ine benevolence. But to get the spiritual hygiene of robust natures
out of the exceptional regimen of invalids is just simply what we
Professors call "bad practice"; and I know by experience that there are
worthy people who not only try it on their own children, but actually
force it on those of their neighbors.

--Having been photographed, and stereographed, and chromatographed, or
done in colors, it only remained to be phrenologized. A polite note
from Messrs. Bumpus and Crane, requesting our attendance at their
Physiological Emporium, was too tempting to be resisted. We repaired to
that scientific Golgotha.

Messrs. Bumpus and Crane are arranged on the plan of the man and the
woman in the toy called a "weather-house," both on the same wooden arm
suspended on a pivot,--so that when one comes to the door, the other
retires backwards, and vice versa. The more particular speciality of one
is to lubricate your entrance and exit,--that of the other to polish
you off phrenologically in the recesses of the establishment. Suppose
yourself in a room full of casts and pictures, before a counterful of
books with taking titles. I wonder if the picture of the brain is
there, "approved" by a noted Phrenologist, which was copied from my, the
Professor's, folio plate, in the work of Gall and Spurzheim. An extra
convolution, No. 9, Destructiveness, according to the list beneath,
which was not to be seen in the plate, itself a copy of Nature, was very
liberally supplied by the artist, to meet the wants of the catalogue
of "organs." Professor Bumpus is seated in front of a row of women,
--horn-combers and gold-beaders, or somewhere about that range of
life,--looking so credulous, that, if any Second-Advent Miller or Joe
Smith should come along, he could string the whole lot of them on his
cheapest lie, as a boy strings a dozen "shiners" on a stripped twig of
willow.

The Professor (meaning ourselves) is in a hurry, as usual; let
the horn-combers wait,--he shall be bumped without inspecting the
antechamber.

Tape round the head,--22 inches. (Come on, old 23 inches, if you think
you are the better man!)

Feels thorax and arm, and nuzzles round among muscles as those horrid
old women poke their fingers into the salt-meat on the provision-stalls
at the Quincy Market. Vitality, No. 5 or 6, or something or other.
Victuality, (organ at epigastrium,) some other number equally
significant.

Mild champooing of head now commences. 'Extraor