The Forerunner, vol 1 | Page 7

mark, he suggests nothing of the great work to which he is but the pleasing preliminary. Even for marriage we must bring in another god little heard of--Master Hymen. This personage has made but small impression upon literature and art; we have concentrated our interest on the God 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 analogy, it is a real truth. In nutrition as in reproduction we have been quite taken up with accompaniments and assistants, 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 ennobling 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 godlet 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-cock 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 passion. Not the irritable, transient impulse, however mighty, but the staying power, the passion that endures, the spirit which masters weakness, slays selfishness, holds its ministrant to a lifelong task.
This is not appetite, hunger, desire. Desire may lead to it, and usefully.