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geese-the screeching of owls-the chattering ofmonkeys and parrots—the roaring of bears-the grunting of hogs—the braying of asses-and the yelping of curs.* Such are the components of Blackwood's Menagerie.-The appearance of our First Number will be the signal for a general yell from the whole pack; but, knowing this, we are prepared for it, and shall not be startled, though it should be both loud and long. Be it observed, we have provided a quantity of long poles, to prevent them from doing us any personal damage; and we promise we shall not be chary in our manner of using them.

ARTICLE X.

LETTER FROM MISS CORDELIA HEARTLESS.

Royal Circus, 29th October 1823.

MR JOURNALIST,-Having learned from my brother William, who is a phrenologist, that a book to be called the Phrenological Journal is soon to appear, I hope you will excuse my applying to you thus early, in a matter extremely interesting to me, and which seems to be quite in your way.

For a long time past, my brother has been telling me a great deal about bumps and skulls, and brains, and characters, all which I at first thought was positive nonsense, being so assured by Dr Egomet, who attends our family, and who, I thought, should know best about the skull and the brain, in spite of my brother's very decided belief that our

We have long been of opinion that the writers in Blackwood's Magazine are legitimate descendants of the great and never-to-be-forgotten Martinus Scriblerus; and we are confirmed in this opinion by the wonderful similarity in many respects, between them and that great philosopher. We are told, that as soon as he was born he uttered the voice of nine different animals," he cried like a calf-bleated like a sheep-chattered like a magpie-grunted like a hog-neighed like a foalcroaked like a raven-mewed like a cat-gabbled like a goose-and brayed like an ass;" so that it appears this great man united in his own person almost as many qualities as, in our degenerate days, are sufficient to furnish out contributors to a whole magazine.

doctor knows no more about the matter than his own carriage-horses. The subject too is always laughed at by dinner-parties where I have been, (for I am just come out), and I have heard it called trash by a professor of the college whom I have met,-dangerous quackery by four physicians, -contemptible nonsense by eleven advocates,-and d-d nonsense by a good many captains, some colonels, and two generals; all of whom speak very decidedly, and declare that they have treated the subject with the contempt it deserves, by avoiding all examination of it, and always flying into a passion when its name is mentioned. That was all too strong with me for brother William's opinion, so I long thought phrenology, not only a very foolish but a very bad and dangerous thing.

But on hearing that Dr Chalmers and some other learned divines were of a different opinion, besides a good many others, as clever men as any of them, I began to think it must be true after all, and begged my brother to lend me Mr Combe's book, which I read with great attention and delight, though, I must own, there were some parts of it too deep for me. My brother took me, after this, to see a collection of skulls and casts of heads, which were explained and lectured upon, for it was a little lecture, by a friend of his, who is a very clever phrenologist. I was much pleased with hearing him describe all the bumps; and, though I did not like to hear about destructiveness and combativeness, I was enchanted with others of the faculties, particularly that delightful one of adhesiveness, which gives, he told us, attachment in friendship and love, all that is meant by constancy, and that sweet philopro—(what is its name?) but it means the love of children, and I am sure I have that, for I love children dearly. I was frightened a little at the horrid heads of the murderers, with the great ugly bumps behind the ears, and at the heads of the idiots; but the more I was frightened the more I was convinced, which my brother says is perfectly philosophical. In short, I came away quite a convert. But in my eagerness I totally forgot

a circumstance which has since occurred to me, and which caused me for a time considerable uneasiness. You must know, Mr Journalist, that I am just seventeen, and, like most young ladies of my age, I have been not a little interested in certain feelings which have hitherto been supposed to belong to the heart. I have been often warned, more particularly of late, by my aunt Sophy, to take especial care of my heart, and I set about watching very carefully, for some time past, all its flutterings, or, as I have heard them called, pit-a-patations; William calls them, its phenomena. Thus I took great pleasure at my leisure hours in reading a delightful volume of sonnets that lies in aunt Sophy's dressing-room, all about hearts and darts,-and the hearts of lovers being consumed in the flames of love; and last year, when my father brought me a gold watch for my Christmas gift, my aunt presented me with a seal to hang to it, with the device of Cupid trundling a wheelbarrow loaded with hearts, (which, you will allow, is very pretty and classical,) and the motto "Choisissez." I have indeed been sometimes flatteringly told of my beauty, and that my charms would one day make some young fellow's heart ache. Now, sir, there is a very handsome and interesting young gentleman who visits us, on whose heart I once imagined I had made a very evident impression. Indeed there is a sort of family understanding about that young man and me, When I thought of him I was sometimes inclined to believe that our hearts were designed for each other; but, alas! what avails all this, since it turns out that our feelings and loves, and all the rest of it, have nothing to do with the heart after all. You know, Mr Journalist, that pretty duet by Sir John Stevenson,

"Tell me where is fancy bred,
"In the heart or in the head?"

