A few weeks ago, women's magazines contained long articles on the home life of Oscar Wilde. He was pictured with his wife bending over him, and his two sons, Vivian and Rupert, climbing on his knees. (Note that the boys are not called Bill and Jack.) The articles told what a loving husband and father he was; of the charming sanctity of his home; how his wife's influence "made" him, and contained the usual gush that is printed to gratify the cravings of literary women. Yet for years Mrs. Oscar Wilde has been contemplating a divorce from the apostle of purity because of his disgusting practices, and he was yesterday arrested for crimes too revolting to tell about. The truth is so seldom beautiful that the women refuse it, and nothing that is printed in women's magazines is reliable. They long for the ideal, and the editors increase their subscriptions lists by giving it to them.

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