A worthy woman who can find?

For her price is far above rubies.

The heart of her husband trusteth in her,

And he shall have no lack of gain.

She doeth him good and not evil
All the days of her life.

She seeketh wool and flax,

And worketh willingly with her hands.
She is like the merchant-ships;
She bringeth her bread from afar.
She riseth also while it is yet night,
And giveth food to her household,
And their task to her maidens.

She considereth a field, and buyeth it:

With the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard. She girdeth her loins with strength,

And maketh strong her arms.

She perceiveth that her merchandise is profitable: Her lamp goeth not out by night.

She layeth her hands to the distaff,

And her hands hold the spindle.

She stretcheth out her hand to the poor;

Yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
She is not afraid of the snow for her household;
For all her household are clothed with scarlet.
She maketh for herself carpets of tapestry;
Her clothing is fine linen and purple.

I venture to say that not in pagan literature, not in the ethics of Confucius, not in the Vedic hymns, not in the poetry of Greece or Rome, not

in legend or story of Scandinavian tribes, is to be found such a picture of the dignity and glory and honorable service of woman.

She is no toy and no dependent idler. She has her work to do, and glories in it. She counts no honorable industry servile, works willingly with her hands. She is no narrow-minded provincial. Her vision stretches out over other lands. She knows what the world is doing, has some share in it; is like the merchant ships, and brings food both for mind and body from afar. She is not cottoned or cozened in the bed of idleness, but rises betimes for her work; never counts executive ability unwomanly; is a wise and efficient mistress of maidens. She has no notion that invalidism is interesting, that to be attractive she must be pale and bloodless. She girdeth her loins with strength, and her arms are strong. Her charity begins at home, but does not end there. Her sympathies reach out beyond her husband and her children. She is a wise almoner of charity, and not through contribution-boxes and charitable organizations only. She does not shun contact with the lowly and the unfortunate. She stretches out her hand to the poor and the needy. She has not the notion that simplicity and ugliness are synonymous, that beauty in dress and furniture is sinful. She is not blind to the lessons of nature, which

clothes this world in a great glory of form and color. Her household are clothed with scarlet, and her own clothing is fine linen and purple. She takes thought for the morrow, and therefore does not take anxiety for it. Because she is forethoughted she can laugh at the time to come. She does not confound innocence and ignorance, does not think it unwomanly to be well educated; she openeth her mouth with wisdom. Nor does she think to show her wisdom by the sharpness of her tongue. Nor is she a gossip-monger. In her tongue is the law of kindness. Her personal ambitions run not beyond her household. She has no longing for public place and public service. She seeks her coronation within the walls of her home, happy if her children rise up and call her blessed, and her husband praises her.

This ideal of creation, of marriage, of womanhood, derived from the Hebrew people, passed over into Europe together with the pagan ideal derived from Imperial Rome. Wherever paganism dominated, woman was dishonored and marriage was reduced to a commercial partnership. Wherever Christianity dominated, woman was glorified and marriage was treated as a sacrament. The Church honored woman. It put by the side of the Lord himself the Virgin Mother who bore him. The adoration of the Virgin was one of the

messages of the Catholic Church. Wherever that adoration was offered, wherever that mother and child were painted, wherever the Ave Maria was played or sung, there womanhood and motherhood were exalted and adored. With this ideal of womanhood there went an ideal of marriage as a sacred sacrament binding husband and wife together in an indissoluble bond. And wherever these two went, there went also the idea of complete comradeship; for these three Hebrew ideals are really one in three, a sacred trinity of love: man and woman created one; man and woman created to be comrades; and man and woman united by marriage in an indissoluble bond.

For it is not merely the husbands that are to be comrades. The comradeship may be between husband and wife, or between brother and sister, or between father and daughter, or between friend and friend. It is man and woman who are made in the image of God; it is man and woman who are united in a sacred fellowship. There is no space here in which adequately to illustrate this comradeship which the Hebrew ideal puts before us. Life is the best interpreter of the Bible. From the book of life I select one single picture of this comradeship between brother and sister. Much has been made of what Charles Lamb did for Mary Lamb, and we have sometimes wondered

at the patience of the brother in bearing with his ofttimes crazy sister. It came to me somewhat as a surprise when a friend called my attention to Charles Lamb's testimony of what that sister had been to him:

I have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all the former ones, will be but temporary, but I cannot feel it so. Meanwhile she is dead to me, and I miss a prop. All my strength is gone, and I am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. I dare not think lest I should think wrong, so used am I to look up to her in the least as in the biggest perplexity. To say all that I know of her would be more than I think anybody could believe or even understand; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her, for I can conceal nothing I do from her. She is older, wiser, better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself, by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life, death, heaven and hell with me. She lives but for me. I know I have been wasting and teasing her life for five years incessantly with my cursed drinking and ways of going on. But even in this upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for I know that she has clung to me for better, for worse; and if the balance has been against her hitherto, it was a noble trade.1

1 Letter written to Dorothy Wordsworth by Charles Lamb when Mary Lamb was in the asylum, during one of her attacks of insanity, June 14, 1805. Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by E. V. Lucas; letter 133.