which Madam Knight encountered on her return. She got safe home to Boston on the third day of March, 1705, having performed in five months, (inclusive of stoppages to rest and recruit herself,) a journey which now, with the same allowance, would scarcely require as many days. Her relations and friends came flocking in to welcome her, and to hear the story of her "travails and transactions," and "now" she concludes

"I cannot fully express my Joy and Satisfaction; But desire sincearly to adore my Great Benefactor for thus graciously carrying forth and returning in safety his unworthy handmaid."

ART. VII.-The New-York Medical and Physical Journal, No. XIII. Edited by JOHN B. BECK, M. D., Fellow of the College of Physicians and Surgeons of New-York, Corresponding Member of the Medical Society of London, &c. E. Bliss & E. White. 1825.

66

The current of medical literature, which a century since bore on its fruitful bosom ponderous tomes, heavy folios, and wellfilled quartos, which, though rare in their appearance, compensated for their infrequency by the quantity of matter they contained, has, in our degenerate days, been subdivided into an almost innumerable number of small, but rapid streams, carrying with them abundant fertility, in all the thousand forms of periodicals, from the stately quarterly journal of original papers, down to the humble weekly register, in eight pages duodecimo, a thing of shreds and patches," purloined from the wardrobes of its richer and better clad neighbours. But while it is acknowledged that the advantages derived from this general and rapid diffusion of information are incalculably valuable, it cannot be denied that the system is attended by many and striking evils. It begets an inattention and distaste for the old and sterling writers, whose sound reasoning, and close observation, are often neglected for new speculations and flimsy theories. It generates professional pedantry, the worst variety of that extensive genus. But the heaviest of all its offences is, that it creates a morbid appetite for novelty, encouraging a host of medical quid nuncs, whose whole study is to learn, not something valuable, but something new. Ånd this state of things itself ministers to this objectionable end; for the ignorance of the old writers gives to their exploded systems and whimsical opinions all the freshness of novelty, and the quaint notions of Guy de Chauliac, Anthony Nuck, and John of Gaddesden, arrayed in modern costume, have often excited admiration by their depth and originality.

On the other hand, the man of experience, perhaps we should say business, whose life is devoted to his professional pursuits, unable or unwilling to appropriate sufficient time to arrange his thoughts in a regular and systematic form, or, in other words, to make a book, often gives the result of his observations and reflections in the condensed, and at the same time, interesting and familiar form of an article in a medical journal. Indeed, a vast proportion of the curious and valuable cases upon which the most important practical improvements are founded, are treasured up in this form by men who are capable of observing with care, and describing with accuracy, though perhaps unequal to the task of drawing new conclusions, or of correcting or confirming those already received. In addition to this, medical journals enable the practitioner to keep pace with the progress of his profession, no unimportant circumstance to those whose res angusta domi does not permit the purchase of the scores of books which the press, with a marvellous fecundity, daily brings forth. But the greatest advantage which flows from them is the freedom of inquiry which they excite, the spirit of scrutiny which they stir up upon all points, whether theoretical or practical, and the independent and unshackled medium which they present for the expression of opinion.

The last number of the New-York Medical and Physical Journal commences the 4th volume, and has, we understand, gone on from its commencement with a steadily increasing patronage and support. Unconnected with any medical sect or school, and wedded to no professional opinions, we see nothing to prevent its maintaining, or even going beyond, the high character which it at present sustains. The last number contains the annual address to the State Medical Society by its late veteran President, Dr. Coventry, whose zeal for the improvement and respectability of his profession seems to increase with his years, an account of the late epidemic small-pox in Albany, by Dr. L. C. Beck, a very ingenious and learned article on Menstruation by Dr. Manly,—the Medical Topography of the island of Nassau, a quarterly report of the diseases occurring in the New-York Hospital, by Dr. Moore,--with various other matter, offering a large body of interesting and useful information.

-a

ART. VIII.-John Bull in America, or the New Munchausen.* London. 1825. John Miller. 12mo. pp. 327.

We regret exceedingly to find that this curious and invaluable little volume has been published under the above preposterous and unmeaning title. The manuscript, (as it appears from a very vulgar and impertinent preface prefixed by the American publisher,) was found in the Mansion Hotel in the city of Washington, and evidently belonged to an English gentleman who had been induced to encounter the perils of a journey through almost every part of the United States, with the laudable object of ascertaining the naked truth with regard to that land of boasted liberty. It appears further, that this gentleman, shortly after his arrival in Washington, to use the language of the American publisher, "mysteriously disappeared," or, in plain English, was basely assassinated by some dirking republican, who, we presume, will soon be rewarded for the feat, by a place in the yankee House of Delegates. The Editor, who confesses the fact of the murder, has meanly attempted to fasten the odium of this atrocious crime upon a certain Frenchman, by whose impertinent presence, it appears, that our unfortunate countryman was perpetually annoyed.

