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of oil which they eat is burnt in lamps, and it often happens that there is no other flask for it in the house. They use it instead of butter and fat, with all kinds of food. The quality of the oil is rendered much worse than it otherwise would be, by the manner in which it is prepared. In France the olive is plucked by the hand. Here they beat the branches of the tree with long poles. The fruit as it falls, is sometimes received in cloths extended beneath, but more generally it is suffered to fall on the ground, by which it becomes bruised and dirtied. There is also, a great want of cleanliness in the presses. Every kind of filth gets mixed with the olives. Oftentimes, instead of putting the fruit into the press immediately on its being gathered, it is thrown into heaps, and strewed with salt. Here it is suffered to ferment, in order to produce a greater quantity which is of inferior quality. The oil presses are worked by oxen. They pickle in this country only the ripe brown olive, than which to my taste nothing can be more villanous. You will, however, meet at the English houses only the unripe Spanish olives.

In the morning we set out on our return. Just before we got into the coach, we witnessed a battle between our charioteer and another driver of mules. They fought with the palms of their hands like women. The battle was short, but had like to have proved bloody. Balthazar's antagonist, who appeared to be considerably worsted in the engagement, as he was retreating, took up a great stone and threw it with all his might at the head of his adversary. Luckily it did not hit the object at which it was aimed, for if it had, in all probability he would have fought no more battles in this world. We arrived at Lisbon in the evening without any accident.


Memoirs of the Life of RICHARD CUMBERLAND, Esq. B. A. of Cambridge, L. L. D. of the University of Dublin, &c. &c.

IT is no less true than melancholy, that the harvest of literature is rather seductive than profitable, and that the lives of men of letters generally exhibit either a sad series of great disasters, or an ill-omened catalogue of petty evils. Every other profession repays most of its votaries with bread, if not with affluence. All the liberal, and not a few even of the mechanical arts, hold out à prospect of successful exertion and advantageous industry. The pursuits of divinity, law, and physic, enable multitudes not only to pass away their time in the sun-shine of prosperity, but also afford sufficient wealth to lay the foundations of family greatness, and

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either procure or transmit riches and honours on the part of themselves or posterity. But it is far otherwise with literature. Not to mention the fate of many ancient poets and philosophers, it cannot be recollected without emotion, that Dryden lived in indi gence, and that Otway died in want. Advancing nearer to our own times, it must not be forgotten, that the earlier part of Johnson's progress was spent in poverty, while the latter portion of Murphy's did not remain unvisited by domestic calamities. It is melancholy also to reflect, that the name of the individual, who is the subject of the present article, will perhaps be added hereafter to the list of those who have deserved well of their country, without sharing its favours; that he has contributed to amuse, enlighten, and instruct the age in which he lived, without any adequate remuneration: and that he is one of those whose fate ought to reflect a blush on the cheeks of their contemporaries.

While treating of the life of Mr. Cumberland, it happens luckily for his biographers, that they cannot justly complain of penury, in respect to materials: it is selection rather than abundance that is wanting. He passed upwards of half a century in public life, while his conversation and person were familiar to many hundreds of those who passed the spring season at Tunbridge Wells, or spent the winter in the metropolis. For many years his merits were annually discussed by the public, either as a writer of a play, a novel, or a farce; he was known and distinguished as a man of taste; the earlier portion of his existence called forth and exhibited all the stores of profound literature; during the latter, he attempted to excel in the more difficult station of a critic, and either in one shape or another, his name was constantly in the mouths of all those who possessed or affected a knowledge of the classical pursuits of the present age. Nor was he himself forgetful of his own fame. His life and adventures are consigned to posterity, in memoirs written by his own pen, and he will live long in the memory of his friends and his family, who, although perhaps not best able, on account of their partiality, to estimate his merits, are assuredly the most competent judges of his private virtues, his domestic habits, and his social converse.

Richard Cumberland was born on the 5th of February, O. S. 1732. He originally sprung from a citizen of London, and to adopt his own language, he was " descended from ancestors illustrious for their piety, benevolence, and erudition." Dr. Richard Cumberland, consecrated bishop of Peterborough in 1691, was his great grandfather. This learned clergyman is the author of a very admirable work, "De Legibus Nature," in which he has bestowed much pains to refute the doctrines of Hobbes. He had been a simple parish-priest in the town of Stamford, in Lincolnshire; and so little was he disposed to intrigue for advancement,

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that he received the first intelligence of his preferment by means of a paragraph in the newspapers, at a period when he was sixty years of age, and in a disposition of mind that induced him rather to shrink from, than to accept of, a mitre. He was at length induced to episcopate by the persuasion of his friend, the celebrated Sir Orlando Bridgman: but he afterwards resisted every offer of a translation; and such was the virtuous simplicity of his life, that on the settlement of his accounts, at the end of every year, he distributed the surplus to the poor, reserving only the small deposit of twenty-five pounds in cash, found at his death in his bureau, with directions to employ it for his funeral expenses, a sum, in his mode of calculation, fully sufficient to commit his body to the earth. Such was the humility of this christian prelate, and such his disinterested sentiments, as to the appropriation of his clerical revenue!

Doctor Richard Bentley, the maternal grandfather of the subject of this memoir, was also a remarkable man, being the first critic of his age, and not only the friend of Meade, Wallis, and Newton, but celebrated by Swift in his "Battle of the Books," on account of his controversial intrepidity. Denison Cumberland, the younger son of Archdeacon Cumberland was his father, and Joanna, the younger daughter of Dr. Bentley, and the Phœbe of Byron's Pastoral, his mother. Their only son, Richard, was born in the Master's Lodge of Trinity College, "inter sylvas Accademi," under the roof of his grandfather Bentley, alluded to above, in what is called the "Judge's Chamber." During his infancy, he persisted in a stubborn repugnance to all instruction, and remained for a long time in a state of mutiny against the letters of the English alphabet! When turned of six years of age, he was sent to the school of Bury St. Edmunds, and remained for a considerable period there, under the tuition of the Rev. Arthur Kinsman, who formed his pupils on the system of Westminster, and was a Trinity College man. This worthy master first raised the spirit of emulation in his bosom, by reprimanding him for his ignorance and inattention, in the presence of all the boys; and his diligence being as usual followed by success, success in its turn encouraged him to fresh exertions. After this, he rose rapidly to the head of his class, and never once lost that envied situation, although daily challenged by those, who aspired to the chief place. Bishop Warren, and Dr. Warren, his brother, were two of the most formidable of the form-fellows.

About this period, young Cumberland first displayed a practical taste for the drama, by acting the part of Juba, while the virtuous Marcia "towered above her sex" in the person of a most ill-favoured wry-necked boy. Nearly at the same time he began to form both his ear and his taste for poetry, by reading, during

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