“Woman sister,” says Thomas de Quincey, “there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother man. No, nor never will. Pardon me, if I doubt whether you will ever produce a great poet from your choirs, or a Mozart, or a Phidias, or a Michael Angelo, or a great philosopher, or a great scholar. By which last is meant, not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, but also on an infinite and electrical power of combination; bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, what else were dust from dead men’s bones, into the unity of breathing life. If you _can_ create yourselves into any of these great creators, why have you not?” This passage _is_ not true. Whatever man may perform, woman taken out of his side may equal. Right truly has Ebenezer Elliott, a sincere and energetic, if not graceful bard, sung:— “What highest prize hath woman won In science or in art? What mightiest work by woman done Boasts city, field, or mart? ‘She hath no Raphael!’ Painting saith; ‘No Newton!’ Learning cries. ‘Show us her steamship! her Macbeth! Her thought-won victories!’ Wait, boastful man! though worthy are Thy deeds, when thou are true, Things worthier still, and holier far, Our sister yet will do; For this the worth of woman shows On every peopled shore, That still as man in wisdom grows, He honours her the more. Oh, not for wealth, or fame, or power, Hath man’s meek angel striven; But, silent as the growing flower, To make of earth a heaven! And in her garden of the sun, Heaven’s brightest rose shall bloom; For woman’s best is unbegun, Her advent yet to come.”