The other article which has given an opportunity to our Jesuitical journalist to flame forth with the true spirit of a popish inquisitor, is, the publication of proposals for printing by subscription, Essays on Crucifixion; Syncopes, or Fainting-Fits; the uncertainty of the signs of Death, and the real nature and frequency of those Accidents which have been called Resurrections from the Dead; and on Miracles, their Nature, and the Evidence for them. There is surely nothing, either in this title or the proposals themselves, which appears to have a pernicious tendency against any religious establishment whatsoever; and he, surely, must be endued with a wonderful penetration, who can discover any thing like it in them. They seem only to promise medical and philosophical enquiries into medical and philosophical subjects. Why may not an essay on Crucifixion be as harmless as a dissertation on Tar-Water? and what destructive consequences can attend a treatise on Fainting-Fits and counterfeited Death, more than a treatise on broken heads or bloody noses? They are all physical subjects, and fall within the province of a medical writer, which it is to be supposed the author of the proposals is, otherwise he cannot be equal to the task he has undertaken. But our admirable and sagacious inspector thus addresses the public, _’Tis palpable, ’tis evident_, says he, _that this man means to tell you, the Saviour of the world did not die upon the cross; that he did not rise from the dead; that he did not work miracles._ I shall only observe, that the words Jesus, Christianity, or even Religion, are not so much as once mentioned in these proposals, and probably may not be found in the work itself, when it appears. Hence we may reasonably infer, that the world is indebted for these discoveries to the wonderful acuteness of the Inspectorial nostrils, which can smell out irreligion and infidelity, where no such things are intended, or even dreamt of. If such, indeed, are the intentions of this proposer, he is, doubtless, greatly obliged to his good friend, the Inspector, or rather the would-be inquisitor, for discovering to the public what it seems he himself either would not, or durst not, so much as hint at. But ’tis malice, ’tis fiction all, and ’tis most probable, the author himself never had any such things in his thoughts.