its joys still more unreal, vague, phantomesque, until at length nature wears out, God insulted, and he sends the Angel of Midnight to drop the curtain, and change the scene.
Aphrodisiacs are certain preparations—most of them outright infernal—which excite the amorous or passional appetites of the human being. There are long lists of them; and many years before this book was written, its author discovered the best six tonics the world had ever seen, or has yet. I refer to the Protozonic Remedials. And I have known hundreds upon hundreds of people, who lived so close to the dollar-counter, that nature withdrew her smiles from them, and impotence, dead, sterile, horrible, became their lot, and for years they had never known love in its physical aspects unless under the forcing power of some disastrous stimulant. To these the protozones were blessings, indeed, and once more the mad-house and apoplexy were left behind,—not because they were remedials, but civilizers; humanizers, fitting the wasted nerve, balancing the tottering brain, restoring the primal conditions upon which human happiness in the social arc depends, not being mere chemicals, but alchymics or conveyers of spirit: soul. But what a state of things is that wherein men, otherwise sensible, so far forget their duties to self, home, wife, socicty. and God, as, in the mad chase for wealth, to sacrifice Manhood, Love and Paternity. Paternity! just think of it! what a glory, and what a joy, compared to which all the wealth and honor earth can give were but hollow shams and empty mockery! while Parentage, Fatherhood,—above all Imperial Motherhood, is a diadem which even gods might well aspire to. I have seen women pass along the streets who gave token of their coming pain and glory; and I have seen things shaped like unto men laugh and giggle as they passed along; the doers of God's finest and greatest work; the incarnators of regal soul; these unappreciated martyrs of love, and victims of man too often beside.—and I have felt like rushing upon, and tearing the heartless scoundrels to pieces; for if there be a transcendantly glorious thing on earth it is a mother. And I, Paschal, the writer, here say that I took off my hat, and did homage to even pregnant woman I ever saw; and I would do it, were that woman no higher than a
