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doubtless good things in their way-a theological usya Java-well adapted to swell the episcopal library; but as we confessedly are, and suspect our readers likewise to be, a very improper multitude amongst whom to scatter such pearls, we shall console ourselves for that sacrifice by plunging head and ears into the abundant sources of intellectual refreshment to which we shall soon have access, and from which Frank Creswell, lucky dog! has drawn such a draught of inspiration.

"Sacros ausus recludere fontes!"

for assuredly we may defy any one that has perused Prout's vindication of fish-diet (and who, we ask, has not read it con amore, conning it over with secret glee, and forthwith calling out for a red-herring ?), not to prefer its simple unsophisticated eloquence to the oration of Tully pro Domo suá, or Barclay's "Apology for Quakers." After all, it may have been but a sprat to catch a whale, and the whole affair may turn out to be a Popish contrivance; but if so, we have taken the bait ourselves: we have been, like Festus, "almost persuaded," and Prout has wrought in us a sort of culinary conversion. Why should we be ashamed to avow that we have been edified by the good man's blunt and straightforward logic, and drawn from his theories on fish a higher and more moral impression than from the dreamy visions of an "English Opium-eater," or any other "Confessions" of sensualism and gastronomy. If this "black friar" has got smuggled in among our contributors, like King Saul among the regular votaries of the sanctuary, it must be admitted that, like the royal intruder, he has caught the tone and chimed in with the general harmony of our political opinions -no Whigling among true Tories, no goose among swans. Argutos inter strepere anser olores.

How we long to get possession of "the Prout Papers!" that chest of learned lumber which haunts our nightly visions! Already, in imagination, it is within our grasp; our greedy hand hastily its lid

"Unlocks,

And all Arcadia breathes from yonder box!"

In this prolific age, when the most unlettered dolt can find a mare's nest in the domain of philosophy, why should

not we also cry, Eugnauev! How much of novelty in his views! how much embryo discovery must not Prout unfold! It were indeed a pity to consign the writings of so eminent a scholar to oblivion: nor ought it be said, in scriptural phrase, of him, what is, alas! applicable to so many other learned divines when they are dead, that "their works have followed them." Such was the case of that laborious French clergyman, the Abbé Trublet, of whom Voltaire profanely sings:

"L'Abbé Trublet écrit, le Léthé sur ses rives
Reçoit avec plaisir ses feuilles fugitives!"

Which epigram hath a recondite meaning, not obvious to the reader on a first perusal; and being interpreted into plain English, for the use of the London University, it may run thus:

"Lardner compiles-kind Lethe on her banks
Receives the doctor's useful page with thanks."

Such may be the fate of Lardner and of Trublet, such the ultimate destiny that awaits their literary labours; but neither men, nor gods, nor our columns (those graceful pillars that support the Muses' temple), shall suffer this old priest to remain in the unmerited obscurity from which Frank Cresswell first essayed to draw him. To that young barrister we have written, with a request that he would furnish us with further details concerning Prout, and, if possible, a few additional specimens of his colloquial wisdom; reminding him that modern taste has a decided tendency towards illustrious private gossip, and recommending to him, as a sublime model of the dramatico-biographic style, my Lady Blessington's "Conversations of Lord Byron." How far he has succeeded in following the ignis fatuus of her ladyship's lantern, and how many bogs he has got immerged in because of the dangerous hint, which we gave him in an evil hour, the judicious reader will soon find out. Here is the com.

munication.

May 1 1834.

OLIVER YORKE

Furnival's Inn, April 14. ACKNOWLEDGING the receipt of your gracious mandate, O Queen of Periodicals! and kissing the top of your ivory sceptre, may I be allowed to express unblamed my utter devotion to your orders, in the language of Æolus, quondam ruler of the winds:

Tuus, O REGINA, quid optes

Explorare labor, mihi jussa capessere fas est!"

without concealing, at the same time, my wonderment, and that of many other sober individuals, at your patronising the advocacy of doctrines and usages belonging exclusively to another and far less reputable Queen (quean?) whom I shall have sufficiently designated when I mention that she sits upon seven hills!—in stating which singular phenomenon concerning her, I need not add that her fundamental maxims must be totally different from yours. Many orthodox people cannot understand how you could have reconciled it to your conscience to publish, in its crude state, that Apology for Lent, without adding note or comment in refutation of such dangerous doctrines; and are still more amazed that a Popish parish priest, from the wild Irish hills, could have got among your contributors

"Claimed kindred there, and have that claim allowed."

