It is just so with the men who try to foist their own failings upon women. They are just so many Molly Muddles. Mr. Fitz-Musicus fully bears out this assertion by insisting upon giving me all his experiences before I can get many words in, and by treating me to a repetition of them which lasts until it is time to fulfil our engagements to return in time for the mid-day meal. “And do you know I am going to write everything down that I see while I am here,” he informs me volubly. “Nothing shall escape my notice. In fact, I have begun my book already, for it doesn’t do to trust to memory, and as my grasp of the subject is something extraordinary, I expect my book will be no end of a success if I ever go back to the old country.” “Oddly enough,” I say, “I have also resolved to publish my impressions of New Amazonia.” “Ah, yes, I daresay,” is the supercilious reply. “Of course, there can be no harm in your trying. But you are only a woman, and cannot be expected to produce anything clever. However, I like you, and don’t mind touching your work up a bit, before you send it to the printers. In that way, it may possibly be presentable, though of course, it is sure to be rather commonplace. Just listen to my opening paragraph.” Feeling considerably like a cat whose coat is being stroked the wrong way, as I listened to these flattering encomiums on my mental qualifications, I nevertheless paid particular attention to my friend’s opening sentences, of which the following is a _verbatim_ transcript:— “The other night, I was with some fellows in London, and we all took some Hasheesh to make us dream. Then I woke up a tree. Then I saw somebody laughing at me, and I came down and tore my trousers. After that, a whole troop of giantesses in queer clothes came and had a look at me. They didn’t take any notice of the other party, for she was only a woman. One of the giantesses kissed me, and called me the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. I like that one immensely, and I am seriously thinking of marrying her. I understand that the marriage laws here are just the ticket for rollicking, Bohemian fellows like me. If my wife doesn’t prove very obedient and docile, I can chuck her over, and won’t even have to keep my own youngsters, if there should be any. “I don’t like the way they house you here. If I stop, I shall insist upon living in a small house, apart from others, where I can make my wife feel that I am lord and master in it. “The men here seem to be fools. They let the women grow up as strong and healthy as themselves, and it will be difficult to reduce them to civilization again. Isn’t it extraordinary?” This was as far as the rollicking Augustus had progressed in his narrative, and I was quite sincere when I informed him that I thought it very original indeed.