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 THE 
 
 LIFE OF DERMODY. 
 
 * ( He who such polish'd lines so well could form. 
 Was Passion's slave, was Indiscretion's child : 
 Now earth-enamour'd, grov'ling with the worm ; 
 Now seraph-plum'd, the wonderful, the wild." 
 
 Dermody'j Enthusiast.
 
 S. Gosnell, Printer Little Queen Street.
 
 DER 
 
 '/<//<///<//// 
 
 
 HibEfhedI)K r i.2<9os.hy W.MUlerAlbarutrlt -Street.
 
 THE 
 
 LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS DERMODY: 
 
 INTERSPERSED WITH PIECES OP 
 
 <ttgtnai jpoetrp, 
 
 MANY EXHIBITING 
 
 UNEXAMPLED PREMATURITY 
 
 OF 
 
 GENUINE POETICAL TALENT; 
 
 AND CONTAINING A SERIES OF 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 WITH 
 
 SEVERAL EMINENT CHARACTERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES GRANT RAYMOND, 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET; 
 
 AND J. ARCHER AND M. MAHON, DUBLIN- 
 
 1806.
 
 FT? 
 
 TO THE 
 
 EARL OF MO IRA, 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 MY LORD, 
 
 The life of Dermody recals to mind the 
 time when poetical genius was accustomed 
 to rely for support on titled liberality. His 
 Memoirs, therefore, cannot be dedicated 
 more appropriately than to his most munifi- 
 cent patron. 
 
 While the poet, almost in infancy, was an 
 adopted orphan, his muse, inspired by 
 gratitude, was taught to repeat Your praises. 
 To the generosity of the amiable and dis- 
 
 818577
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 cerning Countess Dowager of Moira, he 
 was indebted for the comforts of his early 
 life ; and to Your Lordship, for the greatest 
 portion of those which Jiis unhappy destiny 
 permitted him to enjoy in his more ad- 
 vanced years. 
 
 It is on this ground, My Lord, that I 
 presume to prefix Your name to the follow- 
 ing pages. On any other, to do so might be 
 thought intrusive. The numerous instances 
 in which talents of every description meet 
 with Your Lordship's ready encouragement 
 and active assistance ; the blessings which 
 thousands of unfortunate debtors have be- 
 stowed on the name of Rawdon ; Your 
 Lordship's military exertions in the service 
 of your country ;Your high sense of honour; 
 Your distinguished patriotism ; and the
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 native modesty that but heightens the 
 genuine lustre of such a combination of 
 great qualities ; are claims of acknow- 
 ledgment which I possess only in common 
 with the whole empire. I am happy there- 
 fore in the opportunity thus offered me 
 individually, of publicly professing myself, 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Your sincere admirer, 
 and most faithful 
 obedient servant, 
 
 JAMES GRANT RAYMOND. 
 
 Chester-street, Grosvenor-place, 
 January 1806.

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It would doubtless be a matter of pleasing 
 contemplation, could speculatists fix upon a 
 just reason why both in the early and latter 
 ages poetry has been considered as holding 
 the highest rank in the scale of mental 
 endowment ; and in the more barbarous 
 forms of society, and even before man had 
 linked himself in amity to his fellow-crea- 
 tures, poets have been chosen to preserve, 
 in traditional song, the memory of great 
 transactions : and why, before the rudi- 
 ments of science were known, the simple 
 but pathetic story of the savage, and the 
 legendary stanza of the bard, possess a 
 sublimity of sentiment, and a wildness of 
 beauty, which modern language can neither 
 elevate nor improve.
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 It may with some justice be supposed, 
 that as in the first ages men were not sepa- 
 rated from each other by any artificial 
 distinction, the thoughts and expressions 
 which they used had the force and dignity 
 of Nature ; and that those selected to record 
 achievements, feeling her force, delivered 
 the emotions of the heart in language 
 suggested by the heart. The language of 
 men in the primitive times too being sim- 
 ple, and their traditionary tales being deli- 
 vered down with the support of music, these 
 w r ere by such means highly calculated to 
 rouse the imagination and move the pas- 
 sions ; and to become not only a source of 
 delight at that period, but also an object of 
 attention to posterity. 
 
 As history is uniform in declaring poetry 
 to have been the vehicle by which the first 
 lawgivers and philosophers delivered their 
 dictates and instructions, it is not surprising 
 that the compositions of poets of superior 
 excellence have ever descended with ap-
 
 PREFACE. Ill 
 
 plause and admiration to subsequent ages. 
 It is an observation too no less remarkable 
 than just, that not in uncultivated na- 
 tions alone, but even in Greece and 
 Rome and in modern Europe, the poets 
 have been perused with pleasure wnile 
 other writers of eminence were neglected : 
 and have flourished on the summit of 
 fame, while history and science were yet 
 in their infancy ; notwithstanding the 
 more interesting claim which the merit of 
 recording facts and useful truths might 
 challenge, above any that could be aspired 
 to by the mere representation of ideas 
 mingled with extravagant fancy and fiction. 
 The rude songs delivered from the cart 
 of Thespis, gratified the wild passions of 
 the Athenian populace ; and so much in- 
 spired them with the love of poetry, that 
 very few years from that period elapsed 
 before public libraries were erected : and 
 the poets, from being thus considered as 
 the cause of these institutions, received
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 personally the greatest honours. Indeed 
 the power exercised by the poets over the 
 minds of the people in those times, is 
 forcibly illustrated by two instances. The 
 first is that of Solon : who, finding all his 
 efforts fruitless to excite the Athenians to 
 recover the island of Salamis, which had 
 been taken from them, rushed into the 
 midst of the populace in a state of feigned 
 madness ; and repeated with such energy 
 some verses which he had composed for 
 the purpose, that his hearers became in- 
 spired with a martial rage, and tumultu- 
 usly proclaiming war, soon regained the 
 conquest. Tyrtaeus too, the lame poet, 
 was sent by the same people in derision as 
 a commander for the Spartan army ; which, 
 on his arrival among them, he found so 
 dispirited that they were inclined to make 
 peace on any terms. By the fire of his 
 compositions, however, he animated them 
 with courage to risk another battle, in 
 which they finally routed their insulting 
 foes.
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 From the time when poetry was at its 
 height in Greece, (at which period the Ro- 
 mans imbibed the same spirit), to that 
 when Gothic barbarism triumphed over 
 Italy, the exertions of the poet gave vi- 
 gour and emulation to, and even inspired 
 the genius of, other writers. Even in the 
 dark age of monkish superstition, when 
 science was scarcely known but by name, 
 the poet was esteemed, and his labours were 
 in some measure rewarded. A brighter 
 era, however, succeeded ; and he regained 
 the title which bigotry had only degraded, 
 not destroyed. It maybe a question, indeed, 
 in the present day, whether refinement in 
 learning and in luxury has not, in some 
 degree, shackled the genius and damped 
 the fire of modern poets : or at least made 
 them neglect simplicity by a vicious and 
 now disgusting adoption of the pagan my- 
 thology, by cultivating pompous metaphor, 
 and by seeking for remote allusions and 
 distant models in dead languages ; while
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 nature ought to have been more closely fol- 
 lowed, and the intercourse of society made 
 the grand object of observation and reflec- 
 tion. Perhaps, however, it may not be of 
 very great importance to ascertain whether 
 scholastic retirement, the activity of busi- 
 ness, or the turbulence of war, is best cal- 
 culated to inspire the poet ; since whatever 
 his social situation may be, he must possess 
 the strongest fancy with the clearest judg- 
 ment, a perfect knowledge of Nature and 
 her laws, and the spirit and sensibility of a 
 vigorous mind. 
 
 Poets have in all ages been considered as 
 the greatest of characters, and have main- 
 tained this distinction through every vicis- 
 situde of public opinion ; and from this cause 
 the particulars of their lives have been so 
 universally an object of curiosity and interest. 
 The force of this sentiment on the mind 
 of the author of the following Memoirs ; 
 ^dded to his love for the art, and his respect 
 for its professors ; will, he hopes, be a 
 sufficient apology for him in thus detaining
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 his readers a short time from an immediate 
 introduction to his hero ; who certainly 
 must be considered as a poet formed by 
 nature, if premature talent and superla- 
 tive genius entitle him to that character. 
 The infant mind is indeed capable of re- 
 ceiving very strong impressions from pre- 
 cept and example, but intuitive knowledge 
 must be valued at a far different rate. The 
 child who at eight years of age shall have 
 acquired an intimate knowledge of Greek 
 and Latin, will excite our admiration ; but 
 if at the same age he is acknowledged also, 
 by those capable of judging, to be a genuine 
 poet, he creates wonder. Such a child 
 was Dermody I will not anticipate the 
 sensations my readers may expect from a 
 perusal of his extraordinary life, by giving 
 any insight to it in this preface ; but think 
 it necessary to say what follows, lest they 
 should be disposed to overlook the various 
 pieces of poetry which I have found it 
 necessary to insert in the narrative. These
 
 V11I PREFACE. 
 
 are to be considered as depicting so many 
 passages of his life, and workings of his 
 mind, which no biographer could so finely 
 illustrate "br pourtray. The first of them 
 was written in his tenth year ; and the 
 subsequent pieces (all of which are original ; 
 and, except a very few, hitherto unpublished) 
 were produced on various necessitous occa- 
 sions, between that period and his nine- 
 teenth year. It was my original intention, 
 had the task which I enjoined my cor- 
 respondents been less arduous, to pub- 
 lish with his life, all such of his juvenile 
 poems as should by his many admirers have 
 been thought interesting, and worthy the 
 attention of the public ; but finding that 
 I could not form this collection by the time 
 I wished, and being influenced also by the 
 judgment of my publisher, I have deter- 
 mined to delay till some future time the 
 publication of those pieces, which have 
 excited so much astonishment and admira. 
 tion in the sister-kingdom.
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 The articles which will be found inserted 
 in the present volumes, have not been 
 selected as specimens of excellence, though 
 many will be found possessed of that quality 
 in the highest degree ; but, as before ob- 
 served, to illustrate some particular occur- 
 rence in his history. They are, therefore, 
 to be considered as the effusions of a 
 mind often agitated by folly, and perplexed 
 by distress. 
 
 There is one species of his compositions 
 however (though few examples of it will be 
 found in this work), which deserves to be 
 spoken of more fully than any other; because 
 he excelled in it in a very eminent degree, 
 and because such perfection might appear 
 peculiarly inconsistent with his pursuits and 
 habits of life. I mean his sonnets. I might 
 add to these his elegies, but shall here 
 speak only of the former. The sentiment 
 and tenderness of these pieces must at once 
 be transfused into the breast of every reader : 
 and though he graced them by an elegance 
 
 vol. I. a
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 of diction, their chief beauty lies in a 
 deviation from the common mode of fram- 
 ing such poems; in an unaffected pleasing 
 negligence ; and an unfettered, harmonious, 
 and original measure. He valued at a very 
 low rate those modern antiques in poetry 
 who servilely abide by the standard of their 
 predecessors, copying their very faults, and 
 totally averse to any free and fanciful wan- 
 derings from the beaten path of studious 
 imitation. Regularity must be allowed to 
 be a chief point in articles of invention, 
 but it is not so certain that any graceful and 
 striking deviations afterwards are blameable. 
 Energy of thought, and transitions of ima- 
 gination, are not to be confined within any 
 settled boundaries. The most beautiful 
 flowers are not always found in the trim 
 parterre ; but are sometimes scattered in 
 the unfrequented wilderness, far from the 
 intrusive and self-confident hand of per- 
 verted taste or flimsy refinement : and in 
 the intellectual garden. Nature herself
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 is often irregular, and consequently at va- 
 riance with Aristotle. 
 
 That sonnet may be a proper vehicle for 
 description, and that it conveys the liveliest 
 image of love in its copious and passionate 
 interruptions, is generally admitted 5 but 
 that it should always end with some witty 
 point, or melancholy conceit, is inconsistent 
 and absurd. Such a principle degrades the 
 sublimest species of lesser poesy, to the 
 insignificance of epigram. Antiquity, it 
 must be confessed, holds out some autho- 
 rity in this respect ; particularly among the 
 expressive compositions of Carew, Daniel, 
 and others of their time : but at that period 
 a quibbling sermon or a metaphysical epic 
 was not uncommon. Even Shakspeare 
 and Spenser are not faultless on this head. 
 The great Lope De Vega, however, has 
 numerous sonnets of surprising simplicity 
 and beauty ; in the large collection of 
 Petrarch too are many of this stamp ; but 
 in his tendeF pieces Cervantes has dis- 
 a 2
 
 XU PREFACE. 
 
 played all his usual delicacy and natural 
 ease. We had for many years seen no 
 modern compositions of this nature, till 
 the refined and admirable sonnets of Mrs. 
 Smith and of the reverend Mr. Bowles, 
 abounding with true pathos and sensibility, 
 cast some emanations of returning light 
 over the realms usurped by apathy and 
 dullness. The public have now to seek 
 intellectual pleasure of this kind from the 
 fanciful and refined genius of Mr. Moore, 
 the elegant translator of Ajiacreon ; whose 
 mind is stored with the noblest poetical fire. 
 Such too are the sonnets of Dermody, 
 with this difference : that they possess (as 
 before stated) an originality of measure ; 
 the softest expressions of tenderness ; and 
 an union of beauties which, whenever I 
 shall be enabled to bring them before the 
 public, will at once distinguish them from 
 the heterogeneous effusions under the same 
 name, engendered in the minds of enthu-
 
 PREFACE. X1U 
 
 siasts, and often published in defiance of 
 taste and true judgment. 
 
 Dermody paid court likewise to the 
 tragic muse ; and at the very early age of 
 thirteen had composed two tragedies, en- 
 titled " The Noble Castilian" and " The 
 Siege of Calais." The former, I have 
 been informed on good authority, is now 
 in the possession of a lady of rank in 
 Ireland : and only the Dramatis Personce 
 and the first scene of the latter have come 
 into my possession ; which, being very short, 
 and the only specimen I can offer of his 
 talents in this style of writing, I shall beg 
 leave (though somewhat out of order) to 
 insert here : 
 
 "Persons represented. Mew. King Ed- 
 ward. Sir Walter Manny. Count Vienne. 
 John De Aire. Wissant. Montreville. 
 Eustace St. Pierre. Women. The Queen. 
 Isabella. Madame St. Pierre. Lords , 
 Guards, 8cc
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 Act I. 6c e N e I. The Camp before the Walls of Calais, 
 Enter the King, Sir Walter Manny, and Lords. 
 
 King Edward. Why stand we here, before those 
 
 battlements 
 That frown contempt upon our baffled project, 
 In ling'ring sloth ? Why still delay to plant 
 Our conqu'ring standard on their stubborn walls ? 
 Or shall the laurels gain'd on Cressy's plain 
 Droop on our brows ; and by their fading lend 
 Scorn and derision to our high-plum'd foe 
 In future, though now prostrate to the sword ? 
 Speak, speak, sir Walter. 
 
 Sir Walter Manny. Gracious liege, my heart, 
 Though hostile, feels a pang in Calais' cause. 
 On one side press'd by Famine's meagre bands, 
 And by our vet'ran warriors on the other, 
 How bravely they resist ! 
 
 King Edward. Pity forsooth 
 Has ta'en such deep possession of your breast 
 You cannot hurt your fellest enemy ! - 
 Sad sentiments, and heaving sighs, away ! 
 Unmeet to follow Glory's rapid car. 
 You are the toys of women, and of infants ; 
 The with'ring scowl of war but ill agrees 
 With your soft dalliance. But we loiter, lords, 
 France hath enjoy'd a double harvest since 
 Pur troops have settled on the tented field ;
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 But now or never she shall yield the cause. 
 Tir'd with eternal sallies, and pursued 
 By rav'nous hunger, she shall strive again 
 To pierce our well-pitch'd camp, and desperate 
 Rush on the gulf of ruin : then begins 
 The glorious conflict ; then my helm shall bend 
 With the bright honours of a second palm, 
 And Gallia shudder at an Edward's name. 
 
 First Lord. They cannot long forbear from the 
 attack : 
 Methinks they seem preparing for it now, 
 For silence reigns with darkness o'er the city. 
 
 Second Lord. Yet ever and anon 
 A busy hum assaults the list'ning ear, 
 With dismal moans of misery intermix'd, 
 Making the night more awful. Now, perchance, 
 The)' bid farewel in solemn secrecy, 
 And trust their weeping families to heav'n : 
 While the small senate instantly convenes 
 Its hoary fathers, resolute on death ; 
 And Death, with Famine link'd, e'en now attenas. 
 Their midnight councils, while Fate overhead 
 Hangs her important balance. 
 
 Sir Waiter Manny. Yet not so. 
 The Pow'r immortal views a patriot band 
 Who struggle for their liberty, and fall 
 To prop the pillars of their little state. 
 But war speaks otherwise : the trumpet's tone 
 I reason there.
 
 XVI PREFACE. 
 
 I cannot finish this article without ex- 
 pressing my respectful acknowledgments to 
 sir James Bland Burgos, bart. not only for 
 the frankness with which he has permitted 
 me to make use of his correspondence with 
 Dermody, but also for his condescension 
 in allowing me to submit many points to 
 the inspection of his acknowledged taste 
 and judgment ; and thus permitting me to 
 mingle sentiments of personal gratitude 
 and esteem, with those of admiration which 
 his exalted genius universally inspires. 
 
 To the honourable baron Smith of Dub- 
 lin I am likewise indebted for many favours 
 of a similar kind, and I hope he will con- 
 sider this testimony as a mark of my vene- 
 ration for his talents and character. To Mr. 
 Atkinson, judge-advocate for Ireland, the 
 poet's friend and patron, I am also under 
 obligation for favours which none with a 
 freer heart can bestow. 
 
 I must also offer my best thanks to Mr. 
 Walker and Mr. White, of Dublin ; names
 
 PREFACE. XVH 
 
 long known and long revered by the hapless 
 votaries of the muses, and by every admirer 
 of genius and learning: to the former gen- 
 tleman for his kindness in favouring me 
 with many valuable manuscript poems, and 
 to the latter for his friendly zeal and at- 
 tention in communicating a variety of in- 
 formation which through his care alone I 
 could have obtained. Nor have I been a 
 little obliged by the friendly attention and 
 assiduity of Mr. Parry, a respectable and in- 
 dustrious bookseller of that city, by whose 
 carefulness and exertions many manuscripts 
 have been preserved and collected which il- 
 lustrate these volumes : and should the pe- 
 rusal of the memoirs of this extraordinary 
 youth excite such an interest in the public 
 mind, as to induce me to execute a design 
 which I have in contemplation, of publishing 
 a collection of his juvenile poems, whatever 
 pleasure they may afford will be in a great 
 measure a subject of acknowledgment to 
 this worthy man ; who, with a patience
 
 XVI 11 PREFACE. 
 
 and industry which few possess, from holes 
 and corners rescued them from oblivion. 
 I once indulged a hope that I should have 
 been favoured on this subject with the 
 assistance and correspondence of the reve- 
 rend Mr. Berwick, but have to regret the 
 unknown cause which deprived me of that 
 pleasure. I also deeply lament that I had 
 not the happiness of seeing the learned and 
 reverend Mr. Boyd while in London : the 
 more so, because his stay was for a consider- 
 able time, and he more than once took the 
 trouble of calling on me; but I was deceived 
 in the information which I received from 
 his publisher relative to his departure, and 
 thus lost a gratification which I had long 
 wished for and sought. It was once the 
 intention of this amiable divine to have 
 written an account of the life and writings 
 of Dermody during the two years he was 
 under his care. If what I have said with 
 respect to his life should prevent him from 
 fulfilling his first design, stilll sincerely hope
 
 PREFACE. XIX 
 
 that the lovers of poetry will enjoy the 
 pleasure and instruction which the learned 
 translator of Dante is capable of affording 
 by an examination of Dermody's writings, 
 or observations on the prematurity of his 
 extraordinary powers. 
 
 If hi my favour the motives shall be 
 considered which led me to the compilation 
 of the following memoirs (respect for the 
 memory of an unfortunate youth ; a wish 
 to record his genius, to gratify public cu- 
 riosity, and by example to teach prudence to 
 the giddy and the thoughtless), criticism 
 will not be rigid ; and candour perhaps will 
 allow me at least the merit of patience and 
 industry, on my stating that the greater 
 portion of the poetical pieces interspersed 
 in the narrative have been collected from 
 various quarters of the sister-kingdom, and 
 transmitted through the medium of the 
 post-office as the convenience or leisure of 
 my correspondents served. Indeed had 
 Dermody possessed the same desire to guard
 
 XX PREFACE. 
 
 his living character, as his friends have 
 shewn to preserve the memory of his genius, 
 he would not have fallen so early a victim to 
 his indiscretions. Little however needs be 
 added either to aggravate or extenuate the 
 errors of one who could reason thus in- 
 geniously on such a subject : 
 
 " The scrupulous inquiry which is so 
 frequently made into the minutest occur- 
 rences of an author's life, is certainly 
 neither honourable nor just. We must 
 not hope that the effusions of his heart and 
 those of his head are inspired by an equal 
 perfection, nor seek in his domestic actions 
 those brilliant emanations which adorn his 
 writings. This would be demanding f glo- 
 rious impossibilities,' and searching after 
 virtues more than human. I grant that we 
 perhaps feel most sincere pleasure in that 
 page which is the elegant transcript of its 
 author's mind, but am sorry to declare that 
 I have seldom found such a resemblance.
 
 PREFACE. XXI 
 
 The Seasons abound with chaste and de- 
 licate expressions of the tender passion, 
 yet neither the emotions nor objects of 
 Thomson's love often soared above what 
 he might blush to own ; and Hawkesworth, 
 the polished preceptor of every moral 
 beauty, was the martyr of intemperance. 
 Instances of such deviation are too obvious 
 to require further discussion, neither should 
 I deem myself justifiable in the detection 
 of numerous similar errors. 
 
 " When I read the Hind and the Panther 
 at one time, and the Spanish Friar im- 
 mediately after, I am indeed shocked at 
 the irreligious tergiversation of John Dry- 
 den as a man, but still I do not reverence 
 him a jot the less as a poet ; nay, I know 
 not whether his versatility of talent is 
 not more heightened by the incongruity of 
 his conduct. It must be recollected that 
 in neither of those pieces is. the purity of 
 natural devotion violated, though its ex- 
 treme appendages are either ridiculed or 
 revered according to the author's caprice.
 
 XXU PREFACE. 
 
 ft What productions are more worthy of 
 immortal eulogy than the Night Thoughts 
 of Dr. Young ? yet each of these divine 
 pieces is introduced by the most servile 
 dedication to some courtly profligate. Am 
 I for this reason to nauseate the ambrosial 
 banquet which he has prepared ; and be- 
 cause the first morsel has been unpleasing 
 to my palate, condemn and execrate the 
 rest ? As well might I rise in disgust from 
 a sumptuous entertainment, because the 
 master who gave it was a voluptuary, and 
 the cook who prepared it a drunkard. 
 
 " The fact is this. An author (considered 
 merely as such) is open to no blame as long 
 as he preserves his writings free from im- 
 morality ; as an individual, he has a right 
 to be judged according to the general run 
 of mankind. Indeed, to avoid the danger 
 of favouring or introducing his own personal 
 improprieties is no easy task, and conse- 
 quently solicits occasionally some degree of 
 lenity. Vanity and self-love are powerful 
 
 / 
 
 J
 
 PREFACE. XX1I1 
 
 tyrants ; and sometimes their incitement is 
 irresistible, though the object of their 
 attacks is thereby always rendered ridicu- 
 lous. 
 
 " From a display of great abilities on 
 paper, we are frequently led to expect, nay 
 to require, a combination of corresponding 
 achievements in life : but we are too often 
 disappointed in our search ; and even when 
 comparatively successful, will allow those 
 virtues to be only respectable in a genius, 
 which in a mechanic or common person 
 would be thought illustrious and perfect. 
 Hence the censures so liberally bestowed on 
 the children of the muee by those phleg- 
 matic blockheads who, wanting warmth 
 themselves, decry its possessors ; and never 
 consider that the same fervid enthusiasm 
 which inspires a bold but irregular flight of 
 fancy at one time, may at another have 
 equal prevalence over the conduct, and 
 bend the whole powers of the mind to its 
 impulse. I do not fear to assert that re-
 
 XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 laxation and corporeal indulgence are both 
 grateful and necessary to the over-laboured 
 intellect : and it is certain that Addison's 
 humourwas most inimitable after a sprightly 
 libation to the social powers ; and that if 
 Cunningham had not paid his devoirs to the 
 bottle, we never should have had his 
 Pastorals. 
 
 " These examples are sufficient without 
 going back to the times of Anacreon, Pin- 
 dar, and Horace, the professed bon-v wants 
 of antiquity. Their personal characters 
 have never been called in question by the 
 heathen world ; and perhaps the same 
 privilege may be extended to authors with- 
 out any imputation of immoderate charity 
 by the Christians of our days."
 
 C-^z-A^ ,^-~- ^v=^ 
 
 JL I F B 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS DERMODY. 
 
 It is undoubtedly a pleasing task to collect 
 the scattered blossoms of early genius : it 
 must also be conducive to the interests of 
 morality to shew, that dissipation cannot 
 find a willing advocate, even when it appears 
 with the attractive accompaniments of real 
 talent and native simplicity of manners ; or 
 with claims on our compassion and sym- 
 pathy, in its misfortunes. The life of the 
 subject of these memoirs, who only found 
 the world 
 
 " A rack of roses, and a painted void," 
 
 will embrace both these points j and in the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 THE LIFE OF 
 
 latter of them will attain the great legitimate 
 purpose of biography, that of instruction 
 by example. 
 
