whom the Law has licensed to teach-the great medical authorities, the professors, the colleges, the schools, who, in this year of grace, still teach the same shocking stuff as their ancestors taught still send over the earth a stream of ignorance respecting cure which it is positively frightful to contemplate? What amount of indignation shall we reserve for those teachers in our Halls, Colleges, Universities, who still persist, after they know better, in hugging their antiquated, miserable, inhuman Art, and in striving to perpetuate to the human race the sufferings, the early deaths, the deep distresses, the wasting frames, the broken constitutions, the aching hearts, which they well know might, in great part, be spared to man?

Count the clock, gentlemen-Abernethy, the licensed -Morrison, the unlicensed-Magendie, the vivisectionist-Broussais, the physiologist - Lisfranc, the bleeder-Cooper, the operator-count the clock, you and all your followers, for the Avenger of Blood is on your track! Count the clock, Sir Jeremy and Sir George, physicians and general practitioners, Town and Country, and all you who prescribe remedies without having discovered the law of nature that God has laid down for your guidance; count the clock carefully, Surgeons and Apothecaries, Hall and College, Guy's and Bartholomew's, Professors and Lecturers,-terrible Profession! into whose hands ignorant Parliaments have given absolute power over the organism of man and all that acts upon it, and who have not yet discovered one single principle on which those agents

should be prescribed. Count the clock carefully, for every tick of it tolls the death-knell of your practice, and you know it. Your science is almost at its last gasp, and you know it. Your system of cure is all one huge error; and many, if not all of you, know it. On it there is written, within and without, "Lamentation, and mourning, and woe."

"Vestibulum ante ipsum primis que in faucibus Orci
Luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia curæ,

Pallentesque habitant morbi tristisque senectus

Et metus et malesuada fames et tristis egestas
Terribiles visu formæ."

You have had your day; and in that day you have done as much harm to the human race as you could do, and as little good. That day is almost over; you know it, and we know it too. Reader, it remains with you to determine how long that day shall be. If, warned by this little tale of sorrow, you resolve never again to entrust the health and life of yourself or those dear to you to any adherent, however celebrated, of that dreadful Art which rests on mere theory-has never looked for the law of nature on the subject—employs all kinds of violent remedies in frightful profusion, without reason, without knowledge, without utility, helterskelter, promiscuously, to every part of the organism, excepting only that which requires treatment-the melancholy mischief that that Art has caused in this world will soon be at an end. This little tale will have answered its purpose if it warns you of the inevitable

consequences of administering medicine on any principle except the right one. Whenever, therefore, it shall please God to visit with sickness you or any of those dear to you, before you send for a medical man, reflect on what you are doing. Remember calomel and bleeding-remember the Favorite of the Family.

CITY PRESS, LONG LANE: W. H. COLLINGRIDGE.