"I have given her as a help-meet," said the Voice that cannot err, when it spake unto Adam "in the cool of the day," amid the trees of Paradise. Not as a slave, a clog, a toy, a wrestler, a prize-fighter, a ruler. No. A helper, such as was meet for man to desire, and for her to become.
If the unerring Creator has assigned different spheres of action to the sexes, it is to be presumed that some adaptation exists to their respective sphere, that there is work enough in each to employ them, and that the faithful performance of that work will be for the welfare of both. If He hath constituted one as the priestess of the "inner temple," committing to her charge its veiled shrine and sacred harmonies, why should she covet to rage amid the warfare at its gates, or to ride on the whirlwind that may rock its turrets? Rushing, uncalled, to the strife, or the tumult, or the conflict, will there not linger in her heart the upbraiding question, "with whom didst thou leave thy few sheep in the wilderness?" Why need she be again tempted by pride, or curiosity, or glozing words, to forfeit her own Eden?
The true nobility of Woman is to keep her own sphere, and adorn it, not as the comet, daunting and perplexing other systems, but like the star, which is the first to light the day and the last to leave it. If she win not the laurel of the conqueror and the blood-shedder, her noble deeds may leave "footprints on the sands of time," and her good works, "such as become those that profess godliness," find record in the Book of Life.
Sisters, are not our rights sufficiently comprehensive, the sanctuary of home, the throne of the heart, the moulding of the whole mass of mind, in its first formation? Have we not power enough in all realms of sorrow and suffering, over all forms of want and ignorance, amid all ministries of love, from the cradle-dream to the sealing of the sepulchre?
Let us be content and faithful, aye, more,—grateful and joyful,—making this brief life a hymn of praise, until admitted to that choir which knows no discord, and where melody is eternal.
L. HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.
Hartford, Conn.
