THE SAINT OF THE LONG ROBE.

BEING NO. X. OF THE KISHOGE PAPERS.

'Tis a pleasant thing, in these Christmas times,
To meet quaint stories in garrulous rhymes,—
Pleasant to read of our forefathers' ways,

In our great-great-grandfathers' grandfathers' days;
Or a couple of centuries earlier yet,

For the farther we go the more pleasant we get,
As the nursery tales decidedly show,

Beginning with "long and merry ago,"
And ending always, 1 scarcely need say,

"If they didn't live happy, that you and I may."

They were strange old days.

What more do we know,

With all our learning, of "long ago,"

Than the vague idea conveyed in the phrase

Which my pen has just traced, "They were strange old days?"

We picture barons, with helmets and mail,

Ladies who feasted on collops and ale,

Loop-holed castles, their pleasant abodes,

Springless coaches and horrible roads ;

We've the "properties" dragged into novels and plays;

But what can we know of those "strange old days?"
And the lives our ancestors used to pursue

Here, in eighteen hundred and fifty-two,

?

When John, the butler, and Mary, the cook,

(Let no chef this unfortunate lapsus rebuke)-

Wouldn't change with my lord and my lady, I ween,
If for eighteen hundred you read thirteen.
We, in these days of steamer and rail,
Of poor-laws, policemen, of overland-mail,
Of gas, electricity, consols, bank-notes,
Clubs, newspapers, meerschaums, immaculate votes,
Gutta-percha, gun-cotton-good reader, imagine it—
One of us "realising" the times of Plantagenet.
If I'm asked can we picture the period, I'll answer,
Just as Eve might have pictured an opera-dancer.
Though the latter in truth were the casier guess,
The change is so wondrously slight as to dress.

But what of all this?

I've a story to tell,

And I'm wasting my rhyme,

Ink and paper and time,

On what every philosopher knows very

well,

Though I'm no philosopher.-I'm but a joker,

And don't walk about with grave looks and white choker,

To claim from mankind for my dulness indemnity,

Because 'tis rigged out in the garb of solemnity;

I've learned by experience the service that fun does,
And merely desire to be "comes jucundus,"
A jolly companion. But really I'm spinning
Too much I must come to my story's beginning.
A queer one, explaining an incident quaint,
How the lawyers obtained their patron saint;
And I trust a profession so grave and so learn'd
Will feel in the history deeply concerned.

The thirteenth century hadn't run out,

But its closing year

Was exceedingly near

At the date of this serious event, I've no doubt.
The Pontiffs of Rome

Still continued "at home,"

And the shades of Vaucluse had obtained no renown,
As yet, from the triple pontifical crown.

Still I frankly confess 'tis uncertain what Pope
From his palace looked out on the Aventine slope,
When the worthy Evona set forth for the road,
On a pilgrimage bound, to that blessed abode.
Ah! a pious and sanctified pleader was he,
Such a lawyer as now we don't frequently see.
He hadn't his equal at law in all Brittany,

And he beat the whole bar both at psalter and litany;
He prayed and he fasted, he fasted and prayed,
Which lawyers don't do in these days, I'm afraid;
It can't be expected, indeed, when their knowledge is
Picked up at "Godless" and "Infidel" colleges,
At vile Inns of Court,

Where wild people resort,

Who call very improper things "larking" and sport,
And instruction means nothing but mutton and port.
Not so with Evona: he pored o'er his pleading,
Or varied his studies with excellent reading;
On all mundane emotions at once put a quencher,
And, in fact, was precisely the man for a Bencher.
A word to convey,

More than all I could say,

The position the worthy man held in his day.
Grave, learned, and saintly, I don't think I've known a
Half-dozen barristers quite like Evona.

But wherefore now does he set out from home,
Bound on that peregrination to Rome?
A journey, in those days, a trifle unpleasant,
And very unlike what we find it at present.
There wasn't a railway to Châlons-sur-Saone,
There wasn't a steamer to run down the Rhone;

There were free-booters given to felonious pursuits,

Who made free with your purse, not to speak of your boots;
There were quarrelsome counts who played tricks upon travellers
Somewhat worse than we hear of from custom-house cavillers;
But if you're a half-dozen years out of college,

"Tis likely enough that you've got all this knowledge,
In which case you don't require my information,
So here goes, once again, to resume my narration.

Good Evona set out on a laudable mission,
First to show for his failings a thorough contrition,
By going, in person, with genuine lowliness,
Absolution to seek at the feet of his Holiness,
And to ask, in addition,

By humble petition,

A boon he had long set his heart on procuring,
And that thus he had very good hopes of ensuring-

A saint to take charge of the legal profession,

Who its members would guard against sinful transgression,
Make them models thenceforward of worth and sobriety,
And distinguish them ever for wisdom and piety.

With this object and hope,

He proceeds to the Pope,

Prepared to despise every sort of privation,

With so noble a scheme in his mind's contemplation.

