The whole race has been weaned by them; every
country has been nursed into manhood in their arms. But they are too
normal or they are too much a class to have men sing of them. There
is not one mother of children in the vast calendars of history who
stands out now for our eyes to reverence. Upon the stage of the world
their part is played, and what eye is there can grasp in comprehensive
glance the whole broad sweep of power which their frail hands have
wielded? Only upon that mimic platform of fame, raised where the eyes
of all can watch the figure as it treads the boards, have women stood
apart where the recorder can jot their names upon a scroll of history
for the world to read. There is no virtue essential here; virtue
indeed but adds a glamour with its absence.
There is some subtle attraction in a Catherine of Russia or a Manon
Lescaut which tempts the cunning lust of men to cry their praise for
the nobility of heart that lies beneath. But what elusive charm is
there in the mother of children whose stainless virtue is her only
personality? None? Yet to the all-seeing eye, to the all-comprehending
brain--to that omniscience whom some call God, be it in Trinity or in
Unity, and others know not what to call--these are the women who lift
immeasurably above fame, infinitely above repute.
Pages:
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426