Is there, or is there not, another region of truth, of enterprise, of progress,—­to finish, to balance, to consummate the world?

Such is the Problem.

* * * * *

MY GARDEN.

I can speak of it calmly now; but there have been moments when the lightest mention of those words would sway my soul to its profoundest depths.

I am a woman.  I nip this fact in the bud of my narrative, because I like to do as I would be done by, when I can just as well as not.  It rasps a person of my temperament exceedingly to be deceived.  When any one tells a story, we wish to know at the outset whether the story-teller is a man or a woman.  The two sexes awaken two entirely distinct sets of feelings, and you would no more use the one for the other than you would put on your tiny teacups at breakfast, or lay the carving-knife by the butter-plate.  Consequently it is very exasperating to sit, open-eyed and expectant, watching the removal of the successive swathings which hide from you the dusky glories of an old-time princess, and, when the unrolling is over, to find it is nothing, after all, but a great lubberly boy.  Equally trying is it to feel your interest clustering round a narrator’s manhood, all your individuality merging in his, till, of a sudden, by the merest chance, you catch the swell of crinoline, and there you are.  Away with such clumsiness!  Let us have everybody christened before we begin.

I do, therefore, with Spartan firmness depose and say that I am a woman.  I am aware that I place myself at signal disadvantage by the avowal.  I fly in the face of hereditary prejudice.  I am thrust at once beyond the pale of masculine sympathy.  Men will neither credit my success nor lament my failure, because they will consider me poaching on their manor.  If I chronicle a big beet, they will bring forward one twice as large.  If I mourn a deceased squash, they will mutter, “Woman’s farming!” Shunning Scylla, I shall perforce fall into Charybdis. (Vide Classical Dictionary.  I have lent mine, but I know one was a rock and the other a whirlpool, though I cannot state, with any definiteness, which was which.) I may be as humble and deprecating as I choose, but it will not avail me.  A very agony of self-abasement will be no armor against the poisoned shafts which assumed superiority will hurl against me.  Yet I press the arrow to my bleeding heart, and calmly reiterate, I am a woman.

The full magnanimity of which reiteration can be perceived only when I inform you that I could easily deceive you, if I chose.  There is about my serious style a vigor of thought, a comprehensiveness of view, a closeness of logic, and a terseness of diction commonly supposed to pertain only to the stronger sex.  Not wanting in a certain fanciful sprightliness which is the peculiar grace of woman, it possesses also, in large measure, that concentrativeness which is deemed