Читать книгу The Physical Life of Woman: Advice to the Maiden, Wife and Mother - George H. Napheys - Страница 27

'All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.'

That life which is devoid of love is incomplete, sterile, unsatisfactory. It fails of its chiefest end. Nature, in anger, blots it out sooner, and it passes like the shadow of a cloud, leaving no trace behind. Admirable as it may be in other respects, to the eye of the statesman, the physician, the lover of his species, it remains but a fragment, a torso.

Love is one thing to a woman, another to a man. To him, said Madame de Staël, it is an episode; to her, it is the whole history of life. A thousand distractions divert man. Fame, riches, power, pleasure, all struggle in his bosom to displace the sentiment of love. They are its rivals, not rarely its masters. But woman knows no such distractions. One passion only sits enthroned in her bosom; one only idol is enshrined in her heart, knowing no rival, no successor. This passion is love! This idol is its object.

This is not fancy, not rhetoric; it is the language of cold and exact science, pronounced from the chair of history, from the bureau of the statistician, from the dissecting table of the anatomist. We shall gather up their well-weighed words, and present them, not as fancy sketches, but as facts.

This deep, all-absorbing, single, wondrous love of woman, is something that man cannot understand. This sea of unfathomed depth is to him a mystery. The shallow mind sees of it nothing but the rippling waves, the unstable foam-crests dashing hither and thither, the playful ripples of the surface, and, blind to the still and measureless waters beneath, calls woman capricious, uncertain—varium et mutabile. But the thinker and seer, undeceived by such externals, knows that beneath this seeming change is stability unequaled in the stronger sex, a power of will to which man is a stranger, a devotion and purpose which strike him with undefined awe.

Therefore, in the myths and legends which the early races framed to express their notions of divine things—the Fates, who spin and snip the thread of life; the Norns, who

Lay down laws,

And select life

For the children of time—

The destinies of men—

are always females. The seeresses and interpreters of oracles—those who, like the witch of Endor, could summon from the grave the shades of the departed—were women.

Therefore, also, modern infidelity, going back, as it ever does, to the ignorance of the past, and holding it up as something new, makes woman the only deity. Comte and his disciples, having reasoned away all gods, angels, and spirits, and unable to still the craving for something to adore, agree to meet once a week to worship—woman. The French revolutionists, having shut up the churches and abolished God by a decree of the Convention, set up in His stead—a woman.

We could never exhaust this phase of world-history. Everywhere we see the unexpected hand of Love moulding, fashioning all things. The fortunes of the individual, the fate of nations, the destinies of races, are guided by this invisible thread. Let us push our inquiries as to the nature of this all-powerful agent.