The feminine types, Helen and Penelope, or
Clytemnestra and Antigone, are as distinct as the masculine types,
Agamemnon and Ulysses, or OEdipus and Philoctetes. The injustice of
the vulgar saying, "It is just like a woman," implying that there are
no differences among women, makes one indignant. Have we not seen
women to whom death seems an indignity--looking, in every feature and
glance, as immortal as Pallas Athene? And have we not seen women
whose hideous shape and fiendish spirit suggested an alliance with
antediluvian monsters? Is there not a Volumnia, as chaste as that
star seen in winter dawns shivering on the cold forehead of the
morning? And is there not a Messalina, who would receive embraces in
a bath of blood? Is there not a Fulvia, who takes the head of the
murdered Cicero in her hands, and tears his dumb tongue with her
bodkin? And are there not a Saint Elizabeth and a Lady Godiva,
capable of supernal deeds of self-denial and heroism for the sake of
blessing the poor? The personality of any one of the best
representatives of womanhood is as vivid and delicate as though
moulded from a sensitive leaf instead of clay; yet of such strength
as to be rich in frankness and courage, and sublime in patience. In
fact, the distinction of woman is as much greater than that of men
psychologically as it is physiologically. But her choicest vocation
must always lie in the domestic range of the personal relations, and
throughout the heights and depths of the spiritual life. Let her
become there all that the capacities of human nature prophesy, and
man will rapidly be perfected everywhere else.

The number of claimants contending for the prizes of society
increases. The facility of a shallow and momentary success become
greater; but the difficulty and rareness of a substantial and
enduring triumph grow in a higher ratio. The arena is crowded; the
battle is vulgar; the sufferings of the contestants are extreme; the
rewards sought are uncertain and disappointing. How quickly, in our
day, notoriety ends; and what a poor cheat it is! The passionate
aspirant for fame, as described so finely by Michelet, stands beside
the unknown sea of futurity, picks up a shell, lifts it to his ear,
and listens to a slight noise, in which he fancies he hears the
murmur of his own name! For solid dignity or pure contentment, no
life can compare with the one devoted to intrinsic personal ends, the
achievement of knowledge, harmony, and piety. N