“How conscience doth make cowards of us all!” We might consider that you were only giving us our rights in love.  We might theorize beautifully about it, and even vow we were going to take you at your word and do it.  But we couldn’t.  It simply isn’t in us.  We could not be so unjust to you—­so untrue to ourselves.  The great maternal heart of woman, which bears the greater part of all the sufferings in this world that the men and little children may go free, prevents us from taking any such so-called rights from you, at the cost of suffering on your part.  Women have tenderer hearts than men for a purpose, and if they are hurt oftener than men’s, why, that is for us to bear.  We cannot make ourselves over and turn Amazons at your expense.

MEN AS LOVERS

 “God measures souls by their capacity
  For entertaining his best angel, Love.”

* * * * *

 “It is a common fate—­a woman’s lot—­
    To waste on one the riches of her soul,
  Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
    Repay the interest, and much less the whole.

  “Are you not kind?  Ah, yes, so very kind. 
    So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true. 
  Yes, yes, dear heart, but I, not being blind. 
    Know that I am not loved as I love you.

  “One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
    Would fill my soul with music and with song;
  And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
    The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.”

Men seldom make perfect lovers.  I deeply regret being obliged to say this, as they are about all we girls have to depend upon in that line; but it is the solemn truth.  I do not pretend to say why this is so.  I suppose it is because a man never dwells upon the sentimental side of life, nor understands the emotions, unless he is either a poet or a Miss Nancy, and it is almost equally dangerous to marry either of those.

Pray, do not be offended, my friends the poets, at being mentioned in the same paragraph with a Miss Nancy, until you discover the exact meaning of that effective term of opprobrium.  A Miss Nancy is a poet without genius, one who has a talent for discovering the fineness of life, but who lacks the wit to keep his views from ridicule.  It is not a step of the seven-league boots between the sublime and the ridiculous.  Sometimes it is only an invisible step of the tiniest patent-leathers.

I never could understand why a man who plays a good game of whist should not know how to make love.  There are so many points in common.  You can play a game of whist with only enough skill to keep your partner’s hands from your throat, or you can play it for all there is in it.