woodland birds that "prattle with their untaught throats.”1 The first credential of wisdom is to be thankful for "common things." No man ever makes way who contemns the simple and universal. It is certain that by so doing he disqualifies himself for lofty enjoyment of the uncommon. In the moral world, on the same principle, the spectacle most delightful is that of a good stock of the minor virtues and the little fidelities, in daily utterance: the deeds of thoughtful and faithful love that are done in silence in everyday life; the qualities and the actions that make good wives, good mothers, and good daughters; and he is the wisest man who looks constantly, considerately, gratefully upon these, learning how to appreciate the "heroines" as they deserve, by practice in kindly estimates at the fireside. The minor virtues and the little fidelities add up to a total not exceeded by the proudest achievement described in history; and were it possible to measure human satisfactions mathematically, would probably be found productive of sincerer happiness to the majority of mankind. Few as are the acknowledged or historical "heroines," there are men who would like to abridge the list, on the ground that the narratives are untrue. Possibly enough, in the legends of female valour, love, and devotedness that have floated down the stream of time, there may be a certain leaven of the mythical, though there is nothing in them contrary to nature, or the probability of which is not vindicated by incidents of the current age. It may not be true that the Greek virgin, model for ever of sisterly love, carried earth day by day, at sunrise, in the folds of her dress, to cast upon the unburied corpse of her brother, though under penalty of death, so that the vital idea of burial and passage to Elysium, as held in her simple old religion, might be fulfilled, despite of tyrants. It may not be true that the aged father of another woman, sentenced to starve to death in the gloom of the dungeon, was saved by filial affection that daily gave to his trembling lips a full white bosom. It may not be true, and possibly is quite untrue, that Eleanor of Castile sucked the wound inflicted in the arm of her consort by the poisoned dagger of the assassin, and thus preserved his life.2 The story of the "Maid of 1 66 Prataque pubescunt variorum flore colorum; OVID, Tristia, Lib. iii. El. xii. 7, 8. 2 A similar story is told of Sybella, wife of Robert of Normandy, son of the Conqueror. Shockingly wounded, he was told that he must certainly die unless the poison was sucked out. Refusing to allow any one to make the Orleans" savours in many points of the imaginary. Even that of Philippa and the citizens of Calais is not free from suspicion. Modern writers assert that the scene was prearranged with a view to dramatic effect, and that the royal performers did no more than act well-concerted parts. It may have been so. Grant that it really was SO. We care not to inquire. History of every kind, go far enough back, melts away, like the prospect viewed from the hills, into a cloudland of mist. The narratives that come to hand even of the most recent occurrences, are garnished with the ornaments of metaphor, if not of fiction. Stories such as those of the brave women of the olden days are a great and living power for the human mind. They are poetic realities for the soul that cannot be spared. "True,” as a great authoress says, "to the first and deepest principles of elevated human nature," they are factors in the spiritual nourishment of the world. Let them remain as they have come down to us, as we leave the natural grottos, filled with crystals, and the ancient fountains, that help to make the world beautiful. They are as precious in their sound influence upon human hearts as the tale of faithful and ingenious Penelope herself, and differ only from that of Ruth, sweetest of Scriptural heroines, in that they are purely secular. Let the critics and the sceptics assail them as they may, there is more real energy and truth for the spirit of man, in these enchanting old stories, than in whole chapters of authentic history, such as from its painfulness is often so revolting and disheartening. Were the tales of the famous deeds of heroic women in the bygones even to be proved entirely false, the worst that could be said of them would be that they are glorious fables, full of song and meaning for the ears that can listen. Of indisputable examples of the conspicuous playing forth of the feminine virtues named at the head of this chapter there have been plenty. Very many of them are well known, the narratives filling a score or two of volumes, irrespective of special memoirs and biographies.1 Others creep into the records of the lives of great or celebrated dangerous experiment, while he slept, his faithful consort, sending every one away, drew out the deadly venom, and sacrificed her life. A case, not very different, occurred during the American War of Independence, in which some of the native Indians used poisoned arrows. The ancient German women, according to Tacitus, did the same after every battle. 1 Among the former, in the collections of lives, the following are meritorious, and should be perused: "Memoirs of Eminent English women," by Louisa Stuart Costello, 1844. "Celebrated Women," by Ellen C. Clayton. "Extraordinary Women, their Girlhood and Early Life," by William Russell. "The men, and then often supply the only touch of beauty and sweetness the pages contain. Such, for instance, is the case in the crowded history of the life of Napoleon Buonaparte. The death, at Malmaison, of broken-hearted Josephine, resulted less from physical ailment than from grief over the fallen fortunes of the man by whom she had been vainly sacrificed. In that long dark record of ambition, rapine, and cruelty, poor Josephine, though we hear little of her, is the angel of light. Sometimes it is the woman, again little heard of in comparison, that gives effect to the famous life. Of this we have a capital example (one out a thousand similar ones that might be cited) in Louise Schepler, who, being taken into his house, as an orphan, by Oberlin, the celebrated pastor of the Ban de la Roche, became at twenty-three, when Madame Oberlin died, a daughter to the old man, dedicating herself to his service, in a spirit of noiseless piety, fortitude, and self-denial that would render her own life quite as memorable, did we know more than the simple fact that she was the indoor sunshine, and the right hand that gave practical outcome to his views. One cannot but remember also that as many more examples as the historically recorded have been commemorated, not