Gaudent anguillæ, quia tandem est mortuus ille, Petro piscator placuit pius artis amator, Cui, propter mores, pandit utrosque fores. Cur lachrymâ funus justi comitabitur unus? Flendum est non tali, sed bene morte mali: Munera nunc Flora spargo. Sic flebile rore Florescat gramen. Pace quiescat. Amen. Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourn'd Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurn'd Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet solemn, Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke And rogues fear'd more the good man's single look He's gone; and discord soon I ween will visit And the foul demon vex with stills illicit No fatal chance could happen more to cross And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss, For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring Grim Death has broke his angling-rod; his berring No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, For fasting pittance, Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to Prout Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep The bad man's death it well becomes to weep,-- II. A Plea for Pilgrimages. SIR WALTER SCOTT'S VISIT TO THE BLARNEY STONE. (Fraser's Magazine, May, 1834.) -0 [The number of Regina containing the record of Father Prout's delightful imaginary foregathering with Sir Walter Scott was the one embellished with the portrait of the then Editor of The Age, Charles Molloy Westmacott, comely, black-whiskered, looselyattired, seated slouchingly with a sort of rakish, sporting air about him, his hat upon the floor with a long-lashed whip trailing out of it, his foot, like a true critic's, brought down heavily on a book or two. As a grand choral finish to this second of the Prout Papers, came Mahony's memorable polyglot version of the "Groves of Blarney," in which, upon confronting pages, appeared cheek-by-jowl the English and French as contrasted with the Greek and Latin. Twenty-three years after the issuing from the press of the original edition of the "Reliques," yet another version-in Italian-was put forth by Mahony as purporting to have been sung in bivouac among the woods near Lake Como, on the 25th of May, 1859, by the Condottiere Giuseppe Garibaldi; the title of this supplementary companion to the Doric, Vulgate, and Gallic translations, so long before produced, being I Boschi di Blarnea." Immediately appended to the fragment of the Celtic manuscript reputed to have been obtained from the Royal Library at Copenhagen, appeared by way of tailpiece to this paper, in the edition of 1836, Maclise's wonderfully comic yet lifelike sketch of Sir Walter when he had just said, 'So here I kiss the stone." BYRON. SINCE the publication of this worthy man's Apology for Lent," which, with some account of his lamented death and well-attended funeral, appeared in our last Number, we have written to his executors-(one of whom is Father Mat. Horrogan, P.P. of the neighbouring village of Blarney; and the other, our elegiac poet, Father Magrath)—in the hope of being able to negotiate for the valuable posthumous essays and fugitive pieces which we doubted not had been left behind in great abundance by the deceased. These two disinterested divines-fit associates and bosom-companions of Prout during his lifetime, and whom, from their joint letters, we should think eminently qualified to pick up the fallen mantle of the departed prophet-have, in the most handsome manner, promised us all the literary and philosophic treatises bequeathed to them by the late incumbent of Watergrasshill; expressing, in the very complimentary note which they have transmitted us, and which our modesty prevents us from inserting, their thanks and that of the whole parish, for our sympathy and condolence on this melancholy bereavement, and intimating at the same time their regret at not being able to send us also, for our private perusal, the collection of the good father's parochial sermons; the whole of which (a most valuable MS.) had been taken off for his own use by the bishop, whom he had made his residuary legatee. These "sermons" must be doubtless good things in their way-a theological uɛya bavμa-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 Cresswell, 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 fishdiet (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 suâ, 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 Opiumeater," 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 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, EupηкаμED! 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 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 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 patronizing 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. 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 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 reason ing 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 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, sonnets, 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. Besides, he indulged copiously in Greek and Latin versification, 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 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 diaphanous 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 worthy of him he was always felicitous. I shall give you an instance. There stands on the borders of his parish, near the village of Blarney, an |