A tremendous outcry against the Roman Catholics was raised in 1850, when the Pope created Cardinal Nicholas Wiseman-Archbishop of Westminster, and divided all England into Romish dioceses. But the agitation ended in smoke, it is true the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill was passed in 1851, yet it has practically remained a dead letter, and it was wittily said of Lord John Russell that, after chalking up "No Popery" on Cardinal Wiseman's door, and ringing the bell-he ran away.

Amongst the many pamphlets written on the topic was one published by Henry Beal, Shoe Lane, London, entitled "The Cardinal's Hat: How, when, and where it was made, and what became of it." By Ipsedixit. 1851. This is an imitation of the Ingoldsby Legends, and like them is very uncomplimentary to Roman Catholic priests, consequently, several passages have been omitted in the following reprint, as being not only offensive and ungenerous, but also

untrue ::

WE have all of us heard of the CITY OF ROME,
The fountain of Catholic blessings, and curses,
Where those who are lucky in having long purses
Go, to stare at the huge Coliseum and Dome

Now-scorning the aid of that personage odious,

The two-sticked dark gentleman known as Asmodeus;
We have unroofed the house of these portly old men,
And gaze without obstacle into their den!

St. Peter's great bell tells one more day is dead;
Respectable persons lie snugly in bed;

Only a beggar or woman with shrewd eye,
Is prowling about, to pick up a few scudi;
But Jacopolo's altar is all in a blaze,

Ten thousand wax tapers emit their bright rays,
And at first you are almost struck blind as you gaze:
The Abbot is clad in his finest attire

Of satin and silk, at a price rather higher

Than an un-worldly man, one might think, would desire ; But what puzzled one most-and what seemed very queer,

Was that all the fat Monks of Jacopolo there,
Instead of performing prescribed genuflexions,
Or praying to Saints, to forgive their defections:
Or joining (melodious old souls!) in the quire,
All stood in a circle around a huge fire,
Over which was a vessel of brass-yes, 'twas that
metal,

And in heretic lands 'twould be known as a HAT-
KETTLE:

What are they doing?

Some mischief is brewing!

In the cauldron like that one in Macbeth, is stewing
Something I warrant for somebody's ruin !
See how the burly monks plunge, each a fist
Into the kettle, from which goes a mist
Creeping and curling like snakes to the ceiling :-
For something right down at its bottom they're feeling;
Now they have got it, and like Monks of mettle
They dab a wet mass on the rim of the kettle.
Shapeless and dark is it !-but with a shout
The Monks of Jacopolo maul it about;
Bow to it-pray to it ;-each one caresses it,

E'en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it

They roll it, and wrinkle,

Punch it, and sprinkle :

A silver bell's tinkle

Is heard then the Abbot proceeds to un-padlock
A casket, and from it with prayers takes a hat-block.
[The last rhyme, dear reader, I very well know
Just as well as yourself, is not quite comme il faut,
But I'd rather make such a slight slip, than I'd fit lie
For the sake of mere sound to this true tale of Italy.]

Yes, the Abbot devout,

A HAT BLOCK took out,

And 'twas hailed by the Monks with a song and a shout:-
Not a block of the shape of a hat worn in town;
But much like a wide-a-wake's-low in the crown,

Only not shaped like those of drab, white, green or brown,
But level as rail-road-in short, 'twas a flat
Block, such as is used for a milling cove's hat.
Mr. Bendigo wears such a one-think of that,
And without further parley you have the thing pat.

"Hail Mary!" the Abbot cried-"Look upon that

I ne'er saw a handsomer CARDINAL'S HAT!
In England, I fancy-'twill rather surprise Man,
Woman, and Child, when 'tis worn by NICK WISEMAN."
(And really, to give the old Abbot his due
The latter remark was undoubtedly true ;)

"And," he added, "Proceed, your good work and divine in, As now 'tis our duty to put in the lining."

All this being done-said the Lord Abbot-" That,
I fancy, completes our NEW CARDINAL'S HAT!"'

Yes, the Cardinal's Hat was completed at last,
And NICHOLAS WISEMAN went rather too fast,
TO ROME where that feeble old Potentate PIUS,

Who, it seems, a fresh chance for our souls, won't deny us,
Plac'd the hat on his cunning old pate, and said "Rise
Man,

ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER-CARDINAL WISEMAN !" And his newly-made Eminence rose from his knees

As proud and designing a Priest as you please!

But a very short time had passed by, and the HAT

Was dingy and shabby, and crushed almost flat :

For on it, John Bull, set his sturdy old heel,
Saying "Pius, my Bishoprics you shall not steal;"
And to Wiseman-" Old Craftyman-vanish from here-"
And he went with a Protestant flea in his ear!

