'In battling against the world's great social problems and in overcoming the adverse forces of nature they have developed a finer heroism,' says he with a quotatious air, 'than ever the armies of warring nations have attained.' I can't find that my Utopians look that way, though I'm inclined to think that they know how to manage maximum and minimum wages, and domestic service, and that they run both railroads and aeroplanes without disaster.

My Utopians look rested.

In that far country which seems to me, in an occasional fortunate moment, nearer even than Belgium, a high regard is felt for the decencies of life. To look tired is stigmatized as indecent. The tribunal of public opinion exonerates only those weary-looking persons who have been obliged in great emergency and for a worthy purpose to undergo special strain. Even they are not expected to move about in general society until they have so far as possible removed the marks of exhaustion.

No limitation is placed upon tired feelings. That is an individual matter. Faces are regarded as affecting the public weal, however, and the moment weariness becomes apparent it concerns the comfort of the whole community.

My insight into Utopian methods varies somewhat, according to the occupations which engross my American attention from day to day. After returning from a lecture in the town hall last evening I seemed to see, in Utopia over the way, a public committee working to raise the standard of looks by offering suggestions regarding the management of difficult faces a sort of municipal art commission, working on people instead of statues. This was a mistake, I now believe. Utopia aims, after all, to leave its citizens as free as is consistent with the general comfort. The belief is held that people who nev

er look tired cannot be wholly unattractive; and this is the one restriction, enforced not by law but by a unanimous public sentiment, upon members of the commonwealth.

Utopians can always give a reason for their arrangements, though they are not obtrusively argumentative. One who answered my inquiries about the status of weariness in civilization put it thus:

'Every sane person feels an instinctive revolt against becoming pitiable even in your social organization. And yet the man or woman who presents fatigue to the eye of another person seems not to realize that he inspires pity, though we all know that we "feel sorry" for tired-looking people, however casually we may meet them, in cars or on the street. They ought, logically, to be ashamed of themselves unless the work in which they have been engaged is important enough to justify this slight but definite tax that they impose upon the sensibilities of all who see them. To look tired as a consequence of amusing one's self would seem to be preposterous. Yet it is not un-American, I think.'

The young woman who comforts herself through a year of semi-invalidism with the thought that it would have been 'cowardly' to give up her settlement work before she had to, — though her friends had worried for weeks about her look of exhaustion, would find herself regarded as an unsocial egotist in Utopia. The teacher who renders the life of scholarship pitiful in the eyes of his pupils by a greater devotion to study than the human frame can cheerfully endure would soon learn better manners in Utopia. The 'tired business man' would find himself unpopular there.

But indeed the business man in American cities is already learning that he and his wife can afford some sacrifices

in order to look rested and healthy. An appearance of fatigue is far less admissible on Fifth Avenue than on a village street. In the country we are accustomed to seeing prosperous men and women looking worried and weary as they go about the duties of life. In New York and Chicago people are too wise to seem worried or weary if they can help it. They already know something about the psychological reactions of the public.

I mentioned to my friend from Utopia the cheerful smiles of which Miss Pemberton so often speaks. 'We are seldom glum,' said he, 'but we really are n't fatuous. In a place where overwork is never required for the attainment of comfortable living conditions people tend to be cheerful. We never talk about cheerfulness as a virtue. We don't pretend to have escaped all the difficulties of human existence, but we try to recognize them. Of course our list of virtues includes intelligence.'

'And heroism?' I mentioned it timidly. Our school superintendent would never expect to find heroism among a people that refused to look tired. 'Do your countrymen value heroism?'

'All the more highly because we don't mix it up with small feats of endurance in everyday life. We save our forces for great affairs. The engineer, the diplomat, the inventor, the scholar, give their lives sometimes in a great cause; or more often they give their strength. Whether they succeed or fail we respect their exhaustion, we gladly pay tribute to their effort, if only the goal they set themselves was high

enough. We do not even require that they work directly for society. All great work is far-reaching in its consequences. The man who looks worn out makes a claim on society which only a record of noble effort can support.'

'But some people look tired because their faces are shaped that way. Is n't your scheme a little hard on them?'

