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 novelist, 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 clearly 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
the doing away of 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 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 would have risked freezing to death. I
must confess that I can see nothing beautiful in this new beauty, who is
as cold as the stone walls and floors she dreams of. Rather would I have
the love songs of romantic ages, rather Don Juan and Madame Venus,
rather an elopement by ladder and rope on a moonlight night, followed by
a father's curse, mother's moans, and the moral comm