HERE'S nothing we read of in torture's inventions,
Like a well-meaning dunce with the best of intentions.
J. R. Lowell, A Fable for Critics.
THE POPE.
ISS D., on her return to the Highlands of Scotland, from Rome, went to see an auld Scottish wife, and said, to interest the old woman, "I have been to Rome since I saw you—I have seen all sorts of great people—I have seen the Pope." The sympathetic old dame replied with animation, "The Pope of Rome!—Honest marn!—haze he ony family?"
Frederick Locker, Patchwork.
AY, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay;
Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day,
For thy hand is not Echoless—there they are,
Fun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star:
And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine,
As I con them, these bulgy old boots of mine.
But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eat'st eel-pie,
Thou evermore hast at least one black eye;
There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues
Are due not to nature but handling shoes;
And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see,
Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee!