eulogy which he lavishes too unsparingly to be always just. If virtues were as common as the air we breathe, and vices as rare as a Queen Anne's farthing or a tortoiseshell he-cat, we might suppose it a man's ordinary destiny to find, in all his friends and acquaintance, qualities of so engaging a character that only strong encomiastic phrases could properly describe them. But while the world is what it is; while human nature continues to be compounded of such mixed materials; and while we know that in the purest dispositions there will, and must, exist an alloy which only weakness can overlook, or hypocrisy deny, it seems to argue one or both in him who affects to possess a circle of connexions so immaculate, that no vice dare enter within its sacred precincts. I know the reply to which this censure is exposed, and it is one that will always carry with it the approbation of the unthinking. It will be said, that it is amiable and benevolent to dwell upon the bright şide of human nature, and especially of our friends; that we should leave to enemies or strangers the office of displaying the dark one; and that in celebrating the good qualities of those we love and esteem, we only teach a lesson which we secretly hope to find practised towards ourselves. These are plausible excuses for the practice, but they are no vindication of the principle. Truth is immutable, and her authority paramount; nor can we sacrifice her rights to expediency without

opening a door to the influx of evils more dreadful than may be, at first, imagined.

Men of strong and discriminating minds are usually least disposed to prostitute their praise. I need only refer to the names of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Johnson. Their commendations were qualified, as every commendation must be that is true or if they applauded only, they applauded with such decorum of expression as did not exalt its object to a height of blameless purity. They knew human nature too well, had too quick an insight into her structure and play, and were too deeply conscious of the infirmities of this earthly state, to believe any man deserving of that ascription of universal excellence which belongs

to no man.

I am willing to believe that this kind of adulation is often laudable in its origin; and I do believe that in Cumberland it sprung from a general benevolence of character which made him think men as good as he wished them to be. But the effect is, notwithstanding, partly ludicrous and partly offensive; for when we behold names unknown till then read of, invested with every form of praise which united genius, worth, and piety could call forth; when we behold them invested with every moral grace, and with every mental superiority, we are apt to wonder why they were never heard of before, and at last to suspect that they are heard of now only to be

forgotten. We close our minds against the admission of truth, because it is forced upon us with too little attention to probability; and as we have reason to suspect some things we suspect all.

Among the friends thus soothed with the blandishments of praise is the grandson of Bishop Reynolds, who is still living, and who was remotely related to Cumberland by the marriage of his ancestor. To this gentleman he addresses a mysterious paragraph, at page 168 of the first volume of his Memoirs. It seems to hint at a transaction of gallantry between Cumberland and his friend's sister, but without any mixture of vice. What the transaction precisely was I do not know.

About this period he projected an epic poem, which, from the specimen he has given, it might be wished he had finished. The subject seems to have been the Discovery of India by the Portuguese; and though this topic has been nobly treated by Camoens, as a national one, it embraces a field wide enough for another adventurer to signalise himself in. Why the design was laid aside, the author himself does not appear to

* Why has Mickle's spirited and elegant translation of the Lusiad of Camoens languished so long in the public estimation? Where shall we find a more varied strain of poetry, more melody of versification, more dignity of language, or more of the enthusiasm of the muse, than in this work? Mickle has happily succeeded in combining the respective excellencies of the two great masters of English verse; he has united the freedom and variety of Dryden with the terse, harmonious energy of Pope.

know but he regrets that it was not pursued at those periods of his life when he had leisure for the undertaking. When the reader has perused the following fragment, in which the discoveries of the Portuguese are introduced, he will, perhaps, think with me that it is to be regretted he never followed up the project to its completion. I know nothing of Cumberland's that has more poetical merit.

"Fragment.

-Long time had Afric's interposing mound,
Stretching athwart the navigator's way,

Fenc'd the rich East, and sent th' advent'rous bark
Despairing home, or whelm'd her in the waves.
Gama the first on bold discovery bent,

With prow still pointing to the further pole,

Skirted Caffraria till the welcome cape,

Thence call'd of Hope-but not to Asia's sons

Spoke the long coast exhausted; still 'twas hope,
Not victory; nature in one effort foil'd,
Still kept the contest doubtful, and enrag'd,
Rous'd all the elements to war.

Meanwhile,

At once the Titans with Saturnian Jove,
So he in happier hour and his bold crew
Undaunted conflict held: old Ocean storm'd,
Loud thunder rent the air, the leagued winds
Roar'd in his front, as if all Afric's Gods
With necromantic spells had charm'd the storm
To shake him from his course-in vain; for Fate,
That grasp'd his helm with unrelenting hand,
Had register'd his triumph: through the breach

All Lusitania pour'd; Arabia mourn'd,

And saw her spicy caravans return
Shorn of their wealth, the Adriatic bride
Like a neglected beauty pin'd away;
Europe, which by her hand of late receiv'd
India's rich fruits, from the deserted mart
Now turn'd aside and pluckt them as they grew.

"A new-found world from out the waves arose. Now Soffala, and all the swarming coast

Of fruitful Zanguebar, till where it meets

The sultry Line, pour'd forth their odorous stores.
The thirsty West drank deep the luscious draught,
And reel'd with luxury; Emmanuel's throne
Blaz'd with barbaric gems; aloft he sate
Encanopied with gold, and circled round
With warriors and with chiefs in Eastern pomp
Resplendent with their spoils. Close in the rear
Of conquest march'd the motley papal host,
Monks of all colours, brotherhoods and names:
Frowning they rear'd the cross; th' affrighted tribes
Look'd up aghast, and, whilst the cannon's mouth
Thunder'd obedience, dropt th' unwilling knee
In trembling adoration of a God,

Whom, as by nature tutor'd, in his works

They saw, and only in his mercy knew.

But creeds, impos'd by terror, can ensure

No fixt allegiance, but are strait dismiss'd

From the vext conscience, when the sword is sheath'd.
"Now when the barrier, that so long had stood
"Twixt the disparted nations, was no more,
Like fire, once kindled, spreading in its course,
Onward the mighty conflagration roll'd.
As if the Atlantic and the Southern seas,
Driv'n by opposing winds and urg'd amain
By fierce tornadoes, with their cumbrous weight
Should on a sudden at the narrowing pass

Of Darien burst the continental chain
And whelm together, so the nations rush'd
Impetuous through the breach, where Gama forc'd
His desperate passage, terrible the shock,
From Ormus echoing to the Eastern isles

Of Java and Sumatra ; India now

From th' hither Tropic to the Southern Cape

Show'd to the setting sun a shore of blood:

In vain her monarchs from a hundred thrones

Sounded the arbitrary word for war;

In vain whole cataracts of dusky slaves

Pour'd on the coast: earth trembled with the weight;