She has also received some equipment in the way of knowledge; not more, perhaps, than could be easily absorbed in the ordinary routine of life, but enough to give her a fair start in whatever field of industry she enters.  If she develops into efficiency, if she makes good her hold upon work, she silences her critics.  If she fails, and can, in Stevenson’s noble words, “take honourable defeat to be a form of victory,” she has not wasted her endeavours.

It is strange that the advantages of a college course for girls—­advantages solid and reckonable—­should be still so sharply questioned by men and women of the world.  It is stranger still that its earnest advocates should claim for it in a special manner the few merits it does not possess.  When President David Starr Jordan, of Leland Stanford University, tells us that “it is hardly necessary among intelligent men and women to argue that a good woman is a better one for having received a college education; anything short of this is inadequate for the demands of modern life and modern culture”; we can only echo the words of the wise cat in Mr. Froude’s “Cat’s Pilgrimage,” “There may be truth in what you say, but your view is limited.”

Goodness, indeed, is not a matter easily opened to discussion.  Who can pigeonhole goodness, or assign it a locality?  But culture (if by the word we mean that common understanding of the world’s best traditions which enables us to meet one another with mental ease) is not the fair fruit of a college education.  It is primarily a matter of inheritance, of lifelong surroundings, of temperament, of delicacy of taste, of early and vivid impressions.  It is often found in college, but it is not a collegiate product.  The steady and absorbing work demanded of a student who is seeking a degree, precludes wide wanderings “in the realms of gold.”  If, in her four years of study, she has gained some solid knowledge of one or two subjects, with a power of approach in other directions, she has done well, and justified the wisdom of the group system, which makes for intellectual discipline and real attainments.

In households where there is little education, the college daughter is reverenced for what she knows,—­for her Latin, her mathematics, her biology.  What she does not know, being also unknown to her family, causes no dismay.  In households where the standard of cultivation is high, the college daughter is made the subject of good-humoured ridicule, because she lacks the general information of her sisters,—­because she has never heard of Abelard and Heloise, of Graham of Claverhouse, of “The Beggars’ Opera.”  Nobody expects the college son to know these things, or is in the least surprised when he does not; but the college daughter is supposed to be the repository of universal erudition.  Every now and then somebody rushes into print with indignant illustrations of her ignorance, as though ignorance were not the one common possession of mankind.  Those of us who are not undergoing examinations are not driven to reveal it,—­a comfortable circumstance, which need not, however, make us unreasonably proud.