The Forerunner, vol 1 | Page 7

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 passing 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 butterfly baby we
have elected to worship.
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 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