intelligence
is surely an eloquent proof of the defective observation, incurable
prejudice, and general imbecility of their lords and masters. One finds
very few professors of the subject, even among admitted feminists,
approaching the fact as obvious; practically all of them think it
necessary to bring up a vast mass of evidence to establish what should
be an axiom. Even the Franco Englishman, W. L. George, one of the
most sharp-witted of the faculty, wastes a whole book up on the
demonstration, and then, with a great air of uttering something new,
gives it the humourless title of "The Intelligence of Women." The
intelligence of women, forsooth! As well devote a laborious time to the
sagacity of serpents, pickpockets, or Holy Church!

Women, in truth, are not only intelligent; they have almost a monopoly
of certain of the subtler and more utile forms of intelligence. The
thing itself, indeed, might be reasonably described as a special
feminine character; there is in it, in more than one of its
manifestations, a femaleness as palpable as the femaleness of cruelty,
masochism or rouge. Men are strong. Men are brave in physical combat.
Men have sentiment. Men are romantic, and love what they conceive to be
virtue and beauty. Men incline to faith, hope and charity. Men know how
to sweat and endure. Men are amiable and fond. But in so far as they
show the true fundamentals of intelligence--in so far as they reveal
a capacity for discovering the kernel of eternal verity in the husk of
delusion and hallucination and a passion for bringing it forth--to that
extent, at least, they are feminine, and still nourished by the milk of
their mothers. "Human creatures," says George, borrowing from Weininger,
"are never entirely male or entirely female; there are no men, there are
no women, but only sexual majorities." Find me an obviously intelligent
man, a man free from sentimentality and illusion, a man hard to deceive,
a man of the first class, and I'll show you aman with a wide streak
of woman in him. Bonaparte had it; Goethe had it; Schopenhauer had it;
Bismarck and Lincoln had it; in Shakespeare, if the Freudians are to be
believed, it amounted to down right homosexuality. The essential traits
and qualities of the male, the hallmarks of the unpolluted masculine,
are at the same time the hall-marks of the Schalskopf. The caveman is
all muscles and mush. Without a woman to rule him and think for him, he
is a truly lamentable spect