We feel the want of other worlds; there are more hives needed to
receive the swarms, and especially are we in need of more pretty
women.

But the maladies by which a man is afflicted do not nullify the sum
total of human passion. To our shame be it spoken, a woman is never so
much attached to us as when we are sick.

With this thought, all the epigrams written against the little sex
--for it is antiquated nowadays to say the fair sex--ought to be
disarmed of their point and changed into madrigals of eulogy! All men
ought to consider that the sole virtue of a woman is to love and that
all women are prodigiously virtuous, and at that point to close the
book and end their meditation.

Ah! do you not remember that black and gloomy hour when lonely and
suffering, making accusations against men and especially against your
friends, weak, discouraged, and filled with thoughts of death, your
head supported by a fevered pillow and stretched upon a sheet whose
white trellis-work of linen was stamped upon your skin, you traced
with your eyes the green paper which covered the walls of your silent
chamber? Do you recollect, I say, seeing some one noiselessly open
your door, exhibiting her fair young face, framed with rolls of gold,
and a bonnet which you had never seen before? She seemed like a star
in a stormy night, smiling and stealing towards you with an expression
in which distress and happiness were blended, and flinging herself
into your arms!

"How did you manage it? What did you tell your husband?" you ask.