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In the village graveyard of Hanwell (ad viii. ab urbe lapidem) sleeps the original of yonder sketch, and the rude forefathers of the Saxor. hamlet have consented to receive among them the clay of a Milesian scholar. That “original” was no stranger to us.

Some time back we had our misgivings that the oil in his flickering lamp of life would soon dry up; still, we were not prepared to hear of his light being thus abruptly extinguished. “ One morn we missed him” from the accustomed table at the library of the British Museum, where the page of antiquity awaited his perusal; “another came—nor yet” was he to be seen behind the pile of "Asiatic Researches,” poring over his favourite Herodotus, or deep in the Zendavesta. “The next brought tidings of his death.

“Au banquet de la vie, infortuné convive,

J'apparus un jour, et je meurs :
Je meurs, et sur la tombe où, jeune encor, j'arrive

Nul ne viendra verser des pleurs."

His book on “the Round Towers” has thrown more light on the early history of Ireland, and on the freemasonry of these gigantic puzzles, than will ever shine from the cracked pitchers of the “Royal Irish Academy," or the farthing candle of Tommy Moore. And it was quite natural that he should have received from them, during his lifetime, such tokens of malignant hostility as might sufficiently " tell how they hated his beams." The “Royal Irish” twaddlers must surely feel some compunction now, when they look back on their paltry transactions in the matter of the “prize-essay;" and though we do not expect much from "Tom Brown the younger,” or “Tom Little," the author of sundry Tomfudgeries and Tomfooleries, still it would not surprise us if he now felt the necessity of atoning for his individual misconduct by doing appropriate penance in a white sheet, or a “blue and yellow” blanket, when next he walks abroad in that rickety gocart of drivelling dotage, the “Edinburgh Review.”

While Cicero was quæstor in Sicily, he discovered in the suburbs of Syracuse the neglected grave of Archimedes, from the circumstance of a symbolical cylinder indicating the pursuits and favourite theories of the illustrious dead. Great was his joy at the recognition. No emblem will mark the sequestered spot where lies the Edipus of the Round Tower riddle—no hieroglyphic,

“Save daisies on the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.”

But ye who wish for monuments to his memory, go to his native land, and there-circumspicite !–Glendalough, Devenish, Clondalkin, Inniscattery, rear their architectural cylinders; and each, through those mystic apertures that face the cardinal points, proclaims to the four winds of heaven, trumpet-tongued, the name of him who solved the

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problem of 3000 years, and who first disclosed the drift of these erections !

Fame, in the Latin poet's celebrated personification, is described as perched

“Sublimi culmine tecti, Turribus aut altis."

Æneid IV. That of O'B. is pre-eminently so circumstanced. From these proud pinnacles nothing can dislodge his renown. Moore, in the recent pitiful compilation meant for “a history," talks of these monuments as being so many

astronomical indexes." He might as well have said they were tubes for the purposes of gastronomy: Tis plain he knew as little about their origin as he may be supposed to know of the “Hanging Tower of Pisa, or the “ Torre degli Asinelli,” or how the nose of the beloved resembled the tower of Damascus.

Concerning the subject of this memoir, suffice it to add that he was born in the kingdom of Iveragh, graduated in T.C.D. (having been classically “brought up at the feet of” the Rev. Charles Boyton); and fell a victim here to the intense ardour with which he pursued the antiquarian researches that he loved.

“Kerria me genuit ; studia, heu ! rapuêre ; tenet nunc

Anglia : sed patriam turrigeram cecini.” Keyent Street, August 1, 1835.

No. VI.


From the Prout Papers.

“ Alii spem gentis adultos
Educunt fætus : alii purissima mella
Stipant, et liquido distendunt nectare cellas."

VIRA. Georgic IV.

“ Through flowery paths
Skilled to guide youth, in haunts where learning dwells,
They filled with honey'd lore their cloistered cells."


THE massacre this month by a brutal populace in Madrid of fourteen Jesuits, in the hall of their college of St

Isidoro, has drawn somewhat of notice, if not of sympathy, to this singular order of literati, whom we never fail, for the last three hundred years, to find mixed up with every political disturbance. There is a certain species of bird well known to ornithologists, but better still to mariners, which is sure to make its appearance in stormy weather-80 constantly indeed, as to induce among the sailors (durum genus) a belief that it is the fowl that has raised the tempest. Leaving this knotty point to be settled by Dr. Lardner in his 6

Cyclopædia, at the article of “Mother Carey's chickens," we cannot help observing, meantime, that since the days of the French League under Henri Trois, to the late final expulsion of the branche ainée (an event which has marked the commencement of REGINA'S accession to the throne of literature), as well in the revolutions of Portugal as in the vicissitudes of Venice, in the revocation of the edict of Nantz, in the expulsion of James II., in the severance of the Low Countries from Spain, in the invasion of Africa by Don Sebastian, in the Scotch rebellion of '45, in the conquest of China by the Tartars, in all the Irish rebellions, from Father Salmeron in 1561, and Father Archer (for whom see Pacata Hibernia"), to that anonymous Jesuit who (according to Sir Harcourt Lees) threw the bottle at the Lord Lieutenant in the Dublin theatre some years ago,—there is always one of this illfated society found in the thick of the confusion

“And whether for good, or whether for ill,

It is not mine to say ;
But still to the house of Amundeville

He abideth night and day!
When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn,

And when ought is to befall
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine
He walks from hall to hall.”


However, notwithstanding the various and manifold commotions which these Jesuits have confessedly kicked up in the kingdoms of Europe and the commonwealth of Christendom, we, OLIVER YORKE, must admit that they have not deserved ill of the Republic of Letters ; and therefore do we

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