'I dare say. But in any society people have to do the best they can with their own looks, in accordance with whatever standard of taste prevails. We're keener than you, through long practice, in discerning the signs of personal health and well-being. How do I look, for instance?'

At the moment I hesitated between setting him down as a hero who was suffering a little from exploration in a barbarous country, and calling him a candidate for the all-Utopia golf championship. I have since found that all my friends consider his face rather whimsical and baffling. 'Because I look simple and consistent,' he says when I tell him our difficulty, 'and you are not trained to recognize those qualities.'

Simple and consistent. Yes: they have refused to fight, and the need for fighting has disappeared. They have seen the capabilities of souls and of bodies, and have refrained from confusing the two or sacrificing either in unworthy enterprises. Each morning after my half-hour with the newspaper, and each evening after I have greeted a procession of my neighbors coming up the hill from the six-thirty train, I take a far look, I rest my eyes upon Utopia.

I

MEN have been found to deny woman an intellect; they have credited her with instinct, with intuition, with a capacity to correlate cause and effect much as a dog connects its collar with a walk. But intellect in its broadest sense, the capacity consecutively to plan and steadfastly to execute, they have often denied her. They have gone further, and I seem to remember that in the Middle Ages an oecumenical council denied her a soul. I forget the result, but it never occurred to the council to discuss whether man had a soul, possibly because its members were all men.

The days are not now so dark. Woman has a place in the state, a place under, but still a place. Man has recognized her value without coming to understand her much better, and so we are faced with a paradox: while man accords woman an improved social position, he continues to describe her as illogical, petty, jealous, vain, untruthful, disloyal to her own sex; quite as frequently he charges her with being over-loyal to her own sex: there is no pleasing him. Also he discerns in this unsatisfactory creature extreme unselfishness, purity, capacity for self-sacrifice. It seems that the intelligence of man cannot solve the problem of woVOL. 116-NO. 6

man, which is a bad sign in a superior intelligence. The trouble lies in this: man assumes too readily that woman essentially differs from man. Hardly a man has lived who did not so exaggerate. Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, agreed to despise women; Napoleon seemed to view them as engines of pleasure; for Shakespeare they may well have embodied a romantic ideal, qualified by sportive wantonness. In Walter Scott, women appear as romance in a cheap edition; Byron in their regard is a beast of prey, Doctor Johnson a pompous brute and a puritanical sensualist. Cervantes mixed in his romantic outlook a sort of suspicious hatred, while Alexandre Dumas thought them born only to lay laurel wreaths and orange blossoms (together with coronets) on the heads of musketeers. All, all-from Thackeray, who never laid his hand upon a woman save in the way of patronage, to Goethe, to Dante, to Montaigne, to Wellington-all harbored this curious idea: in one way or another woman differs from man. And to-day, whether we read Mr. Bernard Shaw, Mr. George Moore, M. Paul Bourget, or Mr. Hall Caine, we find that there still persists a belief in Byron's lines:

What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger Is woman!

Almost every man, except the professional Lovelace (and he knows nothing), believes in the mystery of woman. I do not. For men are also mysterious to women; women are quite as puzzled by our stupidity as by our subtlety. I do not believe that there is either a male or a female mystery; there is only the mystery of mankind. There are today differences between the male and the female intellect; we have to ask ourselves whether they are absolute or only apparent, or whether they are absolute but removable by education and time, assuming this to be desirable. I believe that these differences are superficial, temporary, traceable to hereditary and local influences. I believe that they will not endure forever, that they will tend to vanish as environment is modified, as old suggestions cease to be made.

This leads us to consider present idiosyncrasies in woman as a sex, her apparently low and apparently high impulses, her exaltations, and, in the light of her achievements, her future. I do not want to generalize hastily. The subject is too complex and too obscure for me to venture so to do, and I would ask my readers to remember throughout this article that I am not laying down the law, but trying only to arrive at the greatest possible frequency of truth. This is a short research of tendencies. There are human tendencies, such as belief in a divine spirit, painting pictures, making war, composing songs. Are there any special female tendencies? Given that we glimpse what distinguishes man from the beast, is there anything that distinguishes woman from man? In the small space at my disposal I cannot pretend to deal extensively with the topic. One reason is the difficulty of securing true evidence. Questions addressed to women do not always yield the truth; nor do questions addressed to men; for a desire to please,

vanity, modesty, interfere. But the same question addressed to a woman may, according to circumstances, be sincerely answered in four ways,

1. Truthfully, with a defensive touch, if she is alone with another woman. 2. With intent to cause male rivalry if she is with two men.