This false charge is made with all the diabolical cunning of a cold-blooded yankee; for we candidly acknowledge, that if the murder had been committed in any other country than America, we should have had no hesitation to ascribe it to a Frenchman. For ourselves, our minds are made up. We are convinced that this foul deed was perpetrated by no less a man than General Jackson,the same monster who inhumanly murdered Dr. Arbuthnot and Miss Ann Bristow, a beautiful English girl,

This article was sent to us from London, with a very urgent request that it might be inserted in the first number of the New-York Review. It was written, we are given to understand, by the author of the notice of Farmer Faux's Memorable Days, in the 58th number of the Quarterly Review. The present article was offered, it appears, to Mr. Coleridge, the new editor of the Quarterly, but declined by that gentleman, on the ground that he was unwilling to continue the violent opposition to every thing American, so long_maintained by his predecessor, Mr. Gifford. As the review of Mr. Faux's Book was, from some strange scruple, omitted in the American edition of the Quarterly Review, and as the present article on Mr. Toughtale's Travels bears a very close resemblance, in argument and style, to that curious production, we feel confident that its insertion will be gratefully received by all who have not yet been favored with a sight of the English copy of the far-famed "fifty-eighth number of the Quarterly."

VOL. I.

8

to whom he was engaged, and shortly to be married. We trust that an inquiry into the circumstances of this infamous assassination will be instantly set on foot by his Majesty's ministers, and reparation for the outrage be demanded from the American President, in a manner conformable to the rights of a British subject, and the dignity of a British king.

In perusing the journal of this unfortunate victim of American barbarity, we were forcibly struck with the very unusual ability and talent it every where discloses. Even the American editor is compelled to acknowledge the extraordinary merits of this production. Indeed, we do not hesitate to say, that for candor, sound sense, impartiality, integrity, piety, and orthodoxy, this work is not to be surpassed even by the admirable journals of Fearon and Faux. Every page bears the stamp of a vigorous and highly cultivated intellect, and so exalted ís our admiration of the writer's powers, and so profound our sympathy for his unheard-of sufferings, that we have spared no exertions that could possibly lead to the discovery of his real name. These exertions, we have now the mournful satisfaction to state, have terminated in a satisfactory identification of the amiable author. The American editor has, with characteristic ignorance, ascribed the work to Mr. Secretary Croker, who is now, as every body knows, alive in London, and who certainly has never thought of venturing his life among the gouging, dirking, throat-cutting democrats of Boston or New-York. The fact is, as we have ascertained from competent authority, that this martyr to republican ferocity, was a gentleman by the name of Mr.Timothy Toughtale, a highly respectable journeyman button-gilder, of Birmingham, and a man universally esteemed for his unaffected philanthropy and unimpeachable veracity. But our business is now with the book.

Mr. Toughtale was evidently a very able writer, as well as an accomplished traveller; and we cannot but sincerely hope that the modest and unassuming, but pure and perspicuous style in which this book is written, will go far to give it a rapid and extensive circulation, and thus check the further emigration to America of our now happy paupers, whose adventures in that boasted paradise of freedom, are sure to terminate in scenes of heart-rending misery and 'soul-harrowing distress. That Mr. Toughtale was an honest man, and told the truth to the best of his knowledge and belief, we cannot for a moment permit ourselves to doubt;-indeed, there is scarcely a word or a fact in his book for which he does not produce his authority;-nor can we deny the proud satisfaction we feel at his frequent reference to the pages of this journal.

Fully aware of the vast superiority of British ships and British sailors, Mr. Toughtale declined the unsolicited advice of certain merchants in Liverpool, (who strangely, and we think very impertinently, urged him to embark in an American packet,) and took passage on board the British brig Wellington, for Boston; his business being principally in New-Orleans. By one of those chances against which no wisdom can provide, his passage, notwithstanding this precaution, was a long and a tedious one, and he did not make Cape Hatteras (the eastern point of Boston Bay) until the seventieth day after leaving the English shore. In going up the bay, Mr. Toughtale saw the famous sea-serpent, of which we have seen such hyperbolical accounts in the Kentucky newspapers. As we expected, it is not as large as our common watersnakes in the Serpentine. Our traveller puts up at Renshaw's Hotel, and, at supper, was exceedingly disgusted with the officious civilities of his fellow boarders.

The next morning Mr. Toughtale rode out for the purpose of examining the character and habits of the people. The first thing that struck him was the vast disproportion of negroes in the streets and every where else around him. Nearly one half of the inhabitants of Boston are blacks. The rich whites retain great numbers of them, not for their services, but solely for the purpose of indulging themselves in the luxury of flogging them. This, from all accounts, appears to be the favorite amusement of the citizens. As instruments of torture, gentlemen prefer clubs, ladies (proh pudor!)-cowhides, and young people pins. Crowds assemble daily at the Mall, eager to participate in this republican diversion. Mr. Toughtale saw "a thousand instances of this kind of a morning."

Next to the perpetual recurrence of these disgusting exhibitions of diabolical ferocity, the most common objects seen in the streets of Boston are drunken men, women, and children. Mr. Toughtale was assured by the Mayor, Mr. Phillips, that on an average, every third person was drunk every day, by nine o'clock in the morning. Children are never per mitted to go to school; learning, we presume, being considered aristocratical in this land of equal rights. Accordingly, nothing can exceed the besotted stupidity of the common people of New England. The Rev. Cotton Mather, who passes for one of the most enlightened preachers in Boston, (and of whom, to tell the truth, we expected better things,) has just published a book, entitled the Magnalia, in which he gives a variety of witch-stories, such as would be