“That’s so, I surrender,” he answered. “Haven’t I felt the smart of that rattan years after, when I have thought of that scene? Not in my body, but in my sense of right and justice? Didn’t you scream though, Mr. Japhet? You never knew that I was ready to faint, and thought of dying, as those cutting strokes fell on me, but when I heard you scream, I made up my mind in an instant to be brave to the last, if I died. I would not have you think me a coward. It was your voice that gave me courage and nerve.”
Thus our talk ran on. I know these things are but trifles, but the sum total of life is made up of little things, a flogging is but a small affair, but have we not all of us received cuts that we have remembered until they have become a part of our very selves, and so have changed many a destiny for good or evil?
“But,” said the mother, “you might have let me share your sorrow.” “O, no, good mother,” replied he, “that could not be. Sorrow cannot be divided, shared, sold or given away. I might have told you and a hundred others, and you would have felt grieved and sympathized with me, but my sorrow would not have been diminished in the least so it was better for me to carry my own burdens than to have troubled you.” Brave as a man, as he was a brave boy.
The days passed only too quickly, full of delightful enjoyment to me, and I think, as well to them, and my friends took their departure. Then I was lonely and sad, yet happy in this renewal of our old friendship, and the addition of a new acquaintance, the charming mother of Johnny. I have given this account of their visit for several reasons, first because of the old friendship; then for the delight I had in their company, but most of all because of the admiration I had for this loving couple, mother and son. As the mother said, they were one. She had lived for her son, he for his mother, and thus their lives were blended together.
First of all, she was so pure. This was my first impression, and increased the more I saw of her, not from any special thing she said or did, but purity seemed to be in her every feature, in her dress, her walk, her conversation, the tone of her voice. She seemed to be made of sweetness and light, not simply of the soft and mellow kind, for she had her opinions, which she dared to defend with energy, yet a sense of goodness seemed to rule her. Such a life is a perpetual prayer. She had a great mind in her little body, and was not willing to let it sleep and rest. It was evident that she had kept up with her son in his reading, with his thoughts and his business, so she could be his close companion. There was scarcely a topic in our conversation, on which she could not converse with excellent sense, and with flashes of wit and fun. On some subjects her womanly instinct seemed to outrun our slow, plodding masculine thoughts.
I have read somewhere a criticism on woman, and probably a just one; that many of them, on becoming married, seem to think that they have reached the summit of their lives, and lose all their former pride of appearance, stop reading and thinking, and so cease to be companions of their husbands and older children, and remain as common useful articles of house furniture. It was not so with this mother. To her elasticity of youth in body and mind, she had added the culture and refinement of years, while her body seemed strengthened and matured through her mental activity.
I have but little patience with the theory of some scientific men that there is necessarily an inequality of the sexes because of the greater avoirdupois quantity of the male brain. Mind cannot be weighed with a butcher’s scales, no more than strength can be computed according to the amount of muscle. What does it prove if a difference exists between the brains of the two sexes of no less than 220 cubic centimeters per individual, more than to say that because two men live in different sized houses, the one living in the larger house should be consequently the greater man, when everybody knows that a large minded man may live in a hut, and a fool be in a palace. Therefore it seems that size and weight is no indication of quality.
Should not fineness of texture and quality give value to brains and to everything else? But, say the scientists, no difference can be seen in the composition of the male and female brain. Nor can any difference of texture be seen in the brains of an educated man and a fool. Take two rays of light of the same degree of brightness, no difference in appearance is observed, yet the one ray is full of heat, and the other of cold. Analysis by the spectrum shows a difference. My skeptical common sense suggests that our scientists have not found the right kind of a spectrum for brain analysis. Suppose we leave out the material brain altogether and consider the mind alone as we would lose sight of the house and think of the man separate from it. Is not the great mental difference between the sexes, as between individuals of the same sex, due to the training and development of that immaterial, subtle something, that no eye can see, or scale can weigh, or mortal comprehend, the mind itself? Why make the soul a clod of matter? Why try to estimate mind only by the weight or shape or texture of the brain matter it lives in and uses, any more than we should judge of the weight or worth of a man by the size or value of the house he occupies?
It is said that a fool can ask questions that a philosopher cannot answer, so I have ventured. Yet with all due respect to the philosophers I cannot always accept their dogmatic assertions without protest or questions. For instance, a great brain anatomist asserts, “Woman is a constantly growing child and in the brain, as in so many other parts of her body, she conforms to her childish type.” Suppose I assert “Man is a constantly growing child, and in the brain as in so many parts of his body, he conforms to his childish type.” What value has one assertion over the other?