And I trust that there lives not a single attorney

Who would venture to sneer at the old lawyer's journey.

How proudly rises that wondrous dome,
That crowns the glory of modern Rome;
Grandest of temples, alone it stands,

The noblest labour of human hands.

But Rome has a church with an older claim-
An earlier title to storied fame-

Renowned and honoured in ages

fled,

"Of Christian Temples Mother and Head.”*
The Royal Lateran looketh still
Forth on the far-off Latian Hill-

Old, ere a Vatican Pontiff hurled

His wrathful bolt on a trembling world;
Old, when our pilgrim, weary and faint,
Came to ask the Pope for a Patron Saint;

And the reader should know, if he didn't before,
That his Holiness lived in the Palace next door.

Who he was I have mentioned historians don't state,
And the fact is a little obscure as to date;

But I've reason to think

That he loved a sly wink,

And relished a good-natured joke with a funny face,
On which grounds I've decided to christen him Boniface,
The eighth of that name having reigned, it appears,
In this same thirteenth century's ultimate years,
A fact that completely clears up the chronology,
And makes needless, on my part, the slightest apology.

Evona arrived in the city, I've stated,

And then, in due form, on his Holiness waited,
Kneeling down kissed his toe,

As is usual we know,

Although, as Prince Hamlet remarks in his speech,
'Twere a custom more honoured perhaps in the breach;
Which the Pope seems to feel,

And says,

"Oh, pray don't kneel,

Good Evona, a lawyer so wise, so devout,

And-really-I've just had a twinge of the gout.

If you will show such homage, here, this is the thing,"
And he holds forth his hand with the Fisherman's ring.
At which gracious attention

And deep condescension,

Evona feels more than I ever could mention;

Thanks the Pontiff in words of the deepest sincerity,
And then adds, "Holy Father, don't think it temerity,
If I dare to suggest

A wish yet unexpressed,

But which through long years has deprived me of rest,
And made my existence extremely distress'd:

It is that my serious and learned profession

Has no special claim on some saint's intercession.

"Urbis et orbis Ecclesiarum Mater et Caput."-This designation has been given to the Church of St. John Lateran. The Basilica was built by Constantine; but the old edifice was destroyed by fire during the residence of the Popes at Avignon, and the present beautiful church has been erected on its site.-K.

It appears to me hard

That we should be debarred

From a benefit all other callings may share;

Some of which have no wonderful claims I declare.
Don't fancy I'd dare use a word of rebuke,

But surely if Painters are watched by Saint Luke,
And the sweet Saint Cecilia will patronize Fiddlers,
We shouldn't be treated like Jeremy Diddlers."

'Twas the phrase that he used, altho' you might not think so,
And just copied as writ by his own pen-and-ink so;
And it staggered the Pope by its terseness and strength,
More than many addresses of six times its length.

His Holiness scarce could help smiling to see
The old lawyer so anxiously urging his plea;
But of course he was likewise delighted to find
Such pious desires in a man of his kind.

He acknowledged the justice of all that was said,
But observed, "On one head

Where you seem to suggest, as a ground of complaint,
That each other calling can boast of its saint,

It is certainly true

That there are very few

Which have not got some patron; but then, recollect,
They had, each of them saints, in their line, to select ;
The cases you've spoken of,

So much give token of.

Saint Cecilia delighted in music, you know,

And though Luke as a painter was very so-so,

Still a painter he was, which gives colour for making him
The patron of painters, and warrants their taking him;
But I'm sadly afraid

We've not one of your trade-
Excuse the expression-

Your learned profession.

In the calendar; carpenters, shoemakers, sawyers,
Artisans of all classes, besides some employers;
Even doctors a few you may find-but no lawyers.
It strikes me that this the reason is somehow,
That you've not had a saint for a patron ere now."

Now this was a regular slap in the face.
Evona in vain tried to fish up a case,

But a canonized lawyer 'twas hopeless to trace;
So he said, "Holy Father, I'm deeply distressed

At finding our calling so very unblest;

May I trust that your goodness will make a selection

Of some saint that would lend us henceforth his protection;
Whose precepts shall teach, whose example shall guide
My brethren, till now, such assistance denied-

Do, pray, Holy Father, some patron provide."

"Well, in truth," said the Pope, "I can't just recollect
A suitable saint your good folk to protect;
There's Saint Thomas the doubter-no, he wouldn't do,
Indeed 'twould be awkward to ask him; there's-pooh!
No, there isn't; you've puzzled me sadly, good man.
But hold, ah, I have it! I've hit on a plan:

I really can't venture the choice to decide_
You'll select for yourself, and let heav'n be your guide.
In the Lateran Church there are statues in stone
Of at least thirty saints, best for sanctity known:
The Apostles, Saint Michael, and several more,
In the principal aisle, within reach of the floor.