branches of knowledge were cultivated, like cabbages, at so much a head.  When Eleanor became, so to speak, her property, she seized with avidity the opportunity of submitting her principles to the test of experiment—­of demonstrating to an incredulous world the power of education, and the vigor of the female mind and body when formed by proper discipline.  The child was fed in accordance with the most recent discoveries in chemistry:  she was taught to read after the latest improvement in primers; she was provided with mathematical toys and gymnastic exercises.  Did she take a walk in summer, her attention was directed to botany; if she picked up a stone to make it skip over a passing brook, passages from the Medals of Creation or Thoughts on a Pebble were quoted; and when the stone went skimming over the surface of the calm pool, the theory of the ricochet was explained and the wonders of natural philosophy were dilated upon.  Every sentence she spoke was made the text of a lesson, and the names of sages and philosophers became as familiar to her as those of Jack the Giant-killer and Blue Beard are to ordinary children.

Especially were the stories of distinguished women repeated by Miss Willmanson in glowing language, pointed out as precedents, and dwelt upon as worthy of emulation.  “If their genius was great enough,” she would remark, “to extort a recognition in times when only masculine pens wrote history, what could not the same ability do now?—­now, when, strengthened by waiting, encouraged by ungrudging praise, and sure of having chroniclers of their own sex who will do them justice, a new era is dawning.  The history of the world needs to be reseen from a woman’s point of view, and rewritten by a woman’s hand.  Men have had the monopoly of making public opinion, and have distorted facts.  What in a king they name policy, in a queen is called cruelty; what in a minister is diplomacy, in a favorite is deceit; what in a man is justice, in a woman is inhumanity; vigor is coarseness, generosity is weakness, sincerity becomes shallowness; and faults that are passed over lightly in the hero are sufficient to doom the heroine for all posterity.”

The peculiar views of Eleanor’s aunt did not prevent her from being an agreeable acquaintance.  Although she believed in the intellectual capacity of woman, she did not look upon herself as a representative of the class:  her admiration of her sex did not degenerate into self-laudation, and her enthusiasm was not tainted by egotism.  Hers was not a strong-mindedness that showed itself in ungainly coiffures and tasteless attire.  It was content with desiring and claiming for woman whatever is best, noblest and most lovely in mind and body.  She would have given her life to further this end, but thought it mattered little if her name were forgotten in the bulletin that announced success to the cause.

Owing to her extreme reserve in talking of herself, it was very gradually that I gained this knowledge of Miss Willmanson’s character; but many of her opinions were received at second hand from Eleanor, who admired her aunt greatly, and never tired of quoting her.  It was she who told me that this talented lady was engaged upon a book the title of which was Footsteps of Women in All Ages.  The aunt returned this admiration in no stinted measure, and her highest ambition seemed centred in her niece.