with an occasional palpable hit at the sectaries, must have made him an episcopal bugbear to the Puritans of his day. And certainly his deportment, at times, little suited the dignity of his order. But he flouted at dignities, knowing his manhood to be much superior to any Bishopric. He was something between Archdeacon Paley and the Clerk of Copmanhurst, while he also added a romantic fancy peculiar to himself. He was a sincere Christian, a reasonable theologian, a moderator, a wit, a good fellow. We need not apprehend but that at proper times he bore himself like a brave old bishop, and always stood erect in the integrity of a man.— His journey to France is the most finished of his sportive effusions. DR. CORBET'S JOURNEY TO FRANCE. I went from England into France, Nor did I go like one of those They carried from hence. But I to Paris rode along, Upon a holy tide. I on an ambling nag did get, And spurr'd him on each side. And to St. Dennis fast we came, The man that shows them snaffles; Her breast, her milk, her very gown When in the inn she lay. Yet all the world knows that's a fable,· For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable No carpenter could by his trade, Yet they, poor fools, think for their credit, There is one of the crosses nails, Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so, There is a lanthorn which the Jews, There's one Saint there hath lost his nose; Another 's head, but not his toes, His elbow and his thumb. But when that we had seen the rags, We went to th' inn and took our nags, Thus wrote our merry episcopal satirist, of superstitious relics, and all the trumpery of the Romish Church. The rest of the poem is occupied with certain exquisite strokes of local satire, and a fine historical portrait of Louis XIII., truer than most historians would have painted it—and in far finer style. Corbet wrote a number of elegies, though his vein flowed more after the manner of Sir John Suckling, than in the style of the tender Tibullus. The elegy upon his father's death is respectful and affectionate: that upon Dr. Donne, ingenius and well turned: AN EPITAPH ON DR. DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S. He that would write an Epitaph for thee, He must have language, travel, all thy arts, He must be dead first; let t' alone for me. Here follow two lively pieces, having the form of Epi taph, but with more of a satirical than of an elegiac spirit in them: TO THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME. Thou, once a body, but now aire, And patch me up a zealous lay, Or such a spirit lend mee, As may a hymne down send mee, To purge my braine: So Robert look behind thee, Lest Turk or Pope doe find thee, And goe to bed againe. ON THOMAS JONCE. Here for the nonce, Came Thomas Jonce, In St. Giles Church to lie. None Welsh before, None Welshman more, Till Shon Clerk die. I'll toll the bell, I'll ring his knell, He died well, He's sav'd from hell; And so farewell, Tom Jonce. Our last extract shall been in a different strain from any of the foregoing. It is a poem addressed to his son Vincent Corbet on his birthday, at the age of three years. What I shall leave thee, none can tell, But all shall say I wish thee well; I wish thee, Vin, before all Wealth, Nor too much wit, nor wealth, come to thee, I wish thee all thy mother's graces, As innocent as now thou art. Thus much from merry, wise, and kind-hearted Bishop Corbet. XIX. THE LADIES' LIBRARY. THAT admirable manual of "les petites morales," and even of higher matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate not to accept as a just specimen of contem |