 Thomas Dermody was descended of a 
 very respectable family in the south of 
 Ireland. Nicholas Dermody, his father, 
 was the sixth son of a substantial farmer, 
 and received his education at a celebrated 
 seminary in Clonmell. At the age of 
 twenty-two he went to Limerick ; where, 
 by the interest and friendship of Dr. 
 Maunsell, he was recommended as tutor 
 to the son of John Scott, Esq. a gentleman 
 of large fortune in the county of Clare. 
 He remained in Mr. Scott's family two 
 years ; at the end of which period he 
 married (on the 14th of November 1773), 
 and settled as a elassical teacher at Ennis, 
 in the same county. He had the reputation 
 of being a careful master, was much re- 
 spected by his neighbours, and was accounted 
 by competent judges an excellent Greek 
 and Latin scholar.
 
 DERMODY. 3 
 
 Thomas, the eldest of three sons, was 
 born on the 17 th of January 1775. It 
 is known that for several years after fixing 
 his abode at Ennis, the father of our poet 
 lived in comfort : but from whatever cause, 
 he at length grew uneasy in his mind, and 
 flew for temporary relief to the bottle, " an 
 auxiliary," as Dr. Johnson justly observes, 
 " that soon becomes our master." Bad 
 example is contagious ; and it is not im- 
 probable that the infant mind of the son 
 was tainted with it in this case. 
 
 Finding that his propensity to drinking 
 diminished the number of his pupils, Mr. 
 Dermody removed with his family from 
 Ennis, and established a seminary in the 
 town of Galway. Here he was not more 
 successful than before ; and, whether from 
 disgust or necessity, he once more changed 
 his situation, and returned to Ennis, where 
 for many years he struggled with insur- 
 mountable difficulties. That he had not 
 been inattentive, however, to the education 
 b 2
 
 4 THE LIFE OP 
 
 of his son Thomas, may well be imagined 
 from the circumstance of his placing him, 
 so early as his ninth year, in the situation of 
 Greek and Latin assistant in his own 
 school. 
 
 Cowley received the applauses of the 
 great at eleven, Pope at twelve, and Milton 
 at sixteen : the meed of distinguished praise 
 therefore cannot be denied this wonderful 
 boy, when it is related that at ten years old 
 he had written as much genuine poetry as 
 either of these great men had produced at 
 nearly double that age. Reared in the 
 metropolis of a great nation, where genius 
 finds many excitements, their early effusions 
 were blazoned forth with admiration : very 
 different, at this time, was the fate of our 
 extraordinary youth : with no pattern of 
 prudence before his eyes, no stimulus to 
 exertion, no protecting hand to cherish the 
 opening bud of genius ; but, like the un- 
 happy Chatterton, slumbering in obscurity^ 
 neglected and unknown. 
 
 5
 
 DERMODY. 5 
 
 Vigorous and enlightened as the mind of 
 Dermody was at this period, he could not 
 guard against the influence of early bad 
 example ; and fatally (as it proved) ac- 
 customed himself to mix with the vulgar 
 and dissipated characters with whom his 
 father's unhappy propensity led him con- 
 stantly to associate. Such were the scenes 
 to which he was introduced in his tender 
 years. Young, however, and inexperienced 
 as he was, reflection would sometimes 
 occur, and awaken him to a sense of his 
 misconduct. The only happiness which at 
 such times he enjoyed, was in the society 
 of a brother ; whose death, about this 
 period of our narrative, he thus tenderly 
 laments ;
 
 O THE LIFE OP 
 
 C O R Y D N. 
 
 A MONODY. 
 
 (In this Monody the author, a youth of ten years of 
 age, bewails the death of his brother; who died of 
 the small-pox, anno 1 785, cetatis 7.) 
 
 What dire misfortune hovers o'er my head ? 
 Why hangs the salt dew on my aching eye r 
 
 Why doth my bosom pant, so sad, so sore, 
 
 That was full blithe before ? 
 Bitter occasion prompts th' untimely sigh ; 
 Why am I punish'd thus, ye angels ! why ? 
 A shepherd swain like me, of harmless guise, 
 
 Whose sole amusement was to feed his kine, 
 
 And tune his oaten pipe the livelong day, 
 Could he in aught offend th' avenging skies, 
 
 Or wake the red-wing'd thunderbolt divine ? 
 
 Ah ! no : of simple structure was his lay ; 
 Yet unprofan'd with trick of city art, 
 Pure from the head, and glowing from the heart. 
 Thou dear memorial of a brother's love, 
 Sweet flute, once warbled to the list'ning grove, 
 And master'd by his skilful hand, 
 How shall I now command 
 The hidden charms that lurk within thy frame, 
 Or tell his gentle fame ?
 
 DIRMODY. 
 
 Yet will I hail, unmeet, his star-crown'd shade ; 
 
 And beck his rural friends, a tuneful throng, 
 
 To mend the uncouth lay, and join the rising song. 
 
 Ah ! I remember well yon oaken arbour gay, 
 Where frequent at the purple dawn of morn, 
 
 Or 'neath the beetling brow of twilight grey, 
 We sate, like roses twain upon one thorn, 
 Telling romantic tales, of descant quaint, 
 Tinted in various hues with fancy's paint : 
 And I would hearken, greedy of his sound, 
 
 Lapt in the bosom of soft ecstacy, 
 
 Till, lifting mildly high 
 Her modest frontlet from the clouds around, 
 Silence beheld us bruise the closing flow'rs, 
 Meanwhile she shed her pure ambrosial show'rs. 
 
 O Shannon ! thy embroider'd banks can tell 
 
 Hovv oft we stray'd beside thy amber wave, 
 With osier rods arching thy wizard stream, 
 Or weaving garlands for thy liquid brow. 
 
 Ah me ! my dearest partner seeks the grave ; 
 The ruthless grave, extinguisher of joy. 
 Fond Corydon, scarce ripen'd into boy, 
 Where shall I ever find thy pleasing peer ? 
 
 My task is now (ungrateful task, I ween !) 
 To cull the choicest offspring of the year, 
 With myrtles mix'd, and laurels varnish'd bright ; 
 
 And, scatt'ring o'er thy hillock green 
 The poor meed, greet the gloom of night.
 
 8 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Ye healing Pow'rs, that range the velvet mead, 
 
 Exhaling the fresh breeze from Zephyr's bow'r, 
 
 Oh ! where, in that unhappy hour, 
 Where did you fly from his neglected head ? 
 Health, thou mountain maid of sprightliest cheek, 
 Ah ! why not cool his forehead meek ? 
 Why not in his blest cause thy pow'r display, 
 And chase the fell disorder far away r 
 
 For he erewhile, most lovely of thy train, 
 Wont the entangled wood to trace, 
 Would hear the jocund horn, and join the chase : 
 
 Till thou relinquish'dst him to grief and pain, 
 E'en in the bloom of flourishing age : 
 
 And Death, grim tyrant, from his plague-drawn car 
 Espied the horrid Fury's ruthless rage, 
 
 Then wing'd his ebon shaft, and stopp'd the ling'ring 
 war, 
 
 Yet cease to weep, ye swains ; for if no cloud 
 Of thwarting influence mar my keener sight, 
 I mark'd a stranger-star, serenely bright, 
 Burst from the dim inclosure of a shrowd. 
 *T was Corydon ! a radiant circlet bound 
 His brow of meekness; and the silver sound, 
 Shook from his lyre, of gratulations loud, 
 
 Smoothed the unruffled raven-plume of Night."
 
 DERMODY. 9 
 
 Thus chanted the rude youth his past'ral strain, 
 While the cold earth his playmate's bosom press 'd. 
 
 And now the sun, slow westing to the main, 
 Panted to give his wearied coursers rest ; 
 
 The azure curtains took a crimson stain, 
 
 And Thetis shone, in golden garments drest. 
 
 The shepherd-minstrel bent his homeward way, 
 
 And brush'd the dew-drops from the glitt'ring spray. 
 
 On the death of this beloved brother, 
 which happened about the close of the 
 year 1785, our young poet formed the 
 determination of quitting his home. He 
 did not, however, communicate his inten- 
 tions, to any of his associates, nor even to 
 his father. Mr. Dermody did not at all 
 times pay a strict regard to the rules of 
 prudence ; and though he saw with deep 
 concern the ruin which threatened his 
 family, he had not the resolution to re- 
 linquish the propensities which were leading 
 to it. His habits grew too powerful to be 
 conquered by ordinary means, and the 
 sacrifice of domestic felicity appeared ulti-
 
 JO THE LIFE OF 
 
 mately unavoidable. He still pursued his 
 pleasures, and heard even the reproaches 
 of his children with indifference or apathy. 
 Content and comfort being at last banished 
 from his humble roof, at the approach of 
 poverty and its concomitant evils, he de- 
 termined once more to leave Ennis ; and, 
 while he still retained a degree of reputa- 
 tion and respect, to seek his fortune in 
 another part of the kingdom : but his 
 designs on this head were frustrated by the 
 death of his wife. 
 
 To draw his mind from the recollection 
 of this mournful event, Mr. Hickman, a 
 gentleman of great liberality, and who 
 esteemed Dermody's talents as a man of 
 learning and a teacher, gave him and his 
 son an invitation to his house at Newpark. 
 In this hospitable asylum young Dermody 
 formed the plan, which he soon afterwards 
 executed, of flying from the pale spectre of 
 Poverty ; and of viewing the world, or 
 rather its grand epitome and representative
 
 DERMODY. 1 1 
 
 the metropolis. Accordingly ^without giving 
 the least intimation to his father or Mr. 
 Hickman ; with a couple of shillings only, 
 the second volume of Tom Jones (which, 
 he has often said, determined him on this 
 adventure), and a single change of linen, 
 in his pocket ; about the end of his tenth 
 year he launched into the troubled ocean of 
 life. 
 
 He had painted to himself the pleasures 
 of the capital in all the voluptuous tints of 
 a warm and juvenile imagination: and 
 was fully persuaded that it was the empo- 
 rium of felicity ; where the union of virtue, 
 satisfaction, and useful amusement, was 
 to be found. With his senses wrapt in 
 this delightful reverie, he strayed many 
 miles before he perceived that he had lost 
 his way. However, looking on this as a 
 favourable interposition of Fortune, after a 
 short pause he broke off boldly towards 
 the road ; and, casting a last look on his 
 native village, which now seemed sink-
 
 J 2 THE LIFE OP 
 
 ing behind the neighbouring trees, he shed 
 a tear of affectionate regret, which was 
 soon dried by a smile of fervid expectation. 
 While pleasingly contemplating the scenes 
 which his fancy suggested, he soon be- 
 guiled a great extent of ground, for desire 
 gave additional vigour to his exertions. 
 At last he recollected that it would be proper 
 for him to look about for a lodging : but 
 no token of any such retreat could he dis- 
 cover, except the languid glimmer of a 
 lone cottage standing in a dark avenue ; and 
 to this he turned with the utmost speed. 
 
 As soon as he entered the wretched hut, 
 he discovered a corpse in the middle of the 
 floor, on a few unshaped boards which were 
 intended for a coffin ; at the foot of which 
 sat five children sobbing and murmuring, 
 while an emaciated female hung over the 
 head of it in silent grief. Dermody stood 
 daring some minutes amazed ; and was on 
 the point of retiring from a spectacle which 
 to him was equally distressing and myste-
 
 DERxMODY. 13 
 
 rious, when the woman, lifting up an eye 
 of heaviness and of the meekest resignation, 
 beckoned him to a seat near the hearth, 
 where some expiring embers cast a melan- 
 choly gleam. She again sunk into her 
 former state : and uttered several incoherent 
 speeches, which he could not distinctly 
 hear ; but from which he gathered that she 
 was grandmother to the little mourners, 
 that she had seen happy days though now in 
 misery and want, and that the person de- 
 ceased was her daughter. This dismal scene 
 deeply affected Dermody ; and, wiping the 
 tear from his eye, he put his hand into his 
 pocket, gave one of his shillings (the half 
 of all his worldly store) to the old woman, 
 and with a sigh of sympathy took his leave. 
 He had not walked many yards from the 
 door, before he returned with the excuse 
 of having left his cane ; but in reality to 
 gratify the finest feelings of humanity, by 
 pressing his last shilling into the hands of 
 the unfortunate and aged woman-
 
 14 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Careless of repose, he once more took 
 the road, and proceeded on his journey ; 
 till he came to the ruins of an old monastery, 
 within whose dilapidated walls he deter- 
 mined to await the dawn of day. 
 
 This temporary retreat produced the 
 following moral and instructive 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Here, where the pale grass struggles with each wind, 
 Pregnant with form the turf unheeded lies ; 
 Here the fat abbot sleeps, in ease reclin'd, 
 And here the meek monk folds his modest eyes. 
 
 The nun, more chaste than bolted snow, 
 
 Mingles with the dust below, 
 
 Nor capricious turns away. 
 
 Lo ! to the taper's tremulous ray 
 
 White- veil'd shades their frames disclose, 
 
 Vests of lily, cheeks of rose ; 
 
 In dim Fancy's vision seen, 
 
 Alive, awake, they rush between. 
 
 Ah ! who so cruel, in eternal gloom 
 To close the sweetest workmanship of God ; 
 In cloister'd aisles to waste their heav'nly bloom, 
 And dull their bright eyes in the drear abode ? 
 
 4
 
 DERMODY. J 5 
 
 Not real penance claim'd them herej 
 Nor lowliness, with melting tear: 
 But Superstition, fiend deform, 
 Sent forth the persecuting storm, 
 And in a charnel's baleful arms 
 Enclos'd the virgin's with'ring charms ; 
 Despotic rul'd the fearful band, 
 Pray'r and despondence in his hand, 
 His own right hand, that seem'd to wield 
 Heav'n's lightning, and Oppression's shield. 
 
 Poor tremblers ! all your griefs are o'er : 
 
 Beads deep-murmur'd tire no more; 
 
 Pageants dress'd in pious guise, 
 
 Lank fasts, and pity-pouring eyes, 
 
 All, all eclips'd and sunk ! Those stones, 
 
 'Scutcheon'd with rude gigantic bones, 
 
 Shew the tyrant zealot's end, 
 
 And where his schemes of power tend. 
 
 Near pebbled beds, where riv'lets play^ 
 And linger in the beams of day ; 
 'Mid sods by kneeling martyrs worn, 
 Embrown'd with many a horrid thorn, 
 (On whose branches off rings fade, 
 Proof of vows devoutly paid ;) 
 Where the owlet shrieking hides, 
 Cov'ring with leaves his ragged sides ;
 
 l6 THE LIFE. OF 
 
 Wont the solemn beil to flow- 
 In silver notes, prolonging slow 
 Tides of matchless melody, 
 Rousing the friar to secret glee; 
 While the vot'rks creep along, 
 And, half-unwilling, join the throng, 
 Their fates depending on his word, 
 Own'd of their breasts almighty lord j 
 Yes, let them slumber here at last, 
 Their tyrannies, their sun rings past; 
 And lend a venerable dread 
 To the lone abbey's rocking head. 
 
 He had not long taken his stand in this 
 dark abode, when his ears were suddenly as- 
 sailed by a deep and sonorous voice, chant- 
 ing the antiquated air of Lillabullero. This 
 quick transition, in the gloc ..a of night, 
 from grief to merriment, gave a pleasing 
 turn to his reflections : and he instantly 
 darted from the monastery, and quickly 
 overtook the jovial minstrel ; who proved 
 to be no less a personage than the parish- 
 clerk, in his return from a neighbouring 
 fair, exercising his lungs in the manner 
 described above, to keep aloof " the dap-
 
 DERMODY. 17 
 
 per elves and swart babes" of darkness, 
 who owe a particular grudge to the pillars 
 of the church. He also continually whirled 
 a cudgel round his whole body, as if to 
 secure it in a kind of magical circle. Der- 
 mody courteously saluted him, and in a 
 short time they became intimate. Some 
 minutes passed agreeably : the parish-clerk 
 rapidly conversing on matters of state, 
 matters of mirth, and lastly, on matters of 
 religion ; till on a sudden, in the midst of 
 a copious harangue, he sprung down a 
 narrow lane to the right, wishing his com- 
 panion a pleasant journey, flourishing his 
 cudgel, and singing aloud his favourite 
 tune of Lillabullero. 
 
 The darkness of the night, the whimsi- 
 cality of the parish-clerk, the affecting 
 scene of the cottagers, the uncertainty of 
 finding a second retreat till morning, 
 and the recollection that his flight must 
 alarm his father, depressed his spirits to a 
 degree under which he must have sunk, 
 
 vol. 1. c
 
 J 8 THE LIFE OP 
 
 had he not been relieved by the sound of 
 another human voice, which fortunately 
 proved to be a carrier's with whom he was 
 acquainted, who was now pursuing his 
 journey to the metropolis. 
 
 Being almost overwhelmed with fear, he 
 candidly told his tale to the honest carrier : 
 who, with a warmth and generosity always 
 to be found in the heart of an Irish pea- 
 sant, shared his homely morsel with the 
 young traveller ; and, by giving him a 
 short ride now and then, enabled him, 
 though so scantily provided, to accomplish 
 a journey of above a hundred and forty 
 English miles (the distance from Ennis to 
 Dublin). Nothing particular happened on 
 the road : now and then his young mind, 
 as might be expected, was struck with the 
 novelty of the surrounding scenery, \vhich 
 he viewed with awe and delight. The 
 pleasure arising from the objects before 
 him, banished all thoughts of the hardships 
 which he would have to encounter in this 
 4
 
 DERMODY. J 9 
 
 untried scene of life ; and without troubling 
 himself by the reflection that he was in a 
 large city, pennyiess and unknown, he re- 
 cited in lofty and ecstatic strains the trans- 
 ports which he fancied he was to enjoy in 
 his pilgrimage through the world : 
 
 Whate'er of wonder Art or Nature framed, 
 For giant strength or pigmy graces fam'd, 
 Oh, let me scan, while Life's short changes last, 
 Pant for the future, and enjoy the past ! 
 Oh ! thus, while smiling years all-fav'ring roll, 
 Compact my body, and expand my soul! 
 Who, like a worm, in one dull spot would crawl, 
 Nor view with curious eye this lovely ball ? 
 Who would not wish, with sacred knowledge smit, 
 To read that page the God of Wisdom writ ? 
 Who would not nicely mark each varied hue 
 Of that fair scene the God of Beauty drew ? 
 Painter immensely grand, minutely fine, 
 Whose pictures live and flourish as they shine. 
 Whether Killarney's silver-rolling tide, 
 Howth's vernal crest, or Antrim's rocky pride, 
 Entranc'd we view, the silent rapture glows, 
 And Nature trembles at the work she shews. 
 Who would not fathom Etna's burning womb ? 
 Who would not thread old Arden's devious gloom ? 
 
 C 2
 
 20 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Who would not tread where dauntless Scipio trod ? 
 Who would not trace the long-disfigur'd god, 
 Whose mould'ring bust, once crown'd with many a 
 
 rose, 
 With many a festive myrtle, wants a nose; 
 While lurks in shades uncouth the Paphian queen, 
 And Hermes sticks two Christian saints between? 
 The serious smile their sportive dooms excite, 
 And classic wit laughs loudly at the sight : 
 Nor is the useless moral cast away ; 
 Lo, Grandeur crumbling to a little clay ! 
 
 Scarcely had the multifarious scene of 
 attractions which the metropolis exhibited, 
 caught the view of Dermody, when, as 
 unexpectedly as he had encountered, he 
 separated from, his honest travelling-com- 
 panion. Though naturally thoughtless and 
 improvident, he had procured a letter of 
 recommendation from a country acquaint- 
 ance to an eminent apothecary in College- 
 green. Having roamed two or three days 
 about town, depending entirely for supplier 
 on the sale of his second shirt, the produce 
 of which was speedily expended, urged
 
 DERMODY. 21 
 
 by imperious necessity, he made his way 
 to College-green, and produced his cre- 
 dentials ; but whether it was that the writer 
 of the letter wanted weight ; or from the 
 bearer's shabby exterior, or a certain some- 
 thing forbidding in his manner ; or from 
 any other cause ; the apothecary did not 
 give him the reception to which he thought 
 himself entitled. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of paying him a se- 
 cond visit, Dermody, now in a new world, 
 amused himself with strolling about the 
 streets, and indulging his curiosity and 
 displaying his talents, to those who would 
 listen to him, at book-stalls, or at petty 
 booksellers' shops. In one of these walks, 
 sauntering down Fleet-street, he stopped 
 at a second-hand bookseller's, who occu- 
 pied the front cellar of the house No. 58, 
 now no longer standing. The books ranged 
 under the shed for the purpose of inviting 
 purchasers, arrested the attention of this 
 pennyless child of Apollo: and on his extend-
 
 22 THE LIFE OP 
 
 ing his hand to reach one of them, he was 
 observed by their owner from below ; who, 
 as poor Dermody's forlorn appearance ex- 
 cited no expectation of his intending to 
 buy, hastened up the steps for the purpose 
 of watching his property. He found the 
 stranger earnestly poring over a Greek au- 
 thor ; and upon questioning him as to the 
 substance of the book, and being satisfied 
 that he understood it, he asked him down 
 into the cellar. The invitation was accepted ; 
 and, most opportunely, the poor man's 
 homely repast was just placed upon the 
 table, of which the young Grecian was 
 hospitably requested to partake. Under 
 such circumstances, where entreaty was 
 powerfully seconded by appetite, it will 
 hardly be supposed that the offer was re- 
 jected : they dined together with mutual 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Dermody, though he had his fits of re- 
 serve, was sufficiently explicit to make his 
 kind host acquainted with the perplexity of
 
 DERMODY. 23 
 
 his situation. A thought instantly struck 
 the man, that by contributing a little to 
 alleviate the poor scholar's distresses, he 
 might do him a material service, and pro- 
 cure, at no very inconvenient expence, an 
 assistant for his son in learning Latin. The 
 proposal was made, and Dermody readily 
 acceded to it. 
 
 Thus, by a sudden revolution in his af- 
 fairs, he at once commenced pedagogue. 
 But he had been initiated into the mysteries 
 of Bacchus, by the example of his father ; 
 whose school, though an institution of 
 classic notoriety, was not in its management 
 quite compatible with classic regularity : 
 and some differences arising between the 
 pupil and the tutor, he grew weary of his 
 situation, and manifested symptoms of a 
 desire to relinquish his academic appoint- 
 ment in the cellar. The good-natured 
 bookseller was mortified at the disappoint- 
 ment ; however, commiserating the boy's 
 condition, destitute of friends, far from
 
 24 THE LIFE OP 
 
 his home, and without any means of sup- 
 port, he recommended him to another 
 dealer in his own line, but in somewhat 
 easier circumstances (one Lynch), who at 
 the time kept a little second-hand shop in 
 Stephen-street, and wanted a lad to stand 
 behind the counter, and arrange the books. 
 Young Dermody's qualifications were 
 largely blazoned forth by the poor cellar- 
 tradesman ; and, at his recommendation, 
 Lynch took him in the capacity of shop- 
 boy. 
 
 Lynch's place was frequented by several 
 youths of the college, for the convenience 
 of getting cheap books ; and the shop-boy, 
 from the accounts given of him by his 
 employer, became an object of their atten- 
 tion. But his reduced and squalid appear- 
 ance was, in this respect, much against 
 him. One of the young gentlemen, how- 
 ever, who had borrowed a copy of some of 
 his poems, which he promised to return 
 the next day, observing his linen much
 
 DERMODY. 25 
 
 soiled and out of repair, as an earnest of 
 future kindness, promised to send him a shirt. 
 Dermody, not without reason, valued 
 himself on his poetical powers.; though 
 certainly allayed with the less amiable qua- 
 lities incident to the genus irritahile va- 
 tum *. The next day the manuscript was 
 punctually returned ; but, provoking dis- 
 appointment ! unaccompanied by the ex- 
 pected present. Unmindful of his menial 
 situation, and that even this he possessed 
 merely on sufferance, he supposed the 
 omission intentional ; and, construing it 
 into a personal affront, flew into a rage, 
 and vented bitter invectives and abuse 
 against the offender. Lynch was alarmed ; 
 and reminded him that the gentleman was 
 his customer, and must not be treated so. 
 His tongue was thus stopped : but, catching 
 up a scrap of paper, in an instant he dis- 
 
 * " The jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race." 
 
 Pofe.
 
 26 THE LIFE OF 
 
 charged his spleen in a poetical pasquinade 
 of four lines, in which he expressly alluded 
 to the occasion of it. 
 
 Lynch possessed himself of the paper, 
 and transmitted it by the servant to the 
 gentleman : the shirt was soon after sent, 
 and the angry genius was appeased. 
 
 How long he remained with Lynch is 
 uncertain : but it must have been only a 
 short time ; as, soon after this incident, 
 he was received into the house of Dr. 
 Houlton, who at that period had a medical 
 appointment under the Irish government. 
 And as this gentleman was the first who, 
 with the means, had the inclination to shel- 
 ter Dermody from immediate distress, it is 
 but justice that his humanity should be 
 recorded. 
 
 Being now released from the drudgery to 
 which, in his capacity of shop-boy, he had 
 been obliged to submit, he once more went 
 to take a survey of the city ; and the same 
 propitious star that had guided him to the
 
 DERMODY. 27 
 
 humble habitations of the two poor but 
 honest booksellers, on this occasion directed 
 his steps to a third, to which at the same 
 time chance or curiosity brought Dr. 
 Houlton. The incident of their meeting, 
 and the circumstances which occurred in 
 a period of ten weeks during which he 
 resided in the house of this new friend, 
 are thus related in a letter written by the 
 Doctor himself: 
 
 " It was, to the best of my recollection, 
 in the year 1786, that chance brought me 
 acquainted with young Dermody. Happen- 
 ing, one day, to notice a little country- 
 looking boy, meanly habited, and evidently 
 not more than ten years old, standing at an 
 humble book-shop in Dublin, and reading 
 Longinus in the original Greek text, I was 
 not a little surprised at the occurrence. 
 I entered into a conversation with him, and 
 soon found him an adept in that language. 
 I asked him home to dine with me. He 
 accepted the invitation : informing me that
 
 28 THE LIFE OP 
 
 his name was Thomas Dermody ; and that 
 his father was a schoolmaster in the county 
 of Clare ; whom, from a particular cause, 
 he had abruptly quitted, and begged his 
 way * to Dublin, where he had arrived 
 only a short time since. 
 
