is quickly forgotten, and is valueless unless it issue in increase of moral and intellectual strength. "In whatever direction I turn my thoughts," says Schleiermacher, "it seems to me that woman's nature is nobler and her life happier than man's; and if ever I play with an idle wish it is that I might be a woman." Hardly any man, I imagine, would rather be a woman, and many women doubtless would rather be men; and yet there is much in Schleiermacher's thought, if we believe, as the wise do believe, that love is the best, and that they who love most are the highest and, therefore, the happiest, since the noblest mind the best contentment has. What fountains to the desert are, What flowers to the fresh young spring, What heaven's breast is to the star, That woman's love to earth doth bring. Whether mid deserts she is found, Or girt about by happy home, Where'er she treads is holy ground Above which rises love's high dome. Or be she mother called or wife, Or sister or the soul's twin mate, She still is each man's best of life, His crown of joy, his high estate. What is our Christian faith but the revelation of the supreme and infinite worth of love, as being of the essence of God himself? Is it not easy to believe that to a loving soul in an all-chaste body the unseen world may lie open to view? That Joan of Arc saw heavenly visions and heard whisperings from higher worlds, who can doubt that has considered how her most pure womanly soul redeemed a whole people, and, by them forsaken, from midst fierce flames took its flight to God? Should women vote? The rule of the people is good only when it is the rule of the good and wise among the people, and of these, women, in great numbers, are part. The leadership of the best comes near to being the leadership of God. But the question of the suffrage for women is grave; it is one on which an enlightened mind will long hold judgment in suspense. Does not political life, as it exists in our democracy, tend to corrupt both voters and office-seekers? Is it not largely a life of cant, pretence, and hypocrisy, of venality, corruption, and selfishness, of lying, abuse, and vulgarity? Do not public men, like public women, sell themselves, though in a different way? Is the professional politician, the professional caucus-manipulator, the professional voter, the type of man we can admire or respect even? The objection so frequently raised, that political life would corrupt women, has, at least, the merit of a certain grim humorousness. Could it by any chance make them as bad as it makes men? To tell them they are the queens of the home, to whom the mingling with plebeians is degrading, is an insult to their intelligence. We have forsworn kings and queens, both in private and in public life, and at home women are, for the most part, drudges. What need is there of a hollow phrase when the appeal to truth is obvious?