Hugo once
said that it was to look pleasant. In mythology we find that the gods
fell in love with Venus, but never with Minerva.

The functions of woman are to inspire and to guide, not to lead or
command, and I think that the saddest spectacle of the latter end of
the nineteenth century was the supremely ridiculous efforts made by
some women to usurp functions which by Nature were intended for men to
perform. Poor women's-righters! They cannot be men, and they want to
cease to be women. Men and women are like electric fluids. When of the
same name, they repel each other; when of different kinds, they attract
each other. Now, women's-righters are seldom beautiful, very seldom
attractive. A manly woman is as objectionable a sight as an effeminate
man. The blue-stockings are mostly of the 'unclaimed blessing'
sisterhood, and very few of them set up for professional beauties. The
blue-stocking fascinates me as much as the bearded lady of a Chicago
dime museum.

When a woman is beautiful, she is generally satisfied with playing a
woman's part. The tedious women's-righters embrace the thankless career
of exponents of women's grievances because they have never found
anything better to embrace. And, for that matter, these excellent
ladies must not put it into their heads that they have created the
part, for it existed in the days of Aristophanes. Praxagora was neither
more nor less ridiculous than most of the present champions of women's
rights.

I hate the woman who appears in public. I hate the woman who lectures
in public or in private. I hate the woman who rises to make a speech
after dinner. I hate the woman who speaks about politics, and would
like to sit in Parliament so as to transform it into a Chatterment. I
hate the scientific woman who lectures on evolution or writes on
natural philosophy. I hate the lady physician, the lady lawyer, the
lady member of the School Board, the lady preacher, the lady president,
the lady secretary, the lady reciter, even the lady who conducts an
orchestra. I hate the prominent woman. And, although I don't see her, I
hate the woman who writes a book, and feel almost ready to exclaim with
Alphonse Karr: 'One book more and one woman less!'

Compared to all these, how I love the pretty woman who dresses well,
smiles pleasantly, parts her hair in the middle, and has never done
anything in her life! 'Ah!' will exclaim the hateful woman, 'but see,
she wears the collar of servitude.' Nonse