Yes! my old friend ⸺ was a character of no ordinary calibre, eccentric as a boy, eccentric as a man; nor at all less so, as life appeared to decline. But his eccentricity was injurious only to himself. His heart was warm, perhaps too susceptible, and too prone to yield to first impressions. But he was generous even to excess, nor could any length of time obliterate his sense of favours received. His hospitable spirit could hardly be circumscribed within any limits; his cheerfulness almost always uninterrupted. The most untoward incidents threw no more than a transient cloud over his countenance, and he frequently could observe of himself, with the greatest good-humour, that he never was unhappy after dinner. Of his failings, nothing will here be observed. Such would not be the office of a friend, who for a long series of years had received from him the most affectionate attention, had passed the most pleasing hours and days in his society, delighted with his good-humour, cheered by his vivacity, and perhaps not unimproved by the collision of their mutual talents and interchange of the knowledge, in which they were severally proficient. Of his talents, perhaps, sufficient may have been said; of these, he, who knew him for the space of no less a period than forty years, who was generally acquainted with his mode of occupying his time, his studious pursuits, and literary employments, may be supposed no incompetent judge. He was acute, prompt, active, and persevering, in all he undertook; perhaps somewhat to be censured for not more duly observing the Horatian axiom, of submitting for a longer period, the productions of his pen to the last examination of his judgment. He thus exposed himself to the attacks of the critical tribe, of whom the greater number are alike acute in detecting, and severe in censuring, the errors of authors. Notwithstanding this, however, and other checks and impediments, he pursued the usual tenor of his way, unintimidated and undisturbed, dividing his time as usual, between poetry and prose compositions, cheered as he went along by a numerous circle of friends and acquaintance; nor when he who wrote the above withdrew from his ken, had there existed any occasion to whisper in his ear the warning which Gil Blas felt it his duty to suggest to the Archbishop of Salamanca. Et vitula tu dignus et hic. CHAPTER XXXVII. The next personage, had he yet lived, would have been seriously offended at being classed only in the middle rank of poets; but great as his genius actually was, with a fine and cultivated taste, founded on classical knowledge, and improved by almost uninterrupted exercise, will posterity allow the best of Cumberland’s poetical productions, a loftier station? It may, nevertheless, be questioned whether he did not as much pride himself upon “Calvary,” as upon the best of his dramatic productions, or upon his excellent collection of Essays in his Observer.