3. With false modesty and seductive evasiveness if she is with one man and

one woman.

4. With a clear intention to repel or attract if she is with a man alone.

And there are variations of these four cases! A man investigating woman's points of view often finds the response more emotional than intellectual. Owing to the system under which we live, where man is a valuable prey, woman has contracted the habit of trying to attract. Even aggressive insolence on her part may conceal the desire to attract by exasperating. These notes must, therefore, be taken only as hints, and the reader may be interested to know that they are based on the observation of 65 women, subdivided as follows: Intimate acquaintance, 5; adequate acquaintance, 19; slight acquaintance, 41; married, 39; status uncertain, 8; celibate, 18. Ages, 17 to 68 (average age, about 35).

II

It is most difficult to deduce the quality of woman's intellect from her conduct, because her impulses are frequently obscured by her policy. The physical circumstances of her life predispose her to an interest in sex more dominant than is the case with man. As intellect flies out through the window when emotion comes in at the door, this is a source of complications. The intervention of love is a difficulty, for love, though blind, is unfortunately not dumb, and habitually uses speech for the concealment of truth. It does this

with the best of intentions, and the best of intentions generally yield the worst of results. It should be said that sheer intellect is very seldom displayed by man. Intellect is the ideal skeleton of a man's mental power. It may be defined as an aspiration toward material advantage, absolute truth, or achievement, combined with a capacity for taking steps toward successful achievement or attaining truth. From this point of view such men as Napoleon, Machiavelli, Epictetus, Leo XIII, Bismarck, Voltaire, Anatole France, are typical intellectuals. They are not perfect: all, so far as we can tell, are tainted with moral feeling or emotion, -a frailty which probably explains why there has never been a British or American intellectual of the first rank. Huxley, Spencer, Darwin, Cromwell, all alike suffered grievously from good intentions. The British and American mind has long been honeycombed with moral impulse, at any rate since the Reformation; it is very much what the German mind was up to the middle of the nineteenth century. Intellect, as I conceive it, is seeing life sanely and seeing it whole, without much pity, without love; seeing life as separate from man, whose pains and delights are only phenomena; seeing love as a reaction to certain stimuli.

In this sense it can probably be said that no woman has ever been an intellectual. A few may have pretensions, as, for instance, "Vernon Lee,' Mrs. Sidney Webb, Mrs. Wharton, perhaps Mrs. Hetty Green. I do not know, for these women can be judged only by their works. The greatest women in history - Catherine of Russia, Joan of Arc, Sappho, Queen Elizabeth-appear to have been swayed largely by their passions, physical or religious. I do not suppose that this will always be the case. For reasons which I shall indicate further on in this article, I be

lieve that woman's intellect will tend toward approximation with that of man. But meanwhile it would be futile not to recognize that there exist to-day between man and woman some sharp intellectual divergences.

One of the sharpest lies in woman's logical faculty. This may be due to her education (which is seldom mathematical or scientific); it may proceed from a habit of mind; it may be the result of a secular withdrawal from responsibilities other than domestic. Whatever the cause, it must be acknowledged that, with certain trained exceptions, woman has not of logic the same conception as man. I have devoted particular care to this issue, and have collected a number of cases where the feminine conception of logic clashes with that of man. Here are a few transcribed from my notebook:

Case 33

My remark: 'Most people practice a religion because they are too cowardly to face the idea of annihilation.'

Case 33: 'I don't see that they are any more cowardly than you. It does n't matter whether you have a faith or not, it will be all the same in the end.'

The reader will observe that Case 33 evades the original proposition; in her reply she ignores the set question, namely why people practice a religion.

Case 17

Votes for Women, of January 22, 1915, prints a parallel, presumably drawn by a woman, between two police-court cases. In the first a man, charged with having struck his wife, is discharged because his wife intercedes for him. In the second a woman, charged with theft, is sent to prison in spite of her husband's plea. The writer appears to think that these cases are parallel; the difference of treatment of