eard that Marie Antoinette, when tried before the same tribunal,
had howled so that she could be heard in the Faubourg St.
Germain—well, I leave it to the instincts, if there are any left.
It is not wrong to howl. Neither is it right. It is simply a question
of the instant impression on the artistic and even animal parts of
humanity, if the noise were heard suddenly like a gun.

Perhaps the nearest verbal analysis of the instinct may be found in
the gestures of the orator addressing a crowd. For the true orator must
always be a demagogue: even if the mob be a small mob, like the French
committee or the English House of Lords. And "demagogue," in the good
Greek meaning, does not mean one who pleases the populace, but one who
leads it: and if you will notice, you will see that all the instinctive
gestures of oratory are gestures of military leadership; pointing the
people to a path or waving them on to an advance. Notice that long
sweep of the arm across the body and outward, which great orators use
naturally and cheap orators artificially. It is almost the exact gesture
of the drawing of a sword.

The point is not that women are unworthy of votes; it is not even that
votes are unworthy of women. It is that votes are unworthy of men, so
long as they are merely votes; and have nothing in them of this ancient
militarism of democracy. The only crowd worth talking to is the crowd
that is ready to go somewhere and do something; the only demagogue worth
hearing is he who can point at something to be done: and, if he points
with a sword, will only feel it familiar and useful like an elongated
finger. Now, except in some mystical exceptions which prove the rule,
these are not the gestures, and therefore not the instincts, of women.
No honest man dislikes the public woman. He can only dislike the
political woman; an entirely different thing. The instinct has nothing
to do with any desire to keep women curtained or captive: if such a
desire exists. A husband would be pleased if his wife wore a gold crown
and proclaimed laws from a throne of marble; or if she uttered oracles
from the tripod of a priestess; or if she could walk in mystical
motherhood before the procession of some great religious order. But that
she should stand on a platform in the exact altitude in which he stands;
leaning forward a little more than is graceful and holding her mouth
open a little longer and wider than is dignified—well, I only
write her