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, Evpnaμer! 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, and 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 some further details concerning Prout, and, if possible, a few additional specimens of his colloquial wisdom; reminding him that modern taste has a decided tenden 5

towards illustrious private gossip, and recommending, therefore, 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 communication.

OLIVER YORKE.

May 1, 1834.

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 reput

able 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 intellectual