cachination:   "I've got a mortgage on the congregation." 

 

 JOHNDONKEY

       [There isn't a man living who does not have at least a sneaking reverence for a horse-shoe.—Evening Post.] 

   Thus the poor ass whose appetite has ne'er Known than the thistle any sweeter fare Thinks all the world eats thistles. Thus the clown, The wit and Mentor of the country town, Grins through the collar of a horse and thinks Others for pleasure do as he for drinks, Though secretly, because unwilling still In public to attest their lack of skill. Each dunce whose life and mind all follies mar Believes as he is all men living are—   His vices theirs, their understandings his; Naught that he knows not, all he fancies, is. How odd that any mind such stuff should boast! How natural to write it in the Post! 

 

 HELL

   The friends who stood about my bed Looked down upon my face and said:   "God's will be done—the fellow's dead."    When from my body I was free I straightway felt myself, ah me! Sink downward to the life to be. Full twenty centuries I fell, And then alighted. "Here you dwell For aye," a Voice cried—"this is Hell!"    A landscape lay about my feet, Where trees were green and flowers sweet. The climate was devoid of heat. The sun looked down with gentle beam Upon the bosom of the stream, Nor saw I any sign of steam. The waters by the sky were tinged, The hills with light and color fringed. Birds warbled on the wing unsinged.    "Ah, no, this is not Hell," I cried;   "The preachers ne'er so greatly lied. This is Earth's spirit glorified!    "Good souls do not in Hades dwell, And, look, there's John P. Irish!" "Well,"   The Voice said, "that's what makes it Hell." 

 

 BY FALSE PRETENSES

   John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wields The quill his tributary body yields; The author of an opera—that is, All but the music and libretto's his:   A work renowned, whose formidable name, Linked with his own, repels the assault of fame From the high vantage of a dusty shelf, Secure from all the world except himself;—   Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screed That all might understand if some would read;—   Master of poesy and lord of prose, Dowered, like a setter, with a double nose; That one for Erato, for Clio this; He flushes both—not his 

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