WORSHIP
How does it feel?—
The drawing of the magnet on the steel?
All else gives way;
No rivets hold, no bars delay,
Called in that overwhelming hour,
From far and near they fly and cling,
Allied, united, clustering;
And the great pulsing currents flow
Through each small scattered scrap below.
Scattered no more;
One with that all compelling core;
One absolute, one all alive with power.
How does it feel?—
The swift obedient utmost flight
Of radiant sky-wide waves of light,
Far couriers of the central sun,
Crossing a million miles as one—
Still going—going—
Limitless joy that needs no knowing
Each last least flickering ray
One with the Heart of Day.
MY ASTONISHING DODO
She was twenty-six, and owned it cheerfully, the day I met her.
This prejudiced me in her favor at once, for I prize honesty in women, and on this point it is unusual. She did not, it is true, share largely in my special artistic tastes, or, to any great extent, in my social circle; but she was a fine wholesome sweet woman, cheerful and strong, and I wished to make a friend of her. I greatly prized my good friends among women, for I had conscientious views against marrying on a small salary.
Later it appeared that she had other and different views, but she did not mention them then.
Dorothea was her name. Her family called her Dora, her intimate friends, Dolly, but I called her Dodo, just between ourselves.
A very good-looking girl was Dodo, though not showy; and in no way distinguished in dress, which rather annoyed me at first; for I have a great admiration for a well-gowned, well-groomed woman.
My ideas on matrimony were strongly colored by certain facts and figures given me by an old college friend of mine. He was a nice fellow, and his wife one of the loveliest girls of our set, though rather delicate. They lived very comfortably in a quiet way, with a few good books and pictures, and four little ones.
"It's a thousand dollars a year for the first year for each baby," he told me, "and five hundred a year afterward."
I was astonished. I had no idea the little things cost so much.
"There's the trained nurse for your wife," he went on, "at $25.00 a week for four weeks; and then the trained nurse for your baby, at $15.00 a week for forty-eight weeks; that makes $820.00. Then the doctor's bills, the clothes and so on—with the certified milk—easily take up the rest."
"Isn't fifteen dollars a week a good deal for a child's nurse?" I asked.
"What do you pay a good stenographer?" he demanded.
"Why, a special one gets $20.00," I admitted. "But that work needs training and experience."
"So does taking care of babies!" he cried triumphantly. "Don't try to save on babies, Morton; it's poor economy."
I liked his point of view, and admired his family extremely. His wife was one of those sympathetic appreciative women who so help a man in his work. But the prospects of my own marriage seemed remote. That was why I was so glad of a good wholesome companionable friend like Dodo.
We were so calmly intimate that I soon grew to discuss many of my ideas and plans with her. She was much interested in the figures given by my friend, and got me to set them all down for her. He had twice my salary, and not a cent left at the year's end; and they were not in "society" either. Five hundred dollars was allowed for his personal expenses, and the same for her; little enough to dress on nowadays, he had assured me, with all amusements, travel, books and periodicals, and dentist bills, included.
"I don't think it ought to cost so much," said Dodo.
She was a business woman, and followed the figures closely; and of course she appreciated the high views I held on the subject, and my self-denial, too.
I can't tell to this day how it happened; but before I knew it we were engaged. I was almost sorry, for a long engagement is a strain on both parties; but Dodo cheered me up; she said we were really no worse off than we were before, and in some ways better. At times I fully agreed with her.
So we drifted along for about a year, and then, after a good deal of distant discussion, we suddenly got married.
I don't recall now just why we so hastily concluded to do it; I seemed to be in a kind of dream; but anyway we did, and were absurdly happy about it, too.
"Don't be a Goose, dear boy!" she said. "It isn't wicked to be married.
And we're quite old enough!"
"But we can't afford it—you know we can't," I said. This was while we were camping out on our honey-vacation.
"Mr. Morton Howland," said my wife; "don't you worry one bit about affording it. I want you to understand that you've married a business woman."
"But you've given up your position!" I cried, aghast. "Surely, you don't think of going back!"
"I've given up one position," she replied with calmness, "and taken another. And I mean to fill it. Now you go peacefully on earning what you did before, and leave the housekeeping business to me—will you, Dear?"
Naturally I had to; for I couldn't keep house; even if I so desired I didn't know how. But I had read so much and heard so much and seen so much of the difficulties of housekeeping for young married people, that I confess I was a good deal worried.
