THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

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and sowed the seed of many good works by the shining light of her example, never breaking a law of earth until it conflicted with a law of Heaven; then accepting her punishment, she welcomed her early death, and went to the abode of lost spirits. Borne up by her beauty of soul and noble resolves, unmindful of her own sufferings, she cheered and soothed the wretched creatures about her with such tender pitifulness that the arch fiend banished her from his realm, justly complaining that were she per­mitted to remain hell itself would become a heaven. Thus thrust forth she returned to the source of all compassion.

The Kajica, or sacred writings of Japan, after being destroyed in a disastrous con­flagration in 712 B. C., were restored to them verbatim by a peasant woman, who pro­claimed to the priest that she remembered all things that ever she heard.

Tradition, or history, if you prefer, tells of two daughters of Logair, a king of Ire­land. These ladies are chronicled as “ fair to look upon.” While on the way to their bath they saw St. Patrick sitting on a wall. He expounded to them his mission with its Divine wonders. They eagerly accepted the great truths, put white caps upon their heads, proclaimed themselves dead to the world and brides of Christ, thus founding the Holy Order of Sisterhood in Ireland.

There is living today in England an old woman, whose years exceed three-score and ten. She is small of stature, and her face bears furrows of care; her eyes dimmed and cheeks seamed with widow’s tears; her heart lacerated with wounds that time can not heal. This dear, little old lady is prudent to a degree, can make a pudding, is a judge of kine, has the nicest butter on the market, and stands firmly for the best price. Her vegetable garden shows the finest fruits, which are gathered and marketed with admirable frugality. She has as many children as the traditional old lady who lived in her shoe. She is grandmother—three deep. She is kind to the poor, gracious to those about her; a loving mother, faithful in small duties and humble before God. She paints good pictures, writes good books and sings sweetly. Her virtues and example will stand like the pyramids. She wears a royal diadem upon her brow, and as Queen of England and Empress of India she commands the proud homage of the world. The period of her years will be known as the Victorian Age.

Woman has always had her defenders and oppressors. The divine attributes of womanhood, like the divinity that is said to hedge around a king, have been through all time her shield and buckler. I read somewhere of a young and beautiful virgin being thrown into an arena of wild beasts for the entertainment of some Nero, when the brutes slunk away abashed.

Most of you remember in our nation’s civil strife when “ the dusk seemed wait­ing for the night” and all nature was “tuned in a minor key,” ’twas woman all over the broad land who seamed the stripes and studded the stars of our nation’s flag; she gave her jewels like that other queen, wives yielded husbands and fathers, and when she placed her beloved son upon the altar of sacrifice no angel stayed the sword. Maidens sent their best beloved to die for a cause they held most holy. Were our brave men the only heroes of that bloody time?

• You may remember the picture of the Arkansas traveler, with the cabin that couldn’t be repaired in the rain and didn’t need it when the day was dry. In the door­way stood that disheveled woman with a snuff stick in her mouth and her unwashed skillet in her hand. She is not there today, she roused herself at her country’s call and sent her indolent husband and sluggish boys to the front, and she helped to change the tune.

But last month the women of Siam, arousing to the conditions that would probably involve their beloved country in war with France anticipated necessity, and with spon­taneous action raised an immense sum of money to be ready when the need came.

All men are not great men, nor is it given to all women to do great things, but feeble hands have done their mighty work, little hands have swayed a scepter.

There are thousands of nameless women in our land who know nothing of women’s movements—women in rural homes beyond the sound of the rushing engine or the ( 28 )