It Is Quite Right What

Women Themselves Are So Happy, And So Beautiful, When They're Strong, That They Naturally Choose Powerful Men, Even If That Power's So Enermous There's A Real Risk It Could Shatter Them.

Girls Are Apt To Imagine Noble And Enchanting And Totally Imaginary Figures In Their Own Minds; They Have Fanciful Extravagant Ideas About Men, And Sentiment, And Life; And Then They Innocently Endow Somebody Or Other With All The Perfections For Their Daydreams, And Put Their Trust In Him.

A Sick Man, Surrounded By Those Who Love Him, Nursed By Those Who Wish Earnestly That He Should Live, Will Recover (all Other Things Being Equal), When Another Patient Tended By Hirelings Will Die. Doctors Decline To See Unconscious Magnestism In This Phenomenon; For Them It Is The Result Of Intelligent Nursing, Of Exact Obedience To Their Orders; But Many A Mother Knows The Virtue Of Such Ardent Projections Of Strong, Unceasing Prayer.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Women? In Order To Realize How Far These Charming Creatures We Idealize Can Carry Their Cruelty, We Must See Them Among Themselves!