like himself, overcome in politics and ruined in fortune, had retired from the world, and was left, in a state of blindness, to meditate upon the disappointments of ambition, the ingratitude of state friends, and the hollowness of state honours. With him Cumberland lived awhile, amusing his solitude by reading and conversation, until he was snatched away from the mortifications of this world to the ordeal of that other existence, which most men hope to find better, and few can fear to find worse.

After this loss Cumberland went on reading and writing with unwearied assiduity; but with consumptive interest, and declining popularity. His 'Anecdotes of Eminent Painters in Spain,' and

Memoirs of his own life,' published in 1805, are to be excepted from his list of failures: they were read with satisfaction, and circulated to a reputable extent. He also undertook the editorship of a Quarterly Review, but it reached to no length nor reputation. "Of a constitution originally good, his health was scarcely ever varied by the vicissitudes of his life. He had seven children, four boys and three girls; of the former, two died before him in the service of their country, and two remained in it after his death. His eldest daughter was married to a brother of the Duke of Portland, the second to a man of fortune, and the third to a German officer; and from these he had the happiness to see sixteen grand-children prolong his name. He died at London, while on a visit to a friend in Bedford Place, Russel Square, on the 7th of May, 1811, aged 80 years; and was honourably interred at the foot of Addison's monument, in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. Up to this moment his grave has not received the tribute of any monument or commendatory inscription.. That he deserves commemoration, the fact of such a burial would seem to indicate; and that he has not received it must be the fault of those who laid his remains in the paths of fame, but have since been either unable or unwilling to fulfil the natural promise of the act.

Richard Cumberland was a man than whom few have contributed more to our language, whether we consider the diversity, or the number of his writings; but he is an author who cannot be placed in the first ranks of genius, nor distinguished by the highest eulogy of praise. His essays are interesting, and his plays agreeable; yet, in all he wrote, he may be said to have pleased

more than to have instructed; and to have excelled rather in the quantity than the quality of what he produced. In the case of the Jews, he disabused society from many an unfounded prejudice, in the happiest manner, and with the best effect. For that service he is entitled to commendation in every record of British literature: and, for the distinction of his interment, he could not be silently passed over in these pages, consistently with the professions of the work.

A catalogue of Cumberland's works would fill pages, and include almost every style of composition. In theology he composed sermons, a book of evidences of the Christian religion;—in verse, he translated fifty of the Psalms of David; wrote two heroic poems, Calvary,' and 'Retrospection,' and published no less than sixteen volumes and pamphlets of fugitive pieces;---for the stage he brought forth as many as three-and-thirty tragedies and comedies, of which the ، West Indian, the ، Fashionable Lover,' the Wheel of Fortune,' and the Jew,' are now alone remembered; he produced three novels, which were generally read and praised; and was the author of nine more miscellaneous works in prose, besides two or three controversial pamphlets. Of this stock, by far the larger portion was out of print before the author died; but there is one particular praise to which they are all entitled, such as few writers upon general subjects can be said to have deserved there is not a thought hinted, nor an expression used, throughout his numerous volumes, at which modesty can shrink, or by which morality is not promoted.

The life of a poet ought not to close without some quotation or other: Cumberland is said to have been first nettled with the itch of versifying by seeing a daughter of the Earl of Galloway indite elegy. To this lady's effusion he addressed an answer, beginning thus:—

"True! we must all be changed by death,

Such is the form the dead must wear,

And so when beauty yields its breath,
So shall the fairest face appear.

But let thy soul survey the grace
That yet adorns its frail abode;
And through the wondrous fabric trace

The hand of an unerring God." &c

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Such a beginning may perhaps be thought worthy of the vocation that suggested it; but it may also be added, that to the end he succeeded no farther than to do justice to the merits of female example. His character, or rather description, of Dr. Johnson, is at least apt in facts :—

"Herculean strength, and a Stentorian voice,

Of wit a fund, of words a countless choice;
In learning rather various than profound,
In truth intrepid, in religion sound;
A trembling form and a distorted sight,
But firm in judgment, and in genius bright;
In controversy seldom known to spare,
But humble as the publican in prayer;
To more than merited his kindness, kind,
And though in manners harsh, of friendly mind;
Deep tinged with melancholy's blackest shade,
And though prepared to die, of death afraid-
Such Johnson was: of him with justice vain
When will this nation see his like again?"

