At the famous journey which ended in nought,
He said . . . they were sitting at table—"My dear!
     I was the dunce,
     Let us say it at once—
For thinking to catch, where 'twas sure I'd get caught.
But for one little error . . . remember, my life!
You might now be a relict, instead of a wife;
For our Reverendissimi all are the same,
They never forgive one for winning a game,
But sooner or later, the blood-sucking crew
Win back what they'd lost, and with interest too!
Though the price they exact from a recreant sinner
Depends on the pastoral grade of the winner,
     And varies in height
     With the strength of his spite,
From a violent death, to an abstinence-dinner;
For a friar, when foiled, holds his peace, and contrives
To work out his will through our mothers and wives,
By fast-days, and penance, and pious suggestion,
     While a Bishop enraged,
     Gets you quietly caged,
And Servus Servorum applies you 'the question.'
You know 'cats' children,' the proverb goes,
'If you rear 'em on innocent gruel or rice,
Or anything else farinaceous and nice,'
—Opportunity serving—'are sure to catch mice.'
     Besides, 'twas my fault to suppose
That priests and ... no matter! . . . could ever forgive,
     And to look for a flaw
     In that good old saw;
  'Buy a watch, or marry a wife,
  Or fall out with a churchman and come to strife,
And you'll be in hot water as long as you live!'"

                             XVI.

  Summers and winters have passed along,
And proved that Montani was not in the wrong.
The "cat's child" he spoke of—frugivorous creature!
When mantled and crowned, on the Chair of Saint Peter,
Still true to his instincts, seemed courteous and canny,
And played with his mice, as he played with Montani;
Sat purring and soft as a chinchilla muff,
Till he whipt out his talons . . . and that was enough!
For sucklings and seedlings, whatever their dower
Of minikin passion, or instinct, or power,
     Are sires in long clothes,
     As all the world knows,
To the adult creation that out of them grows.
  Each little fatherkin, weak and unripe,
  Carries his programme in diamond type,
     Stamped with a wise "So be it!"
  The seedling shut in the acorn's heart
  Is an oak-tree perfect in every part,
     Waiting for warmth to free it.
A Dauphin in frocks, killing rabbits for fun,
Has his battue of heretics (yet underdone)
  On the brain that in time shall decree it.
Grimalkin the mouser's a kitten grown stale,
With her fierceness and fun on a miniature scale,
And a frog's but a tadpole—minus the tail—
     For such as have eyes to see it.
  The self-same phases of germination
  Hold with each sex, and every station,
     And keep to the self-same measure;
  Whether their Lordships strut the scene,
  In broadcloth, bullion, or bombazine;
Or their Ladyships flutter in silks and Iaces,
And swim about with Herodias-paces,
To win, by right of fine airs and graces
  Some true heart's blood for their pleasure.
But, of all men living, in whom appear
Their letters patent, distinct and clear,
  As in the blade—so in the ear—
  As in the root—so in the flower—
Commend me to wielders of priestly power!
  Each, from the Sacristan up to the Saint
Is signed with a stamp (which we may see or mayn't),
     Tattooed beyond reach of soap;
  And to prove the rule in its moral grade,
  This tale will tell, how, in tricks of trade,
A Cardinal Bishop of zeal intense
Is—speaking of course in a spiritual sense—
     Papa to a reigning Pope!

INNOCENTS' DAY.

ON the evening of Wednesday, the third of
June, a contest was waged between the two
guardian angels respectively typifying Pleasure
and Duty, who are appointed to watch over the
humble person of the present writer. These
contests are of by no means unfrequent occurrence;
but as this was a specially sharp tussle,
and as it ended by Duty getting the best of it—
which is very seldom the case—I feel bound to
record it. This humble person was, on the occasion
in question, seated in his small suburban
garden, on a rustic seat (than which he ventures
to opine in regard to the hardness of the surface
to be sat upon, its slipperiness, its normal dampness,
and the tendency of its knobbly formation
towards irritation of the spinal cord, there cannot
be a more distressing piece of furniture), was
smoking an after-dinner pipe, and was
contemplating the glowing relics of the splendid day
fast being swallowed up in the grey of the evening,
when he felt a slight (mental) tap on his
left shoulder, and became aware of the invisible
presence of Pleasure.

"Lovely evening!" said Pleasure.

"Gorgeous!" said present writer, who had
had his dinner, and was proportionally
enthusiastic.

"Splendid for Ascot to-morrow!"

"Mag-nificent!"

"You'll go, of course?"

Mental tap on my right shoulder, and still
small voice: "You'll do nothing of the sort!"
Ha! ha! I thought, Duty has come to the charge
then.

"Well!" I hesitated, "you see, I—"

"What!" exclaimed Pleasure, "are you in any
doubt? Think of the drive down the cool calm
Windsor Park with the big umbrageous trees,
the blessed stillness, the sweet fresh air! Then
the course, so free and breezy, the odour of the
trodden turf, the excitement of the race,
the—"

"Think of how to pay your tailor," whispered
Duty; "the triumph of a receipted bill, the
comfort of knowing that you're wearing your own
coat and not Schnipp and Company's property!
Stick to your great work on Logarithms; be a
man, and earn your money."