With women it is different. They have both moral and æsthetic right to drapery; and for the fashion of it, we must leave that to themselves. They are all licensed to deal in stuffs, colors, frippery, and flounce. And to wear rings in their ears. If ladies have good taste they can not vex us; and that any of them can have bad taste, who shall hint? Their stays they will abide by, as they love hysterics; them I have mentioned. I have before also gone out of my way to speak of certain humps carried by women on their backs, which are not healthy or unhealthy—who shall say what they are? Are these humps allegorical? Our wives and daughters perhaps wish to hint that they resemble camels in their patience; camels who bear their burden through a desert world, which we, poor folk, should find it quite impossible to travel through without them. X. Fresh Air. Philosophers tell us that the breath of man is poisonous; that when collected in a jar it will kill mice, but when accumulated in a room it will kill men. Of this there are a thousand and one tales. I decline alluding to the Black Hole of Calcutta, but will take a specimen dug up by some sanitary gardener from Horace Walpole’s letters. In 1742 a set of jolly Dogberries, virtuous in their cups, resolved that every woman out after dark ought to be locked up in the round-house. They captured twenty-six unfortunates, and shut them in with doors and windows fastened. The prisoners exhausted breath in screaming. One poor girl said she was worth eighteenpence, and cried that she would give it gladly for a cup of water. Dogberry was deaf. In the morning four were brought out dead, two dying, and twelve in a dangerous condition. This is an argument in favor of the new police. I don’t believe in ventilation; and will undertake here, in a few paragraphs, to prove it nonsense.