Toward the end of our trip I began to anticipate the burden of house-hunting.
"About where do you think we are going to live?" I tentatively inquired.
"At 384 Meter Avenue," she promptly answered. I nearly dropped the paddle (we were canoeing at the moment), I was so astonished.
"That's a good location—for cheap flats," I said slowly. "Do you mean to say you've rented one, all by yourself?"
She smiled comfortingly. Lovely teeth had my Dodo, strong and white and even, though not small.
"Not quite so bad as that, Dear," she answered, "but I've got the refusal. My friends the Scallens had it, and are moving out this Fall. It's a new building, they had it all papered very prettily, and if you like it we can move in as soon as they leave—say a week after moving time—it will be cheaper then. We'll look at it as soon as we return."
We did. It seemed suitable enough; pleasant, and cheaper than I had thought possible. Indeed, I demurred a little on the question of style, and accessibility to friends; but Dodo said the people who really cared for us would come, and the people who did not could easily be spared.
We had married so hastily, right on the verge of vacation time, that I had hardly given a thought to furnishing but Dodo seemed to know just where to go and what to get; at much less cost than I had imagined.
She produced $250.00 from her bank account, which she had been saving for years she said. I put up about the same; and we had that little flat as pretty and comfortable as any home I ever saw.
She set her foot down about pictures though. "Time enough for those things when we can afford it," she said, and we certainly could not afford it then.
Then was materialized from some foreign clime a neat, strong young woman to do our house-work, washing and all.
"She's an apprentice," said Dodo. "She is willing to learn housekeeping, and I am willing to teach her."
"How do you come to be so competent in house-work?" said I; "I thought you were a bookkeeper."
Then Dodo smiled her large bright smile. "Morton, dear," she said, "I will now tell you a Secret! I have always intended to marry, and, as far as possible, I learned the business. I am a business woman, you know."
She certainly did know her business. She kept the household accounts like—well, like what she was—an expert accountant. When she furnished the kitchen she installed a good reliable set of weights and measures. She weighed the ice and the bread, she measured the milk and the potatoes, and made firm, definite, accurate protests when things went wrong; even sending samples of queer cream to the Board of Health for analysis. What with my business stationery and her accurate figures our letters were strangely potent, and we were well supplied, while our friends sadly and tamely complained of imposture and extortion.
Her largest item of expense in furnishing was a first-class sewing machine, and a marvellous female figure, made to measure, which stood in a corner and served as a "cloak tree" when not in use.
"You don't propose to make your own clothes, surely?" said I when this headless object appeared.
"Some of 'em," she admitted, "you'll see. Of course I can't dress for society."
Now I had prepared myself very conscientiously to meet the storms and shallows of early married life, as I had read about them; I was bound I would not bring home anybody to dinner without telephoning, and was prepared to assure my wife verbally, at least twice a day, that I loved her. She anticipated me on the dinner business, however.
"Look here!" she said, leading me to the pantry, when it was filled to her liking, and she showed me a special corner all marked off and labelled "For Emergencies." There was a whole outfit of eatables and drinkables in glass and tin.
"Now do your worst!" she said triumphantly. "You can bring home six men in the middle of the night—and I'll feed them! But you mustn't do it two nights in succession, for I'd have to stock up again."
As to tears and nervousness and "did I love her," I was almost, sometimes, a bit disappointed in Dodo, she was so calm. She was happy, and I was happy, but it seemed to require no effort at all.
One morning I almost forgot, and left the elevator standing while I ran back to kiss her and say "I love you, dearest." She held me off from her with her two strong hands and laughed tenderly. "Dear boy!" she said, "I mean you shall."
I meditated on that all the way downtown.
She meant I should. Well, I did. And the next time one of my new-married friends circuitously asked for a bit of light on what was to him a dark and perplexing question, I suddenly felt very light-hearted about my domestic affairs. Somehow we hadn't any troubles at all. Dodo kept well; we lived very comfortably and it cost far less than I had anticipated.
"How did you know how to train a servant?" I asked my wife.
"Dear," said she, "I have admitted to you that I always intended to be married, when I found the man I could love and trust and honor." (Dodo overestimates my virtues, of course.)
"Lots of girls intend to marry," I interposed.
