In much the same frame of mind I read the articles that are appearing in the current magazines on the subject of feminism and militancy. Edna Kenton's in _The Century_ is the only one that is content to give one side of the case. Decidedly, you will say on reading it, "That feller wins." _The Atlantic_ prints an admirable article by W. L. George on Feminist Intentions, and follows it hastily with a rebuttal by E. S. Martin (_Much Ado About Women_), fearing, I imagine, lest it would seem to be bowing its venerable head before new, profane altars. _Life_ gets out a really excellent suffrage number, sane and logical and reasonable, and has followed it up ever since with all the flings it can collect against suffrage, militancy, or feminism in any form. A recent amusing instance of this is a letter by one Thomas H. Lipscomb, who signs himself, alack! A Modern Man, and adds that his name is legion. Judging by the terror in the communication Mr. Lipscomb's modernity goes back as far as the Old Testament Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he so passionately upholds is in all respects the one the writer of this particular proverb acclaims. I have heard it used as a text so often, and have had it grounded into the very framework of my being so consistently, that it seems almost strange and irreverent to regard it with an alien and critical eye. And yet--just see what is expected of the poor thing: She
Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly with her hands. Bringeth her food from afar. Riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household; Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands planteth a vineyard. Her candle goeth not out by night.
Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her hands hold the distaff. Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles unto the merchant....
together with a few other airy trifles such as bearing and rearing children, I suppose. But most significant of all--
Her husband is known in the gates where he sitteth among the elders of the land.
I should think so indeed! There seems to be little else left for him to do.
I can almost hear the writer smacking his lips over this description, which no doubt tallies closely with Mr. Lipscomb's own notions.