As the title of this book implies, I do not intend to occupy the attention of my readers with all the numerous varieties of insanity and other nervous disorders to which females are liable, but only those which I believe to be curable by surgical means. The class of diseases on which I shall dwell are those depending on (or arising from) a loss of nerve tone, caused by continual abnormal irritation of a nerve centre.  

Birds sang, turf came to the water-edge, and trees grew from it. Away off among the trees I saw beautiful women walking. Their clothes were of many delicate colours and clung to them, and they were tall and graceful and had yellow hair. Their robes trailed over the grass. They glided in and out among the trees, and over their heads hung yellow fruit like large pears of melted gold.

I said, “It is very fair; I would go up and taste the—”

God said, “Wait.”

Four broad beech-trees great of hold,

Crowned the green, smooth-swelling knoll;

There She stood, the glorious form

Dazzling with its beauty warm;

Naked as the sun of noon,

Naked as the midnight moon:

And around her, tame and mild,

All the forest creatures wild—

Lion, panther, kid, and fawn,

Eagle, hawk, and dove, all drawn

By the magic of her splendor,

By her great voice, rich and tender,

Whereof every beast and bird

Understood each tone and word,

While she fondled and carest,

     Like a rose shut in a book 

In which pure women may not look, 

For its base pages claim control 

To crush the flower within the soul; 

Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, 

Pale as transparent psyche-wings, 

To the vile text, are traced such things 

As might make lady’s cheek indeed 

More than a living rose to read; 

So nought save foolish foulness may 

Watch with hard eyes the sure decay; 

And so the life-blood of this rose, 

Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows 

We are exceedingly glad that the horrible scandal which Reynolds’s Newspaper was the first to bring under the notice of the general public has at last come more prominently forward through the proceedings at Bow-’street Police-court. The police have been deliberately employed in attempting to hush up the whole matter. If they had displayed as much activity in their endeavours to discover the Whitechapel murderer, “Jack the Ripper,” in all probability he would now have met with his deserts.

Swept into limbo is the host
   Of heavenly angels, row on row;
The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
   Pale and defeated, rise and go.
The great Jehovah is laid low,
   Vanished his burning bush and rod—
Say, are we doomed to deeper woe?
   Shall marriage go the way of God?

Monogamous, still at our post,
   Reluctantly we undergo
Domestic round of boiled and roast,
   Yet deem the whole proceeding slow.
Daily the secret murmurs grow;
   We are no more content to plod
Along the beaten paths—and so

O youth whose heart is right,
  Whose loins are girt to gain

The hell-defended height
  Where Virtue beckons plain;

Who seest the stark array
  And hast not stayed to count
But singly wilt assay
  The many-cannoned mount:

Well is thy war begun;
  Endure, be strong and strive;
But think not, O my son,
  To save thy soul alive.

GIVE me, O friend, the secret of thy heart
   Safe in my breast to hide,
So that the leagues which keep our lives apart
    May not our souls divide.