"Yes, I know they do," she agreed, "they want to love and he loved, but they don't learn their business! Now the business of house-work is not so abstruse nor so laborious, if you give your mind to it. I took an evening-course in domestic economy, read and studied some, and spent one vacation with an aunt of mine up in Vermont who 'does her own work.' The next vacation I did ours. I learned the trade in a small way."
We had a lovely time that first year. She dressed fairly well, but the smallness of her expense account was a standing marvel, owing to the machine and the Headless One.
"Did you take a course in dressmaking, too?" I inquired.
"Yes, in another vacation."
"You had the most industrious vacations of anyone I ever knew," said I, "and the most varied."
"I am no chicken, you see, my dear," was her cheerful reply, "and I like to work. You work, why shouldn't I?"
The only thing I had to criticize, if there was anything, was that Dodo wouldn't go to the theatre and things like that, as often as I wanted her to. She said frankly that we couldn't afford it, and why should I want to go out for amusement when we had such a happy home? So we stayed at home a good deal, made a few calls, and played cards together, and were very happy, of course.
All this time I was in more or less anxiety lest that thousand dollar baby should descend upon us before we were ready, for I had only six hundred in the bank now. Presently this dread event loomed awe-inspiringly on our horizon. I didn't say anything to Dodo about my fears, she must on no account be rendered anxious, but I lay awake nights and sometimes got up furtively and walked the floor in my room, thinking how I should raise the money.
She heard me one night. "Dear!" she called softly. "What are you doing? Is it burglars?"
I reassured her on that point and she promptly reassured me on the other, as soon as she had made me tell her what I was worrying about.
"Why, bless you, dear," she said, serenely, "you needn't give a thought to that. I've got money in the bank for my baby."
"I thought you spent all of it for the furnishings," said I.
"Oh, that was the Furnishing Money! Cuddle down here, or you'll get cold, and I'll tell you all about it."
So she explained in her calm strong cheerful way, with a little contented chuckle now and then, that she had always intended to be married.
"This is now no news," I exclaimed severely, "tell me something different."
"Well, in order to prepare for this Great Event," she went on, "I learned about housework, as you have seen. I saved money enough to furnish a small flat and put that in one bank. And I also anticipated this not Impossible Contingency and saved more money and put it in another bank!"
"Why two banks, if a mere man may inquire?"
"It is well," she replied sententiously, "not to have all one's eggs in one basket."
I lay still and meditated on this new revelation.
"Have you got a thousand dollars, if this Remote Relative may so far urge for information?"
"I have just that sum," she replied.
"And, not to be impertinent, have you nine other thousands of dollars in nine other banks for nine other not Impossible Contingencies?"
She shook her head with determination. "Nine is an Impossible Contingency," she replied. "No, I have but one thousand dollars in this bank. Now you be good, and continue to practice your business, into the details of which I do not press, and let me carry on the Baby Business, which is mine."
It was a great load off my mind, and I slept well from that time on.
So did Dodo. She kept well, busy, placid, and cheerful. Once, I came home in a state of real terror. I had been learning, from one of my friends, and from books, of the terrible experience which lay before her. She saw that I was unusually intense in my affection and constantly regarded her with tender anxiety. "What is the matter with you, Morton?" said she. "I'm—worried," I admitted. "I've been thinking—what if I should lose you! Oh Dodo! I'd rather have you than a thousand babies."
"I should think you would," said she calmly. "Now look here, Dear Boy! What are you worrying about? This is not an unusual enterprise I've embarked on; it's the plain course of nature, easily fulfilled by all manner of lady creatures! Don't you be afraid one bit, I'm not."
She wasn't. She kept her serene good cheer up to the last moment, had an efficient but inexpensive woman doctor, and presently was up again, still serene, with a Pink Person added to our family, of small size but of enormous importance.
Again I rather trembled for our peace and happiness, and mentally girded up my loins for wakeful nights of walking. No such troubles followed. We used separate rooms, and she kept the Pink Person in hers. Occasionally he made remarks in the night, but not for long. He was well, she was well—things went along very much as they did before.
I was "lost in wonder, love and praise" and especially in amazement at the continued cheapness of our living.
Suddenly a thought struck me. "Where's ths nurse?" I demanded.
"The nurse? Why she left long ago. I kept her only for the month."
"I mean the child's nurse," said I, "the fifteen dollar one."
