Talk of politeness when humanity is perishing—of the sacred sphere of woman when thousands of my sisters are prostitutes—how many from necessity, God only knows. I have not the least patience with the exquisite dandy and the fashionable flirt attempting to define proprieties—they have money, let them define dollars. Neither have I patience with a set of croakers who regret the present state of things; but how can it be helped? say they with a yawn. Look at your widowed sister struggling to preserve a home—the hectic on that cheek, produced by overtasking her physical strength, tells you death will soon set his seal upon her. Look at that married woman—sleepless nights and toilsome days cloud her brow and irritate her temper. Shall woman's voice be hushed when woman's shrieks are heard? Shall woman quench her light, when clouds of invisible sorrows gather thick round woman's head?