Then we have before us the man with three hundred dollars a year income, who apes the manner of the gentleman of leisure.

And now again we have what may be called an intellectual snob; the man who has a fair share of brain, but not sufficient to make a name for himself, not enough to make himself distinguished in any way.  So where honest candor would expose him, he apes the manner of clever men, allowing himself to get decidedly “out at elbows,” to wear clothes which decidedly require brushing, seats himself in a corner as though pondering some weighty matter, tries to look profound—­when he probably looks simply, stupid.  This is intellectual snobbishness.  How many people we meet who cover their ignorance by a look of profundity.

When will people learn that snobbery is the evidence of a small mind, and that shoddyism is the proof of a vulgar one?  How long before people will be convinced of the fact, that, education, talent, and good breeding, are the most essential requisites for success.

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* * * * *

The psychologist says.

In dreams, and profound reveries we forget our surroundings, we travel over land and seas, through sunny lands, and many persons tell us that it is simply the mind which creates, the mind which travels.  Not so; it is the soul which journeys forth and is actually in those places, having left the body while it wanders alone.

A person lying dangerously ill, suffering acute pain, is given a narcotic and after a time, sleep is produced.  The pain-racked body lies there motionless as a lump of clay, pain is forgotten but the soul takes a journey, and for a time revels in joy, flits through a shady grove, or stops for a moment beside a running brook, scales lofty heights or lingers in a lovely valley; the effect of the narcotic wears off, pain returns and the pleasant vision is ended.  Now the mind could not have created these pleasant scenes, for as everyone knows, there is complete sympathy between the body and mind, and a diseased, pain-tossed body, would produce a diseased mind.  Between sleep and death there is a wonderful similarity.  In sleep the soul wanders forth and returns to the body, in death it journeys over the broad sea of eternity into the great unknown.  Have you ever stood at the bedside of a dying child and seen the look of joy that passes over its face?  In many instances the child being too young to reason, too young to create for itself pleasant scenes.  Then what could have produced the ecstatic joy?  I stood by the bed of a dying child, a mere infant.  The little sufferer had lain unconscious during the day, efforts were made to arouse it, the mother was bending over the bed anxious for one look of recognition, but the efforts were useless, the stupor continued until suddenly, to the surprise of the watchers, the little creature raised its hand, and pointed upward, with a smile of perfect joy, and at that moment the soul winged its flight.