_Approbativeness_, 7+. Hat well brushed. Hair ditto. Mark the effect of that _plus_ sign. _Self-esteem_, 6. His face shows that. _Benevolence_, 9. That'll please him _Conscientiousness_, 8-1/2. That fraction looks first-rate. _Mirthfulness_, 7. Has laughed twice since he came in. _Ideality_, 9. That sounds well. _Form, Size, Weight, Color, } Locality, Eventuality, etc.,} 4 to 6. Average everything that etc.,_ } can't be guessed. And so of the other faculties. Of course, you know, that isn't the way the Phrenologists do. They go only by the bumps.--What do you keep laughing so for? (to the boarders.) I only said that is the way _I_ should practise "Phrenology" for a living. _End of my Lecture._ ----The Reformers have good heads generally. Their faces are commonly serene enough, and they are lambs in private intercourse, even though their voices may be like The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore, when heard from platform. Their greatest spiritual danger is from the perpetual _flattery of abuse_ to which they are exposed. These lines are meant to caution them. SAINT ANTHONY THE REFORMER. HIS TEMPTATION. No fear lest praise should make us proud! We know how cheaply that is won; The idle homage of the crowd Is proof of tasks as idly done. A surface-smile may pay the toil That follows still the conquering Right, With soft, white hands to dress the spoil That sunbrowned arms have clutched in fight. Sing the sweet song of other days, Serenely placid, safely true, And o'er the present's parching ways Thy verse distils like evening dew. But speak in words of living power,-- They fall like drops of scalding rain That plashed before the burning shower swept o'er the cities of the plain! Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,-- Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring, And, smitten through their leprous mail, Strike right and left in hope to sting. If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, They feet on earth, they heart above, Canst walk in peace they kingly path, Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,-- Too kind for bitter words to grieve, Too firm for clamor to dismay, When Faith forbids thee to believe, And Meekness calls to disobey,-- Ah, then beware of mortal pride! The smiling pride that calmly scorns Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed In laboring on thy crown of thorns! THE ITALIAN WAR.