My brother says that "fancy" here means "love," and that Sir John did not know, (what I know now,) that it belongs to the head, otherwise he would never have asked the question. But it did for a little while distress me to think, that instead of having a heart, as I had imagined, with all the

hopes and fears, and delicious feelings of love belonging to it, there is nothing in my bosom better than an ugly muscular bundle of fibres, (so at least William says,) thumping away with no more feeling than the pendulum of our houseclock. Then all my aunt Sophy's book of sonnets is nonsense from beginning to end, and my beautiful seal, with the motto and device, quite without meaning. "Must I throw it away?" thought I, "or, what is worse, get a skull engraved upon it with memento mori?" But what disappointed me most was, that all the care and watchfulness I had bestowed for the last two years over the flutterer in my bosom was quite thrown away, as I now found I should have directed my whole attention to the bump of adhesiveness on the back of my head.

When in the midst of these contemplations, I received a letter from my lover, who knows nothing about phrenology, and still goes on with the old notion of hearts; and the letter was all about hearts, and our hearts and hands being united," and all that sort of thing, and every "thing in the world," as Mathews says. And next day he called upon me, and pressed his suit with great ardour, praying me to let him know if my heart was engaged; I told him it was not. Then he asked if he might hope that my heart felt an interest in his favour. To which I replied, quite gravely, that it was impossible it ever could feel an interest in him or any one, for I had just discovered that my heart was utterly callous and insensible, totally void of either sentiment or feeling, and nothing more than a piece of fibrous flesh. Upon this, my lover opened his eyes so wide, and eyed my countenance at the same time with such a glance, that I evidently saw he apprehended that all was not right in my upper story; so, as I like a little fun, I thought I would keep up the joke, and try its effect on my swain for some time longer. I therefore continued to maintain the most serious countenance while he sidled a little away from me, considering what he should say next. When he had recovered somewhat from his surprise, he said I surely

could not be serious. I assured him I never was more serious in

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my life.That your heart is callous and insensible,' said he, "I will never believe, when I have myself been so often "witness to its sensibility, and know the tenderness and sweetness of your disposition, so that if your heart is not "susceptible of the most delicate and ardent emotions, there " is not, I am persuaded, a susceptible heart in the world." My dear friend,” said I,—“ I know it; there is no such thing in nature as a susceptible heart, at least there is "none in woman. I know that my own heart has no more "tenderness nor susceptibility than that of a tiger, a bear, a hyena, or a crocodile." Here my auditor gradually pushed his chair farther from mine, but I continued without appearing to observe him. "You will find it so, believe "me, and I am well assured that those of my whole sex "are in no better condition. No," exclaimed I, " don't talk to "me of hearts. It is all a deception, with which the artful "and designing of my sex have deluded the ignorant and "unwary of yours. I will no longer be guilty of continuing "so gross a delusion; but know," said I, rising and assuming a tragedy air, "if you really wish to discover the seat of "true affection, and of all those sentiments and sensibilities

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you so much admire,—here,”—said I, turning majestically, and placing my hand on the back of my head, just upon the bump of adhesiveness,—“ It is all here." And at the same time taking out my comb, and letting my tresses, which are very long and luxuriant, flow down my back, I threw just such a portion of wildness and enthusiasm into my eyes and countenance as might give me the look of a very pretty

maniac.

Words cannot express the astonishment of my lover at this last sally, which he doubtless considered the effect of sheer madness. His eyes stared, his lips quivered,-his countenance became deadly pale, and he evinced all the marks of terror and distress; so that, unless I had been anxious to see the success of my experiment, I should certainly have betrayed myself and laughed outright. At last he muttered

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