in disappointing either farmers or men of pleasure, în spoiling markets or engagenicnts, in lessening the number of hackney-coaches, and increasing the demand-in disturbing the temper of good housewives, or deranging their dinners? I ask if it be likely that a man, whose functions in the State and Church were so important, should take pleasure in no more dignified employments than dirtying boots and splashing stockings? I ask if it be likely that a man of such exten

sive benevolence should confine his liberalities to washerwomen and shoeblacks, and evince no taste but for a display of ancles and petticoats? I ask, in a word, if there be any feature in his character that corresponds with the exercise of so much caprice, and the production of so much mischief? But I ask in vain, since his accusers-no uncommon case-abuse a man whom they do not know.

To remove this ignorance, I will endeavour to open the eyes of all the old women in this kingdom-a prodigious undertaking-to the true history of their sopposed enemy, St. Swithin! This venerable prelate, Sir, was Bishop of Winchester in the ninth century, a man of an illustrious family, and a native of Winchester. Early in life he took the religious habit among the regular clergy of the cathedral, and made the greatest proficiency in sacred literature and piety. Being ordained priest, he succeeded to the provostship of the cathedral In the year 838, he was raised to the episcopal dignity, which was a subject of universal exultation; and he even surpassed the expectations that had been formed of him-but not a word about rain. He was indefatigable in promoting the good of the whole kingdom, and particularly of Winchester city and diocese; insomuch, that a great part of the merit in whatever was well or wisely done by the King, was justly ascribed to him-still nothing about rain. He built a great number of churches in those

parishes

parishes where none had before existed, and either first of all constructed, or at least rebuilt, the main citybridge-but still no rain. He was, says his biographer, a treasury of virtues; but those for which he was most distinguished, were his mildness and humility-would such a man have rained forty days? So great was his aversion to pomp and ostentation, that he was accustomed to go from one part of his diocese to another, when he went to consecrate churches, or perform other duties of his charge, by night; and these journies he constantly performed on foot-a likely story, if it rained all the way. Finally, he carried his affection for humility even beyond the grave: giving orders, in his last sickness, that his body should not be buried with marks of distinction in the cathedral itself, but among the common people, in the church-yard.

I would now ask these accusers of this good man, where they can, in all this character, find any evidence of his aversion to dry seasons, fine weather and pleasant parties, open carriages, or sailing-boats, from a royal yacht to a Margate hoy? I have laid the facts before them, and I hope we shall be able to account for our bad harvests and broken engagements in some more probable manner.

I am, Sir, yours,

AN IMPARTIALIST,

REVIEW OF THE GOVERNMENT:
AN EPISTLE.

[From the Morning Chronicle, July 30.]

T

IS true, my friend! on Lisbon's fertile coast Glory still new has crown'd our British host. Those Gauls, whose triumphs ev'ry realm deplores, From Poland's confines to Calabria's shores,

Have left their eagles, long-tried bravery's trust,
Beneath our lion, grov'lling in the dust.
Fair Portugal, ally of England's fame,
Revives the glories of her ancient name,
And sleep appeas'd on drear Corunna's shore,
The shades that wander'd round the grave of Moore.
I own all this. (Nay more, will e'en restrain
Blame of the haughty sluggishness of Spain;
Spain, whose false pride would force me to confess
E'en Well'sley's conduct doubtful of success.)

But is this all? Can this alone bestow
The gifts our country justly seeks to know ?
Hush bigot prejudice, set commerce free,
Make Britain blest, as Britain ought to be.
Pardon, my friend! if, while I pleas'd applaud
Our soldiers' valour, leader's skill abroad,
I cannot cease those ills at home to blame,
That undermine us in our flush of fame.

He, whose whole life to Britain's realm hath stood A sacred pledge of ample future good;

That Prince, whose brilliant hope has giv'n, for years,

Erin still cause to smile, through all her tears;
Her sole great solace still his heart to know
Her freedom's champion, and proscription's foe;
Upon that Prince's brows intrigue hath plac'd
A crown, whose brightest jewels are effac'd.
First of his race, whose sceptre in this land
E'er yielded any of its high command;
Constrain'd to wield, in Britain's trying hour,`
Insulted monarchy's restricted pow'r.

