of
said wife, in order that he might enjoy the society of said wife--and
cast a cloud on the good name of another woman on said woman's request.

So here is a plot for a play: a tale of self-sacrifice and loyalty on the
part of two women that puts to shame much small talk we hear from small
men concerning the fickleness and selfishness of woman's love. "Brief as
woman's love!" said Hamlet--but then, Hamlet was crazy.

Jan Rubens died in Cologne, March Eighteenth, Fifteen Hundred
Eighty-seven, and lies buried in the Church of Saint Peter. Above the
grave is a slab containing this inscription: "Sacred to the Memory of Jan
Rubens, of Antwerp, who went into voluntary exile and retired with his
family to Cologne, where he abode for nineteen years with his wife Maria,
who was the mother of his seven children. With this his only wife Maria
he lived happily for twenty-six years without any quarrel. This monument
is erected by said Maria Pypelings Rubens to her sweetest and
well-deserved husband."

Of course, no one knew then that one of the seven--the youngest son of
Jan and Maria--was to win deathless fame, or that might have been carved
on the slab, too, even if something else had to be omitted.

But Maria need not have added that last clause, stating who it was that
placed the tablet: as it stands we should all have known that it was she
who dictated the inscription. Epitaphs are proverbially untruthful; hence
arose the saying, "He lies like an epitaph." The woman who can not evolve
a good lie in defense of the man she loves is unworthy of the name of
wife.

The lie is the weapon of defense that kind Providence provides for the
protection of the oppressed. "Women are great liars," said Mahomet;
"Allah in his wisdom made them so."

Hail, Maria Rubens! turned to dust these three hundred years, what star
do you now inhabit? or does your avatar live somewhere here in this
world? At the thought of your unselfish loyalty and precious fibbing, an
army of valiant, ghostly knights will arise from their graves, and rusty
swords leap from their scabbards if aught but good be said against thee.

"Ho, ho! and wasn't your husband really guilty, and didn't you know it
all the time?" I'll fling my glove full in the face of any man who dare
ask you such a question.

Beloved and loving wife for six-and-twenty years, and mother of seven,
looking the world squarely in the eye and telling a large and beautiful
untruth, carving it in ma