temperance; on the contrary, if alarm for his own interest had any share in the motives for his animosity, he was perfectly ready to purchase his peace of mind and good will by the sacrifice of those emoluments, which might eventually accrue from his rights, in any such way as might relieve his anxiety, and convince him of his entire disinterestedness in commencing author*, adding, in conclusion, that he might assure himself he would never hear of him again as a writer of operas.

"

This promise he did not wholly perform, for he produced one or two musical pieces afterwards, but it was, I believe, when Bickerstaff had ceased to bring forth any. By thus separating himself from the road which led to competition, these two authors lived in concord afterwards, and Bickerstaff was candid enough to acknowledge to Garrick that his conduct had been violent and unjustifiable, and that no future opportunity should tempt him to a renewal of such proceedings. An opportunity, however, either for his aggression or forbearance, was not afforded him again.

Cumberland's mind was first aroused to the contemplation and performance of worthier objects of dramatic structure, by the reproof of his fellow-collegian, Smith, who was distinguished as an actor of the old school, and to whom most of the dramatists

This was a declaration which Cumberland might have spared. It is with me, beyond a doubt, that his motives for commencing author were to improve his circumstances.

M

of his day were much indebted for the support he gave to their characters. He had been educated at St. John's, but turned aside from the path to which, it may be presumed, his studies were preparatory, to follow the strange vicissitudes of a theatrical life; a life so little to be loved or coveted, in its outset, and so little enviable in any stage, short of pre-eminence in the art, that I have heard a living actor, who justly enjoys that pre-eminence, but who attained it through every gradation of histrionic misery, pathetically deplore its wretchedness, and vehemently dissuade from its adoption, but as the last resource of desperate circumstances. Like an author, however, the deluded candidate for renown is bewildered by visionary bursts of applause, by fancied honours, and by the blandishments of vanity which eternally whisper in his ears, the highest place is reserved for you.

The remonstrance of Smith had its due effect upon Cumberland, as the reader may easily anticipate.

When the Board of Trade broke up for its usual recess, in the summer of this year, Cumberland prepared to fulfil the promise which the affection of his father had drawn from him, and which his own heart no less prompted him to pay. Accompanied by his wife, and part of his family, he visited Ireland. The pleasure with which he met his parents, and the filial pride with which he

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recounts the beneficial exertions of the Bishop to reform the peasantry of his diocese, shall be told in his own words.

They waited for us in Dublin, where my father had taken the late of Bishop of Meath's house in Kildare-street, next door to the Duke of Leinster's. When we had reposed ourselves for a few. days, after the fatigues of a turbulent passage, we all set off for Clonfert, in the county of Galway. Every body, who has travelled in Ireland, and witnessed the wretched accommodation of the inns, particularly in the west, knows that it requires some forecast and preparation to conduct a large family on their journey. It certainly is as different from travelling in England as possible, and not much unlike travelling in Spain; but with my father for our provider, whose appointments of servants and equipage were ever excellent, we could feel few wants, and arrived in good time at our journey's end, where, upon the banks of the great river Shannon, in a nook of land, on all sides, save one surrounded by an impassable bog, we found the episcopal residence, by courtesy called palace, and the church of Clonfert, by custom called cathedral. This humble residence was not devoid of comfort and convenience, for it contained some tolerable lodging rooms, and was capacious enough to receive me and mine without straitening the family. A garden of seven acres, well planted, and disposed into pleasant walks,

kept in the neatest order, was attached to the house, and at the extremity of a broad gravel walk in front, stood the cathedral. Within this boundary the scene was cheerful: all without it was either impenetrable bog, or a dreary undressed country; but whilst all was harmony, hospitality, and affection, underneath the parental roof, the mind was its own place,' and every hour was happy. My father lived, as he had ever done, beloved by all around him; the same benevolent and generous spirit, which had endeared him to his neighbours and parishioners in England, now began to make the like impressions on the hearts of a people as far different in character as they were distant in place, from those whom he had till now been concerned with. Without descending from the dignity he had to support, and condescending to any of the paltry modes of courting popularity, I instantly perceived how high he stood in their esteem; these observations I was perfectly in the way to make, for I had no forms to keep, and was withal uncommonly delighted with their wild eccentric humours, mixing with all ranks and descriptions of men, to my infinite amusement. If I have been successful in my dramatic sketches of the Irish character, it was here I studied it in its purest and most primitive state; from high to low it was now under my view. Though I strove to present it in its fairest and best light upon the stage, truth obliges me to confess there was an

other side of the picture, which could not have been contemplated without affright and horror! Atrocities and violences, which set all law and justice at defiance, were occasionally committed in this savage and licentious quarter, and suffered to pass over with impunity. In the neighbouring town of Eyre Court, they had, by long usage, assumed to themselves certain local and self-constituted privileges and exemptions, which rendered it unapproachable by any officers or emissaries of the civil power, who were universally denounced as mad-dogs, and subjected to be treated as such, and even put to death, with as little ceremony or remorse. I speak of what actually occurred within my own immediate knowledge, whilst I resided with my father, in more instances than one, and those instances would be shocking to relate. To stem these daring outrages, and to stand in opposition to these barbarous customs, was an undertaking that demanded both philanthropy and courage, and my father of course was the very man to attempt it. Justice and generosity were the instruments he employed, and I saw the work of reformation so auspiciously begun, and so steadily pursued by him, as convinced me that minds the most degenerate may be to a degree reclaimed by actions that come home to their feelings, and are evidently directed to the sole purposes of amending their manners, and improving their condition. To suppose they were a race of