o
his entire satisfaction he came back.

It is understood it is practically out of the question to see the
reverend brother. Perhaps he is so modest and shy that he will not
encounter the clamorous gratitude which would obstruct his progress
through the streets, from the millions saved by his consumptive remedy.
It is a pity that the reverend man cannot enjoy the still more complete
seclusion by which the state of New York testifies its appreciation of
unobtrusive and retiring virtues like his, in the salubrious and quiet
town of Sing Sing.

A quack in an inland city, who calls himself E. Andrews, M. D., prints a
"semi-occasional" document in the form of a periodical, of which a copy
is lying before me. It is an awful hodgepodge of perfect nonsense and
vulgar rascality. He calls it "The Good Samaritan and Domestic
Physician," and this number is called "volume twenty." Only think what a
great man we have among us--unless the Doctor himself is mistaken. He
says: "I will here state that I have been favored by nature and
Providence in gaining access to stores of information that has _fell_ to
the lot of but very few persons heretofore, during the past history of
mankind." Evidently these "stores" were so vast that the great doctor's
brain was stuffed too full to have room left for English Grammar.
Shortly, the Doctor thus bursts forth again with some views having their
own merits, but not such as concern the healing art very directly: "The
automaton powers of machinery"--there's a new style of machinery, you
observe--"must be made to WORK FOR, _instead_ of _as now_, against
mankind; the Land of _all nations_ must be made FREE to Actual Settlers
in LIMITED quantities. No one must be born without _his birthright_
being born with him." The italics, etc., are the Doctor's. What an awful
thought is this of being born without any birthright, or, as the Doctor
leaves us to suppose possible, having one's birthright born first, and
dodging about the world like a stray canary-bird, while the unhappy and
belated owner tries in vain to put salt on its tail and catch it!

Well, this wiseacre, after his portentous introduction, fills the rest
of his sixteen loosely printed double-columned octavo pages with a
farrago of the most indescribable character, made up of brags, lies,
promises, forged recommendations and letters, boasts of systematic
charity, funny scraps of stuff in the form of little disquisitions,
advertisements of remedies