 " During dinner, on whatever subject was 
 started I found him intelligent. He con- 
 versed in such nervous language, with 
 such a measured pronunciation, pertinency 
 of remark, and justness of observation, 
 that I could not but contemplate him as an 
 infant philosopher, or as a little being 
 composed entirely of mind. To my greater 
 surprise, he informed me that he had been 
 an usher in his father's Latin and Greek 
 school for the last two years, and had 
 Commenced that duty at eight years of age. 
 ' Then/ exclaimed I, c you are doubtless 
 
 * It has been seen from the foregoing part of these 
 Memoirs, that this expression is not exact in the sense 
 in which it might possibly be here understood.
 
 DERMODY. 2C) 
 
 conversant with most of the Latin and 
 Greek authors that are generally read in 
 those seminaries.' He answered that he 
 was ; and that if I had any such in the 
 house, he would attempt to convince me 
 of it. I produced Horace and Homer, 
 when he speedily proved that they were 
 among his very intimate acquaintance. I 
 remarked to him, that his application must 
 have been immense. He modestly answered, 
 that he was more ready to ascribe any pro- 
 ficiency he had attained to his father's 
 assiduity in instructing him ; he having put 
 him into the Latin Accidence at four years 
 of age, and unremittingly made him pursue 
 his learning (even amidst the drudgery of 
 his ushership) from the above early period 
 till the day he left him. I trust you will 
 not, sir, think me too minute ; since, in 
 characters of extraordinary genius, every 
 trait of their earliest emanations of mind 
 generally becomes no less a matter of 
 curiosity than of interest.
 
 30 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " I now took the opportunity to say to 
 him, that as he appeared to be quite un- 
 settled, I should deem it the greatest obliga- 
 tion if he would make my house his re- 
 sidence, till some better and more agreeable 
 situation could be obtained for the prosecu- 
 tion of his studies. He accepted my offer 
 with many expressions of gratitude : and 
 said he would go to the place where he had 
 slept for a night or two, to inform the 
 people of my invitation ; and return in the 
 evening, and bring with him some manu- 
 scripts which he wished to submit to my 
 inspection. In the mean time I ordered an 
 apartment to be prepared for his accommo- 
 dation, and waited with no small impa- 
 tience the return of my wonderful little 
 guest. He appeared at supper- time, and 
 presented me with a bundle of papers which 
 he begged me to read at my leisure ; and 
 after some refreshment said, that as he was 
 fatigued, he would take the liberty to retire 
 to rest. I must confess, I was so anxious
 
 DERMODY. 31 
 
 to inspect the manuscripts he had put into 
 my hands, that I immediately ordered the 
 servant to shew him tcT his room, and 
 wished him a good night. 
 
 " And now, sir, not having the least 
 presentiment that he was about to display a 
 talent o( natural genius, nearly as prominent 
 as his qualifications in acquired learning, 
 fancy to yourself my additional surprise, 
 when I discovered, on opening this bundle 
 of manuscripts, that they were poetical 
 works by this boy of ten years of age ; 
 consisting of a variety of translations and 
 sonnets, with the head -piece to each * By 
 Thomas Dermody.' The translations I 
 perceived to be detached portions from 
 Virgil and Horace. The version was more 
 distinguished for a closeness of translation, 
 to express the strict sense of the respective 
 authors, than for that freedom and those 
 little graces in version, which the idiom of 
 the English language would have admitted, 
 and which I had not the least doubt that
 
 32 THE LIFE OF 
 
 more mature years and practice would have 
 effected in him. But it is impossible to 
 describe the pleasure I received, when I 
 began to peruse his sonnets ; in which his 
 mind was unshackled, and his natural 
 genius at full liberty to take its youthful 
 flights into the region of Poesy. A justness 
 of expression and sentiment, an appropriate 
 imagery (particularly in three or four pas- 
 toral pieces), an ease and sweetness of versi- 
 fication, together with, the strictest accuracy 
 of rhymes, pervaded the whole of the 
 productions that were the offspring of his 
 own brain. 
 
 ie At breakfast next morning he asked 
 me if I had done him the favour to inspect 
 any of his manuscripts. c Every one of 
 them/ said I, * before I went to bed.' 
 Then, sir,' observed he, 6 I fear I kept 
 you up late.' Not so late, I assured him, 
 as I wished ; as my only regret was, that, 
 instead of translating merely detached parts 
 of Virgil and Horace, he had not completed
 
 DEEMODY. 33 
 
 a Georgic, an Eneid, an Epistle, or a 
 Satire. He answered, that he made the 
 versions as particular passages struck him ; 
 and that he mean thereafter to complete 
 them, particularly Horace's Art of Poetry. 
 I then informed him, that I was much 
 delighted with his sonnets ; and greatly so 
 with the one entitled e The Sensitive 
 Linnet,' of which I begged him to give 
 me permission to take a copy to shew to a 
 friend or two. He replied, I was welcome 
 to do so : but he would take the liberty to 
 request that I would not give a copy of it ; 
 as perhaps, one time or other, he might 
 venture to send some of his little pieces to 
 a newspaper or a magazine. I assured him 
 it should remain with me. Had it not been 
 for this observation, I should certainly have 
 desired copies of several others of these early 
 productions. Yet, could I have taken a 
 peep into futurity, and then foreseen his 
 premature loss to the literary ' world, I 
 should have been tempted to possess myself 
 
 VOL. i. D
 
 34 THE LIFE OP 
 
 of more copies without making suit to him 
 for the permission. 
 
 " I asked him whether the sonnet of 
 ( The Sensitive Linnet' was a fiction, or 
 occasioned by any real occurrence. He 
 answered, that there was at least as much 
 truth, as of poetic licence in it. He then 
 stated the following particulars * which, 
 though on a subject really pathetic, were 
 delivered by him with such an archness of 
 countenance, that it was not possible for 
 me, during the narrative, to repress a 
 smile. His account of the occasion of the 
 sonnet was, to the best of my recollection, 
 literally as follows : ' That a young lady of 
 his acquaintance, residing at Ennis, was 
 very fond of a linnet ; and the linnet 
 appeared equally fond of the young miss : 
 but the young lady soon got a sweetheart ; 
 when, instead of singing to the linnet, 
 she sung to her lover. The poor bird 
 seemed to feel this neglect of its mistress. 
 At length the lover proved false, which
 
 DERM0DY. 35 
 
 put miss deeply in the dumps ; the linnet, 
 from sympathy (he supposed), grew 
 dumpish also, and speedily died : and the 
 young lady, whether for the loss of her 
 sweetheart or of her bird (he could not 
 say which), appeared, when he left the 
 country, in a very , fair way of following 
 her linnet : that the subject struck his 
 fancy ; and induced him to compose these 
 few stanzas, with some other little pieces, 
 during his late journey to Dublin.' 
 
 " The following is an exact transcript of 
 the copy I took of the sonnet ; which, 
 though marked^ in every line, with great 
 simplicity of thought and diction, will 
 incline you, I imagine, to join me in opinion, 
 that it would not have disgraced the pen of 
 a writer of double the age of our then very 
 juvenile poet. You will perceive that he 
 makes the lady address the linnet : 
 
 2
 
 36 THE LIFE OF 
 
 THE SENSITIVE LINNET* 
 
 My fond social linnet, to thee 
 
 What dear winning charms did belong I 
 
 On my hand thou wouldst carol with glee, 
 On my bosom attend to my song. 
 
 Sweet bird, in return for my strain, 
 
 Thou warbled'st thy own o'er again 
 
 Love, jealous a bird should thus share 
 My affections, shot speedy his dart : 
 
 To my swain now I sung ev'ry air; 
 The linnet soon took it to heart. 
 
 Sweet bird, in how plaintive a strain 
 
 Thou warbled'st thy own jealous pain ! 
 
 But faithless my lover I found ; 
 
 And in vain to forget him I tried t 
 The linnet perceiv'd my heart's wound ; 
 
 He sicken'd, he droop'd, and he died. 
 Sweet bird, why to death yield the strain ? 
 Thy song would have lighten'd my pain. 
 
 Dear linnet, I '11 pillow thy head ; 
 
 In down will I coffin thy breast ; 
 And when thy sad mistress is dead, 
 
 Together in peace we will rest. 
 Sweet bird, how ill-fated our strain ! 
 We shall warble, alas ! ne'er again.
 
 DERMODY. 37 
 
 ee Day after day did our juvenile literary 
 hero add, in some way or other, to my 
 admiration of his talents. His conversation, 
 in particular, was frequently distinguished 
 for observations so much beyond his years, 
 that at length, whenever he was about to 
 speak, I expected to hear something worthy 
 of matured abilities. After about a fort- 
 night's acquaintance with him, and when 
 we began to be on a familiar footing, I had 
 a curiosity to know his favourite authors 
 among the Latin classics. He answered, 
 c Virgil and Horace ; that he preferred the 
 Georgics of the former to his Eneid, 
 and the Epistles and Art of Poetry of the 
 latter to any other of his works.' In 
 discoursing with him concerning these 
 poets, I found likewise that he was not a 
 little conversant with several of their anno- 
 tators ; particularly Scaliger and madame 
 Dacier. Nay, sir, you may think it 
 scarcely credible, but he absolutely ques- 
 tioned in a few instances, which he one day
 
 38 THE LIFE OP 
 
 specified (but which I have in vain at- 
 tempted to recollect), the justness of their 
 annotations. I asked whether he did not 
 think it somewhat bold in him to make so 
 free with characters of eminence. He re- 
 plied, that he did not perceive any great 
 freedom in expressing his own conviction ; 
 particularly as critics were of opinion that 
 even Homer himself sometimes nodded. 
 
 " From the manner which marked his 
 delivery of this last observation (for his 
 physiognomy and even his gestures now 
 became subjects of interest to me), I dis- 
 covered in his constitution a spark of im- 
 patience under gentle rebuke; and an 
 occurrence which took place a few days 
 subsequent to this conversation, tended 
 to confirm, the opinion I had formed. The 
 matter was this : The chief deficiency to be 
 found in his Latin classical attainments^ was 
 now and then a false pronunciation of a 
 word in point of quantity ; and this I 
 intimated to him one day while he was
 
 DERMODY, 39 
 
 reading an ode of Horace. I instantly 
 perceived a momentary scowl on his brow ; 
 but, quickly dispersing it, he said, that 
 ' the great variety of measures which the 
 odes of Horace displayed, occasioned him 
 perhaps to make the slip/ c Come, come, 
 my friend/ cried I, f honestly confess, 
 that in your rapid pursuit of learning, 
 you sometimes overleapt your Prosodia 
 and Gradus.' The scowl returned ; and 
 he replied, somewhat peevishly I thought, 
 c Well, sir ; I don't think that I am too 
 old to amend my error.' s Certainly not, 
 my dear friend : but excuse me ; for I am 
 really anxious to see the utmost correct- 
 ness in all points, in a genius of such 
 early and great promise.' 
 
 u About this time an incident took place, 
 which, I flatter myself, you will not deem 
 uninteresting. Happening to meet a gentle- 
 man of my acquaintance, a Mr. French, 
 who was an excellent classical scholar, I in- 
 formed him that I had a literary prodigy at
 
 40 THE LIFE OP 
 
 my house ; a boy ten years old, who not 
 only had Horace and Homer at his fingers' 
 end, but possessed a strong natural vein 
 for poetical composition. Mr. French, 
 thinking me perhaps somewhat too warm 
 in my account of his abilities, asked me 
 whether I had not a vein of jocularity. 
 ' Come, and see the boy,' I replied ; c and 
 he will astonish you.' My friend promised 
 to call on me soon. On returning home, I 
 informed Dermody that a gentleman of my 
 acquaintance, a man of learning, purposed 
 to pay me a visit, in order to have an 
 interview with him ; and that I wished him 
 to be as collected as possible on the occasion, 
 as my credit respecting himself was much 
 concerned. The next day Mr. French 
 called, while Dermody had gone to take a 
 walk in the College-park. He brought with 
 him a Horace of the small Elzevir edition, 
 and seemed much disappointed at not meet- 
 ing our young hero within. In a few 
 moments, however, Dermody returned ;
 
 DERMODY. 41 
 
 and I presented him to Mr. French. On 
 seeing a lad of so extremely youthful an 
 aspect ; of a delicate make, and small size, 
 and with a little frilled shirt-collar open ; in 
 short, of an appearance, in every external 
 point of view, almost infantine ; my friend 
 said to me in a low voice, c Pshaw ! it is 
 impossible.' c Try him,' cried I. Mr. 
 French took out his little Horace ; and 
 addressing Dermody, told him that ' he 
 had an acquaintance of his, as he under- 
 stood, in his hand.' Dermody, noticing 
 the small size of the book, whispered me, 
 that he fancied the gentleman was going to 
 exercise him in the Latin Accidence. But 
 when my friend handed him the book, and 
 he perceived it was Horace, it is not possible 
 to describe the animation of the boy's 
 countenance. Scarcely conceiving that so 
 diminutive a volume could contain all 
 Horace's works, his eyes and fingers were 
 equally rapid in turning to the different parts 
 of the book. At length, finding it complete, 
 
 2
 
 42 THE LIFE OF 
 
 he exclaimed to Mr. French, { Bless me, 
 sir ! this is multum in parvo indeed ; hut 
 it is without notes, I perceive.' i By the 
 accounts I have received,' answered Mr. 
 French, c you do not stand in need of 
 notes.' Dermody made him a how for 
 the compliment. 
 
 " Mr. French, eager to satisfy his 
 curiosity, now asked him to construe any 
 ode he liked. Dermody closed the book, 
 returned it to Mr. French, and begged that 
 he himself would fix on an ode. He then 
 opened the volume, and presented Dermody 
 with the eleventh ode of the first book ; 
 observing to him that it was a very short 
 one. e The more suitable, sir,' answered 
 Dermody with a smile, ' to a little scholar. 
 Our young hero, seeing pen, ink, and 
 paper, on the table, added, that, f with the 
 gentleman's permission, he would write a 
 translation of the ode.' Mr. French 
 approved ; when I desired Dermody to let 
 it be not a close, but a free translation.
 
 DERMODY. 43 
 
 The boy seated himself at the table, with 
 the ode before him ; and Mr. French and 
 myself took a book to amuse us while he 
 was employed, as well as to have an oppor- 
 tunity of observing him. I desired my 
 friend to look at his watch ; he did so : 
 and in nine minutes Dermody came and 
 presented him with the translation ; which 
 we found, to our agreeable surprise, to be 
 a poetical one. 
 
 " Before I state to you the version he had 
 so speedily executed, and of which I after- 
 wards procured a copy from Mr. French, 
 permit me to introduce it with the original 
 text ; particularly on account of an interest- 
 ing conversation that took place between 
 my friend and Dermody respecting some 
 particular passages in it. The Latin ode is 
 as follows :
 
 44 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Tu ne quzesieris (scire nefas) quern mihi, quem tibi, 
 Finem Di dederint, Leuconoe ; nee Babylonios 
 Tentaris numeros : ut melius, quicquid erit, pati ; 
 Seu plures hyemes, seu tribuit Jupiter ultimam, 
 Quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare 
 Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi 
 Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida 
 iEtas : carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Thy search, Leuconoe, give o'er : 
 For, know, 'tis impious to explore 
 ,When Death shall summon at thy gate ; 
 Nor ask astrologers thy fate. 
 Life's storms more firmly thou 'It sustain, 
 If thou incurious wilt remain 
 Whether, by potent Jove's decree, 
 Tyrrhenian floods thou 'It live to see 
 Rebound, one winter's reign, or more, 
 Against thy mansion's rock-worn shore. 
 Be wise ; and, from life's little Act, 
 Thy hopes of Iengthen'd bliss contract : 
 For while we speak time flies apace ; 
 Quick, quick, the present joy embrace, 
 Nor trust to-morrow's flatt'ring face. 
 
 } 
 
 " Mr. French, having read the foregoing 
 with evident marks of admiration and sur- 
 prise^ asked Dermody what induced him
 
 DERMODY. 45 
 
 to translate quern tibi Jlnem by * When 
 Death shall summon at thy gate ?' ( From 
 a passage, sir/ replied Dermody, ' in 
 Horace's fourth ode of the first book,' 
 4 I thought so/ cried Mr. French; ' it was 
 for that very reason I asked you the 
 question. Pray, repeat the passage as 
 well as you recollect it.' Dermody paused 
 a moment, and then quoted : 
 
 Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
 Regumque turres. 
 
 * Right, my dear boy !' exclaimed Mr. 
 French ; and with rapture again shook him 
 by the hand. 
 
 fC My friend now took me aside, and 
 intimated that there was an expression in 
 the translation which seemed to imply 
 geographical knowledge, and likewise an 
 historical anecdote which (he must confess) 
 he did not recollect ; and therefore was 
 inclined to ask the boy another question or 
 two. ' Do not,' I said, c be too hard with 
 him; you ought to be content with his
 
 46 THE LIFE OP 
 
 ready version of the ode.' f But I am 
 confident,' resumed Mr. French, c from 
 what I have already heard and seen, that 
 he will be able to answer me.' f Then 
 gratify your inclination,' I replied. Mr. 
 French returned to his seat, and asked 
 Dermody, ' what was his reason, as the 
 ode does not specify any particular shore 
 where the Mediterranean sea beat, why 
 he fixed it at a spot where he seemed to 
 think that Leuconoe had a mansion* 
 Dermody answered, ' he was sure it was 
 unnecessary to inform him, that Italy 
 stretched out between the Mare Tyrrhe- 
 nian and Mare Adriaticum ; and that a 
 French critic was of opinion that Leuconoe 
 had a handsome house on the Italian 
 shore, for the safety of which she was 
 apprehensive from the violence of the 
 winter's storm and wave.* Mr. French 
 asked, to what critic he alluded. Dermody 
 replied, ( he could not mention his name ; 
 but that he perfectly recollected, from a 
 note he had read in Francis's Horace,
 
 DERMODY. 47 
 
 that the critic was a member of the 
 Academy of Belles-lettres.' Mr. French 
 justly remarked, that ' whether the French 
 critic was right or not in his judgment, it 
 did the boy much credit to have noticed 
 his opinion, and justified him in giving 
 the passage that freedom of translation 
 which he had employed.' 
 
 " My friend, having again read the 
 translation, intimated to Dermody that he 
 had omitted noticing the vina liques. 
 Dermody replied, with much archness of 
 countenance, that c he made the omission 
 for two reasons : first, because he thought 
 it would be unfashionable to suggest to 
 ladies of modern days, that a fine Roman 
 lady descended to such housewifery as that 
 of filtring wines ; and secondly, as it was 
 evident from the whole tenor of the ode 
 that Leuconoe was very inquisitive, our 
 unlearned wits perhaps would say that 
 after filtring the wines she doubtless had 
 the curiosity to taste freely of them/
 
 48 THE LIFE OF 
 
 At this observation, and from the droll 
 manner in which Dermody made it, Mr. 
 French could not contain himself. He held 
 his sides with laughter ; and exclaimed : 
 
 * Why, you young, sarcastic, wicked rogue, 
 you are more severe on Leuconoe than 
 Horace himself was.' ( There might 
 be a reason,' replied Dermody, c why 
 Horace did not wish to be too severe on 
 'her.' f What was that, my boy ?' 
 
 Why, sir, some critics are of opinion 
 that Leuconoe was a lady of not the 
 greatest virtue ; and possibly Horace might 
 have sometimes visited her at her snug 
 mansion on the sea-coast.' My friend 
 burst again into loud laughter ; and told 
 Dermody jocosely, that he would one time 
 or other get threshed if he indulged this 
 satirical vein. ( But come,' cried Mr. 
 French, * it is time that I should make 
 you some return for the great pleasure you 
 have given me. Here ; as you seem to 
 admire this small edition of Horace, accept
 
 DERM0DY. 49 
 
 it from me. It will go into one of your 
 breeches-pockets ; and here is something 
 to occupy the other ;' giving him a handful 
 of silver. f I envy your friend, Doctor 
 Houlton, his possession of you : but I 
 shall sometimes drop in to have a con- 
 versation with you ; so, for the present, 
 adieu, my dear little boy.' 
 
 " Shortly after this occurrence, Dermody, 
 having noticed a chest of old books in an 
 upper room, asked my permission to go 
 and inspect them. e Aye,' cried I ; ( go, 
 and rummage as much as you please.' 
 He set off with as much pleasure to ex- 
 amine the chest, as many boys feel in laying 
 by their books for the Christmas holidays. 
 In a few minutes he came down stairs, ran 
 into the parlour, and exclaimed, ( Oh, sir ! 
 I have found a book which I have long 
 wished to see ; a sweet writer I am told : 
 it is Anacreon.' He hardly gave me time 
 to express my satisfaction, before he was 
 seated by the fire ; and so intent on reading 
 
 vol. 1. E
 
 50 THE LIFE OP 
 
 the Greek bard in the original text, as to 
 appear insensible to every thing round him. 
 I addressed him two or three times ; but I 
 might as well have spoken to one in a 
 profound sleep. At length, after having 
 been amused with his motion^ for some 
 minutes, I took him by the shoulders, 
 roused him from his delicious trance, and 
 told him that as I was engaged out to 
 dinner, I would leave him to dine with his 
 new acquaintance Anacreon ; whom he 
 would find not only a beautiful writer, but a 
 merry jolly fellow, too fond perhaps of love 
 and a bottle. f Ah !' cried he, with one 
 of his inexpressible looks, c it was very hard 
 that a lover of wine should have been 
 choked with a grape-stone ; which, from 
 the Latin preface, I see was his fate.* I 
 have mentioned before in this letter, 
 an indescribable archness of countenance 
 that this boy had when he was about to 
 convey a sly insinuation, or to make a droll 
 observation. In general his physiognomy
 
 DEKMODY. 51 
 
 was as serious as the face of a judge, and 
 tinctured with a dash of melancholy ; but 
 when he now observed to me that ( it was a 
 pity a lover of wine should be choked with 
 a grape-stone^ he spoke it in so dry and 
 arch a manner, that my risible muscles 
 were irresistibly called into action. 
 
 (f On my return home in the evening, 
 to convince me how delighted he had been 
 with Anacreon, he shewed me a poetical 
 version of the first three odes, which he 
 had executed during my absence. To say 
 that I was pleased with them, would but 
 ill express my admiration : they would have 
 done credit to a pen of a much riper age ; 
 they displayed the sweet easy flow of that 
 tuneful Grecian bard's versification ; in a 
 word, they were, even in an English dress, 
 truly Anacreontic. I begged him to pro- 
 ceed : in a few days he had finished the 
 first book, and assured me that he would 
 soon give a poetical translation of the entire 
 volume. And here again I cannot but 
 e 1
 
 52 THE LIFE OF 
 
 greatly regret that I did not possess myself 
 of the copies of these his early versions 
 from Anacreon ; particularly as a moment 
 was then near at hand, when a sudden call 
 in my professional business to a remote part 
 of Ireland, which detained me from Dublin 
 for many months, put me under the 
 necessity of separating from this most ex- 
 traordinary youthful genius. But having 
 little doubt of meeting with him on my 
 return, I was less attentive to possess 
 myself of many of those juvenile produc- 
 tions which he had executed in my house. 
 It was my misfortune, however, that from 
 various accidents and circumstances, I never 
 bad another opportunity of seeing him 
 from that time to the day of his death. 
 
 " A few circumstances remain for me to 
 state, which perhaps may not be unworthy 
 of attention. My servant informed me 
 that she had repeatedly noticed a light in 
 Dermody's room at very late hours ; and 
 that, making an excuse to go in, she found 
 2
 
 DERMODY. 53 
 
 Jhim reading in bed, with a number of loose 
 papers scattered about. Dreading the con- 
 sequences, particularly from an accident 
 that had nearly proved fatal to myself 
 through an indulgence of this dangerous 
 practice while at college, I desired her, 
 when he retired to rest, to let his candle 
 be little more than sufficient to light him to 
 bed. A day or two after his taper had been 
 thus curtailed, he observed to me one 
 morning, at breakfast, with a very signifi- 
 cant countenance, that he believed my 
 maid was very careful. ( Why so, Der- 
 mody ?' f Because, sir, she allows me 
 but an inch of candle when I retire to 
 rest ;' and then added : 
 
 * The niggard taper yields its shorMiv'd ray, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me.' 
 
 The emphasis he gave to the word 4 nig- 
 gard/ and the look that accompanied it, 
 clearly shewed me its direction. But not 
 willing that he should perceive I understood
 
 54 THE LIFE OP 
 
 him, I turned the conversation, by observing* 
 that he had read Gray's Elegy in a Country 
 Church-yard. { Yes, sir,' replied he, f often 
 read it with tears : and I fancy the first 
 verse of the Epitaph will not be unsuitable 
 for my own humble tomb-stone.'* Re- 
 peat,' cried I, e the stanza :' which he 
 did, with an expression and a pathos that 
 made an indelible impression on my me- 
 mory *. 
 
 <e I told him, that his talents, with 
 prudence of conduct, would certainly lead 
 him to a better destiny. He answered, 
 with a deep sigh, ' that the contrary pre- 
 sentiment was strong, and he could not 
 divest himself of it.' A few days after 
 this, my servant informed me that she had 
 found some candles in Dermody's room, 
 
 * ** Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown j 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own."
 
 DERMODY. 55 
 
 behind his trunk. In consequence, I now 
 thought it prudent to speak to him ex- 
 plicitly on the danger of reading in bed. 
 He took my remonstrance very ill, threw 
 out a sarcastic observation on the unhappy 
 state of dependance, and appeared sullen 
 the whole of the ensuing day. I was sorry 
 to perceive, at all times, a spirit of resent- 
 ment, and an impatience under rebuke, 
 which I wished had not dwelt with such very 
 promising literary talents ; but which were 
 accompanied at the same time with some 
 interesting remarks, that I fear were too 
 forcibly verified in the subsequent parts of 
 the life of this extraordinary genius. 
 
