Je soupconne fort une historie,
Quand le heros en est l'auteur;
L'amour propre et la vaine gloire
Rendent souvent l'homme vanteur.
On fait toujours si bièn son compte

Qu'on tire de l'honneur de tout ce qu'on raconte.

At page 188 of this work, the reader will find that I have adverted to a contradiction in Cumberland's statement of his mode of study. I have there quoted his words, in which he says, "that in all his hours of study, it had been his object, through life, so to locate himself as to have little or nothing to distract his attention;" and I contrasted this declaration with the manner in which he confesses that he wrote his comedy of The Brothers. But the confusion is still increased in the second volume of his Memoirs, p. 204, where, speaking of the ease with which he composed at any hour, or in any place, he affirms that "he had never been accustomed to retire to his study for silence and meditation; in fact, his book room, at Tunbridge Wells, was occupied as a bed room, and what books he had occasion to consult he brought down to the common sitting room, where, in company with his wife and family, (neither interrupting them, nor interrupted by them), he wrote the Observer, or whatever else he had in hand."

Let the reader reconcile this contrariety of relation as he can; to me it seems the effect either of

negligence, of defective memory, or of a momen

tary desire, at one time, to assume all the solemnity of studious retirement, and at another, to affect that easy fertility of thought which nothing can obstruct.

Some little controversy having existed between Mr. Hayley and Cumberland, respecting the life of Romney, I shall here briefly advert to it.

In his Memoirs, Cumberland has given a short character of Romney, and has drawn a parallel between him and Reynolds. His opinion of him seems to have been something less than Mr. Hayley's, who appears to have contemplated his friend with an enthusiasm approaching to veneration. In his life of Romney, recently published, he enters into a laboured defence of him, and omits no opportunity, in the progress of his narrative, to shield him from what he considers as the injurious aspersions of Cumberland. Where the truth lies I cannot determine; but Mr. Hayley seems to me to be too often the apologist rather than the biographer of Romney. His failings were in his memory, and the great effort of his pen seems to have been to cover them from public inspection.

Cumberland, who probably loved the man as well as Mr. Hayley could do, wrote with less reserve, told what he thought, and told, perhaps, the truth. When Romney died he gave a brief sketch of his life and character in the European Magazine. To this Mr. Hayley frequently

alludes in his late publication, but it is seldom for any other purpose than to dispute its veracity. He does it, however, without any offensive asperity of language or insinuation, which indeed would have been ill-bestowed upon a man who had proved one of Roinney's earliest friends, by endeavouring to bring him before the public at a time when his own diffidence made him shrink from all attempts to force himself into popularity. Mr. Hayley sometimes quibbles, however, in his friend's defence. Cumberland had said that Romney's was an inglorious grave," because he died and was buried in a remote part of England. To this epithet Mr. Hayley objects. Surely," says he, "the talents and the virtues of our departed friend were sufficient to dignify any sepulchre, in which it could be his destiny to rest." There may be much subtlety in this position; but if the ashes of a great man confer dignity upon the spot that contains them, all monumental honours are but superfluous violations of that dignity. Had Alexander been entombed in a dunghill, or Shakspeare quietly inurned beneath a common sewer, mankind would have consented to hold both places in veneration; but their dignity would have existed only in the minds of those who, like Mr. Hayley, confound two notions essentially distinct.

I have already mentioned that Cumberland dedicated his two "Odes" to Romney, which were an unequivocal testimony of his friendship for the

man, and his admiration of the artist. Nor was this the only proof he gave. The following lines contain an elegant tribute to both:

"When Gothic rage had put the arts to flight,
And wrapt the world in universal night,
When the dire northern swarm with seas of blood,
Had drown'd creation in a second flood,

When all was void, disconsolate and dark,
Rome in her ashes found one latent spark,

She, not unmindful of her ancient name,
Nurs'd her last hope, and fed the sacred flame;
Still as it grew, new streams of orient light

Beam'd on the world, and cheer'd the fainting sight;
Rous'd from the tombs of the illustrious dead,
Immortal science rear'd her mournful head;
And mourn she shall, to time's extremest hour,
The dire effects of Omar's savage power,
When rigid Amrou's too obedient hand
Made Alexandria blaze at his command;
Six months he fed the sacrilegious flame
With the stor'd volumes of recorded fame:
There died all memory of the great and good,
Then Greece and Rome were finally subdu'd.

Yet monkish ignorance had not quite effac'd
All that the chissel wrought, the pencil trae'd;
Some precious reliques of the ancient hoard,
Or happy chance, or curious search restor❜d;
The wond'ring artist kindled as he gaz'd,
And caught perfection from the work he prais'd.
Of painters, then the celebrated race,
Rose into fame with each attendant grace;
Still, as it spread, the wonder-dealing art
Improv'd the manners and reform'd the heart:
Darkness dispers'd, and Italy became
Once more the seat of elegance and fame.

Late, very late, on this sequester'd isle,
The heav'n descended art was seen to smile
Seldom she came to this storm-beaten coast,
And short her stay, just seen, admir'd, and lost.

Reynolds at length, her favourite suitor, bore
The blushing stranger to his native shore;
He by no mean, no selfish motives sway'd
To public view held forth the liberal maid,
Call'd his admiring countrymen around,
Freely declar'd what raptures he had found;
Told them that merit would alike impart
To him or them a passage to her heart.

Rous'd at the call, all came to view her charms,

All press'd, all strove to clasp her in their arms;

See Coats, and Dance, and Gainsborough seize the spoil;
And ready Mortimer that laughs at toil;

Crown'd with fresh roses graceful Humphry stands,
While beauty grows immortal from his hands;
Stubbs, like a lion, springs upon his prey,
With bold eccentric Wright, that hates the day:
Familiar Zoffany, with comic art,

And West, great painter of the human heart.
These, and yet more unnam'd, that to our eyes
Bid lawns, and groves, and tow'ring mountains rise,
Point the bold rock, or stretch the bursting sail,
Smooth the calm sea, or drive th' impetuous gale:
Some hunt 'midst fruit and flowery wreaths for fame,
And Elmer springs it in the feather'd game.

Apart, and bending o'er the the azure tide,
With heavenly Contemplation by his side,
A pensive artist stands-in thoughtful mood,
With downcast looks he eyes the ebbing flood:
No wild ambition swells his temperate heart,
Himself as pure, as patient as his art,
Nor sullen sorrow, nor intemperate joy,
The even tenour of his thoughts destroy,
An undistinguish'd candidate for fame,
At once his country's glory and its shame;
Rouse, then, at length, with honest pride inspir'd,
Romney, advance! be known, and be admir'd.”

In 1784 Cumberland produced his tragedy of the Carmelite. This drama, when published, he dedicated to Mrs. Siddons, and in his Memoirs