"Oh—I'm the child's nurse," said Dodo.
"You!" said I. "Do you mean to say you take all the care of this child yourself?"
"Why, of course," said Dodo, "what's a mother for?"
"But—the time it takes," I protested, rather weakly.
"What do you expect me to do with my time, Morton?"
"Why, whatever you did before—This arrived."
"I will not have my son alluded to as 'This'!" said she severely. "Morton J. Hopkins, Jr., if you please. As to my time before? Why, I used it in preparing for time to come, of course. I have things ready for this youngster for three years ahead."
"How about the certified milk?" I asked.
Dodo smiled a superior smile; "I certify the milk," said she.
"Can you take care of the child and the house, too?"
"Bless you, Morton, 'the care' of a seven-room flat and a competent servant does not take more than an hour a day. And I market while I'm out with the baby.
"Do you mean to say you are going to push the perambulator yourself?"
"Why not?" she asked a little sharply, "surely a mother need not be ashamed of the company of her own child."
"But you'll be taken for a nurse—"
"I am a nurse! And proud of it!"
I gazed at her in my third access of deep amazement. "Do you mean to say that you took lessons in child culture, too?"
"Too? Why, I took lessons in child culture first of all. How often must I tell you, Morton, that I always intended to be married! Being married involves, to my mind, motherhood, that is what it is for! So naturally I prepared myself for the work I meant to do. I am a business woman, Morton, and this is my business."
*
That was twenty years ago. We have five children. Morton, Jr., is in college. So is Dorothea second. Dodo means to put them all through, she says. My salary has increased, but not so fast as prices, and neither of them so fast as my family. None of those babies cost a thousand dollars the first year though, nor five hundred thereafter; Dodo's thousand held out for the lot. We moved to a home in the suburbs, of course; that was only fair to the children. I live within my income always—we have but one servant still, and the children are all taught housework in the good old way. None of my friends has as devoted, as vigorous and—and—as successful a wife as I have. She is the incarnate spirit of all the Housewives and House-mothers of history and fiction. The only thing I miss in her—if I must own to missing anything—is companionship and sympathy outside of household affairs. My newspaper work—which she always calls "my business"—has remained a business. The literary aspirations I once had were long since laid aside as impracticable. And the only thing I miss in life beyond my home is, well—as a matter of fact, I don't have any life beyond my home—except, of course, my business.
My friends are mostly co-commuters now. I couldn't keep up with the set I used to know. As my wife said, she could 't dress for society, and, visibly, she couldn't. We have few books, there isn't any margin for luxuries, she says; and of course we can't go to the plays and concerts in town. But these are unessentials—of course—as she says.
I am very proud of my home, my family, and my Amazing Dodo.
WHY TEXTS?
I once listened to a sermon in the Temple Church in London; a sermon delivered with great dignity by an Eminent Divine, a Canon, as I remember.
Here was this worthy man, in that historic place, in the heart of huge London, in the fierce whirring center of so many present social problems, so many aching, hoping human hearts. He had a chance to speak to them; with the purpose, presumably, of giving light and cheer and strength to live better.
There he stood, a conspicuous and powerful figure; and there sat his audience, waiting. To say the truth, they did not look particularly hopeful; having doubtless "sat under" him before.
He took his text from the Nineteenth Chapter of "Acts"—something about "the town clark" of Ephesus; and how he appeased the people. There was some excitement, it appeared, among the citizens, and they raised a noise comparable to the convention which nominated Bryan; "and all with one voice about the space of two hours cried out, Great is Diana of the Ephesians."
Well. She certainly was—is yet, for that matter, though her influence is not confined to Ephesus.
In the face of this tumult, the "town clark," who seems to have been a peaceable person, with a strong sense of justice and propriety, quieted the people with fair words, explaining to them that their vociferous statement as to the dimensions or efficacy of their goddess were quite indisputable; and "matters of common knowledge," and that if they had any complaint against these missionaries they should go to law about it.
Evidently a fair-minded and law-abiding citizen, the "town clark of
Ephesus"; but—what of it?
What shadow of interest, to modern life, has this chatty anecdote about the attitude of the Ancient Ephesian toward visiting preachers?
It is barely possible; intellectually conceivable, that is, that the distinguished clergyman was drawing a parallel between these long dead gentry, and ourselves; in our attitude toward the advocates of new faiths.