 " From this time he appeared to manifest 
 a restlessness of disposition, as if he wished 
 to be more his own master ; so that I am 
 inclined to think, that even if my business 
 in the country had not compelled me to 
 part with my young friend, he would soon 
 have separated himself from me. But, 
 however he might neglect my advice, I
 
 56 THE LIFE OF 
 
 determined, before leaving Dublin, to 
 do him every service in my power. For 
 this purpose I waited on my friend Mr. 
 French, to consult with him on the means 
 of procuring Dermody some suitable situa- 
 tion : but, unfortunately, that gentleman 
 had sailed a few days before, for England ; 
 otherwise, I am confident he would have 
 immediately taken him under his protection. 
 
 t( As the day was now near when my 
 engagements required my absence from 
 town, I expressed to Dermody my great 
 regret that I could not leave him in a situa- 
 tion worthy of his abilities, gave him what 
 money my circumstances would admit, and 
 wished him every success and happiness. 
 
 " Thus, sir, I have furnished you, accord- 
 ing to your request, with a minute narrative 
 of such circumstances as I judged most 
 interesting, during a period of about ten 
 weeks which this juvenile genius, so un- 
 common both in acquired learning and in 
 natural talents, resided with me ; a narrative
 
 DERMODY. 57 
 
 which, though consisting wholly of matters 
 of fact within my own knowledge, I should 
 be timorous in offering, were it not from 
 a full confidence that every part of the 
 history which you are about to give will 
 substantiate my statements." 
 
 The affectionate and fatherly regard 
 which Dermody received from Dr. Houlton 
 during his residence in that gentleman's 
 house, did not even at parting excite in 
 him any symptoms of passionate regret; 
 nor did he seem to feel as if sensible of 
 any material loss in bidding adieu to so 
 kind a friend, whose greatest anxiety was 
 for his welfare and happiness. Whether 
 it was the giddy transport of being libe- 
 rated from control ; or the dazzling pro- 
 spect of being able, from Dr. Houlton's 
 generosity, to become acquainted with the 
 more expensive and elevated enjoyments of 
 the capital of the empire ; that made him 
 thus apparently indifferent to the sepa- 
 ration from his benefactor, is uncertain.
 
 58 THE LIFE OP 
 
 It would be uncharitable to suppose this 
 to arise from ingratitude. At so early 
 a period, his acute and susceptible mind 
 was open only to the pleasures and variety 
 of life ; and the kindest conclusion must 
 be, to impute it to his anxiety to con- 
 template new scenes, and develope untried 
 and striking combinations. But however 
 fair were the expectations which his fancy 
 had formed, they soon proved delusive; 
 for, having in a few days wasted the whole 
 of his friend's donation, distress and po- 
 verty again assailed him, and he became an 
 object of pity in the truest application of 
 the word. Without a settled home, he 
 roved about the streets by day, and begged 
 the meanest shelter during the night. 
 
 It happened, while he resided at Dr. 
 Houlton's, that a scene-painter belonging 
 to the Dublin theatre, named Coyle, was 
 employed by the Doctor to paint and de- 
 corate his house. To this man Dermody 
 made frequent visits while he was at work,
 
 DERMODY. 5() 
 
 displaying his historical knowledge to the 
 no small astonishment of the painter; who, 
 though by his profession closely allied to 
 the science on which Dermody so learnedly 
 expatiated^ was totally ignorant of the 
 subject of his conversations, and even of 
 the sublimitv of his own art. Yet, with 
 little knowledge of the eminent men of 
 antiquity, or of the poets and painters 
 whom Dermody in his discourses coupled 
 together, he had what was equally ho- 
 nourable, a feeling heart. 
 
 To Dorset-street, the abode of this ho- 
 nest painter, Dermody in his present dis- 
 tress often strolled ; but at first would not 
 condescend to acknowledge that he was in 
 want of either food or clothing, though his 
 hungry looks and tattered habiliments pro- 
 claimed aloud his real condition. The poor 
 man, though in no circumstances to admit 
 an additional guest into his family, felt so 
 much for this forlorn boy, that he invited 
 him to his house; and thus simply and
 
 60 THE LIFE OP 
 
 feelingly relates the manner in which he 
 lived with him : 
 
 " I then resided in Dorset-street, Dub- 
 lin ; where the boy often called on me. 
 At length, when he could go to no other 
 place, he told me his tale. I pitied him, 
 and gave him encouragement to come and 
 take share of what little we could give him 
 to eat and drink. He told me that he 
 had slept four nights in the streets ; and 
 had left his shirt for the payment of his 
 last lodgings. My wife released it, and 
 made him a pallet-bed on the floor ; at 
 which he was pleased and grateful. I was 
 then out of employment at the theatre ; 
 and as my wife kept no servant, she made 
 him a substitute to go on her common er- 
 rands. His pride was silently hurt at this 
 office, but he said little. The circumstance 
 of my being out of employment, made the 
 situation of the boy more unpleasant : I 
 thought him rather a burden, and wished 
 him to get another home ; but could not
 
 DERMODY. 6l 
 
 find it in my heart to turn him out. He 
 had scarcely any clothes, his shoes were 
 worn out, and for some time he went 
 barefooted. I was again engaged at the 
 theatre ; and being very busy, I could not 
 go home to my meals : Mrs. Coyle there- 
 fore sent him every morning with mv 
 breakfast. I always observed his pride : 
 he refused to go to the theatre, as he con- 
 sidered himself above the common rank. 
 I was not angry with him : I said nothing, 
 and was sorry to see him hurt by it. At 
 length he grew familiar, went on messages, 
 warmed my size-pots at the theatre, told 
 merry tales, and wrote verses on the walls 
 with chalk." 
 
 Dermody soon grew familiar and pleased 
 with his new occupation, and without 
 murmuring submitted to the drudgery and 
 the difficulty of it : thinking it more ho- 
 nourable to gain even a precarious subsist- 
 ence by labour and industry, than remain 
 an inactive, unfriended wanderer, subject
 
 62 THE LIFE OP 
 
 to the keenest torments of disappointment 
 and hunger ; or the object of eleemosynary 
 benevolence, and a burden to his humble 
 patron :- and the hour very speedily arrived, 
 that was to reward so just a determination. 
 Happy indeed would it have been for him, 
 had he adhered throughout life to this 
 conduct. It would have saved him many 
 a pang, many a bitter reflection, many a 
 grievous day and agonizing night ; and 
 have placed him in an eminent or at least 
 a respectable situation in society. 
 
 While he was thus employed in the 
 painting-room, as superintendant of the 
 glue, oil, and colour-pots, Mr. Cherry, 
 now of Drury-lane theatre, with great 
 rapture brought one morning into the 
 green-room a poem written, as he said, by 
 a most surprising boy then in the house. 
 The subject of it was highly agreeable and 
 entertaining to the performers : being a 
 sarcastic comparison between Mr. Daly, 
 patentee of the Theatre Royal, and Mr
 
 DERMODY. 63 
 
 Astley, manager of the equestrian theatre ; 
 in which the feats of the latter were hu- 
 morously and satirically enlarged upon. 
 The description which Mr. Cherry gave of 
 the boy, together with the merit of the 
 composition, raised among the performers 
 the greatest curiosity to see him ; and, 
 led on by Cherry, they rushed from the 
 green-room to the place where the painter 
 and his wonderful attendant were at work. 
 If their astonishment was excited on hear- 
 ing the poem read, it was now increased 
 tenfold at the sight of the author. In- 
 fantine in appearance, and clad in the very 
 garb of wretchedness ; with a meagre, half- 
 starved, but intelligent countenance ; a 
 coat much too large for him, and his 
 shoulders and arms seen naked through it ; 
 without waistcoat, shirt, or stockings ; with 
 a pair of breeches made for a full-grown 
 person, soiled and ragged, reaching to his 
 ancles ; his uncovered toes thrust through 
 a pair of old slippers without heels, almost
 
 64 THE LIFE OP 
 
 of the magnitude of Kamtskatka snow- 
 shoes ; his hair clotted with glue, and his 
 face and almost naked body smeared and 
 disfigured with paint of different colours, 
 black, blue, red, green, and yellow: thus 
 in amazement stood before them, with a 
 small pot of size in one hand, and a hair- 
 brush in the other, the translator of Ho- 
 race, Virgil, and Anacreon ! Each of the 
 performers felt a sympathetic glow of tender- 
 ness for the wretched boy, and each seemed 
 anxious to administer to his necessities. 
 Among the number was Mr. Owenson ; a 
 gentleman conspicuous for his domestic 
 attachments, and distinguished by his 
 humanity. In him Dermody found a bene- 
 factor : he treated him with tenderness, re- 
 ceived him into his family with affection, 
 clothed, and became a second parent to 
 him *. 
 
 * On this occasion I may be permitted to offer a 
 tribute of praise where ifhas been so often due and so
 
 DERMODY. 65 
 
 Dermody, having now recovered from the 
 agitation into whicfr the eager curiosity of 
 
 seldom paid : to the members of a profession too 
 frequently injured by prejudice and insulted by igno- 
 rance ; a profession equally useful to the morality 
 and the glory of a nation ; that holds forth to view in 
 the most grateful and endearing forms, the precepts 
 and rewards of distinguished virtue and heroism : for 
 while the heart is interested, examples of patriotism 
 and loyalty are received with affection and promulgated 
 with enthusiasm ; and the ardour which animates the 
 truly great, the fire of the warrior, the zeal of the 
 patriot, the blind fury of ambition, the destructive 
 tumults of passion, and the glorious achievements f 
 ancestry, can be brought most feelingly home to our 
 senses only from the stage. 
 
 The rigid Johnson, who was ever as ready to hew 
 down merit with his battle-axe of criticism as he was 
 by his generosity to encourage and exalt it, at a time 
 when sir Joshua Reynolds was expatiating on the excel- 
 lence of Garrick in a particular character, replied that 
 " there was little praise due to a fellow who would ex- 
 hibit himself for a shilling." " So does the preacher," 
 answered sir Joshua, " when he collects his tithes; and 
 the lawyer when he receives his fee, and pleads a false 
 cause for his client,"" It is," replied Johnson in a 
 VOL. I. P
 
 66 THE LIFE OF 
 
 the performers had thrown him, answered 
 their questions with a modesty and clearness 
 
 passion, " only because they are 'worse." Goldsmith, 
 who was present, observed, " Then, Johnson, you now 
 acknowledge the stage to be the most useful, if not the 
 most honourable, profession of the three." " Sir," 
 said Johnson, " the most useful profession is the most 
 honourable to a civilized nation ; and it is the boast 
 of Britons that men are regarded only as they are great 
 and useful, and that neither the gates of the senate- 
 house nor the portals of the palace are closed against 
 them." If Johnson here spoke as he thought, he has 
 certainly betrayed himself by writing what he did not 
 think. In his Life of Savage, he says : " He was 
 now again abandoned to fortune, without any other 
 friend than Mr. Wilks ; a man who, whatever were 
 his abilities or skill as an actor, deserves at least to be 
 remembered for his virtues, which are not often to he- 
 found in the world, and perhaps less often in his pro- 
 fession than in others. To be humane, generous, and 
 candid, is a very high degree of merit in any case ; 
 but those qualities deserve still greater praise, when 
 they are found in that condition which makes almost 
 every other man, for whatever reason, contemptuous, 
 insolent, petulant, selfish, and brutal." But here is 
 an emollient ready :. " As Mr. Wilks was one of 
 those to whom calamity seldom complained without
 
 IXERMODY. 67 
 
 that attached them still closer to his interest. 
 Mr. Owenson in particular was so much 
 
 relief, he naturally took an unfortunate wit into his 
 protection ; and not only assisted him in any casual 
 distresses, but continued an equal and steady kindness 
 to the time of his death." His sceptical panegyric 
 on Mrs. Oldfield's generosity to his hero in the same 
 work is in a similar tone. Hill's replication to Pope 
 is too evidently applicable to Johnson's exalted malevo- 
 lence: who, 
 
 " Desiring and deserving others' praise, 
 Poorly accepts a fame he ne'er repays ; 
 Unborn to cherish, sneakingly approves, 
 And wants the soul to spread the worth he loves." 
 
 But he was an author for the stage, though not a 
 successful one : and it is well known that his antipathy 
 to the profession, and the anathemas which he has 
 thundered out against its members, were occasioned 
 only by the proud superiority of Garrick, whom he 
 often treated contemptuously because he was more 
 generally admired than himself. 
 
 His sarcastic antipathy to a profession from the 
 distinguished members of which he stooped to accept 
 obligations, and his ingratitude to a country that re- 
 ceived him with hospitality and affection, are qualities 
 that at least tarnish his glory, if thev do not degrade 
 F 2
 
 68 THE LIFE OP 
 
 struck with his unaffected simplicity and 
 his apparent wretchedness, that he im- 
 mediately invited him to his house ; and, 
 after receiving from the painter all the 
 
 his memory. The judgments of such men are dan- 
 gerous, because they are seldom questioned, and gene- 
 rally pass current into a law ; but their tendency is 
 often too conspicuous to escape detection, and their 
 logical artifice of too thin a texture to be noticed but 
 with regret. 
 
 I am aware of the opinion that will be formed of 
 these sentiments' by such as have venerated his blunt 
 virtue, and rude independence. But truth is above 
 censure ; and I am proud in having the opportunity 
 of telling those whose servile adoration and bigotry 
 taught them to believe him infallible, that his very 
 writings prove his faults to have been as conspicuous 
 as his virtues : that passion and resentment could close 
 his heart, and that flattery could open it; that his 
 judgment was often false, his praise often censure, 
 and his censure often prejudice ; and that however 
 great and wonderful were his talents (which all must 
 allow), the illustrious names of Allen, of Sheridan, 
 and of Garrick; of Burnet, and of Gregory; of 
 Buchanan, and of Arbuthnot ; of Robertson, and of 
 Napier ; will be as honourably noticed in the records 
 of posterity, as that of Samuel Johnson.
 
 DERMODY. 6g 
 
 information he could, gave him his address, 
 and desired the favour of his company in 
 half an hour. He then, without much 
 ceremony, left the business of the theatre ; 
 and, with the poem in his hand which had 
 been presented to him by Mr. Cherry, went 
 home to prepare his family for the boy's 
 reception. At the appointed time, Der- 
 mody made his appearance at the house of 
 his new friend. The description which 
 Mrs. Owenson had received of him from 
 her husband, raised in her mind the greatest 
 anxiety ; and, being a lady of extreme 
 feeling and sensibility, on seeing before her 
 a child so forlorn and destitute, she burst 
 into a flood of tears, clasped him in her 
 arms, and gave vent to the noblest feelings 
 of humanity. 
 
 When he had partaken of some refresh- 
 ment, which was pressed upon him with 
 the warmest cordiality, Mr. Owenson 
 asked him if he had any knowledge of the 
 history of the college, or of its members. 
 He answered, that the only information he
 
 70 THE LIFE OP 
 
 had ever received, was that which magazines 
 had occasionally given him. As Mr. 
 Owenson's plan was to get him introduced 
 to some distinguished person in the uni- 
 versity, he thought that a theme on the 
 subject which he had just mentioned would 
 be a probable mode of paving the way to 
 so desirable an object : he therefore gave 
 him a slight account of it, and desired him 
 to write down his thoughts in verse, and 
 to notice the professors and students of the 
 present day. Dermody took his leave ; and 
 in less than three quarters of an hour re- 
 turned with about fifty lines, written as if 
 he had been acquainted with the history of 
 the university since its foundation was laid. 
 Mr. Owenson was so much astonished at 
 what he had done in the short time of his 
 absence, that he began to doubt the possi- 
 bility of his having been without some 
 secret assistance from more matured talents ; 
 and lest he himself should be imposed upon, 
 and laughed at for his credulity, he imme- 
 diately carried pen, ink, and paper, into
 
 DERMODY. )\ 
 
 an adjoining room, gave him another 
 subject to write upon, closed the door, and 
 with impatience waited the result. In 
 twenty minutes he re-entered, and pro- 
 duced a poem that would have made any 
 further disbelief in his genius a crime. Mr. 
 Owenson, being now fully convinced that 
 he was in every respect what he had been 
 represented to be, with all the reality of 
 friendship and the ardour of humanity, put 
 in force the plan of getting him an imme- 
 diate introduction to the college. 
 
 The thought was a fortunate one ; for it 
 happened that a distant relation of his, the 
 celebrated Dr. Young afterwards bishop 
 of Clonfert, was at this time a senior 
 fellow, and professor of natural philosophy. 
 He therefore formed the resolution, without 
 any previous intimation, of surprising Dr. 
 Young ; and the next morning, with Der- 
 mody (in his rags) in one hand, and his 
 poem on the university in the other, he 
 sallied forth, through rain and hail, to pay 
 him a visit. Dermody, by the time when
 
 72 THE LIFE OP 
 
 they reached the doctor's house, was in too 
 deplorable a condition not to attract the 
 notice of the passengers in the street ; and 
 had not the character and generosity of his 
 companion been sufficiently known, their 
 compassion would undoubtedly have urged 
 them to offer him pecuniary assistance. 
 Mr. Owenson introduced himself to Dr. 
 Young, and was received by him with that 
 kindness and affability which strongly dis- 
 tinguished his character ; while Dermody, 
 who was reserved to excite astonishment, 
 was left on the steps at the door. 
 
 He told the doctor that he came to pay 
 him the compliment of introducing a pro- 
 digy to his notice ; and that if he thought 
 the author of the poem which he then 
 presented worthy of his notice, he was sure 
 that on being told his age and condition, 
 he would stretch forth his protecting hand, 
 and shield him from the calamities by which 
 he was surrounded. The doctor heard 
 the story of the boy with evident marks of 
 wonder and compassion, read the poem
 
 DERMODY. 73 
 
 with surprise and admiration, and requested 
 most ardently to be introduced to its writer. 
 On Mr. Ovvenson's answer, the doctor, 
 in the greatest hurry, flew to the door ; 
 and, after opening it, seemed much dis- 
 appointed at finding nobody there but a poor 
 shivering boy, half-starved in appearance, 
 and almost naked. " He is gone," said 
 the doctor. " No, sir," replied Mr. 
 Owenson ; " there he is." The tear of 
 pity fell from the eye of Dr. Young as he 
 surveyed him ; and, in the tenderest tone 
 of feeling, he asked him if he was the 
 young gentleman who wrote the poem 
 which he then held in his hand. A modest 
 blush of simplicity crimsoned the cheek of 
 Dermody as he replied ; and the doctor, 
 being convinced that the question was the 
 cause of his agitation, kindly took him by 
 the hand, and led him into the parlour. 
 The two gentlemen then took their seats 
 by the fire-side, with the intention of 
 conversing with Dermody, and concerting 
 gome plan for his future welfare : but he
 
 74 THE LIFE OF 
 
 hung back from the fire, as if his presence 
 was too unmannerly. When the doctor 
 perceived this, he started up, and placed 
 him on a chair between them, exclaiming, 
 " By Jove!" (a common expression of his,) 
 " you are fit to sit by the side of a king." 
 
 Before the two visitors retired, Dr. 
 Young made the generous offer to superin- 
 tend the boy's studies, and complete him 
 for college ; and desired that for this pur- 
 pose he should attend him three days every 
 week. He then presented him with a 
 Horace, a Greek Lexicon, a Homer, and 
 Murray's Logic. On receiving this last 
 work, Dermody said with a downcast look, 
 " Sir, I think I should not like this ; for 
 any one of common sense and little know- 
 ledge can quibble, without studying to 
 quibble." The doctor burst into an im- 
 moderate fit of laughter, shook him by the 
 hand, and appointed a day for the com- 
 mencement of his studies. 
 
 Though the prospect was flattering which
 
 DERMODY. 75 
 
 now opened for Dermody's future comfort 
 and pursuits, Mr. Owenson's zeal was still 
 unabated ; and he carried and introduced 
 him in the same garments to many of the 
 most exalted characters in Dublin. His 
 reception was uniformly such as humanity 
 could wish. Mr. Owenson always intro- 
 duced him in rags, that his appearance 
 might excite both wonder and compassion. 
 The general plan which he adopted when 
 the ceremony of introduction was over 
 (which sometimes created much mirth) 
 was, to ask for a Horace ; and desire the 
 gentleman or lady of the house either to 
 open the book and take an ode by chance, 
 or to fix on any particular one, and then in 
 the presence of the company he made 
 Dermody translate it into English verse; 
 which he always did with a peculiar grace, 
 and in as short a time as any person could 
 construe it in. When Mr. Owenson had 
 fully satisfied their curiosity and gratified the 
 feelings of the company, he generally left
 
 7^ THE LIFE OP 
 
 them, in order that at a future time he 
 might have a claim on their generosity. 
 
 He now fitted up an apartment for him 
 in his own house, stripped him of his rags, 
 made him the companion of his children, 
 and treated him with all the endearing 
 affection of a father. He had just lost his 
 only son, and he considered this as a sub- 
 stitute sent by Providence. Mrs. Owenson, 
 who loved genius under whatever form it 
 presented itself, and who united to this 
 intellectual propensity a benevolence the 
 most unbounded, entered with the fondest 
 solicitude into the interest of the child of 
 her adoption, and taught her two amiable 
 daughters to consider him almost as a being 
 of a superior order. Her injunction was at 
 all times held too sacred to be disobeyed : 
 but in the present case indeed it was un- 
 necessary ; from their mother they inherited 
 the tender throb of sensibility, and light 
 and pleasant as the day was the task they 
 had now to perform.
 
 DERMODY. 77 
 
 As soon as a new wardrobe was prepared 
 for Dermody, he made a burnt-offering of 
 his old, and committed his former habili- 
 ments to the flames with classic solemnity ; 
 creating his new sisters high-priestesses of 
 the altar, and their mother the presiding 
 idol of the ceremony. While he stood in 
 silence viewing the flames, his conscience 
 appeared to smite him ; and, with a want of 
 refined delicacy which his youth rendered 
 innocent and perfectly excusable even before 
 such spectators, eagerly snatching his 
 breeches from the general conflagration, he 
 thus apostrophized them : 
 
 tc A breeches, and chimeras dire !" 
 
 Philips. 
 
 This practice all mankind pursue ; 
 To spurn the old, and catch the new. 
 'Tis thus I cast you far away, 
 Who warm'd me many a chilly day ; 
 Who kept me from the wind and weather, 
 While all your parts were stitch'd together : 
 But now, when threadbare, thin, and tatter'd, 
 Take strangers, who my pride have flatter'd. 
 Yet though I cast you off like lumber, 
 Your fame shall chime in jingling number.
 
 7& THE LIFE OF 
 
 The muse in triumph shall adore you, 
 And lay all honours down before you ; 
 Inscribe you in poetic page, 
 As trophies of her infant age : 
 Perhaps may place you on Parnassus, 
 With Phoebus and his jilting lasses ; 
 Or, in a freak, may metamorphose 
 Into a star my worn-out small-clothes. 
 The thighs shall be like horns before us, 
 The seat a head ; and there 's a Taurus *. 
 Then each wise astrologic fool 
 Will say " he 'as spied a second Bull ;" 
 And you shall cause such learned speeches ! 
 I think that 's honour for my breeches. 
 Besides, this is a comfort too : 
 Each ruling wife shall wish for you ; 
 Shall idolize you still with wonder, 
 That she may keep her good man under. 
 
 Well then, my friends ! you need not grumble, 
 Though me you cover'd very humble ; 
 For now I 've giv'n full recompence 
 To any clothes of wit or sense. 
 You shall not deck a sable seat 
 Of most rag-ific Plunket-street f ; 
 But be of an immortal birth, 
 Presiding o'er all rags on earth. 
 
 * The constellation called Taurus, or " the Bull." 
 f The Monmouth-street of Dublin.
 
 DERMODY. 79 
 
 Unfortunately for Dermody, the studies 
 which he now entered upon with Dr. Young 
 were suited neither to his genius nor his 
 disposition ; and at last became so repugnant 
 to him, that he would often with tears 
 lament the mental drudgery into which he 
 had been thrown, and the loss of those 
 caresses he once enjoyed in the arms of the 
 muses. For some time, however, he duly 
 attended ; but as often as possible he would 
 sculk from what he called scholastic torture, 
 and spend his hours in playing with his 
 adopted sisters, or in writing sonnets appro- 
 priate to the familiar- incidents of their 
 happy home. His aversion to this mode of 
 instruction still increasing, became at last 
 so powerful that he absented himself entirely 
 from his studies, without giving the least 
 previous information either to Mr. Owenson 
 or to Dr. Young. Chance, however, one 
 day brought those gentlemen together; and 
 Mr. Owenson, being anxious to hear what 
 progress Dermody had made under so great
 
 80 THE LIFE OP 
 
 a master, began to question the doctor 
 about his pupil, but to his great surprise 
 was informed that he had attended only 
 once during a period of four weeks. Dr. 
 Young, being hitherto ignorant of the 
 cause, naturally concluded his absence was 
 occasioned by the adoption of some more 
 commodious arrangement for his closer 
 application, and that it was consequently 
 with the knowledge and approbation of his 
 patron . His astonishment on being told the 
 contrary, was evident and interesting. He 
 loved the boy ; and had passed over many 
 of his- youthful irregularities, in the hope 
 that a little experience would amend them : 
 but this deviation from rectitude was of too 
 great a magnitude to be treated with lenity. 
 The more he considered the circumstance, 
 the greater pain it gave him ; and the glow 
 of his friendly resentment brought forth 
 this emphatic exclamation : " By Jove ! 
 my good friend," laying his hand upon his 
 
 heart, " I fear all is not right here" His 
 4
 
 DEKMODY. 8 1 
 
 feelings were too sensibly affected to enter 
 into the investigation of any immediate or 
 remote cause of such delinquency ; and 
 they separated. 
 
