'You are often writing about women,' fair correspondents keep writing to me, 'sometimes praising them, often criticising them. Couldn't you now and then tell us something of what you think of men, especially in their relations with women? We know you to be fair, sometimes generous, always good-humoured. Now, do have a try.'

The invitation is tempting and intended to be pleasant, and I yield to it, not only without any reluctance, but with a good deal of pleasure.

To plunge in medias res, Are men fair to women? The laws, which are made by men, the usages—everything is calculated to cause men to reduce to a minimum the qualities, the intelligence, and the influence of women.

For instance, let a woman make a reputation in art or literature, and men begin to smile and shrug their shoulders: they dispute her talent.

I maintain, without much fear of contradiction, that a woman, in order to succeed in a profession, must have ten times more talent than a man, inasmuch as a man will have friends and comrades to help him, and a woman only difficulties put in her way by man to surmount.

Man receives encouragements from all sides. If he is successful, he even knows that his talent will receive official recognition. In France he may become a member of the French Academy; in England, of the Royal Academy. Orders will be given him by rich patrons, and 'orders' conferred on him by sovereigns and statesmen.

Why should not women get all this? Why, simply because man, being both 'verdict' and 'execution,' has kept everything for himself. Personally, I have no great liking for female genius—to my prejudiced mind a female genius is a freak; but what I like or do not like is quite out of the question. Here I state facts, and why women should not have as much chance to prove their genius as men I should like to know.

Everybody knows that the famous School of Alexandria, in the fifth century, had as orators and teachers the greatest philosophers and theologians of the time, such men as St. Jerome, St. Cyril, etc.

Among these sublime intellects rose a young girl, twenty years old, pure, radiantly beautiful, who modestly said to them:

'Please make room for me—hear me. I want my place in the glorious sun.'

She ascended the famous chair and began to explain before an enthusiastic crowd the works of Plato and Aristotle. Her talent, her learning, her eloquence astonished the people who thronged to hear young and fair Hypatia, daughter of Theo.

Now, do you believe that all those learned, bearded philosophers and theologians encouraged her, applauded her? No. History tells us they lay in wait in a street where she used to pass, and when she appeared in her chariot, resplendent with youth, beauty, and glory, acclaimed by the crowd, they—St. Cyril and his companions—seized her, killed her, cut her body in hundreds of pieces, which they threw to the four winds of the earth.

Now, modern Hypatias are not treated quite so roughly by men, who content themselves with turning them to ridicule, although I have heard of some who did not hesitate in disposing of successful women's reputations as the learned doctors of Alexandria disposed of the body of Hypatia.

Women, perhaps unfortunately, cannot all be intended to be mothers, or spend their lives mending socks and attending to spring house-cleaning. Such women, who have received a high education, may not feel inclined to be shop-girls, ladies'-maids, or cooks. If they feel that they have talent, and can paint or write successfully, every man ought to give them a helping hand.