Perhaps there is nothing more entertaining to the wit of a cultured and intelligent woman than the recurrent piping wail of man’s assertion that “woman has no creative power.” Her place, says the didactic male, is the kitchen, the nursery, and beside the cradle. _Certes_, she can manage these three departments infinitely better than he can, especially the cradle part of it, wherein his fractious disposition is generally well displayed the moment he starts in life. But, as a matter of fact, there is hardly any vocation in which she cannot, if she puts her mind to it, distinguish herself just as easily and successfully as he can if he will only kindly stand out of her way. He makes himself ludicrous by persistently “crying her down” when all the world _en masse_ beholds her taking the highest University honours over his head, and beating him intellectually on his own ground. In physical force he certainly outstrips her. Item,--he can kick her as heartily and skilfully as he can kick a football, _vide_ the daily police reports. Item,--he can eat and drink much more than she can, because he devotes a great deal more time and attention to the study of gastronomy. Item,--he can smoke more. Item,--he can indulge freely in unbridled licentiousness, and amply prove his original savage right to be considered a polygamous animal, without being banned from “good society,” or anything being said against his moral character. This a woman cannot do. If she has many lovers, her conduct is severely criticized. But if she has none, she is still more bitterly condemned, especially if she happens to be in the least good-looking. And why? Simply because her indifference “reflects” on the male sex generally. The ugliest of masculine creatures experiences a vague sense of offence when he meets a charming woman who neither seeks his advice nor his company. And here we have the gist of the whole matter: man is a vain animal and wants to be admired. Like the peacock, he struts forward and spreads out his glittering tail. The central feature of the landscape, as he considers himself, he waits for the pea-hen to worship him. If, instead of the humble pea-hen, he finds another sort of bird entirely--with not only a tail as brilliant as his own, but wings which will carry it over his head, he is mightily incensed, and his shrill cry of rage echoes through that particular part of the universe where he is no longer “monarch of all he surveys.” His “other world” must be pea-hens or none!