WOMAN TO MANWoman is man’s enemy, rival, and competitor.—John j. Ingalls.You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,How could the hand be enemy of the arm,Or seed and sod be rivals! How could lightFeel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,Or competition dwell ’twixt lip and smile?Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?Like strands in one great braid we entertwineAnd make the perfect whole. You could not be,Unless we gave you birth; we are the soilFrom which you sprang, yet sterile were that soilSave as you planted. (Though in the Book we readOne woman bore a child with no man’s aid,We find no record of a man-child bornWithout the aid of woman! FatherhoodIs but a small achievement at the best,While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)This ever-growing argument of sexIs most unseemly, and devoid of sense.Why waste more time in controversy, whenThere is not time enough for all of love,Our rightful occupation in this life?Why prate of our defects, of where we fail,When just the story of our worth would needEternity for telling, and our bestDevelopment comes ever through your praise,As through our praise you reach your highest self?Oh! had you not been miser of your praiseAnd let our virtues be their own reward,The old-established order of the worldWould never have been changed. Small blame is oursFor this unsexing of ourselves, and worse.Effeminising of the male. We wereContent, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.All we have done, or wise, or otherwise,Traced to the root, was done for love of you.Let us taboo all vain comparisons,And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,Companions, mates, and comrades evermore;Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.
Woman is man’s enemy, rival, and competitor.—John j. Ingalls.
Woman is man’s enemy, rival, and competitor.—John j. Ingalls.
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,How could the hand be enemy of the arm,Or seed and sod be rivals! How could lightFeel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf,Or competition dwell ’twixt lip and smile?Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?Like strands in one great braid we entertwineAnd make the perfect whole. You could not be,Unless we gave you birth; we are the soilFrom which you sprang, yet sterile were that soilSave as you planted. (Though in the Book we readOne woman bore a child with no man’s aid,We find no record of a man-child bornWithout the aid of woman! FatherhoodIs but a small achievement at the best,While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)This ever-growing argument of sexIs most unseemly, and devoid of sense.Why waste more time in controversy, whenThere is not time enough for all of love,Our rightful occupation in this life?Why prate of our defects, of where we fail,When just the story of our worth would needEternity for telling, and our bestDevelopment comes ever through your praise,As through our praise you reach your highest self?Oh! had you not been miser of your praiseAnd let our virtues be their own reward,The old-established order of the worldWould never have been changed. Small blame is oursFor this unsexing of ourselves, and worse.Effeminising of the male. We wereContent, sir, till you starved us, heart and brain.All we have done, or wise, or otherwise,Traced to the root, was done for love of you.Let us taboo all vain comparisons,And go forth as God meant us, hand in hand,Companions, mates, and comrades evermore;Two parts of one divinely ordained whole.