But the CARDINAL'S HAT! How fared it with that?

Why from Westminster it was sent into RAG FAIR!
But the Jews wouldn't have the vile article there,
And the last time 'twas seen, it was kicked with disdain
From the filthiest old Clothes' shop in Petticoat Lane!

:0:

TEMPTATION OF THE GOOD ST. Gladstone.

THE good St. Gladstone sat on his stool,
A-reading a big black book,

With a steadfast patience, as was his rule,
For he never frivolled or played the fool,

Like a wanton urchin a-weary of school;
But, though 'twas the rollicking season of Yule,

He studied in quiet, and kept himself cool,

On his stool of repentance-a hard-bottomed stool-
And ne'er from that sage
Constitutional page
His reverent gaze he took.

"We will woo," cried Old Nick, "good St. Gladstone's

eyes

Off from that excellent book.

We will cluster around him in strange disguise,

And plague him with shindies and Party cries, And bother his bosom with phantasies,

That he upon us may look.'

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew
A heterogeneous rout.

There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked yellow, and some looked blue,
And they passed and varied before his view,
And twisted themselves about.

But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes
Fixed on that excellent book.

From it they did not sink or rise,

Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries Could win away his look.

One black imp came in a masquerade

Most like a ghoul's attire,

With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed,

And bat-wings dingy that fluttered and played

About St. Gladstone through light and through shade, Till they made the Saint perspire.

And another one came apparalled

In silk and velvet stuff,

With a sort of tiara upon its head,

And a shadowy alb, and a ghostly cope,
And a scowl of anger, and fear, and hope
Upon a phiz that seemed carven from soap ;
And the row it raised,

As it blustered and blazed,
Was noisier than enough.

Another yet, of diminutive size,

And with hairy lip and with goggle eyes,

A winged weird creature, wee.

He pounced like a hawk, and he whisked like the wind,
And he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned,
And his eyes stood out with glee ;

And the more the Saint he deafened and dinned,
The more exulted he.

But the good St. Gladstone bent his eyes,

Upon that excellent book.

He heard the shout and the laugh arise,
But he knew that the imps had a naughty guise,
And he did not care to look.

Last comes an imp-how unlike the rest-
A beautiful female form!

With two dark Irish optics that ogle with zest,
With a blooming cheek and a buxom breast,
And a shamrock brooch in its snow doth rest,
And her lips are soft and warm.
As over his shoulder she bends the light
Of her dark eyes on the page,

She fires his heart with its ancient might,
With thoughts of old seasons of glorious fight,
'Neath the Shamrock Shield in the cause of right.
To aid hapless Beauty is still his delight,

Though he's grey with the frosts of age.
So gentle she seems, so appealing, so sure
Of his help, as of old; 'tis a parlous lure!
Pride, pity, and promise of fame !-
What lurketh behind it, that beautiful mask,
Will the good Saint see, will the good Saint ask?
Will he know that the Devil is at his old task?
Will he twig this last form of his game?

Ha! the good St. Gladstone boggles his eyes
Over that excellent book.

Ho! ho! at the corners they seem to rise.
He feels that the thing hath a lovely guise,
And-will he decline to look?

There are many devils that walk this world-
Devils large and devils small;

Devils saint-meagre, and sinner-stout;
Devils with cow-horns, and devils without;
'Cute devils that go with their tails upcurled,
Bold devils, that carry them bravely unfurled ;
Meek devils, and devils that brawl;
Serious devils, and mocking devils;
Imps for churches, and atheist revels;
Devils cheeky, and devils polite;
Blue and buff, and black and white;
Devils that gossip, and devils that write;
Devils that slaver, and devils that bite;
Devils that posture as angels of light;
Devils that fill green youth with spite;
Devils that dim Old Age's sight;
Devils foolish, and devils wise;

But a blarneying Colleen with two bright eyes
Is the temptingest devil of all!'

Punch. January 9, 1886.

Ye Sette of Odd Volumes, a small and very exclusive literary society founded in 1878 by Mr. Bernard Quaritch. The Brethren (as they style themselves) are united once a month to form a perfect sette for the purposes of Conviviality, and Mutual Admiration. The Brethren are, for the most part, men of note in Art, Literature, or the Drama. Each Odd Volume" has his special title and office in the "Sette," many of the observances at the meetings are quaint and peculiar, whilst the dainty little Opuscula containing reports of their proceedings are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curiosities.