 Dermody's duplicity in this instance was 
 too conspicuous to pass without notice; 
 and Mr* Owenson, not harshly, but in a 
 kind and impressive manner, pointed out 
 to him the fatal consequences that would 
 necessarily result from conduct founded on 
 principles so opposite to propriety, and to 
 the moral precepts that link men together 
 in the social duties of life. This reproof 
 was effectual so far as to produce a con- 
 fession of his crime, and of his predilection 
 for a different course of studies. The fault 
 was consequently considered as a foible of 
 youth, and was forgiven. 
 
 It was the happy and singular fate of 
 Dermody, that he never through life lost 
 one friend without almost immediately, by 
 some chance, gaining another. It hap- 
 pened, soon after he had forsaken the 
 vol. i, c
 
 82 THE LIFE OF 
 
 duties which the humanity of Dr. Young 
 had imposed upon him, that the reverend 
 Gilbert Austin, a clergyman of great worth 
 and learning, who at that time kept a school 
 of deservedly high repute in Dublin, on 
 some occasion of business was passing by 
 the house of Mr. Owenson ; when this 
 latter gentleman availed himself of so 
 favourable an opportunity, and without 
 much ceremony hailed him from the 
 window. As soon as he entered the room, 
 Mr. Owenson presented Dermody to him ; 
 concealing however his late transgressions, 
 and displaying in the strongest colours his 
 extraordinary talents. Mr. Austin exa- 
 mined the boy, and found him possessed of 
 every quality that his friend had so warmly 
 described. Nothing more was necessary : 
 his humanity was engaged; and, in hi* 
 benevolent mind, distress was a title to 
 protection. 
 
 Dermody listened with apparent pleasure 
 and attention to the kind offers made by
 
 JPERMODY. 83 
 
 Mr. Austin : who entered so earnestly into 
 the matter, that a plan was immediately 
 adopted for the completion of his studies ; 
 which was, that he should attend the 
 academy regularly from the following day, 
 and return to his meals and bed at the house 
 of his benefactor. The distance, however, 
 being considerable, it was after a short time 
 found inconvenient : upon which Mr. 
 Austin took him into his own house, in- 
 troduced him to his friends, and by their 
 advice opened a subscription for his educa- 
 tion and support ; which at once had the 
 desirable effects of rescuing him from the 
 gripe of poverty, and of relieving him from 
 the weight of dependance ; for the sub- 
 scription was liberally patronized. This 
 new scene of life delighted Dermody : it 
 accorded with his feelings, and was above 
 all others the best calculated to correct his 
 youthful errors. His rapid progress, and 
 dignified emulation, were such, that Mr. 
 Austin considered himself peculiarly happy 
 g 1
 
 84 THE LIFE OF 
 
 in having the opportunity of cultivating 
 and displaying such wonderful talents. 
 
 To give a still stronger incitement to the 
 exertions of his extraordinary pupil, Mr. 
 Austin selected, and printed at his own 
 expence, a small collection of his poems ; 
 which was rendered interesting by the sub- 
 joined advertisement, written by Mr. Austin 
 himself: 
 
 ce The following collection of Poems, 
 it is hoped, will meet the kind indulgence 
 of the reader. They are published with a 
 view to obtain support and protection for 
 youthful genius. The author has not yet 
 attained his thirteenth year. At this early 
 age, he has been sent abroad into the world 
 without friends ; and furnished with no 
 means of livelihood, except such as he 
 might derive from his classical knowledge, 
 and from his talent for poetry. But these 
 endowments are of little current value, 
 especially in infancy ; and require time and
 
 DERMODY. 85 
 
 cultivation to bring them to maturity. 
 Our young poet therefore, as might be 
 expected, has suffered every kind of distress 
 to which his unprotected situation was 
 liable. The particulars, though they might 
 interest the sensibility of the reader, would 
 exceed the limits of an advertisement. It 
 is but justice, however, to the benevolence 
 of Mr. Owensan, of the Theatre Royal, to 
 mention, that he rescued the author from 
 the lowest indigence, and received him into 
 his own house ; so that to this gentleman he 
 is primarily obliged for the comforts he now 
 enjoys, and for the happy prospects that 
 now open to him. He has had the honour 
 to be presented to some of the first cha- 
 racters in the city for rank and letters ; 
 whose liberal asssistance and countenance 
 will, no doubt, have weight as an example, 
 and obtain for him a very general patronage 
 among persons of discernment and dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 " It has been thought proper not to
 
 85 THE LIFE OP 
 
 offer this specimen to the public at large ; 
 but to print a few copies, to be circulated 
 among those only who, it is hoped, will 
 take an interest in the protection of our 
 young poet, and whose protection it is of 
 most consequence that he should obtain. 
 Should the judicious reader discover in the 
 following Poems any imitations, he will be 
 inclined rather to approve of them, as they 
 shew a just attention to the best models. 
 Should many of the original passages or 
 thoughts appear above the years of the 
 author, the reader may be assured they are 
 entirely his own. And he will readily make 
 allowance for a few errors, as our young 
 poet writes with singular rapidity, and cor- 
 rections have been avoided in order to 
 present a genuine specimen of his abilities. 
 In the selection here offered from a great 
 number, the best of his productions, as 
 may be supposed, have been preferred ; but 
 some are retained to shew the variety of 
 his manner, and some on account of the; 
 2
 
 BERMODY. Sy 
 
 grateful sentiments they contain to his 
 benefactors. 
 
 " Subscriptions will be received by the 
 reverend Gilbert Austin, Baggot-street. 
 
 " March 25, 1789." 
 
 The Introduction to this collection of 
 poems will shew that the favours which he 
 had received from Mr. Austin were deeply 
 impressed upon his heart, and that he had 
 a just and grateful remembrance of them. 
 
 Oft has my muse, to joyous scenes unknown, 
 
 Forc'd through all dangers, help'd by God alone j 
 
 Oft has she bath'd in tears the doleful line, 
 
 Yet waited patient for the will divine. 
 
 Ah ! doom'd to suffer all that man can bear, 
 
 Far from a soothing father's anxious care ; 
 
 To whom no mother's tender aid was giv'n, 
 
 Devoid of every help but that of Heav'n ; 
 
 Though sunk in woe, and almost drown'd with grief, 
 
 Yet still I waited for some kind relief: 
 
 Through the dark clouds of fate I Jong'd to spy 
 
 Some lucid breaking of an evening sky. 
 
 And, lo ! my better stars now rise to view, 
 
 And thus direct my orphan muse to you,
 
 88 THE LIFE OP 
 
 As when shrill winds the angry deep deform, 
 And the calm sea is harrow 'd by the storm ; 
 When lone and dark the whit'ning billows rise, 
 And livid lightnings dart along the skies j 
 The frighted sailor, in astonish'd mood, 
 Prepares to buffet with the raging flood ; 
 Till rais'd on high the beacon shines to view, 
 And adds new gladness to the frantic crew ; 
 Thus in your smiles my future joy I see; 
 Now fate has alter'd ev'ry harsh decree. 
 
 How blest am I, when e'en the good and great 
 Will raise the Poet from his humble state; 
 Will cheer his muse in ev'ry weak essay, 
 And make him cultivate each dawning ray ! 
 Now have I gain'd my noblest aim at last : 
 Now do I view with joy my sorrows past. 
 Yet oft my former woe shall cause a sigh, 
 And sad remembrance busy pride deny ; 
 Oft shall I think of every scene of woe, 
 And oft to you my briny tributes flow j 
 Oft shall I bless-you, free from earlier strife, 
 And sing your praises to the verge of life. 
 For while Remembrance in her mirror shews 
 The sad idea of my former woes, 
 While what I suffer'd lies within my heart, 
 Sure fondest gratitude will ne'er depart,
 
 DERMODY. 89 
 
 Nor did he, while he was enjoying the 
 caresses of the great, forget his duty to 
 his former benefactors. The following lines 
 in the same volume were addressed to Mr. 
 Owenson. 
 
 Long has my muse, devoid of wonted fire, 
 Her song neglected, and unstrung her lyre ; 
 Too long, alas ! has felt the iron hand 
 Of dire affliction : but at thy command 
 Again she tunes her strain ; again she tries 
 On feeble pinion eagerly to rise; 
 Again the bard renews his ancient lays, 
 And humbly dares attempt to sing thy praise: 
 Praise which, though void of ev'ry grace of art, 
 Yet flows unstudied from a grateful heart; 
 For though no flatt'ry decks my servile line, 
 Yet truth superior makes thy fame divine. 
 I say but that which modesty might hear, 
 Yet unabash'd confess these lines sincere. 
 
 Another example will shew how strong 
 and just at this time were his conceptions of 
 dramatic effect. His access to the theatre 
 gave him an opportunity of indulging his 
 genius in this way; which he did with 
 much spirit in the following prologue to
 
 90 THE LIFE Of 
 
 " The Child of Nature:" and it maybe 
 questioned whether the fair authoress her- 
 self could, by whatever means, have been 
 supplied with a better in the same number 
 of lines. 
 
 When times were alter'd with the hearts of men, 
 The child of nature found protection then ; 
 Their gen'rous souls, to pity ever prone, 
 Felt alien griefs as if they were their own : 
 From tender age they rear'd the scyon plant, 
 And taught her all the virtues she could want. 
 But love was distant from the virgin's ear, 
 A thing unfit for one so young to hear; 
 Embow'r'd in groves she spent her peaceful life^ 
 Nor knew the sorrows of a pining wife : 
 Till, grown in years, and fit to think of man, 
 She saw the instinct which through nature ran ; 
 She saw the constant deer, the cooing dove ; 
 She saw, and wonder'd : Nature whisper'd, " Love!'* 
 Caught by the sound, she bless'd the tender name, 
 And hugg'd with eager joy the glowing flame ; 
 And, willing to reward that noble mind 
 Which kept her from the knowledge of mankind, 
 To recompense her guardian's care through life, 
 Instead of ward, she now became a wife. 
 Britons, to this with pitying ear attend, 
 And each become the Child of Nature's friend X
 
 DERMODY. QI 
 
 His adopted sisters, in whose society he 
 passed so many happy hours, were too 
 affectionately regarded not to receive fre- 
 quent tender marks of his esteem ; and in 
 the innocent play-mate they found the kind 
 admonisher. 
 
 Dear girls, in youth and beauty's prifne 
 Despise not friendship's graver rhyme ; 
 Friendship, that marks your early bloom 
 Perfection's brightest tints assume. 
 The tints of modest worth divine, 
 When sense and harmless wit combine, 
 Prompt each low passion to control, 
 Or bind in rosy chains the soul. 
 Oh, ever charming ! let not Pride, 
 Usurper bold, your breasts divide, 
 Nor fashion beauteous nature hide ; 
 Assur'd your soft eyes' radiant hue 
 Can heal, disturb, and conquer too : 
 Oh ! let not Affectation, queen 
 Of the nice lisp, the mincing mien, 
 And studied glance, obscure their rays, 
 Blighting the bloomy wreath of praise. 
 
 Yet, sure, this idly-moral strain 
 Is both presumptuous and vain : 
 
 }
 
 Q2 THE LIFE OP 
 
 For well your tender hearts I know ; 
 Hearts form'd to melt at every woe, 
 Virtue to sooth, vice to chastise, 
 And shine in bounteous pity wise. 
 Yet num'rous is the tinsel race 
 That hover round a lovely face, 
 As round the candle's beamy blaze 
 Their brother-insect wildly plays. 
 When by those ideot suitors prest, 
 'Mid the gay flatt'rers falsely blest, 
 Ador'd, and borne by sighs, you move 
 On the frail, floating, clouds of love ; 
 When fell Deceit, in angel guise, 
 True demon, plans the pleasing Kes ; 
 Look round, and if you haply see 
 No honest face oh ! think on me. 
 
 It would seem that his better star had 
 now the ascendant, had he but known how 
 to estimate the value of his situation, and 
 to make a good use of the advantages thus 
 fortunately thrown in his way. He had 
 the opportunity of acquiring the most po- 
 lished manners, from the elegant company 
 of both sexes resorting to the house oi
 
 DERMODY. Q3 
 
 Mr. Austin; of forming connections,though 
 not numerous, among the sons of some 
 of the first families in the kingdom placed 
 there for their education ; and of culti- 
 vating his taste for literature under a kind 
 and able preceptor. His days, for a con- 
 siderable time, were thus spent in the 
 happiest manner ; and his evenings were 
 generally devoted to the circles of taste 
 and fashion, for it became the rage of the 
 day to have " the little poet" at all the 
 parties of any style or consequence. 
 
 Among the number who distinguished 
 themselves by patronizing Dermody at this 
 period, were lady Charlemont, lady Mau- 
 rice Gore, lady Crofton, and the duke of 
 Leinster. Lord Caulfield, now lord Charle- 
 mont, was his schoolfellow and friend. 
 It may be easily conceived, that a sub* 
 scription sanctioned by so amiable a per- 
 son as the worthy clergyman who was thus 
 studiously forming his mind to principles 
 of knowledge and virtue, and supported
 
 $4 THE LIFE OP 
 
 by so many exalted characters, was pro- 
 ductive of the most beneficial conse- 
 quences ; and accordingly so much concern 
 did his story create among people of qua- 
 lity, that Mr. Austin placed in the Bank 
 at one time no less a sum than a hundred 
 and fifty pounds, to be portioned out at his 
 discretion for the support and education of 
 his poetical ward. The floating subscrip- 
 tions, many of which were to be continued 
 yearly, enabled Mr. Austin, after Dennody 
 had been about three months adopted, as 
 it were, and taken into the bosom of the 
 family, to place him as a boarder in a 
 comfortable and commodious house in 
 Grafton-street, contiguous to the aca- 
 demy, and occupied by a glass-manu- 
 facturer named Aickbome : but the ill- 
 fated boy was blind to the happy pro- 
 spects before him, and infatuated to his 
 ruin. 
 
 Either his mind was naturally too weak 
 to bear with propriety the smiles of for-
 
 DERM0DY. g5 
 
 tune ; or it had been in his infancy too 
 strongly corrupted by the example of his 
 father, to be ever afterwards formed into 
 greatness. Dermody had seen his parents, 
 in the hour of adversity, seeking refuge 
 from their thoughts in the society of in- 
 ferior persons : who, being accustomed to 
 practices of irregularity, cherished their 
 depraved desires; and -made that habitual 
 which at first perhaps was only intended 
 to bury reflection for a moment, and to 
 be forsaken again when the calamity should 
 be evaded or forgotten. Not conceiving 
 that to be a crime which he saw practised 
 by those who were so dear to him, he un- 
 doubtedly, in some of the many extraor- 
 dinary and trying situations in which for- 
 tune placed him, resorted to the same 
 course ; and it was often with the most 
 heartfelt regret observed by his instructor, 
 that when he was thus early courted by 
 the great, he would relinquish their invi- 
 tations, and give a preference to the so-
 
 J)6 THE tlFfi OP 
 
 ciety of despicable and vicious characters* 
 It was his misfortune, at a meeting of this 
 kind, to get acquainted with a low-bred 
 man named Martin, who was by profession 
 a drawing-master. This person, knowing 
 Dermody's influence with Mr. Austin, and 
 wishing to get the business of the academy, 
 persuaded him, in an unguarded moment* 
 to shew that gentleman the drawing of a 
 flower which he (Dermody) should say 
 was done by himself after receiving only 
 three lessons. His ardour to serve his 
 companion made him entirely forgetful of 
 the consequences of detection ; and, not 
 thinking it any great crime to tell a harm* 
 less lie to advance the interest of a fellow* 
 creature, he immediately exhibited the 
 flower, and in a very forcible manner urged 
 the recommendation as he had been de- 
 sired. The stratagem thus daringly formed, 
 carried its own failure along with it ; for it 
 was impossible the most ready genius could 
 execute a drawing in the same style with
 
 DERMODY. QT 
 
 the period of instruction which he had 
 specified. Mr. Austin, on seeing the 
 flower and hearing his story, instantly ac- 
 cused him of duplicity. Dermody strongly 
 denied the charge, and seemed highly cha- 
 grined at being supposed guilty of a false- 
 hood. He was soothed, threatened, and 
 flattered, but in vain. At last, however, 
 he was desired to sit down and make a 
 copy of the drawing : he hesitated, began, 
 hesitated, trembled, and finished it ; when, 
 to his disgrace, the deception was evident. 
 
 As an adequate punishment was abso- 
 lutely necessary, he was immediately or- 
 dered from the parlour to the kitchen, 
 where for a considerable time he was kept 
 in disgrace. This penance gave him great 
 pain ; as it afforded those in the academy 
 who were unfriendly to him, an opportu- 
 nity to scoff and insult him. Many of his 
 schoolfellows, however, treated him with 
 kindness ; and would often steal to the 
 kitchen to cheer him in his exile. When 
 
 vol. i. h
 
 g3 THE LIFE OF 
 
 the moment arrived that was each night 
 to release him from his studies, ne flew 
 from the academy, and consoled himself 
 in the delightful society of the muses, 
 who to him were dearer than all the world 
 besides. At this period he formed many 
 new and valuable acquaintances ; among 
 whom was the worthy Mr. White * of 
 Grafton-street, whose academy was nearly 
 opposite to the house where he then lived. 
 
 * This amiable character is master of the English 
 grammar, mathematic, and classic school, in Grafton- 
 street, Dublin. He is the author of many useful and 
 admired works; and is in that country universally 
 known, respected, and admired. He was the valued 
 associate of the late Mr. Sheridan ; and in that gentle- 
 man's wreck of fortune and hour of adversity, when 
 in others kindness fled and esteem grew cold, he re- 
 mained his firm and unaltered friend. Many of the 
 present most eminent characters of the Irish nation 
 have, in their juvenile days, been under his care and 
 tuition : and Dermody within his friendly and hospi- 
 table habitation received many tender marks of affectum 
 and regard.
 
 DERMODY. 99 
 
 In that gentleman's society he found great 
 pleasure, and was always received by him 
 with the fondness of a parent. 
 
 " It was at this time," says Mr. White, 
 in a letter to the author, " that I had the 
 first interview with that extraordinary cha- 
 racter ; but without being apprised of his 
 eccentricities, which in pity to his youth 
 were charitably concealed : it was not long, 
 however, before they began to develop 
 themselves. Being acquainted with the 
 most interesting parts of his lamentable 
 story, I very shortly after invited to dinner 
 a few select friends, men of letters, whom 
 I knew to be encouragers of merit ; and 
 asked Dermody of the party, for the pur- 
 pose of bringing them acquainted. The 
 company were assembled, and dinner ready; 
 but kept back a considerable time, waiting 
 for the young genius. The gentlemen, as 
 was natural, growing somewhat impatient, 
 and seeing no likelihood of his coming, 
 h 1
 
 100 THE LIFE OF 
 
 I dispatched a servant to remind him of 
 his engagement. Word was brought me, 
 that he was gone out with some of his 
 straggling acquaintance ; but had left no 
 apology whatever, though a few hours be- 
 fore he had mentioned at his lodging that 
 he was to dine that day with me. Dinner 
 was served without him ; and though the 
 company staid rather late, still (as it 
 seemed) in expectation of seeing him, he 
 sent no excuse, nor made his appearance 
 during the whole evening. It was doubtless 
 a blameful neglect ; but after the first 
 warmth, I anticipated in my mind many 
 things which might be alleged in his fa- 
 vour, and let it pass. He was afterwards 
 often at my house, and very much indeed 
 with me, though never an inmate; and was 
 always a welcome guest. When he could 
 be drawn out, any one was gratified for the 
 trouble. His information and knowledge 
 of books, appeared far beyond his oppor- 
 tunities and his years ; and notwithstanding
 
 DERMODY. tOi 
 
 his peculiarities, some of them exception- 
 able enough, time and a better acquaint- 
 ance softened down their asperities, and I 
 grew attached to him. Under the garb of 
 rusticity and shamefacedness, it was easy 
 to perceive that he stood high in his own 
 opinion. This was his tender point; which 
 at that juncture I thought it more advisable 
 to give way to, than roughly oppose. Thus 
 by bending a little to his foibles, I gained 
 his confidence ; and imperceptibly secured 
 an ascendancy over him, which, while he 
 continued near me, and also in our subse- 
 quent correspondence, though frequently 
 interrupted, I converted to his use." 
 
 Dermody, seeing no prospect of being 
 released from his confinement in the kitchen, 
 which he considered as a disgrace never to 
 be forgiven, at last gave vent to his feelings ; 
 and, in a paroxysm of resentment, wrote 
 four lines in which the families of his pa- 
 tron and patroness were severely and hu-
 
 102 THE LIFE OF 
 
 mourouslv satirized. These lines were not 
 intended for publication, nor was it his 
 wish that they should ever be seen : they 
 were consequently, when his anger cooled, 
 thrown carelessly among many others into 
 a corner of his room. Here, after a short 
 time, they were unfortunately discovered 
 by his prying landlord Aickbome ; who, 
 being a violent methodist, took this oppor- 
 tunity of revenging himself on Dermody 
 for having refused to become a proselyte, 
 and for passing some unlucky jokes on his 
 intemperate zeal in trying to convert him. 
 This man, though he knew that Dermody 
 existed only on the liberal exertions of 
 his benefactors, whose influence he himself 
 also shared, secreted the paper containing 
 the four satirical lines, and immediately 
 carried it in savage triumph to Mr. Austin; 
 who, justly conceiving that he merited a 
 different return for his kindness, in the 
 heat of passion destroyed the poems which 
 he had collected for publication, returned
 
 DERMODY. 103 
 
 to the subscribers the whole of the money 
 he had received for the boy's support and 
 education, shut his doors against him, and 
 turned him out once more upon the world, 
 friendless and forsaken. 
 
 It is to be wished that Mr. Austin, whose 
 general character is that of a pious and 
 benevolent man, had been less severe in 
 his resentment : and that he had coolly 
 investigated the conduct of the boy, and 
 the motives of his accuser, before he in- 
 flicted a punishment so fatal ; which was at 
 once to expose its object to all the horrors 
 of poverty, and shut him out for ever from 
 the pity and protection of those who had 
 humanely relieved him in his former dis- 
 tresses, and who felt a happiness in seeing 
 him (as they imagined) placed beyond the 
 reach of new calamities. The mildness 
 and generosity of his patron were too well 
 known to admit of a doubt with respect to 
 his criminality, or the strict justice of his 
 punishment. All appeals were therefore
 
 J 04 THE LIFE OP 
 
 fruitless : reason and mercy were banished ; 
 passion and prejudice ruled in their stead ; 
 and Dermody was consequently condemned 
 unheard and unpitied. Yet surely, had 
 the secret movements of that worthy gen- 
 tleman's heart been known, it might have 
 been told to the world that the open and 
 unguarded manner in which he received the 
 information from the malignant Aickbome 
 obliged him in his public situation to en- 
 force a punishment which, upon mature 
 consideration, gave him much unhappiness, 
 and that he still felt a tenderness for the 
 youth whom he had in a manner cherished 
 and adopted. His general conduct on other 
 occasions, however blamable, cannot fairly 
 stand in evidence against him here : he 
 was not accused for general irregularity ; 
 the severe sentence he received, was for a 
 single crime, trivial in itself and harmless 
 in its consequences, which would never 
 perhaps have been known but for the prying 
 and impertinent curiosity of Aickbome,
 
 DERMODY. JOD 
 
 - -Diis proximus ille est 
 Qwem ratio, non ira, movet ; qui, facta rependens, 
 Concilio punire potest *. 
 
 He was now in a more lamentable con- 
 dition than when he first arrived in the 
 metropolis. His faults were blazoned forth 
 by every one, and distorted into a thou- 
 sand aggravated forms. He was forsaken 
 and pointed at as a monster of ingratitude 
 -none would listen to his vindication ; all 
 ears and all hearts were closed against him: 
 while the methodist who effected his ruin 
 was applauded for his upright conduct, and 
 gratified himself by seeing a helpless boy 
 of thirteen years of age thrown an unpitied 
 outcast from society, for writing, in a mo- 
 ment of passion, four mirthful lines against 
 his benefactor ! Wherever he appealed, 
 
 * Next to the Gods is he whose temp'rate mind 
 Nor rage can warm, nor thoughtless passion blind; 
 Who guides his anger by reflection's rule ; 
 Mild in his hate, and e'en in vengeance cool.
 
 106 THE LIFE OF 
 
 he was treated with scorn and neglect ; 
 and to make his situation still more piti- 
 able, his stedfast friend Mr. Owenson was 
 at this time in a distant part of the coun- 
 try, and his amiable wife no more. His 
 hopes of immediate relief from that quarter 
 being thus frustrated, he took courage and 
 wrote the following letter to the secretary 
 at war ; who, considering his youth and 
 forlorn condition, humanely administered 
 to his necessities. 
 
 To Sachville Hamilton, Esq. Dublin Castle. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 " Ever sensible of your bounty and pa- 
 tronage, I beg leave to defend myself in 
 your favour. Mr. Austin has been pleased 
 to return the money received from gentle- 
 men for my benefit, on account of my 
 leaving his house. You may suppose that 
 I was culpable for misconduct : in a certain 
 degree I acknowledge it ; but, good hea- 
 ven ! did I deserve so heavy a punishment'
 
 DERM0DY. 107 
 
 The occasion of my writing the few silly- 
 lines for which I have suffered so severely, 
 was derived from my being kept in the 
 kitchen, and made to open Mr. Austin's 
 gate. If I chose, I might be a companion 
 for servants without applying for that treat- 
 ment to him. I hope, sir, you will con- 
 sider that I am as poor now as when you 
 first afforded me your protection, and 
 consequently in need of that money which 
 you were pleased to give me. I am sure 
 no gentleman will be capable of taking 
 back his money, which he gave with be- 
 nevolence. These things which I have 
 mentioned are known to all the young 
 gentlemen of the school. I should be 
 sorry to gain the title of ungrateful, but I 
 must defend myself in the impartial eyes 
 of those who have been my kind bene- 
 factors. 
 