Not spar'd one hateful toil, one curse of state,
Still forc'd to doom the wretched to their fate;
But still forbidden to bestow on those
Whose valour triumphs o'er their country's foes,
Who watch, who labour for her weal and fame,
The native honours that their actions claim.

I blame not him, whose filial love retains
Those men as servants, whom his mind disdains;
But oh! I loathe those men, who, for their gain,
Can sport unfeeling with a people's pain ;

Who

Who use that filial love by lowest art,
T'enthrall the generous feelings of his heart,
And make a sire's disease, with selfish care,
Au engine for their purpose on his heir.

These are the men, who, while their course destroys
To every hearth a portion of its joys,
Should any patriot's bold and generous heart
Bid him unveil their low, debasing art,

And show the means-means legal, just, and plain,
By which a Briton may those joys regain;
All their fed pack its loudest anger stirs,
Their gauntest bloodhounds and their vilest curs;
At theory's falsehood, growl the sullen whelps;
black malignity," in louder yelps;

Ring

66

Of Jews and Pedlars," snarl; and plaintive whine
Their hopes that none will follow such a line.
Gold's fragrant honours Bank Directors draw,
And mooting lawyers strive to doubt the law.
Hints and Amendments crowd the long debates,
To manage for us all our own estates,
And e'en more deep our private cares explore,
Than all our prying taxes did before.

These are the men, whose wisdom must oppose
The awful power of Britain's bitterest foes,
Lacking alike, far, far their hopes above,
Their Prince's confidence and people's love-
That Prince, who, firm, their venal praise neglects,
Distrusts as statesmen, and as friends rejects,
Nor lets them add to those who hem the Throne,
One other hungry minion of their own.
Each vegetates, contented in his place,
'Mid baffled wishes, ever new disgrace,
And scorn as mark'd, as drives, despite of gain,
The liveried menial from his master's train.

""

Keep we our places! keep them still," they cry,
Though war envelope all, though commerce die
Nor longer dares her old reliance place
On credit tott'ring on a paper base.
No plans of wise relief will we enforce,
We'll use no remedy, seek no resource;

The

The gifts for which these realms our names would thank,
Would vex the City, and displease the Bank.
None, 'mid improvement, can our seats ensure,
But, 'mid the present horrors, they 're secure."

Ambition's base, without just Pride's control,
(Ah! sometimes mingled with the greatest soul;)
Ambition, that from lofty stations draws
Its pride, nor rests upon its own applause;
Ambition, that, when baffled in the plan
Its wisdom labour'd for the good of man,
Cannot the fall from worldly state endure,
Content, when useless, to become obscure.

Said I obscure? Did I forget the man,
Whose ease ennobled thy retreat, St. Anne* ?
Not such as placemen, free from business, soothes,
'Mid pension'd elders, and expectant youths:
Not hail'd and cheer'd at every trite remark,
By the prompt plaudits of some Treasury Clerk,
His pleasure dwelt upon the classic page,
His converse sought the learned of the age;
Retir'd and hid, still would the people greet
Him as their guardian in his close retreat;
"T was still their soothing hope, 'mid all their woes,
That happier times would call him from repose,
And bid him tread beneath a fav'ring reign,
The path of safety he had shown in vain.

Could then obscure be this retirement's name,
This splendid happiness, untroubled fame,
Which deck'd the pleasures of a private state
With all the real honours of the great?
Not power, or titles, or th' admiring crowd,
Where cring'd the wealthy, and where knelt the proud,
Could aught increase (though bane to all his bliss)
The simple greatness of a man like this.

Such, oh my friend! is of our state the scope, Ah, much more full of terror than of hope! But still one ray of cheering hope is shown Through all the clouds that now obscure the Throne;

Mr. Fox's villa at St. Anne's Hill.

And