For instance, there come among us persons teaching Socialism; and we all cry with one voice for about the space of fifty years, "Great is the Competitive System!"—and are minded to destroy the teachers, no "town clark" intervening.
But this did not seem to be in his mind at all. He was talking about ancient history pure and simple; the only merit in his extract lying in its location—it was in the Bible.
Whence to my title—Why texts?
Why does a modern sermon to modern people have to be based upon and buttressed by a quotation from the writings of the ancient Hebrews, or the more modern group of mixed blood and more mixed language through whom came the New Testament?
This is no question either verbal or general; but a very sincere question of the need of such quotation in the religious teaching of the present time.
Suppose we have a glaring modern instance of good or evil, which every live minister feels called upon to preach about; to the genuine edification of his hearers; why must he get out his concordance and ransack the Scriptures to find an applicable remark?
In the Hebrew Church the Reading is longer and the Exposition closer, I understand; and in the "Christian Science" church there is Reading without even that much licence; but in our liberal Christian "services" the sermon is generally intended to be of immediate use to the hearers, not merely to give them an extract from "that which is written."
What people want most is to know how to behave, now.
They want teaching that shall explain clearly what they ought to do; why they want to do it, and how they may best learn to do it.
Clear, strong, simple, convincing Explanations of Life—Directions for
Action; Stimulus and Strength; Courage and Hope; Peace and
Comfort—these are the things we want in our sermons.
Are they any better for the laborious far-fetched text?
THE LITTLE WHITE ANIMALS
Reprinted from "The Conservator," by courtesy of Mr. Horace Traubel.
We who have grown Human—house-bodied, cloth-skinned,
Wire-nerved and steam-heated—alas! we forget
The poor little beasts we have bandaged and pinned
And hid in our carpet-lined prisons!—and yet
Though our great social body be brickwork and steel,
The little white animals in it, can feel!
Humanity needs them. We cannot disclaim
The laws of the bodies we lived in before
We grew to be Human. In spite of our frame
Of time-scorning metals, the life at its core,
Controlling its action and guarding its ease,
Is the little white animal out of the trees!
It is true that our soul is far higher than theirs;
We look farther, live longer, love wider—we know;
They only can feel for themselves—and their heirs;
We, the life of humanity. Yet, even so,
We must always remember that soul at its base
Looks out through the little white animal's face.
If they die we are dead. If they live we can grow,
They ply in our streets as blood corpuscles ply
In their own little veins. If you cut off the flow
Of these beasts in a city, that city will die.
Yet we heighten our buildings and harden our souls
Till the little white animals perish in shoals.
Their innocent instincts we turn to a curse,
Their bodies we torture, their powers we abuse,
The beast that humanity lives in fares worse
Than the beasts of the forest with nothing to lose.
Free creatures, sub-human—they never have known
The sins and diseases we force on our own.
And yet 'tis a beautiful creature!—tall—fair—
With features full pleasant and hand-wooing hair;
Kind, docile, intelligent, eager to learn;
And the longing we read in its eyes when they burn
Is to beg us to use it more freely to show
To each other the love that our new soul can know.
Our engines drive fast in earth, water and air;
Our resistless, smooth-running machines still unroll,
With brain-work unceasing and handiwork fair,
New material forms for each step on the soul;
But that soul, for the contact without which it dies,
Comes closest of all through that animal's eyes.
WOMEN TEACHERS, MARRIED AND UNMARRIED
We have still active and conspicuous among us, saying and doing foolish things about women, men, both eminent and ordinary, whose attitude in this matter will make them a shame to their children, and a laughing stock to their grandchildren. We are proud to exhibit name and portrait of the great-grandfather who signed the Declaration of Independence, but our descendants will forget as soon as possible those asinine ancestors who are to-day so writing themselves down—in their attitude in regard to women teachers, married and unmarried.
For long women were kept out of the schools altogether—education was for boys. They were not allowed to teach, save in a small way, in infant schools, or schools for girls; teaching was a masculine profession. Now they have equal educational opportunities—in large measure, and constitute the majority of pupils; and, what is more alarming, the majority of teachers. The "male mind"—essentially and hopelessly male—sees in this not the natural development of a long suppressed human being, but the entrance of females upon a masculine province.