 " I have the honour of being, sir, your 
 humble servant, Thomas Dermody.'-' 
 October 18, 17 89."
 
 .108 THE LIFE OP 
 
 111 this strong tide of affliction, Der- 
 mody found few to comfort him. He felt 
 that to live solely on the smiles of his 
 friends was but a precarious and uncertain 
 good, and that prudence was of more real 
 value than patronage. He justly consi- 
 dered too, that as fortune had again thrown 
 him on a desert where he must either 
 perish or make exertions to encounter and 
 subdue the evils with which he was threat- 
 ened, it was his duty to try the power of 
 those talents for his support with which 
 nature had endowed him. In consequence 
 of this resolution, he commenced a diurnal 
 writer for a newspaper ; and for some time 
 the efforts of his muse were proportioned 
 to his necessities, which indeed were nu- 
 merous. His feelings on this occasion, 
 and the various emotions of his mind, will 
 more forcibly appear from the following 
 stanzas, than from any other description 
 that could be given of them. In the mo-
 
 DERM0DY. JOg 
 
 ment of disappointment he thus strongly 
 argues with himself : 
 
 For me what new frowns of Misfortune remain ; 
 For me, now the longest yet last in her train ? 
 Does the tempest still brood o'er my ill-fated head, 
 While Hope and her fanciful pleasures are fled ? 
 Shall I run to the cell where Despair sits alone, 
 And marks with deep sorrow each slow-moulder'd 
 
 stone ; 
 Or bravely attack what I cannot avoid, 
 And mock all those blessings I once have enjoy'd ? 
 For the arrow that falls on cold Apathy's heart, 
 Obtuse and unfelt, keeps but half of its smart ; 
 While the sting Sensibility's bosom that hits, 
 Torments every nerve, and with life alone quits. 
 
 And in his more tranquil hours he thus 
 humourously petitions Apollo, and relate? 
 to him his many disasters. 
 
 Scarce fourteen summers crown my age. 
 
 And yet on life's oft- varied stage 
 
 (Such are the hapless poet's losses) 
 
 I 've met with fourteen thousand crosses. 
 
 Debts ; duns ; proud patrons all so squeamish-. 
 
 Who damn one for a single blemish ;
 
 HO frllE LIFE OF 
 
 Malice, with blinking eye and shrug., 
 Rooting the grave fond Pity dug; 
 Suspense, on courtier's promise waiting, 
 
 " Like Patience on a monument ;" 
 Envy, that darling imp of Satan ; 
 
 Poetic piqus, and discontent: 
 Full many a bitter pinch ye gave me ; 
 From which, O god Apollo, save me ! 
 
 No more beneath some guardian wing 
 I tune my little pipe, and sing; 
 No more tied by the leg I flutter, 
 Hop but in sight, nor dare to mutter; 
 O'er the wild rields of ether free, 
 I now cry Vive la liber tc ! 
 And though my nest I have not feather'd, 
 I have at least experience gather'd : 
 That rudder of good conduct, guiding 
 To a calm port where Age may ride in ; 
 Till call'd aloft at cherubs' whistle, 
 To try if he has wisely mist ill ; 
 And, without boast or flourish pompous, 
 Kept honour as his star and compass. 
 
 That I have never seen the child 
 Of injur'd merit weep, and smil'd; 
 That I have never heard the poor 
 Sigh out their plaints, and clos'd the door ; 
 That I have never voish'd to wrong 
 The good man in satiric song ;
 
 DERMODY. I,M 
 
 Bear witness Heav'n, that know'st my hearty 
 And now, oh ! take thy minstrel's part. 
 
 Like sad Darius, bruis'd and beaten 
 'Mong those by whom his goods were eaten ; 
 Like Belisarius (poor fellow !) 
 Drest up in rags black, blue, and yellow ; 
 Like grave Cervantes in a J31I ; 
 Like Butler, without soothing ale; 
 Like Tasso praying, in the night, 
 His cat's clear eyes to lend him light ; 
 Like Chattercon, who sung so 'sweet; 
 Like princely The'dore in the Fleet; 
 Like Tippoo Saib by strangers plunder'd j 
 Like like ah me, sirs ! like a hundred ; 
 Behold Tom Dermody quite humbled, 
 From Fortune's wheel (the gipsey) tumbled: 
 Petitioning, in paltry verses, 
 Great George's head-piece from long purses. 
 For he, unlike disloyal brothers, 
 Loves his king's head above all others. 
 
 And shall I now with formal scrape, 
 The muse low-curtseying like an ape, 
 Your pardon for this trifle beg, 
 Dash off some lies and make a leg ? 
 By Phoebus, no I Consult your breast, 
 Where all the soft-ey'd feelings rest, 
 Each tender passion search with care, 
 My best apology is there.
 
 112 TtfE LIFE OP' 
 
 As Defmody intended to continue his 
 newspaper drudgery only till his friend 
 Mr. Owenson should arrive in Dublin, the 
 moment he received intelligence of that 
 event he relinquished his new employment, 
 which with all his diligence procured him 
 but a scanty subsistence. Mr. Owenson 
 was not one of those stern and relentless 
 moralists who, for a few youthful irregu- 
 larities, would abandon the object of his 
 care to perpetual distress. He grieved at 
 the cause which obliged Mr. Austin to 
 withdraw his protection ; but at the same 
 time he had the tenderness not to suffer 
 the late object of it to be driven forth an 
 outcast to despair, and perish. 
 
 Though this friend was thus easily re- 
 conciled to him, he found few of his for- 
 mer admirers of so temperate a nature ; 
 and it was a considerable time before he 
 could either by his merit or his interest 
 attract the notice of new patrons. He was
 
 DERMODY. J 13 
 
 at last, however, by the kindness of Mr. 
 Owenson, introduced to Mr. Atkinson *, 
 whose friendship and protection he enjoyed 
 for a considerable time. Soon afterwards he 
 was, by the recommendation of this latter 
 gentleman and the interest of the reverend 
 Mr. Berwick, noticed and adopted by that 
 glory of her country, the present countess 
 dowager of Moira. 
 
 By the desire and at the expence of her 
 ladyship, he was speedily furnished with 
 suitable necessaries, and placed under the 
 care of the learned and reverend Mr. Boyd, 
 of Killeagh ; a gentleman well known for 
 
 * This gentleman, after serving his majesty with 
 reputation for many years as an officer in the army, 
 became judge-advocate for Ireland. He is the author 
 of a successful comedy called " The Mutual Decep- 
 tion, or Tit for Tat :" and two comic operas, " The 
 Match for a Widow," and " Love in a Blaze;" the 
 former composed by Dibdin, and the latter by Dr. 
 Stevenson. He also published a poem on Killarney. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE LIFE OP 
 
 his classic attainments, and for his elegant 
 translation of Dante. 
 
 In this situation he remained two years ; 
 during which time he greatly improved 
 himself in the ancient languages, and ac- 
 quired a competent knowledge of French 
 and Italian. The countess of Moira marked 
 with fond solicitude the progress w T hich he 
 made in his retirement, and derived no 
 small pleasure from the intelligence that 
 conveyed to her a favourable report of his 
 studies and improvements. The unbounded 
 favours heaped upon him by his generous 
 benefactress and his benevolent instructor, 
 were modestly received and gratefully ac- 
 knowledged. But kindness could not cure 
 his disease : it was his misfortune that the 
 maxims of imprudence and irregularity 
 which had been too strongly impressed 
 upon his youthful mind, could never be 
 thoroughly eradicated ; and with a deep 
 concern Mr. Boyd often observed in his
 
 DERMODY. 1 1 5 
 
 conduct a deviation from propriety. The 
 tenderness and humanity of that gentle- 
 man, however, always triumphed over his 
 resentment : and he generously concealed 
 Dermody's foibles from his patroness ; and, 
 in the hope of his future amendment, re- 
 lated to her only his good qualities. This 
 kindness had for a considerable time the 
 desired effect ; it gave a curb to his licen- 
 tious conduct, and made him often emu- 
 lous and endearing. Lady Moira too aug- 
 mented her favours : she grew attached to 
 her adopted minstrel, and honoured him 
 with her correspondence during the whole 
 period of his residence with Mr. Boyd. 
 
 His acquirements in this time were as 
 conspicuous and extraordinary as his genius 
 and eccentricities ; but while his talents 
 placed him on an eminence among the 
 great and learned, his corrupted qualities 
 sunk him to the low but sociable frequenter 
 of a country alehouse. He had, however, 
 the art long to satisfy his benefactress : as 
 I 2
 
 Il6 THE LIFE OP 
 
 will appear from some extracts and Inte- 
 resting correspondence here subjoined ; 
 which at once prove how lamentable was 
 his folly, how grateful and industrious 
 was his Muse, how splendid his genius, and 
 how great his knowledge of human nature. 
 Those who can appreciate with candour 
 the faculties of the mind, and contemplate 
 with sensibility the misfortunes of life, will 
 value these fragments as literary wonders, 
 and memorials of premature greatness. 
 
 The following dramatic pastoral was Der- 
 mody's first offering to the countess of 
 Moira. 
 
 To the Right Hon. the Countess of Moira. 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " I hope you entertain so kind an opinion 
 of my heart, as to think this intrusion not 
 intended merely as a common dedication, 
 but as a fervent though a humble and un- 
 adorned monument of my gratitude. The 
 2
 
 DERMODY. 117 
 
 protection which I have received from your 
 ladyship, has cherished any spark of poetic 
 heat originally existing in my hreast ; and 
 has enabled me also to correct the little 
 effusions of my Muse by a true course of 
 classic studies, and a strict attention to the 
 venerable admonitions of the ancients. 
 Then to whom could I inscribe the fol- 
 lowing trifle with more justice, than to 
 you ? who, though in the most exalted 
 sphere of life, have stooped to peruse the 
 first attempts of a puerile and unenlight- 
 ened fancy, and have generously persevered 
 in sheltering the life of the author against 
 the clouds of malice and the snares of re- 
 venge. 
 
 " I am, with the most sincere gratitude, 
 your ladyship's obliged and humble ser- 
 vant, 
 
 " Thomas Dermody," 
 
 " KMeigh, iithjjiril, 1790."
 
 IIS THE LIFE OP 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF GRATITUDE, 
 
 Persons, 
 
 EVPHRAN0R,U M ^ # 
 
 Thyrsis, J 
 Guardian Spirit. 
 
 Scene, the Country about Moira. 
 
 Enter Euphranor and Thyrsis. 
 
 euphranor. 
 " Why has thy hastening step so soon outgone 
 The journeying sun ? for scarce the russet lark 
 From his dark wing has shook the morning dew ; 
 Or from her velvet bed, with mellowing note, 
 The blackbird blithe has hail'd the vernal dawn. 
 Say, does the pang of unrequited love, 
 With tingling venom, lead thy early step 
 To solitude and weeping ? or the shade 
 Of yon embow'ring grove, that wildly flings 
 Its ripe luxuriance to the potent hand 
 Of Pallas and the bosom-wreathed queen ? 
 Or does yon blue^ey'd Naiad thus entice 
 Thy musing saunter to her crisped stream : 
 Among her daisy-fringed walks to rove, 
 And tell her willow'd bank thy tender tale; 
 While sportive Echo strains the mimic sound, 
 And swells thy ditty with a deeper woe ?
 
 BERMODY. 119 
 
 THYRSIS. 
 
 " Euphranor, canst thou think such friv'lous dream 
 Could lull my sense, in finer feelings wrapt 
 Of heav'nly gratitude ? Or dost thou ween 
 That Comus, with his wanton witcheries, 
 And syren Pleasure, so absorb my thought 
 As thus to baffle Wisdom's sev'nfold shield, 
 And mock the heav'nly -temper'd spear 
 Of star-crown'd Truth, and manly Reason bland? 
 No : 't is a cherub, from her sapphire throne 
 Of fleecy clouds, that becks me to the sky, 
 Unfolding Heav'n's high-finish'd valves 
 Of crystal masonry. 'T is Virtue calls, 
 Persuasive nymph ! and from her lucid rays 
 Lend6 one pure beam to my unsullied breast. 
 And, lol the foremost in her train divine, 
 Blest Gratitude advances : from her eye 
 Beams fervent friendship ; and her modest hand, 
 Meekly unfolded on her panting breast, 
 Confesses something more than mortal. Hark i 
 'The silver-chorded lyre, celestial-strung, 
 Pours harmony along the melting air, 
 And angels drink the sound. Such minstrelsy 
 Would ill befit belated revel-rout ; 
 Or wassail wild, with vice unholy knit 
 In fell alliance. 'T is the virtuous meed 
 Of men ennobled by their own great deeds. 
 That still accompanies the warmth sincere
 
 120 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Of the melodious tear that moistly dews 
 
 The laurel-woven tomb of heroes. Swain r 
 
 I could astound thy rural ear with names 
 
 Full gallant in the listed rolls of Fame, 
 
 That ask the warrior song, the storied bust, 
 
 The last sad tributes of posterity. 
 
 Hast thou not heard of Hastings' val'rou s lord, 
 
 Right noble in distinguish'd chivalry ; 
 
 And Huntingdon, the darling child of Fame ? 
 
 Those well deserve such honours. I would pay them 
 
 But, ah ! it ill befits the past'ral oat 
 
 To try the Naenian dirge ; nor can the nymph 
 
 That wont to wander in the myrtle shade 
 
 Of smiling Plenty, wreath the laureate booi>, 
 
 And bind the rugged front of gory Mars. 
 
 Yet I will praise that all-accomplish'd queen 
 
 In whom the virtues centre: and attempt 
 
 To blend the dulcet modes of harmony 
 
 With the uncourtly labours of the Muse ; 
 
 Ah ! too, too rude, to greet her temper'd ear, 
 
 Who o'er this wide domain dispenses peace, 
 
 And rose-cheek'd Plenty. Ev'ry shepherd swain 
 
 Shall join the lay ; and with the grateful heart, 
 
 Mutely' eloquent, supply the tuneful pause. 
 
 The wreathed fays shall come, and all the choirs 
 
 Of jocund songsters (Dryad, Nymph, or Faun; 
 
 Or Naiad green, whose crumpled surges seek 
 
 The coral cell of Neptune) here shall weave
 
 DERMODY. 121 
 
 Unanimous the wreath, and raise the song : 
 And be the theme benevolence and Moira ! 
 
 EUPHRANOR. 
 
 " At that known hallow'd name my thankful heart 
 Beats quick the impulse keen of gratitude. 
 For she alone has eas'd my orphan grief, 
 And barr'd my wand'rings. Rancour's killing blast 
 Has shed its blighting mildew on my head, 
 And marr'd the blooming prospect of my life. 
 Ah, ill-tim'd Envy ! I have felt thy sting: 
 Before that pang I sure had grief enough, 
 And grief too piercing for a youth to bear ! 
 But that last poison dash'd the venom'd bowl 
 With deadlier aconite, and quench'd the ray 
 That feebly gleam'd a momentary light 
 Along the sombre scenery of my fate. 
 'Twas she alone that from the chilling blast 
 Receiv'd my shatter'd bark, whose swelling sails 
 Once caught th' auspicious gale of fond applause. 
 Proud of that trifle, popular assent 
 Urg'd my young spirit, in despite of right, 
 To rove unguided : but, alas ! I fell ; 
 Unpitied, only by a few who felt 
 For human weakness. From afar 1 view'd 
 The lambent ray of Moira's cheering smile. 
 I heard, rejoic'd, the artless tongue untaught 
 Of cherub innocence, in lisping sounds
 
 322 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Warble her praise : and may the seraph throng 
 That pour the lay around th' immortal throne 
 (Strong Faith ; whose gorgon-buckler, magic proof, 
 Can petrify the frown of Blasphemy : 
 And ether-mantled Truth ; and oliv'd Peace) 
 Lean from their starry couch, and mildly raise 
 The poet's fav'ring patroness to heav'n ! 
 While pure Religion (not with look austere, 
 As falsely pictur'd ; but with charmed grace) 
 Shall bid the cloud- capt roof of heav'n resound, 
 And ev'ry spangled meteor brightly flame. 
 
 Enter Guardian Spirit. 
 
 " Shepherds, forbear : your praise, though so sincere, 
 Diminishes the subject. Can the pipe 
 Assume the spirit of the Spartan fife ; 
 Or, emulous to mock the trumpet shrill, 
 Add deeper cadence to the martial sound 
 Breath'd from the brazen throat of War ? 
 Ev'n I, who oft have tried the sanguine field, 
 And the big horrors of the fight, renounce 
 The arduous task. Oft have I fac'd the flame 
 Of many a falchion light'ning with the fire 
 Struck from the eye of fury, and unmov'd 
 Paus'd on the slain ; yet my unsteady gaze 
 Can scarcely meet bright Virtue's falcon -sight, 
 Though of celestial race. From Jove I spring ; 
 Doom'd to defend a line elect below,
 
 EERMODY. 123 
 
 And guide the pupilage of mighty man. 
 'T is I have led the conqu'ring sword so oft 
 Of Hastings' seed, to where the thickest death 
 Shew'd the bright trophy of eternal fame. 
 'T is I have sav'd them from the deadly blow ; 
 While Fate could save, or fav'ring heav'n defend. 
 But now around the laureate urn I twine 
 The blooming flow'r of vict'ry, and command 
 The saffron -kirtled fays to clear the place 
 From blight or mildew where the heroes lie. 
 There, at my call, querulous Naiads weep 
 In liquid woe ; and shed refreshing dews, 
 Commixt with tears, o'er ev'ry sacred spot 
 Where glorious Virtue sleeps. And now I guard 
 A fav'rite warrior through the ranks of war*; 
 Pour the pure precept in his gen'rous breast, 
 And bid the soul with manlier courage glow. 
 E'en now I bind the laurel for his brows ; 
 And may the verdant glories still survive 
 To the full ending of his gallant race ! 
 
 " But, lo ! the purple-kerchief'd ev'ning fades, 
 And in his tent of golden-skirted clouds 
 His burning locks majestic Phoebus shrouds. 
 Thick fumes the vapour from the humid rill, 
 And tides of light array the lofty hill. 
 The weary oxen trail the team along, 
 And Philomela chaunts her love-lorn song." 
 
 * The Earl of Moira, then Lord Rawdon.
 
 124 THE LIFE OF 
 
 And again in the following ode : 
 
 To the Right Honourable Elizabeth, Countess of Moira, 
 Baroness Hastings, &e. 
 
 '* Say, what high skill awakes the golden lyre ? 
 
 For music more than mortal flows 
 
 From yon fresh arbour's deep repose ; 
 
 Mild'ning the air, it floats along. 
 
 Lo ! saintly forms, a radiant throng, 
 Descend well pleas'd to join the warbling choir, 
 To lift the tow 'ring soul, and fan Religion's fire ! 
 
 '* 'T is Gratitude attunes the string, 
 
 Nymph of the sparkling eye and throbbing breast ; 
 While heav'nly squadrons furl the wing, 
 
 And consecrate her holy rest. 
 
 " An amaranthine wreath she weaves, 
 To deck some princely fav'rite's brow ; 
 The flow'rs beneath her finger blow, 
 
 And Friendship sweet the toil deceives. 
 
 Meanwhile Affection's fervent pray'r 
 
 Hallows each leaf, and makes the meed more fair. 
 
 " 'T was Gratitude, the minstrel's pride, 
 That erst o'er Sydney's mournful hearse 
 Strew'd the immortal palms of verse, 
 
 And told the world her patron died.
 
 . DERMODY. 125 
 
 She prompted Dryden's hand profuse, 
 To sprinkle pure Castalian dews 
 
 O'er Hastings' tomb, and mock the dire disease *. 
 She too in Akenside's majestic lay f 
 Did the true glories of thy race display, 
 
 With classic elegance and Attic ease. 
 If I, the humblest of the tuneful train, 
 
 May unreprov'd combine with these, 
 O goddess ! let me add my uncouth strain : 
 Though rude it be, and void of varnish'd art, 
 From a fond breast it flows, and from a feeling heart. 
 
 " 'T is not the regal honours of thy line, 
 Nor all the gallant deeds that shine 
 In Fame's long list of thy heroic sires, 
 The muse of nobler aim admires : 
 But Bounty's ray, diffusing wide 
 
 Its genial influence, claims the poet's praise ; 
 
 A tender heart, a love to raise 
 Dejected merit from Oblivion's cell, 
 
 Claim the blest tribute of immortal lays: 
 And virtues such as those shall ever swell 
 Futurity's record, and Moi r a 's goodness tell. 
 
 * Dryden's Elegy on Lord Hastings, who died of the small- 
 pox. 
 
 f Akenside's Ode to the Earl of Huntingdon.
 
 Il6 THE LIFE OP 
 
 * When Fashion turn'd the sated eye, 
 With sullen lip, from my ill-fated page ; 
 
 When Party's ruffian-rage grew high, 
 And fiercely threaten'd to engage 
 My sinking bark ; then didst thou come, 
 
 Like some meek angel from the sky : 
 
 Thy brightness chas'd the gathering gloom ; 
 
 Thy presence aw*d the rude tumultuous crew, 
 
 And Malice to her cave infernal Hew. 
 
 " Blest patroness, how shall I pay 
 So large a debt ? For poor the lay 
 Which Milton heard, entranc'd in nightly dream, 
 To thy compassion's dazzling beam. 
 Thy guardian care, thy sympathetic sense, 
 Can find in heav'n alone an equal reeompence." 
 
 The concluding lines from a descriptive 
 poem of considerable length entitled Mont- 
 alto, and inscribed to his patroness, con- 
 vey the same grateful sentiments : 
 
 *' Such are the joys, unting'd with worldly strife, 
 That gild the tenor of a rural life: 
 When all the soul imbibes sublimest food, 
 And learns the noblest art of doing good ; 
 When all the fancy soars on loftiest wing, 
 And all the passions tune th' accordant string.
 
 DEItMODY. 127 
 
 All hail, ye days of happiness so bright ! 
 All hail, ambrosial visions of the night ! 
 When dreams that break the guilty murd'rer's rest 
 Fly unavailing from the blameless breast ; 
 When storms that beat against the storied hall, 
 Contemptuous turn, and spare the cottage-wall ; 
 When rose-lip'd Health,that leaves the rich man's bed, 
 Waves her soft wing around the peasant's head, 
 Pours richest fragrance on his rosy cheek, 
 Bought with the labours of full many a week, 
 Refines with sweet'ning touch his slender meal, 
 And draws upon his life her brightest veil. 
 
 " Such are the charms that I was wont to see ; 
 And sure those charms, Montalto, rest in thee ! 
 Where Moira, princely Mo ir a, leads the way, 
 And beauteous Granard vindicates thy sway. 
 With fav'ring eye they read my poorest lays ; 
 Nor check my nights, but sometimes deign to praise** 
 And may the lyre forget its wonted sound, 
 With barren wreaths my aged brow be crown'd, 
 When their continued fame shall cease to fire, 
 And cold neglect untune the warbling wire, 
 Who gave me here to trace the dewy lawn, 
 Or shake the spangled copse at rosy dawn ; 
 Who gave my Muse the classic grace to please j 
 Who gave me all this competence and ease ! 
 Full many a pang their gen'rous deeds impar^ 
 Pangs that denote my unrequiting heart.
 
 128 THE LIFE OP 
 
 " But hark ! what music floats along the gale ? 
 What sorrowing sounds of sympathy assail 
 My list'ning ear? I know that pensive groan: 
 My soul must join the ringdove's melting moan. 
 Ev'n she can tell her patron's tender care, 
 What hand has wove her willow mansion there, 
 What voice has bid the mourner cease to grieve, 
 W T hat ear attends her song at sober eve. 
 In every note that tells her fate so blest, 
 'Tis Moira's name that swells her little breast. 
 
 " Ah ! deeds of tenderness, to earth unknown, 
 Felt by her keener sense and heav'n alone, 
 'Tis you that -raise the mind with joy sincere, 
 And pour to God rich incense in a tear; 
 At Pity's shrine with diffidence impart 
 That noblest hecatomb, a feeling heart ; 
 And in one sigh the mockeries outdo 
 Of those that, saint-like, mourn to sin anew ; 
 That treat the human ties with ranc'rous sport, 
 And quit the temple to adorn a court."
 
 DERMODY. 129 
 
 To the Right Hon. the Countess of Moira. 
 " Madam, 
 
 u It is from your bounty I breathe, 
 and your benevolence supplies the want of 
 a father and a mother ; permit me, then, 
 to address you without any fear of repre- 
 hension. My idea of life is not poor and 
 frivolous ; I therefore should wish to employ 
 any talents I may have, while youth inspires 
 them. God has endowed you with the 
 capacity to relieve the son of sorrow, and 
 to introduce uncultivated merit to the light. 
 I know I shall never rest till I try the grand 
 theatre of literature, London ; and would 
 wish then to have my own free will. I 
 therefore implore your ladyship to favour 
 my entrance with some introductory letters, 
 which might be of most essential service to 
 me. How soon might you, from the well- 
 deserved wealth you possess, bestow some 
 untransitory possession on the humblest of 
 your creatures, and smooth the road of 
 life for ever ! How soon, by only your 
 
 vol. 1. k
 
 130 THE LIFE OP 
 
 recommendation, might you cheer a heart 
 long broken, and enliven your soul with 
 the thought of freeing one of your de- 
 pendants from future worldly mischance ! 
 
 " I am, Madam, with the sincerest grati- 
 tude, your ladyship's humble and obliged 
 servant, Thomas Dermody." 
 
 " Kille^ April 16, 1790." 
 
 Her ladyship paid attention to this letter; 
 and without giving him any intimation of 
 her designs, secretly paved the way for his 
 future advancement. 
 