It will, however, no doubt, give you pleasure to learn, that you have established a lasting popularity among that learned set of men the fishmongers, who are never scaly of their support when deserved; for, by a unanimous vote of the "worshipful company" last meeting-day, the marble bust of Father Prout, crowned with sea-weeds like a Triton, is to be placed in a conspicuous part of their new hall at London. Bridge. But as it is the hardest thing imaginable to please all parties, your triumph is rendered incomplete by the grumbling of another not less respectable portion of the community. By your proposal for the non-consumption of butchers' meat, you have given mortal offence to the dealers in horned cattle, and stirred up a nest of hornets in Smithfield. In your perambulations of the metropolis, go not into the bucolic purlieus of that dangerous district; beware of the enemy's camp; tempt not the ire of men armed with

cold steel, else the long-dormant fires of that land celebrated in every age as a tierra del fuego may be yet rekindled, and made "red with uncommon wrath," for your especial roasting. Lord Althorp is no warm friend of yours; and by your making what he calls "a most unprovoked attack on the graziers," you have not propitiated the winner of the prize ox.

"Fonum habet in cornu,-hunc tu, Romane, caveto!"

In vain would you seek to cajole the worthy chancellor of his Majesty's unfortunate exchequer, by the desirable prospect of a net revenue from the ocean: you will make no impression. His mind is not accessible to any reasoning on that subject; and, like the shield of Telamon, it is wrapt in the impenetrable folds of seven tough bull-hides.

But eliminating at once these insignificant topics, and setting aside all minor things, let me address myself to the grand subject of my adoption. Verily, since the days of that ornament of the priesthood and pride of Venice, Father Paul, no divine has shed such lustre on the Church of Rome as Father Prout. His brain was a storehouse of inexhaustible knowledge, and his memory a bazaar, in which the intel. lectual riches of past ages were classified and arranged in marvellous and brilliant assortment. When, by the liberality of his executor, you shall have been put in possession of his writings and posthumous papers, you will find I do not exaggerate; for though his mere conversation was always instructive, still, the pen in his hand, more potent than the wand of Prospero, embellished every subject with an aërial charm; and whatever department of literature it touched on, it was sure to illuminate and adorn, from the lightest and most ephemeral matters of the day, to the deepest and most abstruse problems of metaphysical inquiry; vigorous and philosophical, at the same time that it is minute and playful; having no parallel unless we liken it to the proboscis of an elephant, that can with equal ease shift an obelisk and crack a nut.

Nor did he confine himself to prose. He was a chosen favourite of the nine sisters, and flirted openly with them all, his vow of celibacy preventing his forming a permanent alliance with one alone. Hence pastoral poetry, elegy, sua

B

nets, and still grander effusions in the best style of Bob Montgomery, flowed from his muse in abundance; but, I must confess, his peculiar forte lay in the Pindaric. Be sides, he indulged copiously in Greek and Latin versifica tion, as well as in French, Italian, and High Dutch; of which accomplishments I happen to possess some fine specimens from his pen; and before I terminate this paper, I mean to introduce them to the benevolent notice of the candid reader. By these you will find, that the Doric reed of Theocritus was to him but an ordinary sylvan pipe-that the lyre of Anacreon was as familiar to him as the German flute-and that he played as well on the classic chords of the bard of Mantua as on the Cremona fiddle; at all events, he will prove far superior as a poet to the covey of unfledged rhymers who nestle in annuals and magazines. Sad abortions! on which even you, O Queen, sometimes take compassion, infusing into them a life

"Which did not you prolong,

The world had wanted many an idle song."

To return to his conversational powers: he did not waste them on the generality of folks, for he despised the vulgar herd of Corkonians with whom it was his lot to mingle; but when he was sure of a friendly circle, he broke out in resplendent style, often humorous, at times critical, occasionally profound, and always interesting. Inexhaustible in his means of illustration, his fancy was an unwasted mine, into which you had but to sink a shaft, and you were sure of eliciting the finest ore, which came forth stamped with the impress of genius, and fit to circulate among the most cultivated auditory: for though the mint of his brain now and then would issue a strange and fantastic coinage, sterling sense was sure to give it value, and ready wit to promote its currency. The rubbish and dust of the schools with which his notions were sometimes incrusted did not alter their intrinsic worth; people only wondered how the diaphanou mind of Prout could be obscured by such common stuff: its brightness was still undiminished by the admixture; and like straws in amber, without deteriorating the substance, these matters only made manifest its transparency. Whenever he undertook to illustrate any subject

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