Nightshade, in the picture-room: a scene no less distinguished for its absurdity of exaggerated ignorance, than for a strain of conversation that treads upon the very heels of indecency, and is preposterously uttered in the presence of a young lady, unreproved by her or the matron who accompanies her. The citizens, and especially the aldermen, must have felt themselves greatly indebted to the courtesy of Cumberland, when he consigned them all to the honours of cuckoldom in one comprehensive inference. When the choleric man breaks the head of a horn-blower, and inquires of his servant in what state the wound is, he replies, "he would not have such a star in his forehead, to be the richest alderman in the city of London,' to which his master rejoins, "tis a pity but he had been one, for then his horns might have warded off the blow." It may be that even this was accounted spirit and point by the writer: but I should be sorry to pronounce it such. To this comedy is prefixed a long dissertation which he calls a Dedication to Detraction. It is not written with much humour, but it shews how keenly he smarted from contemporary criticism, and how anxious he was to persuade the world that he did not feel at all. There is some erudition idly lavished upon a topic which did not deserve consideration, and which seems to have been produced rather as an ostentatious display of his intel lectual stores than from any necessity that was forced upon him by personal considerations. It was pertinently observed by Murphy, who mentions this play in his life of Garrick, "that if the reader wished to have the true idea of a Choleric Man, he would find it in the Dedication to Detraction, prefixed to the play." His next undertaking was to write and publish, in 1776, two odes, one to the sun, written at Keswick, and invoking the appearance of that luminary which did not shine often enough for the author's accommodation, and the other to Dr. James, eulogising his powders because they cured Cumberland's son of a dangerous fever. Of these twin productions I know no more than what may be learned from the extracts which Cumberland has preserved in his Memoirs, and they do not excite any wish to increase my knowledge. To the sun he says, "Soul of the world, refulgent sun, Precipitate the night. Lo, where the ruffian clouds arise, Sullen sad the scene appears, Huge Helvellyn streams with tears: I hear terrific Lawdoor roar; The sabbath of thy reign is o'er, The anarchy's begun; Father of light return: break forth refulgent sun!" In the ode to Dr. James is the following description of the person of death: "On his pale steed erect the monarch stands, Whilst all beneath him, as he flies, Dire are the tossings, deep the cries, The landscape darkens and the season dies." In these lines there is nothing to commend. The best parts are those which he has taken from other writers, for I trace, in them, the acknowledged property of Milton, Addison, and Mason. These odes, when published, being addressed to Romney, who was then lately returned from pursuing his studies at Rome, Johnson observed that they were made to carry double, as being subsidiary to the fame of another man: but when he allowed that " they would have been thought as good as odes commonly are, if Cumberland had not put his name to them," I suppose he intended an indirect depreciation of Gray. In the ensuing year (1777) he turned his thoughts towards altering one of Shakspeare's plays, (Timon of Athens) and adapting it for the modern stage. This had already been attempted by Shadwell in 1678, and by Love in 1768: but in neither case was the project successful, and Cumberland's shared the fate of its precursors. To amend Shakspeare, indeed, is a task which demands no ordinary powers of mind, and though it has been done with some sort of plausibility, where the strong interest of the piece has overcome the defects of mutilations, transpositions, and omissions, (as in Richard the Third, the Tempest, and King Lear) it will hardly be endured, when the chief delight of the reader or spectator arises from the majesty of Shakspeare's thoughts, and the matchless excellence of his language, as is peculiarly the case in Timon of Athens. The fable of this play is less intricate than most of Shakspeare's; but the flashes of genius that illumine the whole, the profound knowledge of life which is displayed in the speeches of Timon, his caustic severity of satire, his manly fulminations against the herd of parasites who surrounded him, and his nobleness of nature in the midst of all his excesses, are touches so peculiarly Shakspeare's that no man can successfully incorporate any thing of his own with them. How Cumberland has succeeded let the following specimen testify: "Act II. Scene 111. Lucul.-How now, my Lord? in private? Lue. Yes, I thought so, Till an unwelcome intermeddling Lord Stept in and ask'd the question. Lucul.-What, in anger! By heav'ns I'll gall him! for he stands before me In the broad sunshine of Lord Timon's bounty, And throws my better merits into shade. Luc-Now would I kill him if I durst. (Aside). (Aside). Lucul.-Methinks You look but coldly. What has cross'd your suit? Alas, poor Lucius! but I read your fate In that unkind one's frown. Luc.-No doubt, my Lord, You, that receive them ever, are well-vers'd In the unkind-one's frowns: as the clear stream In the sure mirror of her scornful brow Luc.-Know me? Lucul.-Aye, who know you, For one, that courses up and down on errands, A man grown great by making legs and cringes, I, who first brought thee to Lord Timon's stirrup, The breath of hope? What hadst thou been, ingrateful, Gave thee a shape, and made thee into man? Alcibiades to them. Alcib.-What, wrangling, Lords, like hungry curs for crusts? Away with this unmanly war of words! Pluck forth your shining rapiers from their shells, And level boldly at each other's hearts. Hearts did I say? Your hearts are gone from home, Luc.-My Lord Lucullus, I shall find a time. Alcib.-Hah! find a time! the brave make time and place. Gods, gods, what things are men! you'll find a time? A time for what?-To murder him in's sleep? The man, who wrongs me, at the altar's foot I'll seize, yea, drag him from the shelt'ring ægis Of stern Minerva. Luc.-Aye; 'tis your profession. Alcib.-Down on your knees, and thank the gods for that, |