your trust; He has dragged the most sacred of ties in the dust, And ruined the fame of a woman who wore, Until now, a good name. He has gone. Close the door Of your heart in his face if he seeks to come back. The sleuth hounds of justice were put on his track, And his life since he left you lies bare to my gaze. He sailed yesterday on the "Paris."  For days Preceding the journey he lived as the guest Of one Mrs. Zoe Travers, who comes from the West! A widow, young, fair, well-connected. I hear He followed her back to New York from the Pier, And now he has taken the woman abroad. My letter sounds brutal and harsh. Would to God I might soften the facts in some measure; but no, In matters like this the one thing is to know The whole truth, and at once. Though the pain be intense It pulls less on the soul than the pangs of suspense. Like a surgeon of fate, with my pen for a knife, I cut out false hopes which endanger your life. Let the law, like a nurse, cleanse the wound—there is shame And disgrace for you now in the man's very name. Though justice is blindfolded, yet she can hear When the chink of gold dollars sounds close in her ear. 

 One needs but to give her this musical hint To save you the sight of your sorrows in print. Closed doors, private hearing; a sentence or two In the journals; then dignified freedom for you. When love, truth and loyalty vanish, the tie Which binds man to woman is only a lie. Undo it! remember at all times I stand As a friend to rely on—a serf to command. 

 Some women there are who would willingly barter A queen's diadem for the crown of a martyr. They want to be pitied, not envied. To know That the world feels compassion makes joy of their woe; And the keenest delight in their misery lies, If only their friends will look on with wet eyes. 

 In fact, 'tis the prevalent weakness, I find, Of the sex. As a mass, women seem disinclined To be thought of as happy; they like you to feel That their bright smiling faces are masks which conceal A dead hope in their hearts. The strange fancy clings To the mind of the world that the rarest of things— Contentment—is commonplace; and, that to shine As something superior, one must repine, Or seem to be hiding an ache in the breast. Yet the commonest thing in the world is unrest, If you want to be really unique, go along And act as if Fate had not done you a wrong, And declare you have had your deserts in this life. 

 The part of the patient, neglected young wife Contained its attractions for Mabel Montrose. She was one of the women who live but to pose In the eyes of their friends; and she 

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