In her relation of pupil, there is a large body of eminent educators clamoring that girls should be taught female things; that, whether our universities are turned into trade schools or not, the women's colleges and "annexes" should teach girls "the duties of wife and mother." By this, of course, they mean the duties of house-service, and, perhaps, of nursing. Nothing would scandalize these Antique Worthies more than to have girls taught the real duties of wife and mother!
Also, in the relation of pupils, a man of as high standing as Professor Barrett Wendell of Harvard claims that teaching girls lowers the mentality of men! In coeducational colleges the "male mind," seeing in the violent games of young men a profound educational influence (and large profits!), considers that the presence of the purely studious element—the girls—is an injury to the college, and is even now endeavoring to eliminate them.
But it is in treatment of women teachers that this sex attitude of mind is most prominent to-day, most offensive, and most ridiculous.
The first effect is, of course, to give to the woman teacher the lowest grades of work and the lowest pay. Even when she has forced her way into high-grade work, and won a good position over all competitors, her pay is still measured by her status as a female—not as a teacher. The "male mind" can never for a moment forget or overlook the fact that women are females; and is rigidly incapable of admitting that they are also human beings as much as he.
In spite of this absurd limitation, women teachers have increased in numbers and in power; and are pressing steadily up into the higher positions reserved for men. An enormous majority of our teaching force is now composed of women; and, in our public schools, they naturally teach boys. Upon this point has arisen, and is still rising, an angry protest among men. Women teachers are, they say, unmarried; to be unmarried is an unnatural state, productive of various mental and physical morbidities; and as such does not form a suitable atmosphere for growing boys.
Recently President Hamilton of Tufts College goes even further than this, and objects to the influence of unmarried teachers upon girls!
To the "male mind," viewing the woman as first, last and always a female, and marriage and motherhood as her only normal relations, these crowding thousands of calm, respectable, independent, unmarried women are in a condition of unrest, of acrimonious rebellion against fate, of a contemptuous dislike for their unattainable "sour grapes." They are assumed to have been queer in the first place, or some gracious protector would have married them; and to grow queerer as life drags away, leaving them eternally unsatisfied, bitter and perverse. This deadly influence is supposed to have some poisonous effect on the pupils; just what is not defined. The unselfish, tireless service of the "maiden aunt" in the home we all know; but set her to teaching school, and some strange evil follows from the contact.
President Hamilton says college girls need to have their outlook on life broadened, not narrowed; and thinks these limited ladies, the teachers, are fitted only for work in the lower preparatory schools, or in "homes" and "settlements."
Just how the average male teacher in a college is to broaden the outlook of his pupils is not explained. It does not need explanation. It is broader because he is a man!
Most of our men teachers are still young men, by the way, and unmarried. Is the influence of the unmarried male on classes of girls an unmixed good? Is a man by nature a better teacher? More subtly sympathetic, more capable of understanding the difficulties of each pupil and meeting them, more patient and tender?
No—but he is "more methodical," and "a better disciplinarian." In other words, he is more male—and therefore a better teacher! All this is absurd enough, and injurious enough; false, unjust, pitifully ignorant.
But the crowning feat of the "logical male mind" is in its exclusion of married women from schools. This is what the living children of living men will laugh at and blush for—that their fathers should have made themselves thus lamentably conspicuous in present-day history. Here in this city of New York, where a system of competitive examination ensures the required degree of learning and promotion follows on proved efficiency (or is supposed to); some women teachers, following "that inexorable law of nature" which so many others successfully evade, have presumed to marry. Surely now the stock objection to women teachers is removed.
All that "narrowness," that "bitterness," that "morbidity" is transformed by this magic alchemy into breadth and sweetness and all health. Now we have for our children the influence of "normal womanhood"—of "the wife and mother."
No. Married women are not desired in our schools; not allowed; they are specifically discriminated against.
Some years ago a woman teacher of New York married, and refused to give up her position. There was no reason for discharging her—she fulfilled every duty as competently as before. But these historic school officials withheld her pay!
They had no right to; she had earned the money—it was hers. But they had the power, and used it. After many months of this high-handed withholding of her legitimate salary, this woman, and another similarly placed, sued for their back pay, making a test case of it.
They won. It was a perfectly plain case in law and equity.
Then the Board, naturally displeased, passed a by-law prohibiting the appointment, or reappointment, of married women. One woman, already in, and married, a very efficient teacher, and candidate for promotion to principalship, was not promoted, for this plain reason: they do not wish married women to teach in our schools.
