though it be true, as often asserted, that the old boor gets
drunk and beats her, a woman could scarce apply for divorce from
a man who has twice been president. Furthermore, association with
such a man will lower the noblest woman to his level. Every
physiognomist who saw Frances Folsom's bright face, its
spirituelle beauty, and who looks upon it now and notes it
stolid, almost sodden expression, must recall those lines of
Tennyson's:

"As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee
down.
Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule,
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the
fool."

Last month it was announced with typographical and pictorial
trumpet blasts that Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney was about to present
her gilded dudelet with a family edition de luxe, and the Duchess
of Marlborough to find an heir to that proud title whose
foundation was laid with a sister's shame, the capstone placed by
the pander's betrayal of his rightful prince; and now before the
world can recover from its nausea, flaming headlines announce
that the Clevelands are about to refill the family cradle. Hold
our head, please, until we puke! Lord, Lord, is there nothing
sacred about motherhood any more? Is a married woman no better
than a brood-mare, her condition fair subject for comment by
vulgar stable-boys? We thank thee, O God, that the South has not
kept pace with New York's super-estheticism--that when our women
find themselves in an "interesting condition" they seek the