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-so 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 "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 BYRON. 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 decidedly set our face against the Madrid process of knocking out their brains; for, in our view of things, the pineal gland and the cerebellum are not kept in such a high state of cultivation in Spain as to render superfluous a few colleges and professors of the litera humaniores. George Knapp, the vigilant mayor of Cork, was, no doubt, greatly to be applauded for demolishing with his civic club the mad dogs which invested his native town; and he would have won immortal laurels if he had furthermore cleared that beautiful city of the idlers, gossips, and cynics, who therein abound; but it was a great mistake of the Madrid folks to apply the club to the learned skulls of the few literati they possessed. We are inclined to think (though full of respect for Robert Southey's opinion) that, after all, Roderick was not the last of the Goths in Spain. When the Cossacks got into Paris in 1814, their first exploit was to eat up all the tallow candles of the conquered metropolis, and to drink the train oil out of the lamps, so as to leave the "Boulevards" in Cimmerian darkness. By murdering the schoolmasters, it would seem that the partisans of Queen Christina would have no great objection to a similar municipal arrangement for Madrid. But all this is a matter of national taste; and as our gracious REGINA is no party to "the quadruple alliance," she has determined to adhere to her fixed system of non-intervention. Meantime the public will peruse with some curiosity a paper from Father Prout, concerning his old masters in literature. We suspect that on this occasion sentimental gratitude has begotten a sort of "drop serene" in his eye, for he only winks at the rogueries of the Jesuits; nor does he redden for them the gridiron on which he gently roasts Dr. Lardner and Tom Moore. But the great merit of the essay is, that the composer evidently had opportunities of a thorough knowledge of his subject-a matter of rare occurrence, and therefore quite refreshing. He appears, indeed, to be fully aware of his vantage-ground: hence the tone of confidence, and the firm, unhesitating tenour of his assertions. This is what we like to see. A chancellor of England who rarely got drunk, Sir Thomas More, has left this bit of advice to folks in general: Wise men alwaye affirme and say that tis best for a man diligently to the business he can, and in no wyse to enterprise another facultie. Acting on this principle, how gladly would we open our columns to a treatise by our particular friend, Marie Taglioni, on the philosophy of hops!-how cheerfully would we welcome an essay on heavy wet from the pen of Dr. Wade, or of Jack Reeve, or any other similarly qualified Chevalier de Malte! We should not object to a tract on gin from Charley Pearson; nor would we exclude Lord Althorp's thick notions on "fummery," or Lord Brougham's XXX. ideas on that mild alcohol which, for the sake of peace and quietness, we shall call "tea." Who would not listen with attention to Irving on a matter of "unknown tongues," or to O'Brien on "Round Towers ?" Verily it belongeth to old Benjamin Franklin to write scientifically on the paratonnère; and his contemporary, Talleyrand, has a paramount claim to lecture on the weather-cock. "Sumite materiam vestris qui scribitis æquam Viribus." Turning finally to thee, O Prout! truly great was thy love of frolic, but still more remarkable thy wisdom. Thou wert a most rare combination of Socrates and Sancho Panza, of Scarron and the venerable Bede! What would we not have given to have cracked a bottle with thee in thy hut on Watergrasshill, partaking of thy hospitable "herring," and imbibing thy deep flood of knowledge with the plenitude of thy "Medoc?"Nothing gloomy, narrow, or pharisaical, ever entered into thy composition-"In wit, a man; simplicity, a child." The wrinkled brow of antiquity softened into smiles for thee; and the Muses must have marked thee * See this excellent didactic poem printed at length in the elaborate preface to Dr. Johnson's Dictionary. It is entitled, "A merrie Jest, how a Sarjeant would learn to play ye Frere; by Maister Thomas More, in hys youthe." in thy cradle for their own. Such is the perfume that breathes from thy chest of posthumous elucubrations, conveying a sweet fragrance to the keen nostrils of criticism, and recalling the funeral oration of the old woman in Phædrus over her emptied flagon tr "O suavis anima! quale te dicam bonum Regent Street, 1st Sept. 1834. OLIVER YORKE. Watergrasshill, Dec. 1833. ABOUT the middle of the sixteenth century, after the vigorous arm of an Augustinian monk had sounded on the banks of the Rhine that loud tocsin of reform that found such responsive echo among the Gothic steeples of Germany, there arose in southern Europe, as if to meet the exigency of the time, a body of popish men, who have been called (assuredly by no friendly nomenclator) the Janissaries of the Vatican. Professor Robertson, in his admirable “History of Charles V.," introduces a special episode concerning the said "janissaries;" and, sinking for a time the affairs of the belligerent continent, turns his grave attention to the operations of the children of Loyola. The essay forms an agreeable interlude in the melodrama of contemporary warfare, and is exquisitely adapted to the purpose of the professor; whose object was, I presume, to furnish his readers with a light divertimento. For surely and soberly (pace tanti viri dixerim) he did not expect that his theories on the origin, development, and mysterious organisation of that celebrated society, would pass current with any save the uninitiated and the profane; nor did he ever contemplate the adoption of his speculations by any but the careless and unreflecting portion of mankind. It was a capital peg on which to hang the flimsy mantle of a superficial philosophy; it was a pleasant race-ground over which to canter on the gentle back of a metaphysical hobby-horse: but what could a Presbyterian of Edinburgh, even though a pillar of the kirk, know about the inmost and most recondite workings of Catholic freemasonry? What could he tell of Jerusalem, he being a Samaritan? Truly, friend Robertson, Father Prout would have taken the liberty, had he been in the historical workshop where thou didst indite that ilk, of acting the unceremonious part of "Cynthius" in the eclogue: "Aurem Vellit et admonuit, 'Pastorem, Tityre, pingues What could have possessed the professor? Did he ever go through the course of "spiritual exercises?" Did he ever eat a peck of salt with Loyola's intellectual and highly disciplined sons? "Had he ever manifested his conscience ?" Did his venturous foot ever cross the threshold of the Jesui tical sanctuary? Was he deeply versed in the "ratio studiorum." Had his ear ever drank the mystic whisperings of the monita secreta? No! Then why the deuce did he sit down to write about the Jesuits? Had he not the Brahmins of India at his service? Could he not take up the dervishes of Persia? or the bonzes of Japan? or the illustrious brotherhood of Bohemian gipsies ? or the "ancient order of Druids ?" or all of them together? But, in the name of Cornelius à Lapide, why did he undertake to write about the Jesuits? I am the more surprised at the learned historian's thus indulging in the Homeric luxury of a transient nap, as he generally is broad awake, and scans with scrutinising eye the doings of his fellow-men through several centuries of interest. To talk about matters of which he must necessarily be ignorant, never occurs (except in this case) to his comprehensive habit of thought: and it was reserved for modern days to produce that school of writers who industriously employ their pens on topics the most exalted above their range of mind, and the least adapted to their powers of illustration. The more ignorance, the more audacity. "Prince Puckler Muskaw" and "Lady Morgan" furnish the beau idéal of this class of scribblers. Let them get but a peep at the "toe of Hercules," and they will produce forthwith an accurate mezzotinto drawing of his entire godship. Let them get a footing in any country in the Labitable globe for twenty-four hours, and their volume of |