Now, why?
What injurious influence exudes from previously competent teachers merely because they now know this personal, as well as their former professional, happiness!
Then with bated breath the official male mind suggests that they might become mothers.
Well? So they should. Is there anything about mothers which renders them unfit persons to teach children?
"You do not understand!" says the official male mind, a little nervously. "They would be—about to become mothers—and the children might notice it!"
Here we have Justice Shallow, Mrs. Grundy and King Canute rolled into one. What gross ignorance, what narrow conservatism, what petty and futile resistance to progress, as well as a low coarseness, prompts this objection! If our system of education allows children to grow up in such neglect that they neither know nor reverence motherhood, it is high time that the system was changed.
And it will be changed; by women—who are mothers.
Aside from this, and admitting that most married teachers who are in this dreaded "condition" do rapidly remove themselves from school, and do not come back for a year or more, the next objection is "the continued absence" of the married woman teachers.
Since there is a long array of substitutes, excellent substitutes (often married women, these!) who are paid less than the salary the absent one does not draw, it is difficult to see the evil of this. Unless indeed the merits of the married teacher are so supreme that even her temporary absence is a real loss. If that be so, then she is worth keeping, it would seem, at any cost.
In all this tissue of injustice and absurdity is there no thread of explanation, no reason better than these for such arbitrary interference with personal rights? There is a veritable cable; enough to hang the whole case on. It is shown in this provision:
If the married woman teacher can bring a doctor's certificate showing that her husband is sick—then she can hold her place and draw her pay, undisturbed!
The plain ordinary un-male mind will say, "What has that to do with it?"
It has nothing to do with it. The position in question is that of the teacher; the relation one between the teacher and pupil on the one side, and teacher and governing officers on the other side. Whether teacher, pupil or official is married or unmarried had nothing to do with the case, unless it can be shown to interfere with the legitimate work involved. Are we to suppose that the unseen extraneous husband has, when well, a malign influence on his wife's proficiency as a teacher, and, when ill, a beneficent one? Not at all; there is no such subtlety involved. It is not in the least a question of professional efficiency; it is a question of money.
Money is for men—who should use some of it to take care of their women. When a woman marries, she has a claim for support, and no further use for money of her own, no right to it, in fact!
Now let us temporarily admit that this is so—what has it to do with the action of school boards? Is our public school system an institution for the regulation of married women's property rights? Does it make inquiries as to the family relations of men teachers and pay them according to the number of dependents they have to support? Among the unmarried women, are those who are putting brothers through college, or maintaining invalid sisters or aged parents, paid more than the young lady living at home and not "having to work" at all? If there is no discrimination made in this matter among men teachers, nor among unmarried women teachers, why does it instantly enter into consideration in the case of married teachers?
All "systems" grow stiff, case-hardened, difficult to change; but in America we have the newest and most pliable, and we are bravely used to altering things. It is high time we altered our system of education. The very crown and flower of our best minds and noblest characters are called for to bring up children:
"That our childhood may pass with the best you can give—
And our manhood so live!"
Men and women both are needed as teachers; education is a social process—not one of sex. Yet the woman is, by virtue of her motherhood, the original teacher; and is more frequently possessed of the teaching instinct. All normal women would naturally marry, circumstances permitting; should marry, and would be no poorer teachers for that new relationship. All normal women should be mothers; and as such, would be better teachers—not worse!
As to payment, so long as we must measure off our services and pay for them, no form of human work is worthy of higher reward than this. To gather the fruit of all our progress, to prepare it for a child's mind, and lead him to eat that fruit, freely, and so grow to his best and highest—this is the human work.
It should be so prized, so honored, and so paid. And the payment should be for great work done—and bear no relation whatever to age or sex, or sex-relation; much less to the pathological condition of irrelevant husbands.
There is now formed in New York City, "The Married Women Teachers'
Association" (secretary, Miss Anna G. Walsh, 22 Harvard Street, Jamaica,
N. Y.), the purpose of which is to resist this unjust and illegitimate
discrimination.
It is unfortunate that more of the unmarried teachers do not cheerfully assist in the work.
They do not yet seem to realize that all women should make common cause against what is not only an injustice, but the most insolent and presuming interference on the part of men, with the private and personal affairs of women.