E POPE'S POST OBIT.

In the _Giornale di Roma_, of the 25th ultimo, appears a document called
the "Act of Beatification" of FATHER JOHN of Britto, a Jesuit, who
suffered martyrdom in 1693; so that, after the lapse of 160 years, HIS
HOLINESS THE POPE has "beatified" the martyred Jesuit--made FATHER JOHN
happy at last. The Holy See is really as dilatory in beatifying parties,
or making them happy, as the High Court of Chancery. The Church of Rome
treats saints as some other churchmen treat bottles of port--laying them
down to acquire the right flavour, as well as _bouquet_, notwithstanding
that the latter ought to have been already possessed by individuals who
had died in the odour of sanctity. Miracles, we believe, are necessary
to canonization; no miracles, no Saintship: no niche in the calendar.
Our ultra-montane friends tell us that miracles, "the apparition of LA
SALETTE" for instance, are rigidly investigated at Rome; but it must be
difficult to sift those which occurred above 160 years ago, unless the
witnesses are cross-examined by table-rapping, or some equivalent means
of communicating with the defunct. However, the case of FATHER JOHN may
teach those whom it may concern not to be disheartened by the delay of
their beatification by the Roman Pontiffs, by showing them that though
they may have had to wait more than a century and a half for their
beatitude, they "may be happy yet."

* * * * *

A PROVERB AT FAULT.

Proverbial philosophy will occasionally fail, and we need go no further
for an instance than the well known maxim as to the propriety of "a long
pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together." Take six hearty
coalheavers, and, putting between them a pot of porter, call upon them
to take "a long pull and a strong pull," if you please; but pause before
you invite them to the impracticable operation of "a pull all together."

* * * * *

VESTED RIGHT.

There's strength in rock, to take the shock
Of wave, with naked brows;
There's pith in oak, to mock the stroke
Of wind, with stubborn boughs;
But where grew wood, and where rock stood
Wind blows and sea-wave ploughs.

I am not rock, I am not oak;
My roots are short and slight;
With foes more grave than wind or wave
It is my lot to fight.
'Gainst Time and Life I wage a strife--
My name is VESTED RIGHT!

And still I stand, all through the land,