By False Pretenses by Ambrose Bierce

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 all 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 fault if we miss;⁠— Judge of the painter’s art, who’ll straight proclaim The hue of any color you can name, And knows a painting with a canvas back Distinguished from a duck by the duck’s quack;⁠— This thinker and philosopher, whose work Is famous from Commercial street to Turk, Has now a fortune, of his pen the meed. A woman left it him who could not read, And so went down to death’s eternal night Sweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.