 Retirement had at first but few charms 
 for Dermody, and it was a considerable 
 time before he could dispel the melancholy 
 which had been gradually nourished with 
 his former disappointments. Habit, how- 
 ever, soon reconciled him to Killeigh ; and 
 there was scarcely a being in the village that 
 wasnotat some time or other honoured with 
 an ode, or an humorous epistle. Society, 
 of whatever description, began to have
 
 DERMODY. 131 
 
 allurements for him ; and a few months 
 changed his tone of despondency to strains 
 of satiric humour and frolicsome mirth. 
 The dean, the curate, the parish-clerk, 
 the church, and the very trees and grass of 
 the churchyard, became subjects for his 
 muse. The following letters, and occasional 
 poems and essays, are marked with an 
 originality of thought, a sprightliness of 
 fancy, a depth of discernment, and a know- 
 ledge of human life, superior to the subjects 
 which he thus adorned and illustrated. 
 
 To Mr. Owenson. 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 " I have carefully perused your marvel- 
 lous account, and cannot think from what 
 source it springs ; for I am sure I have 
 given you no cause for such upbraidings. 
 If I have not written this month past, the 
 reason was, my not having any franks, 
 and my unwillingness to trouble you so 
 often with postage. 
 
 K 2
 
 J 32 THE LIFE OF 
 
 ee I have emphatically presented your 
 compliments to Mr. Boyd, who returns 
 them with equal civility. I did not under- 
 stand he wrote any thing on lady Moira's 
 birthday. Mr. Berwick has been pleased 
 to desire me to compose an installation-ode 
 on my lord Forbes's prima toga, vulgarly 
 breeches : which I have done, and sent off 
 to lady Granard ; whom (without any 
 hypocritical reasons) I confess I am eternally 
 bound to honour and oblige, as far as my 
 very weak abilities can reach. 
 
 " Now, solemnity and complaisance 
 aside. Enter, at the front door, Greek ; 
 from an Attic apartment in the Homeric 
 fashion, at the right wing : Latin, from a 
 temple of Parian pillars and Corinthian 
 brass, in true Virgilian neatness, at the 
 left: Italian, from a picturesque garden, 
 embroidered with rarities, and interwoven 
 with eccentricities, in the real fancy and 
 grotesque wildness of Ariosto : and, lastly, 
 poor slipshod Poesy, bearing up their train.
 
 DERM0DY. 133 
 
 Among these fanes of antiquity, among 
 these inspirers of veneration, does your 
 humble servant, pauvre monsieur Thomas, 
 eat his breakfast on Spartan broth, dine on 
 the sumen of a sow, swallow his after- 
 dinner nuncheon of macaroni, and for a 
 light regale, sups upon the water-cresses of 
 Helicon. The production of the last- 
 mentioned vegetable I send you, to shew 
 how far superior it is to any of the Irish 
 cabbages I was so fond of before. I not 
 only send you this poem for the above- 
 mentioned reason, but that you may re- 
 member this month, and how favourable it 
 is to young larks. Nay, now, don't dart 
 at my little warblings, like a true hyper- 
 critical hawk ; but rather cherish them, 
 that I may retain some notes to amuse you 
 with next winter. 
 
 " Dear Sir, I am yours sincerely, 
 
 " Thomas Dermody." 
 
 " At the Reverend Henry Boyd's> 
 Killeigh) May 10, 1790."
 
 134 THE LIFE OF 
 
 THE FISION OF KILLEIGH CHURCH, 
 
 As through the churchyard path I rov'd, 
 The mould'ring turrets stagg'ring shook ; 
 
 The stones in ruin'd row remov'd, 
 Out flew the owl, and lonely rook. 
 
 Tn antique garb of Erin's loom, 
 
 Such as on moss-grown tomb is seen, 
 
 A rev'rend spirit trod the gloom, 
 With venerably -pensive mien : 
 
 A broken cross adorn'd his head, 
 
 Which shew'd the blossoms of decay : 
 
 His sighs a holy stillness shed : 
 At last I heard him softly say : 
 
 M Alas ! where are my glitt'ring tow'rs, 
 My seats where mournful sinners pray'd; 
 
 Where rosy abbots pass'd their hours, 
 And comforted the bashful maid ? 
 
 * No silver bell, with heav'nly call, 
 
 Sounds sweetly through the rocking spire j 
 
 No Peter-pence from rich men fall ; 
 No symptoms of religious fire. 
 
 " The solitary curate too 
 
 Pipes his long sermon through the aisles ; 
 Preaches to each deserted pew ; 
 
 And sees no penitence, but smiles.
 
 DERMODY. J 35 
 
 M The clerk alone, a merry wight, 
 With shrill note bids the echoes ring; 
 
 Fills every bosom with delight, 
 And carols louder than a king. 
 
 " Nor is he pliant to each rite : 
 More glad would he the tankard swill ; 
 
 Attentive to some ancient fight, 
 Of Boyne, Belleisle, or Bunker's-hill. 
 
 " Perhaps, as with sonorous shake 
 He startles the low-murm'ring reeds, 
 
 His thoughts excursive rove on Blake, 
 Or Oliver's ungracious deeds. 
 
 " The dean, good"man ! is seldom here 
 To glaze the window's nitrous pane, 
 
 The aged widow's cry to hear *, 
 Or whistle some facetious strain. 
 
 " Last week he stript my arching glass, 
 
 Through which the dim sun sweetly shone ; 
 
 With relics heap'd his loaded ass, 
 And claim'd the trophies as his own. 
 
 * For this sort of rhime Dermody had the authority of Pope. 
 
 A joke on Jekyl, or some good old Whig 
 Who never chang'd his principle nor wig.
 
 136 THE LIFE OP 
 
 " Ah, that the frame whose tender light 
 Illum'd the nun's sequester'd cell, 
 
 Should blaze, ill-doom'd, the wintry night, 
 And bid its long-lost post farewell ! 
 
 " The dome where sceptred monarchs knelt, 
 And crested chiefs with virtuous look ; 
 
 Where high-born dames persuasion felt j 
 Now howls o'er B and Mrs. C . 
 
 " How fall'n, that bumpkins should be kept 
 In that same honour'd sacred pew 
 
 Where great Macdermot pious slept. 
 Or Rod'rick cough'd with Brian Borooh ! 
 
 " But hark ! I hear my brothers call, 
 To raise some soul from purgatory." 
 
 Away he swept in tarnish'd pall, 
 And here I choose to end my story. 
 
 OLD BACHELORS. 
 
 <{ In this age of essays, when every 
 order of knighthood is admitted, and every 
 manner of grievance redressed, I cannot 
 without much contrition think on the care-
 
 DERMODY. 137 
 
 less inactivity in which I have spent many 
 hours that, if properly applied, might in 
 all likelihood have instilled balm into the 
 bleeding bosom, or effectually cured the 
 wounds of some languishing fellow-crea- 
 ture. With this good and wise intention, 
 I now desert my arm-chair for the less 
 uncomfortable situation of a study : armed 
 cap-a-pee, and determined to parry off all 
 attacks and malicious insinuations levelled 
 at the thrice-honourable character of an 
 old bachelor : affirming also, that this par- 
 ticular species of mankind is the only 
 remnant of ancient Christianity, and even 
 of celestial purity. Which assertion I shall 
 endeavour to prove ; and hope, by the 
 inspiration which so noble a cause shall lend, 
 to succeed therein, to the satisfaction and 
 conviction of all miso-bachelors. But first, 
 be it known, that a person who has been 
 formerly married, or shall be so in future, 
 deserveth not the illustrious title.
 
 33$ THE LIFE Of 
 
 ** At the moment when I begin this 
 arduous task, I am thoroughly aware of 
 the indignities which the vagabond Lace- 
 demonians did formerly offer to this tribe, 
 and of which Plutarch (like a loggerhead) 
 expresses his approbation in his very ill- 
 written life of Lycurgus. St. Augustine 
 too, whose pardon I must beg for the 
 heathen company I introduce him into, 
 was a mighty stickler for cuckolds ; and 
 Gregory also : (here we may remark the 
 wonderful favour towards incontinence, of 
 the very fathers ; a dissection of character 
 for which I seriously deserve a seat in the 
 Royal Society.) But the most flagrant 
 insult on the brotherhood is contained in 
 the following : 
 
 " ' Multi, non quidem omnes' (which 
 non quidem omnes is well put in), ' sed tamen 
 multi, certum est, nee latere possunt prae 
 multitudine, nee prae impudentia quserunt. 
 Multi utique libertatem in occasionem
 
 ' DEBMODY. 13Q 
 
 carnis dedisse videntur, abstinentes remedio 
 nuptiali, et in omne deinceps flagitium 
 effluentes. Utinam qui continere non 
 valent, coelibatui nomina dare vererentur.' 
 Bernard, de Conversione. 
 
 " On our side it is now time to begin 
 something. Passing over the bachelorly 
 life of St. John, I should be glad that the 
 umpire would peruse the subsequent historic 
 proofs : 
 
 " ' Hasliam, neque Haeliseum, uxores 
 habuisse, aut liberos genuisse, usquam le- 
 gimus. Et a nemine ante Evangelii tem- 
 pora, praeterquam ab iis, mortuos ad vitam 
 excitatos : ut miraculi raritas, ac magnitudo 
 servatae castimoniae, testetur meritum.' 
 Sab. lib. v. cap. 7. 
 
 " 'Malchus,monachus captus a Saracenis, 
 cum a domino suo cogeretur servam Chris- 
 tianam matrimonio sibi jungere, mortem 
 sibi ipsi conscivisset ; nisi ab ilia, voto 
 communi castitatis suscepto, servatus 
 fuisset.' Hieron. in vita Malchi.
 
 140 THE LIFE O? 
 
 " ' Marsyas Phryx ingenio prudentiaque 
 mirabili fuisse dicitur. Conjecturam ingenii 
 sumuntj quod voce sonum multiplicis 
 fistulas imitatuSj ad tibias earn harmoniam 
 traduxit : prudentiae, quod usque ad ex- 
 tremum vitae finem coelebs vixit.' Diodor. 
 lib. Hi. cap. 5. 
 
 " 'Epaminondas, dux Thebanus, coelebs.' 
 Polyb. in Epamin. 
 
 " Vide Roberti Bellarmini Disput. Joan. 
 Gerson. torn. ii. Clericorum. 
 
 " * Disputante Paulo de justitia, castitate, 
 ct de judicio futuro, tremefactus Felix, 
 respondit, Abi P Act. xxiv. 25. 
 
 " * Dos est magna parentum 
 
 Virtus, et metuens alterius viri 
 
 Certo fcedere castitas.' Hor. Hi. Carm. 24. 
 
 '* ' Tellus, Vestaque numen idem est.' 
 
 Ovid. vii. Fast. 6. 
 
 c< * Atque si considerare volumus quae srt 
 in natura hominis excellentia et dignitas,
 
 DERMODY. 141 
 
 intelligemus quam sit turpe diffluere 
 luxuria, et delicate ac molliter vivere; quam 
 honestum, parcel continenter, severe, ac 
 sobrieV Cic. de Offic. 
 
 " ' Castitatis proprium est, alta et seria 
 cogitare.' Lipsius, Ax. Mor. et Exempl. 
 cap. 6. 
 
 "'Cum quidem stolidus, audiente Pytha- 
 gora, diceret, malle se cum mulieribus 
 esse quam cum philosophis conversari : 
 s Et sues/ inquit Pythagoras, c libentius 
 in cceno quam in aqua versantur.' Diog. 
 Laert. de Vita et Mor. Phil. 
 
 " Before me, the learned bookmonger 
 will apprehend that Vincentius Bel vacensis, 
 Bernardinus Scardoneus, Jacobus Magnus, 
 Caelius, Johannes Lamola, Plutarch, Pliny, 
 and Aristotle, have treated of the same 
 important topic. And when I have suffi- 
 cient leisure, as a further confirmation I 
 shall add the names of illustrious bachelors, 
 with references to my authorities ; under the
 
 142 THE LIFE OP 
 
 title of Ccelebes antiqui, alphabetice numc- 
 rati. 
 
 " Let the curious be on the watch, for I 
 publish speedily. I shall at present only 
 mention a few personages who have made 
 violent efforts at bachelorship, or triumphed 
 over the instigations of unchastity in many 
 trying stations. 
 
 (i Heroes. Authorities. 
 
 Alexander the Great. Plutarch. 
 
 Bellerophon. Homer, II. 3. 
 
 Cyrus. Xenoph. Cyrop.1.5. 
 
 Julian. Marcellinus. 
 
 Peleus. Pindar, Ode 5. Nem. 
 
 Pausanias. Herodotus, lib. Q. 
 
 Scipio. Livy, dec. iii. lib. 5. 
 
 " Were not these all great men, and their 
 historians men of veracity and honour I 
 What avail a handful of fathers, against a 
 bushel of reputable Greeks and Romans
 
 DERMODY. 143 
 
 iS A bachelor can have no profane squab- 
 bles, for he has no wife ; so that he cannot 
 imbibe evil conversation from her lectures. 
 He has not led his children in the path of 
 unrighteousness, held up the mirror of vice 
 to their eyes, spoiled them by indulgence, 
 or destroyed them by moroseness. He 
 does not swear, for he has no domestic 
 devil to irritate him ; he does not weep, for 
 he has no pin-money to pay ; he does not go 
 to hell, because bachelors by proverbial 
 prophecy shall go to heaven . The poignant 
 sufferings of life ; the agonizing ecstacy of 
 love in its various moods of pensive dejec- 
 tion, jealous anxiety, or unutterable anguish 
 and despair ; can never overtake him. The 
 tender parting, that exquisite scene of feel- 
 ing, where the beloved wife lies expiring, 
 where the dear infant faints, are feebly 
 pictured (if at all) in his imagination. Let 
 every one then of sober reason sit down, 
 and bless his stars that for a single hour of
 
 144 THE LIFE OF 
 
 joy, transitory, perishable, sensual, un- 
 sublimed joy, he has not bartered years 
 of peaceful content, unclouded tranquillity, 
 delicious free will, and heavenly rapture. 
 Let not the idea of matrimonial concord 
 and sweet society bewitch the senses : but 
 let woman, that fair, seductive, female 
 Satan, bewail to eternity her grandmother's, 
 nice taste in longing for the apple ; let her 
 die an old maid in earnest ; and in spite of 
 her exertions, let nunneries flourish, chris- 
 tenings decay, and marriages ( leave not 
 a wreck behind.' 
 
 u Some good-natured hen-pecked hus- 
 band in his honeymoon, may argue against 
 my tenets. He may exclaim, that though 
 the cup may be tinged with gall, yet is it 
 replete with honey ; though a wife may 
 produce the overflowings of occasional 
 anger, yet is she a fountain of nectar, and 
 source of every comfort. ( Who,' he will 
 say, ' can participate with equal tender
 
 BERM0DY. 145 
 
 alacrity in the sorrows of man ? who can 
 so charmingly dispel the gloomy prospects 
 of the world ? in a word, who but a woman 
 can add pleasure to discourse, and spirit to 
 enterprise ?' Every one may perceive that, 
 like an honest counsel, I admit all pleas 
 against me ; but at the same time, that I 
 value these pleas at nothing. My former 
 enumeration of conjugal misfortunes and 
 disagreements is sufficiently copious ; and, 
 I believe, answers the whole stock of 
 philogamists. I do not, in imitation of 
 the pope, damn all those who disbelieve 
 my infallibility ; but I pronounce ruin, 
 confusion, scolding nights, turbulent days, 
 and grievous gnashing of teeth, on them, 
 ad infinitum. 
 
 " A widow I look upon as the most 
 tremendous wild beast in creation. Her 
 appetite is but whetted by transient enjoy- 
 ment : her passion is a continual fire ; and, 
 like the miser's, increases by acquirement. 
 
 vol. I. l
 
 146 THE LIFE OF 
 
 A widow will never deal out her affections 
 without some artful views. She has been 
 a deep student in the heart of man ; and, 
 aided by that knowledge, will turn her poor 
 weathercock at pleasure. She will wind 
 about his soul, she will entwine her hypo- 
 crisy with the very fibres of his being, and 
 then lead him where she will, nor dares he 
 resist though the artifice is evident. She 
 has already practised the wiles of love : she 
 can easily practise them aver again ; and 
 veil the deceit she proposes, with the finest 
 gloss of sensibility. She can employ the 
 varnish of false simplicity, and place it in 
 such a light as to lend it the lustre and 
 shade of the real object: she can repeat 
 vows many times repeated before, and 
 utter expressions of affection calculated for 
 the unfortunate admirer's downfal. Having 
 this definition and intimate analysis of a 
 widow before their eyes, it is to be expected 
 that bachelors will avoid that species with
 
 DERMODY. 147 
 
 particular care : considering them as roaring 
 lions, seeking whom they may devour ; and 
 looking on a widow with the same horror 
 with which they contemplate a bottomless 
 pit, an attorney's bill, a loaded pistol, a 
 mad dog, an earthquake, Dover cliff, a 
 powdering- tub, Vesuvius, a quack-doctor's 
 pill, or any other pestilent phenomenon in 
 creation. 
 
 " Again : let the person who presumes 
 to attaint the life of a bachelor, consider 
 my laborious and excellent treatise cum 
 grano salis, and it is odds that he closes the 
 book with a heartfelt love and sincere at- 
 tachment to such. I assure the critics, I 
 have been at an extravagant trouble in 
 collecting the quotations introduced every 
 where in this learned discourse ; which I 
 wish, and desire, and hope, to set before 
 posterity as a model of elegant style, un- 
 affected erudition, amiable intent, admirable 
 sentiment, and uncommon structure. With 
 a prayer that no frolicsome widow, libertine 
 t. Q,
 
 148 THE LIFE OP 
 
 youth, profligate husband, or card-playing 
 wife, may accost, rally, or inwardly charm, 
 a bachelor with impunity, I end this lucu- 
 bration ; and, fully assured that it will be 
 so, I do at this moment ring the bell for 
 Nicodemus my boy, and order him to 
 accelerate my pipe, coffee, and mulberry 
 night-cap." 
 
 OLIVER CROMWELL. 
 
 (i The impartiality of an historian is what 
 aggrandizes his merit. The invective of 
 party, and virulence of private persons, 
 must not be admitted in that narrative 
 which professes to be candid, and bears the 
 seal of unbiassed truth. If a man capable 
 of exalted ideas and unwearied trials of 
 fortitude, with a desire of benefiting his 
 country, deserves praise, such a man was 
 Cromwell. The prevailing licentiousness 
 of the time required a curb ; and though 
 literature dwindled in the fiery ebullitions
 
 DERMODY. 149 
 
 of puritanism, yet was not Cromwell the 
 cause. Even that very puritanism, for a 
 time, was better than the loose works of 
 the most abasing voluptuousness. Severity 
 of maxim is seldom recorded to another 
 age ; but the pernicious pleasurable poison 
 of Dorset, Etherege, Rochester, &c. bears 
 the same taint it received at first to all 
 posterity. 
 
 " In a state of luxury, the ruder breasts 
 which defend our coasts are softened, the 
 nerve of enterprise relaxed, and the scin- 
 tillations of emulation damped and over- 
 come. None can deny that England was 
 situated so at the time when Oliver's 
 glorious ambition fired the nation with an 
 equal zeal for freedom, and detestation for 
 profligacy. Even in that time, a Blake 
 conquered under his banners. The senti- 
 ments of Oliver were the sentiments of one 
 anxious for the public safety, not for his 
 own exaltation. When the crown was 
 within his reach, he declined it : when the
 
 150 THE LIFE OP 
 
 menial slaves of his enemy again turned to 
 him, he despised their ungenerous souls ; 
 and rather chose to free his country by 
 force, than settle it in the hands of court- 
 malefactors. Yes : the ambition of Crom^ 
 well was the ambition of a disinterested 
 defender, an honourable protector ; it was 
 the love of a father for his child, rigorous 
 but salutary. 
 
 (e Whatever gloss Waller might have 
 placed on his former conduct, after the 
 Restoration it plainly appears that his heart 
 was more warm, and more nobly transfused 
 through his Elegy and Panegyric, than in 
 his servile but necessary compliment to 
 Charles. In one appears the spirit of a 
 poet ; in the other, the dependancy of a 
 vassal. Charles was a king : but Oliver 
 was more ; he had the exquisite sense of 
 merit which ennobles the subject. I do 
 not intend by this encomium to varnish the 
 deformities of rebellion ; but I intend to 
 countenance the conduct of a man who,
 
 DERMODY. 151 
 
 free from little motives, ventured his life, 
 his fortune, his all, to preserve his native 
 country from the inevitable destruction 
 attendant on despotic extortions. It grieves 
 me to remember, that the place of this 
 lawless arrogance is the same which was 
 the nurse of Sydney, Hampden, Russel, 
 and Wolfe. It grieves me to think, that 
 the bosoms of our fathers were so destitute 
 of courage, so unfeeling to the contumelies 
 of an unrighteous master. 
 
 " Let the pasquinades of envy be there- 
 fore at rest : for a writer who gained no 
 possessions by him, no estate, and whose 
 ancestors never did, is happy to vindicate 
 his conduct, to shew his designs in the 
 true light, to illuminate his intentions, and 
 to plant in every British breast the dauntless 
 assiduity, the sublime wishes, the illustrious 
 name, of Cromwell."
 
 152 THE LIFE OF 
 
 THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE AND OF 
 MILTON CONTRASTED. 
 
 " The Italian writers compare the poem 
 of Ariosto to a garden of melons ; where 
 those that are good are excellent, and those 
 that are bad worth nothing. On the other 
 hand, Tasso is assimilated to a bed of cu- 
 cumbers ; where all are ripe and sound, but 
 destitute of that delicious relish which 
 pleases the most refined taste. 
 
 " Shakspeare (to use this allusion) is a wild 
 garden : where peaches, plums, and apples 
 are found ; some crude, some sour, some 
 rotten, but some incomparable. He is a 
 vineyard of plenty, where many of the 
 finest branches are ruined for want of the 
 pruning-knife. Shakspeare, like the world, 
 is full of good and evil ; but his worst fare 
 is so tempting, that we have not power to 
 refrain from trying it. But the chaste, the 
 sublime Milton, is, like his own Eden, 
 
 * A happy rural seat of various view ;*
 
 DERMODY. 153 
 
 and his work is that fertile ground, out of 
 
 which 
 
 * he caus'd to grow 
 All trees of noblest kind ; for sight, smell, taste : 
 And all amid them stood the tree of life, 
 High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
 Of vegetable gold.' 
 
 Nature is so arranged by him, as to 
 receive an additional lustre from art ; and 
 the exuberance of the earth appears more 
 than the labour of the cultivator. 
 
 " Shakspeare, when he soars, is borne by 
 a Muse of fire beyond human sight ; but 
 Milton in his grandest moments retains the 
 light of reason. His ecstacies are the ec- 
 stacies of a philosopher : Shakspeare's are 
 the flights of an invisible being.^ Notwith- 
 standing this, their spirits are somewhat 
 congenial ; for, allowing the variation of 
 the epic from the dramatic, they move us 
 by the same golden springs of pathos. In 
 the art of exciting terror, I am not sure 
 but that Shakspeare is superior: for iu-
 
 J 54 THE LIFE OF 
 
 stance, the dream of Eve is painted rather 
 tamely, though in just and beautiful 
 colours ; while Clarence's vision displays 
 the inmost recesses of horror, apprehension, 
 pity, judgment, and admirable fancy. The 
 characters of Satan and Macbeth are both 
 indeed extremely well managed, and in my 
 opinion extremely alike: they have the 
 same courage, the same undaunted ambi- 
 tion, uncurbed freedom of will, and spirited 
 fortitude in the hour of destruction. They 
 both are conscious of their ingratitude and 
 wickedness, both stubborn and relentless, 
 and even in the midst of their success they 
 seem to feel a boding of the consequence. 
 The address of the arch-infidel to the sun is 
 a noble description of the remorse attendant 
 on conscience : it shews that even Lucifer 
 himself could not but find its sting. 
 Macbeth in almost every situation confesses 
 his guilt, yet plunges into deeds of tenfold 
 horror. Lady Macbeth might be also in- 
 troduced here, but female tenderness denies
 
 DERMODY. 155 
 
 her savage temper. The most apparent 
 touch that distinguishes Macbeth from 
 Satan, is in his cowardice and mean preva- 
 rication ; he exclaims, 
 
 ' Thou canst not say I did it,' 
 
 to Banquo's ghost, because he only com- 
 manded his assassination : Milton's hero 
 gloried in his undoing ; and, 
 
 i -> * fierce with grasped arm?, 
 Clash'd on his sounding shield the din of war, 
 Hurling defiance to the vault of heav'n.' 
 
 " Shakspeare is like a cataract : at one 
 time rushing through rocks and caverns, 
 foaming and terrifying ; then sinking into 
 a sluggish calm, with nothing but the 
 bubbles of his former sublimity. Milton is 
 a full, not overflowing river ; and, like the 
 river to the sea, hastening towards his 
 illustrious design, never pausing, and sel- 
 4om dangerous to the passengers. The 
 very foibles of one are delusive and charm- 
 ing; but the other, if ever he should
 
 156 THE LIFE OF 
 
 descend, is flat, and liable to inferiority from 
 the nature of his performance. The wild 
 scenery of Shakspeare is the unconnected 
 magic of Merlin, variously diverting : 
 that of Milton is like Plato's Elysium ; 
 enchanting, yet built on the basis of an 
 opinion which bears the air of probability. 
 
 " In a word, the former was a man of 
 many faults and many virtues ; the latter, 
 nearly a pattern of perfection perfection 
 attained by study and dint of learning. 
 Shakspeare was the child of fancy ; Milton, 
 the child of judgment. Milton was the 
 poet and critic too : Shakspeare the poet 
 only ; but such a one as 
 
 * We ne'er shall look upon his like again.' " 
 
 SENTIMENTAL COGITATIONS ON A PIPE 
 OF TOBACCO. 
 
