Part 1 (2/2)
The third--to fitly bear, bring forth, and nurse the child. Following these, last and highest of all, comes our great race-process of social parentage, which transmits to each new generation the gathered knowledge, the acc.u.mulated advantages of the past.
When mother and father labor and save for years to give their children the ”advantages” of civilization; when a whole state taxes itself to teach its children; that is the Life Force even more than the direct impulse of personal pa.s.sion. The pressure of progress, the resistless demand of better conditions for our children, is life's largest imperative, the fullest expression of motherhood.
But even if we confine ourselves for the time being to the plane of mere replenishment, to that general law under which animals continue in existence upon earth, even here the brief period of pre-paternal excitement is but a pa.s.sing hour compared to the weeks and months, yes, years, in the higher species, of maternal service, love and care. The human father, too, toils for his family; but the love, the power, the pride of fatherhood are not symbolized by the mischievous b.u.t.terfly baby we have elected to wors.h.i.+p.
Cupid has nothing to do with either motherhood or fatherhood in the large human sense. His range is far short of the mark, he suggests nothing of the great work to which he is but the pleasing preliminary.
Even for marriage we must bring in another G.o.d little heard of--Master Hymen. This personage has made but small impression upon literature and art; we have concentrated our interest on the G.o.d of First Sensation, leaving none for ultimate results.
It is as if we were impressed by the intricate and indispensible process of nutrition (upon which, as anyone can see, all life continuously depends) and then had fixed our attention upon the palate, as chief functionary. The palate is useful, even necessary. Without that eager guide and servant we might be indifferent to the duty of eating, or might eat what was useless or injurious, or at best eat mechanically and without pleasure.
In the admirable economy of nature we are led to perform necessary acts by the pleasure which accompanies them; so the ”pleasures of the palate”
rightly precede the uses of the stomach; but we should not mistake them for the chief end. In point of fact, this is precisely what we have done. It not an a.n.a.logy, it is a real truth. In nutrition as in reproduction we have been quite taken up with accompaniments and a.s.sistants, and have ignored the real business in hand. That is why the whole world is so unwisely fed. It considers only the taste of things, the pleasure of eating them, and ignores the real necessities of the process.
And why, if this standard of doorstep satisfaction does not really measure values in food, should we continue to set the same standard for the mighty work of love? Love is mighty, but little Master Cupid is not Love. The love that warms and lights and builds the world is Motherlove. It is aided and paralleled by Fatherlove (that new development distinctive of our race, that enn.o.bling of the father by his taking up so large a share of what was once all motherwork).
But why, so recognizing and reverencing this august Power, why should we any longer be content to accept as its symbol this G.o.dlet of transient sensation? No man who has ever loved a woman fully, as only human beings can love, through years of mutual care and labor, through sickness, age, and death, can honestly accept, as type of that long, strong, enduring Love, this small blind fly-by-night.
There is, unquestionably, a stage of feeling which he fitly represents.
There is an inflammable emotionality in youth and its dreary continuance into middle life, when as the farcial old governor in the play exclaims, ”Every day is ladies' day to me.” Such a state of mind--or body, rather--is common enough, harmless enough, perhaps, for a few light, ineffectual years; but it is a poor compliment to call it Love, to let this state of shuffling indecision, this weather-c.o.c.k period, this blindfold chance-shot game of hit or miss, hold such high place in our hearts.
The explanation of it all is plain. In those slow, ignorant ages when the spark of life was supposed to be transmitted by the male, he naturally was taken to typify the life force. As this force was most imperious in youth, so youth was taken to represent it. And as, even in the eyes of the supposed chief actor, his feelings were changeable and fleeting and his behavior erratic and foolish in the extreme--therefore Cupid!
Therefore, seeing the continuous unreason of the love-driven male, we say, ”Love is blind”; seeing his light-mindedness, we say, ”Love has wings”; seeing his evident lack of intelligence and purpose, we make him a mere child; seeing the evil results of his wide license, we euphemistically indicate some pain by that bunch of baby arrows.
It is easy to see the origin of this deification of the doorstep. It is not so easy to justify its persistence now that long years of knowledge show us the great Door.
The Door of Life is Motherhood. She is the gate of entrance. Her work is the great work as moulder and builder. She carries in her the Life Power which this absurd infant is supposed to typify; and her love is greater than his, even as a wise, strong mother is greater than a little child.
Consider the imperative law that demands motherhood, that gives motherhood, that holds motherhood to its great continuing task; where short pleasure is followed by long discomfort crowned with pain; where even the rich achievement of new-made life is but the beginning of years of labor and care. Here is the life force. Here is power and pa.s.sion.
Not the irritable, transient impulse, however mighty, but the staying power, the pa.s.sion that endures, the spirit which masters weakness, slays selfishness, holds its ministrant to a lifelong task.
This is not appet.i.te, hunger, desire. Desire may lead to it, and usefully. Desire is the torchbearer, Motherhood is the Way.
Give Baby Love his due. He is not evil; he is good. He is a joy forever. He is vitally necessary in the scheme of things. Happy are they who in the real great work of life can carry with them this angel visitant, fluttering free along their path, now close and sweet, now smiling mischievously at a distance, yet returning ever.
But with all that can be said of him he is out of place as chief deity in this high temple. Let a little shrine be made at the gate outside the door. Let him smile there and take his tribute of red roses. But when we put the shoes from off our feet and enter, we should see before us, tall and grave, glorious in strong beauty, majestic in her amplitude of power, the G.o.ddess Motherhood.
Such love should s.h.i.+ne from her deep eyes that children would crowd to that temple and feel at home; learning to understand a little of what had brought them there. Such beauty in this body of great womanhood that men would wors.h.i.+p as for long they have wors.h.i.+pped her of Melos. Such high pride that girls, gazing, would feel strong to meet and bear their splendid task. And such power--such living, overmastering power that man, woman and child alike should bow in honor and rise in strength.
Then will Love be truly wors.h.i.+pped.
ARREARS
<script>