"Mother Saint Perpetua, the superior of the convent, was a tall woman, of about forty years, dressed in dark gray serge, with a long rosary hanging at her girdle. A white mob-cap, with a long black veil, surrounded her thin, wan face with its narrow, hooded border. A great number of deep, transverse wrinkles ploughed her brow, which resembled yellowish ivory in color and substance. Her keen and prominent nose was curved like the hooked beak of a bird of prey; her black eye was piercing and sagacious; her face was at once intelligent, firm, and cold.

"For comprehending and managing the material interests of the society, Mother Saint Perpetua could have vied with the shrewdest and most wily lawyer. When women are possessed of what is called _business talent_, and when they apply thereto the sharpness of perception, the indefatigable perseverance, the prudent dissimulation, and, above all, the correctness and rapidity of judgment at first sight, which are peculiar to them, they arrive at prodigious results.

"To Mother Saint Perpetua, a woman of a strong and solid head, the vast moneyed business of the society was but child's play. None better than she understood how to buy depreciated properties, to raise them to their original value, and sell them to advantage; the average purchase of rents, the fluctuations of exchange, and the current prices of shares in all the leading speculations, were perfectly familiar to her. Never had she directed her agents to make a single false speculation, when it had been the question how to invest funds, with which good souls were constantly endowing the society of Saint Mary. She had established in the house a degree of order, of discipline, and, above all, of economy, that were indeed remarkable; the constant aim of all her exertions being, not to enrich herself, but the community over which she presided; for the spirit of a.s.sociation, when it is directed to an object of _collective selfishness_, gives to corporations all the faults and vices of individuals."

E.

The following is an extract from a letter addressed to me by one of the monks of the nineteenth century. A part I have omitted, because it does not express my own view, unless with qualifications which I could not make, except by full discussion of the subject.

"Woman in the Nineteenth Century should be a pure, chaste, holy being.

"This state of being in Woman is no more attained by the expansion of her intellectual capacity, than by the augmentation of her physical force.

"Neither is it attained by the increase or refinement of her love for Man, or for any object whatever, or for all objects collectively; but

"This state of being is attained by the reference of all her powers and all her actions to the source of Universal Love, whose constant requisition is a pure, chaste and holy life.

"So long as Woman looks to Man (or to society) for that which she needs, she will remain in an indigent state, for he himself is indigent of it, and as much needs it as she does.

"So long as this indigence continues, all unions or relations constructed between Man and Woman are constructed in indigence, and can produce only indigent results or unhappy consequences.

"The unions now constructing, as well as those in which the parties constructing them were generated, being based on self-delight, or l.u.s.t, can lead to no more happiness in the twentieth than is found in the nineteenth century.

"It is not amended inst.i.tutions, it is not improved education, it is not another selection of individuals for union, that can meliorate the said result, but the _basis_ of the union must be changed.

"If in the natural order Woman and Man would adhere strictly to physiological or natural laws, in physical chast.i.ty, a most beautiful amendment of the human race, and human condition, would in a few generations adorn the world.

"Still, it belongs to Woman in the spiritual order, to devote herself wholly to her eternal husband, and become the Free Bride of the One who alone can elevate her to her true position, and reconstruct her a pure, chaste, and holy being."

F.

I have mislaid an extract from "The Memoirs of an American Lady,"

which I wished to use on this subject, but its import is, briefly, this:

Observing of how little consequence the Indian women are in youth, and how much in age, because in that trying life, good counsel and sagacity are more prized than charms, Mrs. Grant expresses a wish that reformers would take a hint from observation of this circ.u.mstance.

In another place she says: "The misfortune of our s.e.x is, that young women are not regarded as the material from which old women must be made."

I quote from memory, but believe the weight of the remark is retained.

G.

EURIPIDES. SOPHOCLES.

As many allusions are made in the foregoing pages to characters of women drawn by the Greek dramatists, which may not be familiar to the majority of readers, I have borrowed from the papers of Miranda some notes upon them. I trust the girlish tone of apostrophising rapture may be excused. Miranda was very young at the time of writing, compared with her present mental age. _Now_, she would express the same feelings, but in a worthier garb--if she expressed them at all.

Iphigenia! Antigone! you were worthy to live! _We_ are fallen on evil times, my sisters; our feelings have been checked; our thoughts questioned; our forms dwarfed and defaced by a bad nurture. Yet hearts like yours are in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s, living, if unawakened; and our minds are capable of the same resolves. You we understand at once; those who stare upon us pertly in the street, we cannot--could never understand.

You knew heroes, maidens, and your fathers were kings of men. You believed in your country and the G.o.ds of your country. A great occasion was given to each, whereby to test her character.

You did not love on earth; for the poets wished to show us the force of Woman's nature, virgin and unbiased. You were women; not wives, or lovers, or mothers. Those are great names, but we are glad to see _you_ in untouched flower.

Were brothers so dear, then, Antigone? We have no brothers. We see no men into whose lives we dare look steadfastly, or to whose destinies we look forward confidently. We care not for their urns; what inscription could we put upon them? They live for petty successes, or to win daily the bread of the day. No spark of kingly fire flashes from their eyes.

None! are there _none_?

It is a base speech to say it. Yes! there are some such; we have sometimes caught their glances. But rarely have they been rocked in the same cradle as we, and they do not look upon us much; for the time is not yet come.

Thou art so grand and simple! we need not follow thee; thou dost not need our love.

But, sweetest Iphigenia! who knew _thee_, as to me thou art known? I was not born in vain, if only for the heavenly tears I have shed with thee. She will be grateful for them. I have understood her wholly, as a friend should; better than she understood herself.

With what artless art the narrative rises to the crisis! The conflicts in Agamemnon's mind, and the imputations of Menelaus, give us, at once, the full image of him, strong in will and pride, weak in virtue, weak in the n.o.ble powers of the mind that depend on imagination. He suffers, yet it requires the presence of his daughter to make him feel the full horror of what he is to do.

"Ah me! that breast, those cheeks, those golden tresses!"

It is her beauty, not her misery, that makes the pathos. This is n.o.ble. And then, too, the injustice of the G.o.ds, that she, this creature of unblemished loveliness, must perish for the sake of a worthless woman. Even Menelaus feels it the moment he recovers from his wrath.

"What hath she to do, The virgin daughter, with my Helena!

* * Its former reasonings now My soul foregoes. * * * *

For it is not just That thou shouldst groan, while my affairs go pleasantly, That those of thy house should die, and mine see the light."

Indeed, the overwhelmed aspect of the king of men might well move him.

"_Men_. Brother, give me to take thy right hand.

_Aga_. I give it, _for_ the victory is thine, and I am wretched.

I am, indeed, ashamed to drop the tear, And not to drop the tear I am ashamed."

How beautifully is Iphigenia introduced; beaming more and more softly on us with every touch of description! After Clytemnestra has given Orestes (then an infant) out of the chariot, she says:

"Ye females, in your arms Receive her, for she is of tender age.

Sit here by my feet, my child, By thy mother, Iphigenia, and show These strangers how I am blessed in thee, And here address thee to thy father.

_Iphi_. O, mother! should I run, wouldst thou be angry?

And embrace my father heart to heart?"

With the same sweet, timid trust she prefers the request to himself, and, as he holds her in his arms, he seems as n.o.ble as Guido's Archangel; as if he never could sink below the trust of such a being!