“Young-womanly.” Well, what else should the doings of a young woman be?
“Commonplace.” Ay; so is the poetry written by God the world over. I did not profess to bring original creations—I but copied, here and there, a touch from the simple things I loved.
“No depth of thought or strength of expression.”
I read on. Heavier and thicker came down the stunning blows, till I could think of nothing so like it as Saturn among the poor frightened fairies. I finished, and lifted my hand to see if my head were safe.
“Why this is preposterous!” at last I exclaimed, gaping in utter amazement at the Procrustean bed on which I found my poor little fancies stretched. “Every word is true; but who would think of whipping the poor fawn into becoming an elephant, or of faulting (as the New-lights say) the same timid little trembler for not having the strength and courage of the lion? Robin-red-breasts will not be allowed to fly hereafter, because, forsooth, they have not wings fit to battle with the whirlwind, eyes of flame, and hoarse screaming voices. Why I never professed to be more than a Robin-red-breast, ’Bella.”
“True, but you must profess it now; and attain to something higher, too, or feel your inferiority. Since the Great Reform, women do not talk of one thing’s being proper for them and another improper—every thing is proper that they can do; and they must do every thing that man has done, for it has been decided that they are fully his equals. Henceforth in literature you must cultivate strength at the expense of—”
“But our tastes, ’Bel—if there were nothing else in the way—”
“We must correct our false feminine tastes. Recollect that hereafter we are not to be the toys of the drawing-room, nor dawdle away our time in the practice of airs and graces—”
“Ah! ’Bel, ’Bel! that’s a masculine accusation—don’t copy.”
“Well, then, we are not to lounge by the fireside—rocking cradles, tending flowers, and arranging pretty dresses. Our influence is extended, our sphere is widened. Our voices are to be heard—”