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 Again and again these nights of horror are repeated, each, if possible, more hateful than the first, until her monster rests from sheer exhaustion, and nature cicatrizes the wounds of body and soul. The wounds received by the latter are serious indeed. Passion is forever killed.

Now if all this were remediless, if we had nothing to offer beyond the sickening exposure, too painful for the most studied narration, we should deem the foregoing too wanton for apology.

The subject, then, owes its origin to the honey-moon; but the honey-moon must be. Where, then, is the remedy? We propose to speak very plainly on this point, for it were of little service to portray the disease unless we could also indicate the specific, which, under Providence, we hope to do clearly and unequivocally. It were well if the treatment could begin with the earliest manifestations of the malady, with the first dawning of the indomitable passion in the boy, and follow him through the dangerous years whose progress, in a former chapter, we have sufficiently traced. But as this is impracticable, in the actual state of things, we must take him as he is when he closes the door of the nuptial chamber—mayhap a "reformed rake"—and say to him, with all the import of a solemn warning, "Hold I" In your keeping are now placed the destinies of that shrinking woman, for wedded happiness or wedded woe; your own tranquillity and peace of mind, perhaps your honor as a husband and father hang upon your decision now. Be cautious how you thread the mysterious path before you. You have need of all the fortitude and self-control you can possibly summon to your aid in this great emergency. You may talk of the instincts of nature, but in you these instincts are brutalized; in her they are artificially suppressed. You have the double task of curb-