for a group of solecisms; for no doubt you move in the distinguished circles I attempt to describe, and therefore know more about them than I do. But in Fairyland we meet on other terms, and there I am your lordship's equal. Habes. Let us get on.
The scene, then, is in Fairyland. Not the Fairyland of the pantomimes, but the Fairyland of My Own Vivid Imagination. A pleasant, dreamy land, with no bright colours in it—a land where it is always bright moon-light—a land with plenty of impalpable trees, through which you can walk, if you like, as easily as my pen can cleave the smoke that is curling from my cigar as I write—a land where there is nothing whatever to do but to sit and chat with good pleasant-looking people, who like a joke, and can make one, too—a land where there is no such thing as hunger, or sleep, or fatigue, or illness, or old age—a land where no collars or boots are worn—a land where there is no love-making, but plenty of innocent love ready made.
There are no men in this Fairyland. I can't have a man in my Paradise—at least, not at first. I know so much about men, being myself a man, that I would rather not think of them in connection with a place where all is calm, and gentle, and tranquil, and happy. I know so little about women, that I propose to people this happy, dreamy, peaceful place with none but women. There must be no envy, hatred, malice, or uncharitableness of any kind in my Fairyland. There must be nothing sordid, nothing worldly, nothing commonplace. Universal charity must reign in my Fairyland, and that, you see, is why I people it with women.
