are too little diversified by poetical imagery. The general character of the work is, I am afraid, languid mediocrity when tried by the test of an epic poem, which, to be any thing, must be great.

Mediocribus esse poetis,

Non dii, non homines, non concessere columnæ.

It is with regret that I deliver this opinion upon the production of a gentleman (Sir James Bland Burges), from whom I once expected some assistance in the present volume, in consequence of a voluntary and polite offer on his part, to which I shall probably have occasion to advert yet more minutely. My undertaking, however, imposed upon me the necessity of telling what I thought, and the reader who has perused these pages will willingly acknowledge, I believe, that I have done so hitherto with fearless sincerity and candour. I must confess, indeed, I have yet to learn that art which Cumberland eminently possessed, of finding prodigies where other men would have found nothing. Yet, far be it from me to accuse him of hypocrisy. I have already said, that I believe it sprung from a warm benevolence of character, an eager desire to think mankind as amiable as he wished them, and their achievements as splendid as he thought them. It was an error, however, and a sickening one, when practised to excess, as Cumberland too commonly did. For myself, I would say with Moliere's Misanthrope:

Non, je ne puis souffrir cette lâche methode,
Qu' affectent la plupart de vos gens à la mode :
Et je ne hais rien tant que les contorsions
De tous ces grands faiseurs de protestations,
Ces affables donneurs d'embrassades frivoles,
Ces obligeans diseurs d'inutiles paroles,

Qui de civilités avec tous font combat,

Et traitent du même air l'honnête homme et le fat,
Quel avantage a-t-on qu'un homme vous caresse,
Vous jure amitié, foi, zele, estime, tendresse,
Et vous fasse de vous un eloge eclatant,
Lorsqu'au premier faquin il court en faire autant?
Non, non; il n'est point d'ame un pen bien située,
Qui veuille d'une estime ainsi prostituée ;

Et la plus glorieuse a des regals peu chers,

Des qu'on voit qu'on nous mêle avec tout l'univers :
Sur quelque preference une estime se fonde,

Et c'est n'estimer rien qu'estimer tout le monde.

It appears to me that the last couplet of this extract applies with singular propriety to that pliancy of commendation by which Cumberland was distinguished, and which he bestowed upon all who applied for it in the right way. The praise he gave, however, he was equally willing to receive; and I have been told, by one who knew him intimately, that no adulation could be too exuberant for his acceptance.

Dr. Drake, perhaps, in some future edition of his Literary Hours, may discover that the Exodiad, as well as Calvary, is embued with the genuine spirit of Milton, and his eulogy would easily outweigh my censure. In me it may be defect of taste or judgment, that I do not estimate this poem more highly: and from a presumption so

extremely probable, I can conceive that every consolation may be derived.

Cumberland, in the latter years of his life, la boured for the booksellers, sometimes anonymously, and sometimes not. Among many schemes to which this sort of employment gave rise, may be reckoned his edition of the Select British Drama, in which he undertook to publish a series of those plays, which still take their turn upon the stage, and to preface them with lives of the authors, and a critical examination of each drama. To this task he was perfectly competent; but I have never heard what success attended the plan. In the first number, which contained Every Man in his Humour, he has given a succinct history of the rise and progress of the stage; and in his strictures upon Congreve's Love for Love, he is justly indignant at his grossness and obscenity.

I should have mentioned that he was associated, in 1803, with Mr. Peltier, Sir James Bland Burges, and some other gentlemen, in projecting and establishing a weekly newspaper, which was intended to maintain a higher literary character than commonly belongs to our daily journals. But it maintained no character at all, and soon fell. Its name I have forgotten.

In 1809 he published the first number of the London Review, with the chimerical idea that contemporary criticism could derive advantage from robbing it of its anonymous importance. When the proposals for this work were first issued,

I was forcibly struck with the absurdity of its principle, and communicated my opinions to the public through the medium of a respectable periodical publication. These opinions were confirmed by the destiny of the London Review, and the result which I presumed to augur speedily ensued.

The abuses of anonymous criticism have, indeed, been long and loudly complained of, nor is it likely that any remonstrances will diminish the evil. As long as men can attack, secure from retaliation, they will do it; for the leaven of malignity and envy is too intimately incorporated with our nature, not to ferment into action when it

done with impunity.

may be

It has been thought, however, that an effectual remedy for this evil, would be the certain knowledge of those who propagate it; and that if every man who condemned another were known as the condemner, he would feel the influence of certain moral considerations which now operate but laxly while his deeds are deeds of darkness. That this reasoning is right, as far as the abuse of criticism is considered, must be confessed. There can be no doubt, that he who affixes his name to what he writes, will write more circumspectly than he who does not; but, when it is recollected that the misuse of the critical function is not so flagrant as is commonly believed, it will hardly be thought that every thing would be gained if that misuse were diminished.

In reading an anonymous criticism we read it without any undue bias or partiality; if it have merit, that merit is allowed to have its fair influence upon our minds. We judge of it by itself without any reference to the presumed qualifications of the author; we are not subdued by the authority of a name.

If we could suppose that the most eminent names in modern literature would be found in the pages of a review, established upon a principle similar to Cumberland's, I do not think that any advantage would be gained beyond the abolition of some practices in anonymous criticism, which are disgraceful to letters. The rigid integrity of a Brutus or a Cato must not be expected. Literary men constitute a sort of fraternity: they are usually acquainted with each other, or likely to be so; and the feelings of friendship and esteem would be perpetually clashing with the duties of the critic. Will the man, who has dined at my table to day, and partaken of my hospitality and kindness, sit down to-morrow and avowedly endeavour to sink my character in the public estimation? No: unless he would be hunted from society he cannot do this; if he would be received as a member of it, he must conform to its duties; and though the book I have published may be bad, or vicious, or erroneous, yet, the condemnation of it must not come publicly from the hand of my friend. The cause of sound literature would, therefore, be