ore
harmful to life and growth--ethical and social conventions--were left
to take care of themselves; and they have taken care of themselves.
They seem to get along as beautifully in the heads and hearts of the
most active exponents of woman's emancipation, as in the heads and
hearts of our grandmothers.

These internal tyrants, whether they be in the form of public opinion
or what will mother say, or brother, father, aunt, or relative of any
sort; what will Mrs. Grundy, Mr. Comstock, the employer, the Board of
Education say? All these busybodies, moral detectives, jailers of
the human spirit, what will they say? Until woman has learned to
defy them all, to stand firmly on her own ground and to insist upon
her own unrestricted freedom, to listen to the voice of her nature,
whether it call for life's greatest treasure, love for a man, or her
most glorious privilege, the right to give birth to a child, she
cannot call herself emancipated. How many emancipated women are
brave enough to acknowledge that the voice of love is calling, wildly
beating against their breasts, demanding to be heard, to be
satisfied.

The French writer, Jean Reibrach, in one of his novels, NEW BEAUTY,
attempts to picture the ideal, beautiful, emancipated woman. This
ideal is embodied in a young girl, a physician. She talks very
cleverly and wisely of how to feed infants; she is kind, and
administers medicines free to poor mothers. She converses with a
young man of her acquaintance about the sanitary conditions of the
future, and how various bacilli and germs shall be exterminated by
the use of stone walls and floors, and by the doing away with rugs
and hangings. She is, of course, very plainly and practically
dressed, mostly in black. The young man, who, at their first
meeting, was overawed by the wisdom of his emancipated friend,
gradually learns to understand her, and recognizes one fine day that
he loves her. They are young, and she is kind and beautiful, and
though always in rigid attire, her appearance is softened by a
spotlessly clean white collar and cuffs. One would expect that he
would tell her of his love, but he is not one to commit romantic
absurdities. Poetry and the enthusiasm of love cover their blushing
faces before the pure beauty of the lady. He silences the voice of
his nature, and remains correct. She, too, is always exact, always
rational, always well behaved. I fear if they had formed a union,
the young man w