but feel
‘Twould make a meal
Delicious.
I had a Hill,
I built a Mill
Upon it.
And hour by hour
I sought for power
To run it.
To burn my trees
Or try the breeze
Seemed crazy;
To use my arm
Had little charm–
I’m lazy!
The nuts are here,
But coal!–Quite dear
We find it!
We have the stuff.
Where’s power enough
To grind it?
What force to find
My nuts to grind?
I’ve found it!
The Water-fall
Could beat ’em all–
And ground it!
PETER POETICUS.”
“Confound your impudence!” he wrote to his son. “And confound your poetic stupidity in not making a Big Business now you’ve got a start! But I understand you do make a living, and I’m thankful for that.”
*
Arnold and Ella, watching the sunset from their hammock, laughed softly together, and lived.
TEN SUGGESTIONS
This is a sermon.
Its purpose is to point out the need of a clearer conception of right and wrong, based on knowledge.
Its text is from Ecclesiastes I, 13, “And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven; this sore travail hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith.”
(Let me remark here that I had my sermon in mind before I looked for the text; but a more expressive and beautifully apposite one I never saw!)
The Preacher of old is right; this sore travail was laid upon us, a most useful exercise; but we have lazily evaded it and taken other people’s judgment as to our duties.
That would-be Empire Builder, Moses, legislated for his people with an unlimited explicitness that reflects small credit on their power to search out by wisdom.
His cut and dried rules went down to most delicate selection of ovine vicera for the sacrifice–“the fat and the rump, and the fat that covereth the inwards and the caul above the liver, and the two kidneys”;