Who blames me? Many，no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey，backwards and forwards，safe in the silence and solitude of the spot，and allow my mind"s eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose before it- and，certainly，they were many and glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement，which，while it swelled it in trouble，expanded it with life; and，best of all，to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended- a tale my imagination created，and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident，life，fire，feeling，that I desired and had not in my actual existence.

It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine，and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties，and a field for their efforts，as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint，too absolute a stagnation，precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings，to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them，or laugh at them，if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.