in actual biography, but in the artificial shape of the novelist's tale. In the entire range of the Waverley series there is scarcely one so distinguished for pathos and interest as "The Heart of Mid-Lothian." It owes much to the simple and striking character of the story: it owes more to the fact that the heroine was no imaginary character, but a genuine Scotchwoman, Helen Walker, whose death, at the age of eighty, took place in 1791. Similarly, in that charming picture of filial devotedness, so long a class-book, Madame Cottin's "Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia," we have no fanciful conception, but the veritable history, i essentials, of Prascovia Loupouloff, the girl who undertook on foot a journey of 800 leagues, from the scene of her father's captivity, to St. Petersburg, eighteen months passing away during her solitary walk, in order to beg his pardon of the Czar. She succeeded, as the M. Darton. "Famous Girls "The Book of Heroines of Domestic Life," by Mrs. Octavius Freire Owen. who have become Illustrious Women," by J. Noble Englishwomen," by Charles Bruce, 1875. "Model Women," by William Anderson, 1871. "Noble Dames of Ancient Story," by J. G. Edgar (chiefly from Froissart), 1879. "Women of Worth," 1859. "Fifty Famous Women,' 1873. "The Sunshine of Domestic Life," by W. H. Davenport Adams, 1867. "Above Rubies," by Miss Brightwell, 1866. And the above-cited "Vignettes,' by Bessie Rayner Parkes, 1866. In many cases the same personages are dealt with by two or three different biographers. tale tells, but laying down her life, as the price, at nineteen. It is impossible again to believe that any female character, however sweet and original, yea, be it even unique, in romance and poetry, so long as it is not inconsistent as to ingredients, with the known capacities and aptitudes of actual life, has not had its prototype among women not aerial. Shall we deny the power of nature to unfold for the decoration of the world any one of the immortal quintette-Portia, Rosalind, Viola, Beatrice, Miranda? Ah, no. Nor yet let us discredit the living existence, for there is no reason why it should be doubted, of the lovely lady of the "Winter's Tale." It is not a little remarkable that Shakspere, who was never the man to err where a great and everlasting truth was involved, places before us, as Mr. Ruskin has pointed out, never any bona-fide "heroes," but only heroines. So far he does exactly what the ancient Greek tragedians did; for they likewise give their best and heartiest to their female characters. A caviller might object, perhaps, that the high position given to women by the princes of the drama, ancient and modern, comes of the gender of the dramatists, since women always fare better at the hands of men than they do at one another's. When the female Shakspere makes her appearance, perhaps the complexion of matters may be changed. At all events, the question is suggested intensely, and waits answer-are not there-have not there been always—more heroines in the world than heroes? Malherbe was perhaps thinking in this direction when he uttered the quaint compliment that "the Creator may have repented of having formed man, but of the creation of woman-never." Those are the most interesting cases, at all events in regard to our present inquiry, which have induced remarkable public or political results. Such a one, among many, was that of Elizabeth Gaunt, to whom belongs the grim celebrity of having been the last woman judicially put to death in England purely out of wickedness and malice. Elizabeth Gaunt lived in the time of James II., and devoting herself to charitable work of every description, visiting the prisons, and relieving all who were in trouble, whatever their politics or occupation, gave succour, unfortunately, to certain persons who were objects of the royal enmity. James II., as every one knows, was one of the most jealous and vindictive monarchs who ever held a sceptre. Arraigned, by his command, as a traitor, this innocent woman was condemned, and three days afterwards burned alive. So profound was her fortitude at the stake, Charity, she told her persecutors, was as much a part of her religion as faith, and so great a hold did the shocking and revengeful injustice of the trial and sentence take on the public mind, that from the moment of her death a new estimate began to prevail in England of woman's due. A thousand privileges since conceded to women have been brought about by other circumstances. But the condition of modern society owes more to the emotions awakened by this shameful crime than the long interval that has elapsed renders it possible now to measure. She did much, in life, for men: her death did still more for women. She, being dead, yet speaketh. A similar case of steadfastness and high results is met with in the thrice-familiar and sorrowful story of Anne Askewe, the last of the martyrs for conscience' sake who suffered during the cruel reign of Henry VIII. Exalted in station, young, wealthy, accomplished, innocent, nothing availed her. Never was a more noble example set by a woman, from the time of the first sad days of religious persecution-those when St. Agnes, St. Dorothea, St. Agatha, St. Cecilia, St. Lucia, and so many other Christian maidens consented to die rather than renounce their faith; nor was there ever a more animating vindication of J. P. Richter's excellent words, "To die for truth is to die for the world.” In the history of a martyrdom there is always something majestic. The example of those who have suffered as Anne Askewe did, absolutely faithful to the end, is more, for the mass of mankind, than a thousand pulpit exhortations. Under Providence we may be sure that it can be no other than a direct means towards the extension of the kingdom of grace.1 For grand stories of feminine fidelity to a great trust we naturally turn to periods when women were many a time left in charge of castles, and even of kingdoms, their lords, by force of circumstances, being absent. Plenty of living women would no doubt do the same, were the conditions of society similar. Woman, when the occasion arises, though naturally timid and peace-loving, can be magnificently courageous. Under such conditions she also shows how peculiarly calm and cool her courage can be, and how cheerfully she can submit 1 While lying in Newgate, awaiting the flames, Anne Askewe was calm enough to compose a beautiful little song, or elegiac lament, beginning— "Lyke as the armed knyght, Appoynted to the fielde, And fayth shall be my shielde." It is not quoted by any of her biographers, but may be found in the Roxburghe Ballads, vol. i. p. 29. |