In fine, the following is an apostrophe to his own literary exertions; and the reader may now determine for himself how far the aspiration it breathes has been realised :

"Some tokens of a life not wholly passed

In selfish strivings and ignoble sloth,
Haply there may be found when I am gone,
Which may dispose fair candour to discern.
Some merit in my zeal, and let my works
Outlive the maker, who bequeaths them to thee;
For well I know where our perception ends
Thy praise begins, and few there be who weave
Wreaths for the poet's brow, till he is laid
Low in his narrow dwelling with the worm."

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

WILLIAM DAVENANT, a dramatic author and theatrical proprietor, of popular reputation, was born during the month of February, 1605, in St. Martin's parish, Oxford. Wood has a story which no one has credited, that he was a natural son of Shakspeare: the accepted account is, that his father was John Davenant, who kept a tavern, subsequently recognised by a sign of the Crown. He was first sent to a grammar-school, taught by Edward Silvester, in All Saints' parish, and there attracted some praises for quick parts, and an evident attachment to polite letters. During the year 1621, his father rose to the dignity of Mayor, and he had the honour of entering into Lincoln College, under a tutor named Hough. Of the time he continued to remain at Oxford, the improvement he made there, or the circumstances that induced him to leave it, nothing whatever is known: Wood indeed gives an opinion, that the strength of his genius was generally perceived, and that he was even distinguished by the title of the Sweet Swan of Isis; adding, however, in the same breath, that he was considerably deficient in University learning. The first station in which he appeared to the world, was in the household of the Duchess of Richmond, to whom he officiated as page. He next removed into the family of Sir Fulk Greville, Lord Brooke, but by the violent death of that literary nobleman, was left without a patron in 1628.

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Being thus impelled to make some exertions for character and fortune, he turned his thoughts to the stage, and produced his first play Albovine, King of the Lombards,' a tragedy which was received with favour, and published, according to the fashion of the time, with several recommendatory prefaces from his literary friends. Thus encouraged, he continued to write for the theatre

and wait upon the court, for the next eight years of his life, during which we find him enjoying the intimacy of such men as Carew, Porter, and Suckling, and the regard of the Earl of Dorset. Like most other poets in similar situations, he made the favourites of the Court subjects for occasional pieces of verse, and composed several masks and smaller dramas, which were at intervals represented by the young nobility. One of these productions is particularly memorable, from the fact that the Queen took a part in it, and by this condescension gave a capital umbrage to the affected scrupulists who drove her from a throne, and robbed her husband of life. Little can now be thought of these dramatic compositions; at that period, however, they were very well valued, and procured for the author no mean share of applause and respect. It was about this period that the looseness of Davenant's habits subjected him to a disease which consumed the cartilage of his nose, and by deforming a face hitherto handsome, afforded his enemies an abundant point for coarse raillery and scandalous reproaches.

The death of Ben Jonson, in 1637, left vacant the post of Poet Laureate, and Davenant and May, whom Charles the Ist used to call his poet, became candidates for the honour. May lost it; and, from a subservient courtier, became an inveterate Parliamentarian, the enemy of the King, his party, and their interests. Davenant obtained it, and pursued his wonted course, writing poems and producing plays, with the additional rank of manager and chief director of the Court diversions.

The troubles of civil warfare had no sooner begun than Davenant became involved in danger. In the month of May, 1641, he was denounced to the Parliament, as one amongst others who agitated a plot of bringing the army up to London for the protection of the royal person, and the support of his measures. Their design once discovered, the parties concerned in it took flight, and the Parliament issued a proclamation for their arrest and detention. Davenant was stopped at Feversham, sent back to town, and committed by the Commons to the custody of the Sergeant at Arms. From this durance he was bailed in the month of July following. Such was the emergency of his situa tion, however, that he again found it expedient to fly, and was again stopped in his progress. His second confinement was at