MIND, THE GLORY OF MAN.-D. WISE.

The mind is the glory of man. No possession is so productive of real influence as a highly cultivated intellect. Wealth, birth, and official station may and do secure to their possessors an external, superficial courtesy; but they never did, and they never can, command the reverence of the heart. It is only to the man of large and noble soul, to him who blends a cultivated mind with an upright heart, that men yield the tribute of deep and genuine respect.

But why do so few young men of early promise, whose hopes, purposes, and resolves were as radiant as the colors of the rainbow, fail to distinguish themselves? The answer is obvious; they are not willing to devote themselves to that toilsome culture which is the price of great success. Whatever aptitude for particular pursuits nature may donate to her favorite children, she conducts none but the laborious and the studious to distinction.

Great men have ever been men of thought as well as men of action. As the magnificent river, rolling in the pride of its mighty waters, owes its greatness to the hidden springs of the mountain nook, so does the wide-sweeping influence of distinguished men date its origin from hours of privacy, resolutely employed in efforts after self-development. The invisible spring of self-culture is the source of every great achievement.

Away, then, young man, with all dreams of superiority, unless you are determined to dig after knowledge, as men search for concealed gold! Remember, that every man has in himself the seminal principle of great excellence, and he may develop it by cultivation if he will TRY. Perhaps you are what the world calls poor. What of that? Most of the men whose names are as household words were also the children of poverty. Captain Cook, the circumnavigator of the globe, was born in a mud hut, and started in life as a cabin-boy.

Lord Eldon, who sat on the woolsack in the British parliament for nearly half a century, was the son of a coal merchant. Franklin, the philosopher, diplomatist, and statesman, was but a poor printer's boy, whose highest luxury,

at one time, was only a penny roll, eaten in the streets of Philadelphia. Ferguson, the profound philosopher, was the son of a half-starved weaver. Johnson, Goldsmith, Coleridge, and multitudes of others of high distinction, knew the pressure of limited circumstances, and have demonstrated that poverty even is no insuperable obstacle to success.

Up, then, young man, and gird yourself for the work of self-cultivation! Set a high price on your leisure moments. They are sands of precious gold. Properly expended, they will procure for you a stock of great thoughts--thoughts that will fill, stir and invigorate, and expand the soul. Seize also on the unparalleled aids furnished by steam and type in this unequaled age.

The great thoughts of great men are now to be procured at prices almost nominal. You can, therefore, easily collect a library of choice standard works. But above all, learn to reflect even more than you read. Without thought, books are the sepulchre of the soul,-they only immure it. Let thought and reading go hand in hand, and the intellect will rapidly increase in strength and gifts. Its possessor will rise in character, in power, and in positive influence.

TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY.

"He would have passed a pleasant life of it, despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was a woman."-SKETCH BOOK.

St. Anthony sat on a lowly stool,

And a book was in his hand;

Never his eyes from its page he took,

Either to right or left to look,

But with steadfast gaze as was his rule,

The holy page he scanned.

“We will woo," said the imp, "St. Anthony's eyes

Off from his holy book;

We will go to him in all strange disguise,

And tease him with laughter and whoops and cries,
That he may upon us look.”

The Devil was in the best humor that day
That ever his highness was in,

And that's why he sent out his imps to play,
And he furnished them torches to light their way,
Nor stinted them incense to burn as they may-
Sulphur, and pitch, and rosin.

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew—
A heterogeneous rout;

There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked black and some looked blue,
And they passed and varied before the view,
And twisted themselves about;

And had they exhibited thus to you,
I think you'd have felt in a bit of a stew-
As I should myself, I doubt.

There were some with feathers and some with scales,
And some had warty skins;

Some had no heads and some had tails,

And some had claws like iron nails;

And some had combs and beaks like birds,

And yet like jays could utter words;

And some had gills and fins.

Some rode on skeleton beasts, arrayed
In gold and velvet stuff,

With rich tiaras on the head,

Like kings and queens among the dead;
While face and bridle-hand displayed,
In hue and substance seemed to cope
With maggots in a microscope,
And their thin lips as white as soap,
Were colder than enough.

And spiders big from the ceiling hung,
From every crook and nook;

They had a crafty, ugly guise,

And they looked at the Saint with their eight eyes; And all that malice could devise

Of evil to the good and wise,

Seemed welling from their look.

Beetles and slow-worms crawled about,

And toads did squat demure;

From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out,
Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout,

And forty feet, a full span long,

Danced in and out in endless throng;

There ne'er has been such extravagant rout,

From that time to this, I'm sure.

But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes
Fixed on the holy book;

From it they did not sink or rise;
Nor sighs nor laughter, shouts nor cries
Could win away his look.

A quaint imp sat in an earthen pot;

In a big-bellied earthen pot sat he: Through holes in the bottom his legs outshot, And in holes in the sides his arms had got,

And his head came out through the mouth; God wot! A comical sight to see.

And he sat on the edge of a table-desk,

And drummed it with his heels;

And he looked as strange and as picturesque
As the figures we see in arabesque;

Half hidden in flowers, all painted in fresque,

In gothic vaulted cells."

Then he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned, And his eyes stood out with glee;

And he said these words, and sung this song,

And his legs and his arms, with their double prong,
Keeping time to his tune as it galloped along,
As birth to his song gave he:

"Old Tony, my boy! shut up your book,
And learn to be merry and gay;

You sit like a bat in his cloistered nook,-
Like a round-shouldered fool of an ow! you look,-
But straighten your back from its booby crook,
And more sociable be, I pray.

"Let us see you laugh, let us hear you sing;
Take a lesson from us, old boy!

Remember that life has a fleeting wing;
And then comes death, that stern old king,
So we'd better make sure of joy."

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon his holy book.

He heard that song with a laugh arise,
But he knew that the imp had a naughty guise,
And he did not care to look.

Another imp came in a masquerade

Most like to a monk's attire,

But of living bats his cowl was made,

The wings stitched together with spider's thread,

And round and about him they fluttered and played,
And his eyes shot out from their misty shade
Long parallel bars of fire.

And his loose teeth clattered like clanking bones,
When the gibbet tree sways in the blast;
And, with gurgiing shakes and stifled groans,
He mocked the good St. Anthony's tones,
As he muttered his prayer full fast.

A rosary of beads was hung by his side,-
Oh, gaunt looking beads were they!
And still when the good Saint dropped a bead,
He dropped a tooth; and he took good heed
To rattle his string, and the bones replied,
Like a rattle-snake's tail at play.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon the holy book;

He heard that mock of groans and sighs,
And he knew that the thing had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

Another imp came with a trumpet snout,
That was mouth and nose in one:

It had stops like a flute, as you never may doubt,
Where his long lean fingers capered about,
As he twanged his nasal melodies out,

In quaver, and shake, and run.

And his head moved forward and backward still,
On his long and snaky neck;

As he bent his energies all to fill

His noisy tube with wind and skill, And he sneezed his octaves out, until 'Twas well-nigh ready to break.

And close to St. Anthony's ear he came,

And piped his music in;

And the shrill sound went through the good Saint's fraine,
With a smart and a sting, like a shred of flame,
Or a bee in the ear,-which is much the same-

And he shivered with the din.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon the holy book;

He heard that snout with its gimlet cries,
And he knew that the imp had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

A thing with horny eyes was there,

With horny eyes like the dead;
And its long, sharp nose was all of horn,
And its bony cheeks of flesh were shorn,
And its ears were like thin cases torn
From feet of kine, and its jaws were bare,
And fish-bones grew instead of hair,
Upon the skinless head.