ns for divorce, guilt does not
have to be proved--it is assumed. But when one man sues another for
money damages, the rulings are drawn finer and matters must be proved.
That is where Tilton failed in his lawsuit.

At the trial, Beecher perjured himself like a gentleman to protect Mrs.
Tilton; Mrs. Tilton waived the truth for Beecher's benefit; and Mrs.
Beecher swore black was white, because she did not want to lose her
husband. Such a precious trinity of prevaricators is very seldom seen in
a courtroom, a place where liars much do congregate. Judge and jury knew
they lied and respected them the more, for down in the hearts of all men
is a feeling that the love-affairs of a man and a woman are sacred
themes, and a bulwark of lies to protect the holy of holies is ever
justifiable.

Tilton was the one person who told the truth, and he was universally
execrated for it. Love does not leave a person without reason. And there
is something in the thought of money as payment to a man for a woman's
love that is against nature.

Tilton lost the woman's love, and he would balm his lacerated heart with
lucre! Money? God help us--a man should earn money. We sometimes hear of
men who subsist on women's shame; but what shall we say of a man who
would turn parasite and live in luxury on a woman's love--and this woman
by him now spurned and scorned! The faults and frailties of men and
women caught in the swirl of circumstances are not without excuse, but
the cold plottings to punish them and the desire to thrive by their
faults are hideous.

The worst about a double life is not its immorality--it is that the
relationship makes a man a liar. The universe is not planned for
duplicity--all the energy we have is needed in our business, and he who
starts out on the pathway of untruth finds himself treading upon
brambles and nettles which close behind him and make return impossible.
The further he goes the worse the jungle of poison-oak and ivy, which at
last circles him round in strangling embrace. He who escapes the clutch
of a life of falsehood is as one in a million. Victor Hugo has pictured
the situation when he tells of the man whose feet are caught in the bed
of bird-lime. He attempts to jump out, but only sinks deeper--he
flounders, calls for help, and puts forth all his strength. He is up to
his knees--to his hips--his waist--his neck, and at last only hands are
seen reaching up in mute appeal to heaven. But the heavens are as
b