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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 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,
REVIEW OF THE GOVERNMENT:
[From the Morning Chronicle, July 30.]
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,
But is this all? Can this alone bestow
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;
Not spar'd one hateful toil, one curse of state,
I blame not him, whose filial love retains
Who use that filial love by lowest art,
These are the men, who, while their course destroys
And show the means-means legal, just, and plain,
Of Jews and Pedlars," snarl; and plaintive whine
These are the men, whose wisdom must oppose
Keep we our places! keep them still," they cry,
The gifts for which these realms our names would thank,
Ambition's base, without just Pride's control,
Said I obscure? Did I forget the man,
Could then obscure be this retirement's name,
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.