Those
were conquered with human weapons; but to overcome these we must bring
out God's great fieldpieces, and employ an enginery that can sweep
from eternity to eternity.
There is one subject which we are expected, in all our teachings, to
shun, or only to hint at: I mean the wickedness of an impure life.
Though God thunders against this appalling iniquity from the heavens
curse after curse, anathema after anathema, by our unwillingness to
repeat the divine utterance we seem to say, "Lord, not so loud! Speak
about everything else; but if this keeps on there will be trouble!"
Meanwhile the foundations of social life are being slowly undermined;
and many of the upper circles of life have putrefied until they have
no more power to rot.
If a fox or a mink come down to the farmyard and carry off a chicken,
the whole family join in the search.
If a panther come down into the village and carry off a child, the
whole neighborhood go out with clubs and guns to bring it down.
But this monster-crime goes forth, carrying off body and soul; and
yet, if we speak, a thousand voices bid us be silent.
I shall try to cut to the vitals of the subject, and proceed with the
_post-mortem_ of this carcass of death. It is time to speak on this
subject. All the indignation of the community upon this subject is
hurled upon woman's head. If, in an evil hour, she sacrifice her
honor, the whole city goes howling after her. She shall take the whole
blame. Out with her from all decent circles! Whip her. Flay her.
Bar all the doors of society against her return. Set on her all the
blood-hounds. Shove her off precipice after precipice. Push her down.
Kick her out! If you see her struggling on the waves, and with her
blood-tipped fingers clinging to the verge of respectability, drop a
mill-stone on her head.
For a woman's sin, men have no mercy; and the heart of other women is
more cruel than death.
For her, in the dark hour of her calamity, the women who, with the
same temptation, might have fallen into deeper damnation, have no
commiseration and no prayer.
The heaviest stroke that comes down upon a fallen woman's soul is the
merciless indignation of her sisters.
If the multitudes of the fallen could be placed in a straight line, it
would reach from here to the gates of the lost, and back again.
But what of the destroyer?
We take his arm. We flatter his appearance. We take off our hats.
He is admitted to our parlors. For him
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