Ought to read in history's pages,

With what eclât,

That radiant star,

Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra,

In mortal garb on this earth once trod,"
Then the High Priest mutter'd, “Odd! very Odd!
To record the events of your Majesty's reign
Were a task beyond mortal skill 'tis plain;
But marvellous, mystical, magical lore

I have learn'd from the sages, and seers of yore;
And I think I can furnish just the commodity,
Apex of learning, and quaintness, and oddity.
In a chapel built by the old Chaldees,
I'll show you the cream of Libraries,
Hidden away in the bowels of earth
Since long before Creation's birth;
And all the volumes hidden there,
Learned, curious, quaint, and rare,
Hieroglyph carved, or papyrus roll,
Every one hath a human soul."

When along the line came bowlin' wid a sound like thunder rowlin',

All the dignitaries howlin' that grate Europe has to show; Dhressed in glitterin' stars an' laces, sittin' proudly in their places,

Like their images that graces Madame Twoswoords' waxwork show;

Spanish High and Mightinesses, Russian military dhresses, Belgium, Austhria, Grase, and Dinmark, all like Court cards smilin' there,

Germans stout and sentimental, jooks and Princes Continental,

Ownin' a conthracted rental, but a precious dale of hair!

Then, with polished sword-blades glancing, goulden tags an' feathers dancing,

Came the princely escort prancing all beside a gilded coach

Drawn by eight crame ponies-Ginnett or Bill Holland wasn't in it,

Was the cry the very minnit that procession did approach. And VICTORIA, Britain's Queen, there, of her subjects' eyes was seen there,

Lookin' glorious and resplendent in her Sunday satin gown,

Wid a dacent white lace bonnet wid a bunch of feathers on it,

Though 'tis said that Salisbury begged her on his knees to wear her crown.

There was Our Princess the blessin'! She's the wan for stylish dhressin,'

Wid her charrums that do be increasin' as the years go rowlin' by;

Cambridge bloomin' like a picthur, foine-looking young Albert Victor,

An' the Heir Apparent watchin' with a twinkle in his eyeEdinborough's Royal Sailor, who does ride like any tailorSavin' of his noble presence! while, upon the other hand,

Battenberg, moustached and dhressy, Saxe-Meiningen and Hesse,

Caracoled unto the music of a joyous German Band!

In the Abbey there was hustling-aye, an' bustling too, and tussling,

All the ladies' dhresses rustling like a silken-sounding

sea;

Shoals of swarthy foreign visithers, Press reporthers and iuquisithers,

The whole Cabinet of Ministhers, Salisbury and William G. Bar and Bench. The House of Lords, too, in silk stockins, shoes, an' swoords too;

M.P.s married-aye, and single-wid their wives and daughters swate;

But PARNELL and his supporters stayed at home in writhin' torthers,

An' the Socialists were absent at a gay teetotal thrate;

Then the organ loudly sthruck up an' the choirs the chune tuk up,

The Archbishop quickly wuk up, while the trumpets 'gan

to blare ;

Pickpockets retired in clover, and the cats began to roam, Whilst the parents of the threated bore away the more repleted

Or conveyed the flattered darlin's to the shelter of the home.

Off wint Navy, off wint Army, with the sex that's born to charm ye;

Off wint Press, Police, and Public; home wint Royalty to tea,

And Her Majesty did utther, as she tuk the bread and butther

Misther Battenberg had cut her-"Well, We've Had Our JUBILEE.

Lady's Pictorial. July 2, 1887.

A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN'S, FLEET STREET.

SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN! O Sir Christopher Wren ! How slumbered your keen architectural ken

When you planned Temple Bar,

Nor foresaw from afar

How the witlings would spit you,
And editors twit you.

And Levi the Thunderer
Proclaim you a blunderer!

How the D.T., the pet, pink, and pride of the Press,
Would feel itself called time by time, to address
Learned Leaders, the joy of its large circulation,
Intended to scorch up the whole Corporation :

All through you, dear Sir Christopher,
Who made such a fist of a
Gate in the twist of a

Narrow street-way, to be cursed at and hissed of a
Horse-steerer class of Her Majesty's lieges

Who howled in the squeezes
With trenchant phrase hippic
And forceful philippic,

Like epics Satanic declaimed by some sham Milton
Or a wild Jingo speech by his lordship Jaw Jamilton.

The traffic anew that the Bar had let loose;
Nor heeding the trumpet-stop scorn and abuse
Of that monarch of censors, the wordy D.T.,
Presses forward his motion
With pugnacious devotion,

And triumphantly carries it through the C.C.+
So now "joy for ever," and aye "thing of beauty
That is, till its outlines grow smoke-dried and sooty-
The obstruction erect, with the Griffin a-top,
Designed with the Bar situations to chop,

Is to stand, spite of those whose loud protests it smothers,
And subsist as "a refuge for lawyers and others."