scandalize the character of another, and plead ignorance. And no one has the right to make an attempt to destroy or impair the reputation of any one on any account. When an individual attempts to blast the character of another person, upon the warped judgment of his own mind, he will act selfishly. And the attempt will result and resolve itself in scandal. And he is morally guilty before all law as a counterfeiter. "We have many lessons of civilization yet to learn, and the reputations of the nineteenth century will one day be quoted, to prove its barbarism. Time-serving reigns to-day. When Napoleon I. escaped from Elba, the Paris "Moniteur" thus chronicled his progress: "'The anthropophagist' has escaped — the 'tiger' is coming — the 'monster' has slept at Grenoble — the 'tyrant' has arrived at Lyons — the 'usurper' has been seen in the environs of Paris 'Bonaparte' advances toward, but will never enter, the capital — 'Napoleon' will be under our ramparts to-morrow — the 'Emperor' has arrived at Fontainebleau — and lastly, 'Hi Imperial Majesty' entered the Tuileries on the 21st of March, in the midst of his faithful subjects." Just so is it with all scandalmongers; they trim their sails to suit the winds that happen to be blowing at the time. When I began public life I dreaded the scandals that were set afloat against my good name, in ex-parte testimony, and usually by people whose moral odor smelled like anything but roses or lilies or daffadowndillies. Since then years have passed, and I have found it folly to notice either the liars or the lies, or those who, for want of better occupation, retailed the senseless stuff. I found these tattlers mainly among iconsclasts, who made it a rule to taboo and ignore me, and yet claimed me as a bright example of what the Ism could do with the raw material in the way of manufacturing philosophers. I was lately told that a travelling book peddler refused to sell mine, — himself a brainless dolt with wide mouth and horse's lungs, — because the fellow couldn't write one as good. Of course I laughed at his noddleism, and sold my own books in spite of Jack Brainless, the son of Lunkhead, the son of Leatherpate, the son of Saphead, the son of Darnphule, the son of Longears, — a jack at one end of the line and an ass at the other. Reader, under similar circumstances, go thou and do likewise, and laugh these envious fools to scorn.
Want of real, true, heartfelt, genuine love makes any woman
