hough all the World sees them to be in downright nonsense.
You'll be pleased, Sir, to pardon this expression, for the same reason
for which you once desired us to excuse you when you seemed anything
dull. Most writers, like the generality of Paul Lorrain's[2] saints, seem
to place a peculiar vanity in dying hard. But you, Sir, to show a good
example to your brethren, have not only confessed, but of your own accord
mended the indictment. Nay, you have been so good-natured as to discover
beauties in it, which, I will assure you, he that drew it never dreamed
of: And to make your civility the more accomplished, you have honoured
him with the title of your kinsman,[3] which, though derived by the left
hand, he is not a little proud of. My brother (for such Obadiah is) being
at present very busy about nothing, has ordered me to return you his
sincere thanks for all these favours; and, as a small token of his
gratitude, to communicate to you the following piece of intelligence,
which, he thinks, belongs more properly to you than to any others of our
modern historians.

"_Madonella_, who as it was thought had long since taken her flight
towards the ethereal mansions, still walks, it seems, in the regions of
mortality; where she has found, by deep reflections on the revolution[4]
mentioned in yours of June the 23rd, that where early instructions have
been wanting to imprint true ideas of things on the tender souls of those
of her sex, they are never after able to arrive at such a pitch of
perfection, as to be above the laws of matter and motion; laws which are
considerably enforced by the principles usually imbibed in nurseries and
boarding-schools. To remedy this evil, she has laid the scheme of a
college for young damsels; where, instead of scissors, needles, and
samplers; pens, compasses, quadrants, books, manuscripts, Greek, Latin,
and Hebrew, are to take up their whole time. Only on holidays the
students will, for moderate exercise, be allowed to divert themselves
with the use of some of the lightest and most voluble weapons; and proper
care will be taken to give them at least a superficial tincture of the
ancient and modern Amazonian tactics. Of these military performances, the
direction is undertaken by Epicene,[5] the writer of 'Memoirs from the
Mediterranean,' who, by the help of some artificial poisons conveyed by
smells, has within these few weeks brought many persons of both sexes
to an untimely fate; and, what is mo