I should have thought that my views on the Advanced Woman were sufficiently well known; but, since you ask my opinion, I may say at once that I lose no opportunity of inveighing against this fin-de-siècle abomination. Once on a time it was not thought unbecoming for a woman to be modest and retiring. She knew her sphere, and, queen in her own selected world, she did not aspire to a sovereignty which naturally belonged to others. If they were alive to-day (and, after all, some of them are), our grandmothers would hardly know their Grand children—the Heavenly Twins. I am glad that I am permitted to keep burning the sacred lamp of the Old Womanhood. Indeed, it looks as if the jeers which a thoughtless world has hitherto reserved for the Old Maid were being transferred to the Old Woman. Yet to those who have never yielded to the spell of the latter-day notions, there is only dismay in the spectacle of the Advanced Woman sweeping triumphantly on, with her mind full of sex-problems she has not brains enough to understand, and her breath stained with the trace of cigarettes she does not care to conceal. Wholesomeness dies at being dubbed old-fashioned; Modesty does not survive the disgrace of not being up to date. It's a bad world, my masters, and I'm never tired of saying so.
Ann U. Woman dreams of the Future.
The fact that you have invited my opinion with full knowledge of what I shall say, emboldens me to speak out. Man's day (which, like every dog, he has had) draws to an end. For centuries he has had Woman at his mercy. What she is to-day, that he has made her. And what is she? His Doll, his Slave, his "Old Woman." But Man made one fatal mistake. In a weak moment he consented to allow Woman to earn her own living. From that moment our ultimate triumph was assured. Now we know our strength. Told of old that we were brainless, we now become Senior Wranglers. Condemned aforetime to inactivity, we now realise that in life's struggle there are no prizes we are not competent to secure, though, of course, we are not always permitted. We have precipitated ourselves out of a yellow miasma of stagnant sloth into an emancipated, and advanced day. The Advanced Woman has come to stay—but not with any husband. She will be as free as the air, as strong as the eagle. I must stop, as to do any more fine writing would be to anticipate my next novel. Be sure to get it. It will be called—— [No; I can stand a good deal, but not that.—Ed.]
"TRIPPING MERRILY."
That holiday cruise on board the good steamship Cannie Donia! Did I dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old Kaspar's,"—or let us say middle-aged Kaspar's,—"work was done" pro tem., and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir Charles Cheerie, the Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. Cannie Donia. So I, middle-aged Kaspar, work done as aforesaid, did then and thereby become Tommy the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding.
And what a goodly company!
Sir Charles and Lady Cheerie, perfect host and hostess in themselves. Here too was our Toby, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the official list of guests as 'Tobias,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up. "Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and independent scribe, and there is nothing to bias me. Aha!" The sea air agrees with Toby, M.P. "And where would the Member for Barkshire be," he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my bite, but——" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back his bite—and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of us is capable—against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet Toby en mangeant is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means! With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon; into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.
After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment, what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir Peter Plural, looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir Peter! knows everybody, is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his reminiscences!
We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial Valentine Vulcan, M.P., from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.