A man, well-known in your world to-day, remarked recently that the world no longer bowed to the dictates of its womenkind. He talked of the old days--my days, if you like--when behind every throne in Europe there lurked the shadow of a beautiful woman. He recalled the times when no statesman dared lift a finger for fear of that powerful shadow unless he had first assured himself that it favoured his project; and he finished his talk by averring that nowadays petticoats and petticoat government have vanished together into the limbo of forgotten things. He was wrong! I have not been wandering about among you without discovering that the ladies--bless 'em--still rule, and are as captivating, bewitching and obstinate as they always were and, I trust, always will be. Odd's my life! it makes one's heart leap with joy even now to see their bright fearless eyes, coquettish as ever, turn a man into an abject slave, though the fan--lovely necessity to every flirtation once upon a time--has gone now, alas! the same way as hoops and flounces and the frou-frou of silk petticoats.

In the days when sticks and clubs were used alike for international or domestic arguments, it is extremely likely that skin-clad men believed that they ruled supreme. Probably there was a strident 'Woman's place is in the cave' slogan in existence even then. But all the same, even in those days, your smiling Stone-Age lady could twist the stalwart tribal chief round her finger as easily as she could twist her own glossy plaits of hair; and the local witch doctor or head councillor, whose lightest word rolled like thunder around the massed silent circle of men, was sent out grumbling by his wife from his desirable cavern residence to scrape the dirt off his feet with his spear.

And though all that happened a demmed long time ago something very similar goes on to this day! Many of the world's most famous men have confessed that all their lives they have been guided by their wife or their sweetheart or sometimes their mother. Many wonderful pictures, beautiful books, glorious pieces of music, are dedicated to the women who inspired them. Though there are many examples or men who, ruled by women, were led to cruel, unjust or foolish deeds, there are countless others where that rule has been everything that is wise and just.

But the vindication of petticoat government, m'dears, does not rest on historic records alone; it would have a poor chance of proving its case if it did. Luckily for the world's happiness it rests on more secure foundation. You surely must know many cases of ordinary everyday folk--friends, acquaintances, the man in the street--in whose life the magic of romance has turned life's rough stony roads into exquisite, rose-strewn highways, and transformed the cottage into a wondrous palace of love and of constant joy.

Even in your ultra-practical days when so many of you affect to despise romance, many a young lover would choose to be the slave of his adored rather than become the ruler of an Empire, and the rejected swain still finds the whole world, its triumphs and its rewards a hollow mockery when love is not. That is the way of true love, and it has not changed a tittle since my day or any other. It will brook no sharing of its sovereignty either with pride, with wisdom or ambition; it cares nothing for opinion of the world, powerful as that can sometimes be. Petticoat government is an autocratic form of rule, and there is no power on earth that can overthrow it if it is backed by love.

It would certainly seem that in your year of sense, 1933, you ought to banish this tyrannical petticoat rule--if indeed it chafes you, as you say it does--just as of late so many countries of the world have banished their monarchs and upset their government. I am happy to say that our own beloved country has been sane enough to set its face against the modern proneness of looking upon hereditary monarchy as an impediment to business, or as tending to distract the mind from its all-important aim of money-making; but in many countries, alas! monarchs are voted to be anachronisms, to be in the way of the steady development of reason. Let us depose our crowned kings, say the moderns, and by the same token let us hurl our queens of the petticoat from their throne. Let us rid ourselves, once and for all, of such false, out-of-date, medieval gods.

Thus do you, m'dears, proclaim your independence from the housetops, and a good many of you in this post-War world have certainly rid yourselves of your ancient monarchies. But strive as you may against the autocratic rule of the petticoat, it is still with you. It is not in your power, nor, believe me, is it your wish to cast off woman's yoke once she has entwined herself around your heart, demanding to be worshipped, to be loved, and to rule. It is her province, my friends; she will never give it up, so you had better make up your minds to wear her fetters and pretend you like them.

You may try to abolish the word 'love' like Soviet Russia has tried to abolish Christianity, but even the most cynical amongst you may find one day that there is, perhaps, one footstep in the world the sound of which will cause a flutter in your heart, and that you will find happiness and the strength to carry on in the light of one woman's smile. You may deflect a river from its course, and in your twentieth century you have your wonderful inventions which enable you to talk to a man half a world away, to see through solid flesh as if it were transparent, or to erect buildings so high that the Tower of Babel would seem puny beside them. Nevertheless it is a small white hand that will beckon you to the Heaven of contentment and of home, or will point the way to the Hell of loneliness. With all your independence, your strength, your power to set up Governments and destroy them at your will, you are still under the sway of the most tyrannical autocracy the world has ever known.

This world is still Cupid's plaything, and do believe me when I say that you have no wish for it to be otherwise. My faith! I cannot imate--nor can you, I'll warrant--what would happen if the merry little god gave up trying to play with us and left our hearts to get atrophied in their solitude. Life would not be worth the living now, would it, I ask you? Love rules most of you, the best of you, the strongest, manliest amongst you, and you had best admit it. It may be love of wife, of daughter or mother, but there is no man worthy of the name who does not toil and strive for a woman he loves. And, mind you, there is not a more jealous god than that little Cupid. If you fight him he will have his revenge. If you turn your back on him he will contrive to overload you with depression, discontent and monotony, and finally he will hand you over to the most cruel of all torturers--loneliness.

But if you bow to the sovereignty of Love, if you wear its golden fetters, it will crown you king of your little world. It will fill your life with gladness, spur you on to noble deeds, raise your hopes, stimulate your ambition and make you the real master of your fate.