 " That a simple weed should be of such 
 unparalleled service to the whole junto of 
 philosophers, politicians, parsons, and poets;
 
 DERMODY. 15? 
 
 that a small tube with a competent bore 
 should invigorate their spirits, and kindle up 
 their brain; is most marvellous. That the 
 peasant may imbibe cheerfulness, the hypo- 
 chondriac disappoint the bile and the va- 
 pours, and the statesman save a whole state, 
 for a halfpenny, is verily incomprehensible 
 and mysterious. The poet may get inspira- 
 tion for his Muse, brown paper to scribble 
 on, and humour to please his countrymen, at 
 so small expence. Oh, the blessings of a 
 kind legislature ; which thus obliges the 
 world, and exalts the sad hearts of thou- 
 sands ! For my part, I would travel from 
 Connamara * to Jerusalem, and thence to 
 the Antipodes, to find at last a social smoker, 
 a lively coal -fire, and a clear-drawing pipe. 
 " Lost in the clouds of thy influence, 
 sable nymph of India ! and in the depth of 
 thy Castalian tankard, I would defy the 
 world, the pope, and the devil. Besides, 
 thy intoxications are harmless, thy votaries 
 
 * An obscure barony in the western extremity of 
 Ireland.
 
 158 THE LIFE OP 
 
 all sentimental, and all (in spite of thy 
 fogs) pervious to the imploring eye of pity, 
 the warm tear of gratitude, and the eloquent 
 sigh of misfortune. i Fortunatos nimium /' 
 Golden feast ! second course to the acorns 
 of simplicity, and the unbought dainties of 
 Eden. Light lie the sod on the wight who 
 first explored thee, and long may thy own 
 balm allay the labour of the swarthy slave 
 who planteth thy luxuriant seeds !" 
 
 THE ANCIENT COMEDY OF ENGLAND, 
 AND THE MACHINERY OF SH4KSPEARE. 
 
 <e The manners of men are variable : 
 the fashion of literary performances, espe- 
 cially of the dramatic kind, must change 
 aVo. The obsolete language of Elizabeth 
 Would appear as incongruous in the mouth 
 of a modern actor, as the ruff and trunk 
 hose of her time would be on one of our 
 present coxcombs. The fops of antiquity 
 ca.n scarcely excite a smile now : we must
 
 DERMODY. 159 
 
 have something of our own date to laugh 
 at. The Bobadil of Jon son has forced 
 applause for a few nights, and Morose may 
 have diverted some congenial spirits ; but 
 we still join with hearty risibility in the 
 tricks of Scapin, or the quaint archness of 
 Jeremy. Yet there are many dramas that 
 pleased our grandfathers, which might 
 again please us : for instance. Love's last 
 Stake, the Plain Dealer, with many others 
 of Jonson's, Shadwell's, &c. which are now 
 resigned to oblivion by the supercilious taste 
 of our present splenetics. 
 
 te Our declension in tragedy was rapid. 
 We must allow our ancestors superiority on 
 this head at least. Are we to compare our 
 gold-leaf to their sterling bullion ? Are our 
 Clementinas and our Alziras to be placed 
 in the same rank with the Actor of Mas- 
 singer, the Philaster of Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, or the Sejanus of Jonson ? All our 
 excellent productions of the Tragic Muse 
 have stood the test of seventy years. I
 
 100 THE LIFE OP 
 
 shall mention a few of them, which are the 
 most admirable and most forgotten : South- 
 ern's Fate of Capua, Spartan Dame, and 
 Loyal Brothers ; Dryden's All for Love, 
 Siege of Granada, and a few others of the 
 same kind ; Otway's plays, except Venice 
 Preserved and the Orphan, are also for- 
 gotten ; Lee's Theodosius contains some 
 exquisite love-passages ; Hughes's Siege of 
 Damascus; Frowd's Fall of Saguntum, and 
 Philotas ; Fenton's Mariamne ; Home's 
 Siege of Aquileia, and Agis. Let me add 
 to those respectable names, Jephson's Julia ; 
 which for elegant diction judicious conduct, 
 and striking catastrophe, bids fair to be the 
 last ornament of Great Britain. The . 
 reader may observe that I have omitted 
 Glover's Boadicea : it is in my opinion an 
 elegant monument of Attic creation, but 
 destitute of the pathetic ; contrary to the 
 design of the author, who attempted it, as 
 may be easily noticed by the inspecting eye. 
 *' The literary world is very much
 
 DERMODY. l6l 
 
 troubled about the appearance of our pro- 
 mised comet which, as we are assured, shall 
 be eccentric, and at the same time regular. 
 I mean Walpole's tragedy of the Mysterious 
 Mother. I must confess, I am not much 
 moved by the long-thundered denuncia- 
 tions of vengeance on all mongrel tragedy- 
 writers, issued from the mouth of that 
 tremendous dragon Party ; nor should I be 
 very partial to a production of Walpole's. 
 His treatment of genius deserves a similar 
 return of unrelenting insolence. 
 
 " It would be a most elegant offering to 
 the Muses, if some gentleman of erudition 
 and ingenious curiosity would collect the 
 best tragedies and comedies of times an- 
 cient and less remote, with an essay on 
 the manners and customs of the respective 
 ages prefixed. On Mr. Malone the sons 
 of research turn their eyes for this selec- 
 tion : it requires not much study to find 
 out bad plays ; but it claims an uncommon 
 share of experience, diligence, and taste, 
 
 vol. 1. M
 
 )t)2 THE LIFE OF 
 
 to cull the flowers of poesy from the weeds 
 of obscurity and incorrectness with which 
 they are too frequently mingled. 
 
 " I have not mentioned the plays of 
 Shakspeare, nor shall I particularly. They 
 are monuments of everlasting fame ; the 
 boast and genuine glory of England. I 
 shall, however, take some notice of the 
 machinery which he has made use of. 
 
 " In the most fanciful ideas of Shak- 
 speare we find a strict congruity, and 
 something like the air of probability. 
 Though the invention is exquisite, yet the 
 judgment with which the machinery is 
 managed is no less so. The supernatural 
 beings of his Midsummer Night's Dream 
 were the common topics of conversation by 
 the fireside in his own time, and their 
 existence was believed in by others besides 
 poets. Drayton, a much-neglected writer 
 though replete with the beauties of ima- 
 gination, has introduced aerial agents into 
 his most celebrated pieces ; and Milton, in
 
 DERMODY* 103 
 
 some places an imitator of Shakspeare, 
 seems particularly delighted with an oppor- 
 tunity of introducing the fays and elves of 
 tradition. Dryden also has adopted, indeed 
 without sufficient precaution, the admirable 
 characters of Caliban and Arid, changing 
 their names into those of Grimbald and 
 Philidel. Many authors of later date have 
 beautifully transplanted those wonders of 
 * the world unknown' into their poems ; 
 especially Collins, whose Ode on the North- 
 ern Superstitions is entirely made up of 
 them. 
 
 " Yet no one has described a diverting 
 elf but Shakspeare. His Puck is unimi- 
 tated, and at the same time inimitable. 
 He is a good-humoured goblin ; who has 
 fancy and description, and with pleasure 
 betrays his own secrets. I think there 
 appears in many of his speeches a notion 
 that the little accidents which continually 
 assail us poor mortals, are directed by the 
 merry pranks and executed for the diversion 
 m 2
 
 J 64 THE LIFE OP 
 
 of those frolicking invisibles. The thought 
 is, at least, humorous : and poetically 
 speaking may, for aught we know, be true ; 
 for it is foolish to conceive that the exalted 
 hand of Providence would stoop to tamper 
 with our frail tempers in such mean occupa- 
 tions. Some minor spirits of ether may 
 plan the fall of a c three-foot stool,' or 
 ' lurk in likeness of a roasted crab, in a 
 gossip's bowl.' 
 
 " Pope's Rape of the Lock discloses to 
 mortal view the occupations of a class 
 higher though equally frivolous, the race 
 of sylphs. While Puck plays his tricks on a 
 e gossip' or f wise aunt,' Ariel hovers round 
 the toilet of the fair, adjusts a curl, swells 
 the circumference of a hoop, or embattles 
 his light-armed militia. The elegant 
 author of the Triumphs of Temper has led 
 us into mysteries still more obscure, but 
 full as agreeable and marvellous. In his 
 e penal region/ or poetic purgatory, we
 
 DERM0DY. 
 
 J 65 
 
 recognise the features of some celebrated 
 scold, or more celebrated misanthrope. 
 
 i( However engaging these modern in- 
 ventions are, yet, it must be allowed that 
 the flower of fancy bloomed in the most 
 attractive colours on the bank of Avon. 
 To the poet of nature then, to the im^ 
 mortal Shakspeare, I make this humble 
 offering : 
 
 HYMN TO SHAKSPEARE. 
 " Sweet offspring of nature, soft rebel to art, 
 Whom Fancy gave passions, and Pity a heart, 
 From thine Avon repair on the wings of delight, 
 And gild with thy glories the horrors of night. 
 Thy Ariel will light up his glow-worms, to shew 
 Thy rapturous path to a mortal below ; 
 Thy Ob'ron will bid all his small subjects fly, 
 And revel and trip to the glance of thine eye ; 
 While the weird sisters vanish from off the wild heath, 
 And cowslips and eglantines spring forth beneath. 
 The moon shall delay to illumine the east, 
 And thy glad inspiration reign full o'er my breast : 
 My breast, that shall glow with pure thoughts evermore, 
 And the secrets of feeling, of laughter, explore ; 
 Pour joy o'er the earth, if envigour'd by thee, 
 And pay every rite to thy mulberry-tree."
 
 10(5 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS f 
 
 REMARKS ON THE PRESENT STATE OF AFFAIRS; Hff 
 
 A LETTER CJUST ARRIFEDJ FROM JOHN BULL, 
 
 ESQ. TO MR. PADDY WHACK. 
 
 UTILE DULCI. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 " It is very extraordinary that the fol- 
 lowing epistle hath not come through the 
 hands of our most accomplished and erudite 
 viceroy ; it being certainly a paper of great 
 ' moment, and written with a degree of 
 perspicuity and elegance seldom seen in 
 modern composition. The proemium is 
 in my opinion very sublime, and the deli- 
 cate strokes of pity and pathos throughout 
 the whole are sketched with the most polish- 
 ed pen imaginable. Nothing less could be 
 expected from Mr. Bull, that patron of
 
 DERM0DY. l67 
 
 literature and glory of Europe. It is to be 
 hoped that Mr. Whack's answer will not 
 fall short in style and reasoning. Indeed it 
 is almost impossible, in a country abound- 
 ing with so many political link-boys, and 
 humorous and learned chairmen, that any 
 thing unworthy of the noblest genius can 
 be produced. Thank heaven ! our island 
 is not a place where merit may be a moment 
 undiscovered. The eye of taste is una- 
 voidable, and talents are literally forced into 
 the sunshine of fortune. Such uncommon 
 encouragement is the true mark of our 
 national judgment : it is our highest 
 honour, and a little vanity in such a case is 
 
 pardonable. 
 
 iC Phelim O'Gallagher." 
 
 " Mr. Whack, 
 
 " We have for some time been sorely 
 
 grieved, and at many moments very much 
 
 amazed, at the indecent and ungracious 
 
 behaviour on your side of the Channel.
 
 168 THE LIFE OF 
 
 My poor friend, thou hast foolishly rejoiced 
 in thine own weakness, and falsely deemed 
 that thy Irish wolf-dogs could annoy the 
 British lion. What ! hast thou heard with 
 thine ears, and read with thine eyes ? Thou 
 hast, Paddy ; and darest thou then presume 
 to scramble for rights, and privileges, and 
 abolition of taxes, and such trash ? Darest 
 thou dispute the ipse dixit of thy superiors, 
 and kick up a dust against the sun ? Paddy, 
 I trust in the Lord thou hast imbibed none 
 of the infernal maxims of the French. 
 Hast thou not every comfort, nay every 
 luxury, of life ? Hast thou not food and 
 raiment ; with free room to walk, and weep, 
 and laugh, like us ? Ungrateful ! thou 
 woulclst aspire to think and act for thyself; 
 to bluster, stalk, look big, and neigh re- 
 bellion. Thou wouldst aspire to groan 
 under no tribute ; to put the saddle and 
 the pack upon thy dear mother's back ; to 
 side with that arch- infidel Thomas Paine, 
 and that military firebrand and rebel Napper
 
 DERMOBY. I69 
 
 Tandy. Yes, thou hungerest after the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt, and hast already strayed 
 into the paths of unrighteousness. We 
 are hurt to suppose that a person who has 
 so long assisted us, so long borne our 
 commands with humility and meekness, 
 should now toss up the head of defiance, 
 and snort out rebellion and nonsense ; that 
 a person who has fought our battles nobly, 
 should now meditate battle against our- 
 selves. By my soul, reprobate, thou de- 
 servest fines, and imprisonments, and 
 bastinadoes; and fines, and imprisonments, 
 and bastinadoes, tenfold, and even thirty 
 fold, shalt thou incontinently receive. 
 Beware of the wrath and iron scourge of 
 the mighty. 
 
 " But this, Paddy, was only a flash in 
 the pan, just to inspire reverence ; for I 
 shall now descend from the tone of autho- 
 rity (which, I modestly confess, does not 
 very much become me), and deliver my 
 free opinion on the present conjuncture.
 
 I/O THE LIFE OP 
 
 Among your companions, Paddy, there 
 are some who have taken it into their heads 
 that they may do as their grandfathers and 
 grandmothers did before them : that is, not 
 pray on compulsion ; but use the very same 
 implements of worship as were employed by 
 saint Patrick, or Bryan Borooh. These 
 gentlemen desire also to climb the ladder 
 of preferment, to walk with the nobles of 
 the land, and to hold an equal division of 
 power and wealth ! Is not this damnable ? 
 Take care, Paddy : cannons rattling, swords 
 shining, guns popping, &c. I must own, 
 look very disagreeable ; and are neither 
 prepossessing, nor by any means pleasant. 
 Religion and liberty may have very great 
 prevalence from the mouth of a musket ; 
 enough, I believe, to pierce the hardest 
 heart : yet when two or three millions are 
 laid low, cities razed, and churches over- 
 thrown, it is possible a reformation may 
 arrive a little too late. . 
 
 wf I hope, Paddy, you have not any
 
 DERMODY. 1 7 1 
 
 reliance on the bloodthirsty feats of the 
 French : as it is plain they are intolerably 
 wicked and deceitful ; nay, they have been 
 excommunicated by your old friend, who 
 has so often dealt forth blessings on your 
 head. They have proceeded in such a 
 terrible way, that some simple people 
 positively affirm having seen their general 
 breathe fire and brimstone, which is the 
 game as assuring us that the devil and 
 that chief shift clothes together. I am 
 pretty confident that they would never have 
 despised the commands of your old infallible 
 friend, had not the grim being above- 
 mentioned incited them maliciously to the 
 subversion of decorum, bienseance, and 
 obedience. But the devil never plays a 
 good game, without having a false card in 
 his sleeve. My dear Paddy: we who, a 
 few months past, drank with them till we 
 were absolutely intoxicated ; we whose 
 taverns and night-cellars rung with their 
 repeated praises ; in short, we whose very
 
 17^ THE LIFE OF 
 
 wives almost took every friseur and taylor 
 whose visage shewed any symptom of soup- 
 maigre to their bosoms ; have now (by the 
 brazen nose of Oliver, it is veritable truth !) 
 pronounced defiance, and battle, and im- 
 placable hatred, and all kinds of military 
 anathemas, against those identical blood- 
 thirsty fiends. l Set a beggar on horse- 
 back,' Mr. Whack, ' and he '11 ride till he 
 tumbles ;' and 
 
 1 Those who in quarrels interpose, 
 Must often wipe a bloody nose.' 
 
 " So much for them, and so much for 
 ourselves. But what conclusion, think 
 you, shall I draw from this ? Why, verily, 
 that ' a burnt child ought to dread the fire ;* 
 that c when the steed is stolen, it is too 
 late to shut the stable-door ;' that ' two 
 heads are better than one ;' and that but 
 no matter: I shall only exhort you, my 
 gentle pupil, to peruse an elegant little 
 apologue of Esop's (who was born neither
 
 DERMODY. 173 
 
 in the bog of Allen, nor in the fens of 
 Essex, but in the very heart of Phrygia) 
 concerning a bundle of faggots, chew the 
 cud of reason over it, and let not that wild 
 beast civil -war disjoin and tear the golden 
 links of amity and union. 
 
 (c Be first determined to secure your life, 
 and next your rights ; for without that 
 insignificant morsel life, by heaven ! all 
 the treasure of this world is bone, or moon- 
 shine. We should be guilty of the most 
 flagrant ingratitude, Paddy, not to return 
 your services threefold : c the labourer is 
 worthy of his hire,' and emancipation is 
 the boon you most long for. But consider 
 the situation of your own little potatoe- 
 garden : your boats are not very formidable, 
 and your ammunition (notwithstanding a 
 late magnificent display) is rather scanty. 
 Consider also that Victory enlargeth his 
 dominions ; he yearneth for more, and all 
 Rations own that you have the finest oyster-
 
 174 THE LIFE OF 
 
 beds in Europe. At some seasons too your 
 frogs and mushrooms are very plentiful and 
 delicious. Therefore I warn you before- 
 hand, that frogs and mushrooms and 
 potatoe-gardens and oyster-beds are no 
 slight temptations. But enough of this : 
 the ears of the wise are ever open. 
 
 " You have engendered a violent dislike 
 to our most discerning, and deserving 
 rulers : you' have cried out, as loud as you 
 could, that the state-coach is most miserably 
 battered ; the coachman an honest, un- 
 designing, honourable, impolitic fellow, 
 but the postilion (who has usurped the reins 
 to the manifest danger of innocent apple- 
 women, and of his own pericranium) a 
 dark, bloody-minded, smooth-faced rascal. 
 Now this, upon my conscience, Paddy, is 
 downright abuse, and going too far with 
 the business ; for I, John Bull, have often 
 been trampled on, when you, Paddy 
 Whack, only received a slight lash of the
 
 DERMODY, 1/5 
 
 -whip. You are more out of the way, Paddy, 
 and can keep on a certain side of the kennel ; 
 but, by St. George ! I always feel the first 
 stroke, and have two or three battered noses 
 to pay for before the very wind of the blow 
 can reach your ribs. What then, most 
 ingrate, have you to complain of? 
 
 " You say that we have billeted all our 
 beggars of quality on you, franking them 
 over to scrape up some little charitable 
 donation. But, Paddy, this, under favour, 
 is your own special fault : for when we send 
 an eagle, by my soul ! you will have a log; 
 and, log or eagle, you are equally discon- 
 tented. Why then, my dear Paddy, should 
 you apply such desperate remedies ; why 
 foam at the mouth, brandish your shille- 
 lagh, and beat your poor old mother ? 
 * Fair and softly goes far ;' c a sweet word 
 sootheth anger ;' and ' knaves prosper when 
 honest fellows quarrel.' I therefore beseech, 
 and conjure, and command you, to tarry
 
 176 THE LIFE OP 
 
 in peace and plenty, and to make use of 
 the blessings God has given you with thank- 
 fulness of heart : for famine, and desolation, 
 and domestic feuds, are no very enticing 
 objects ; the wounds of society are much 
 sooner inflicted than healed ; the dissen- 
 sions caused by contending zealots are the 
 most permanent and destructive ; and, in 
 short, the disturbances of any common- 
 wealth are invariable omens of its destruc^ 
 tion. 
 
 " Should my prophetic spirit be deemed 
 an evil one, or untrue, consult some vene- 
 rable sybil on the hill of Howth (where the 
 clearness of the atmosphere is very favour- 
 able to refined speculation) : and I venture 
 my blood, body, and worldly wealth, he 
 will inform you that no kingdom has in- 
 creased by loss of inhabitants ; that fire and 
 sword never begot citizens or soldiers ; that 
 persuasion and manly loyalty are the most 
 decisive arguments ; and that the massacre 
 of our fathers, mothers^ sisters, brothers,
 
 MRMODY. 177 
 
 children, and relatives, is not an acceptable 
 sacrifice in the eye of God. 
 
 " I am, my dear Paddy Whack, your 
 affectionate friend and brother, 
 
 " John Bull." 
 Threadneedle Street, 
 Jan. 1791. 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF RAMBLE, 
 
 A PATHETIC TALE. 
 
 <e Is there at this moment an unlucky 
 dog (of whatever occupation, it matters 
 not) who is struggling with the malignity 
 of his disastrous fate ? Is there a spaniel 
 kicked out of place, a bull-dog resigned, a 
 lap-dog in disgrace, or a pointer out of 
 business ? If there are any of these unfor- 
 tunate heroes existing, let them come to 
 the side of my desk, and;wonder at the 
 
 vol. 1. N
 
 17S THE LIFE OF 
 
 multitudinous adventures of their fellow/ 1 
 creature Ramble. 
 
 " Ramble was the puppy of Joker and 
 Dido ; and endowed with the most pro- 
 mising aspect, though he had certainly 
 something of the squire-errant about him. 
 His coat was of the deepest sable, his tail 
 short, his ears cropt, and his feet flexible in 
 his younger days ; but when I saw him last, 
 a little before he died, after having triumph- 
 ed over all obstacles, heu, quantum mutatus 
 ab Mo ! 
 
 li His first excursion was towards a bee- 
 hive, which I suppose he mistook for an 
 enchanted castle. However this might be, 
 he attempted to storm it ; and in return for 
 his gallantry, received about ten thousand 
 stings on his body. 
 
 " He departed somewhat out of coun- 
 tenance, and took up his quarters at an inn 
 near the place. Here he sat ruminating at 
 the fireside for almost three hours, till he 
 spied a spruce London lap-dog; when,.
 
 DERMODY. 179 
 
 ' being smarted with his wounds,' and c mad 
 to see the popinjay, so like a lady's waiting 
 gentlewoman,' he accosted him rather 
 roughly : and in the end of the squabble, in 
 which the beau was an unequal match, 
 inflicted on his antagonist a most terrible 
 bite. The lady who owned the latter, 
 viewing her darling weltering in his blood 
 and howling piteously, actually fainted ; 
 but was soon recovered by the aerial agency 
 of the sylph Hartshorn . She vowed eternal 
 revenge ; and swore, in the language of 
 Brutus, that * she would pursue Ramble 
 the curst, his wife and wicked family, with 
 fire and sword.' The general opinion was, 
 that the stranger was out of his senses, 
 to behave himself so uncivilly to a dog 
 of quality. The shout was set up, all 
 places were searched ; at last the shrinking 
 victim was ferreted out of an open tea-chest, 
 where he had lurked for a long time, 
 ' spectator of the mischief he had made.* 
 4 consultation was held, whether it was 
 
 N %
 
 180 THE LIFE OF 
 
 best to shoot him directly, throw him out 
 of the garret-window, or give him a dose of 
 arsenic. The hostler interfered ; and, 
 seizing our canine Sancho by the hinder 
 heels, hurled him against the wall. He 
 fell ; and, in the thought of all present, to 
 rise no more. I could here introduce the 
 miraculous assistance of a deity, but my 
 friend Horace has made a sensible remark 
 on this subject : suffice it therefore to say, 
 that Ramble, perfectly refresfced with this 
 electrical shock, limped towards his home 
 with much nonchalance. 
 
 cc On his way, some desperate youngsters 
 were whipping their tops, and making 
 merry together. Sir Ramble, not quite out 
 of his trance, straggled through the midst 
 of them : and having a little deranged the 
 economy of their play, received some dozen 
 lashes on his aching sides ; so that he stood 
 like ' Tutchin flagrant from the rod,' or any 
 other notorious offender. His stomach 
 being at present very weak, he took this
 
 DERMODY. P 181 
 
 tisage in high dudgeon, and incontinently 
 began to bark most lustily. In the midst 
 of his cries, an arch wag took direct aim at 
 his right eye, and (ah, dire mischance !) 
 unerringly. Long did our hero, like another 
 Camoens, rove about with his one eye ; and 
 many were the blows that accosted this 
 forlorn Cyclops, being disabled from guard- 
 ing himself on one side by his loss of sight. 
 - He then deserted with a tinker ; but for 
 some misdemeanour, probably that of 
 gnawing his master's leathern apron, was 
 dismissed, and his ears elegantly cropt as a 
 memorial of the accident. 
 
 "A taylor had him afterwards, and by the 
 fall of his goose was very near maiming him 
 for ever. Then with a bachelor did he fare 
 pretty well on some days ; but here also a 
 dreadful mishap threatened his life. A trap 
 was left fresh-baited in the barn of a farmer 
 where a rat-catcher was at present employed, 
 and where Ramble lived sumptuously. 
 Nevertheless, taking an afternoon's walk
 
 182 THE LIFE OF 
 
 about the yard, he espied this Strang 
 engine full of meat. Inquisitive respecting 
 its contents, he popped his neck in ; when 
 down thundered the upper part of the 
 machine. Grievous were his groans, and 
 doleful his lamentations ; till at last the 
 caitiff was redeemed from f durance vile' by 
 a compassionate cook-maid. 
 
 " After this adventure he declined the 
 service of monsieur the bachelor, and 
 followed the fortunes of a pedlar; who 
 indeed fed him pretty decently, but forced 
 him to spend many a sleepless night iu the 
 act of watching his pack. And yet this was 
 the best place he ever attained ; for he was 
 now-Jionoured with a fine brass collar, that 
 I verily believe cost almost four^pence 
 Sterling. Ramble had one keen eye left ; 
 and rightly estimating the value of his 
 lately acquired ornament, again ventured 
 on the king's highway : but in the midst of 
 his villainous avarice and ambition, he was 
 laid violent hands on by a smith, who half-
 
 DERMODY. 183 
 
 strangled him in his endeavours to loosen 
 the fatal decoration from his neck. Well 
 might the exclamation of Virgil against 
 Turnus on his stripping Pallas of his golden 
 belt, be here applied to our renowned 
 renegade 
 
 u He had now committed so many 
 mischievous pranks, that (in the manner of 
 Scipio Africanus) he was signalized by the 
 title of Ramble the rogue. Every village 
 knew his bad qualities ; every tongue railed 
 against him ; and, alas ! every hand was 
 lifted to oppose him. Divers misfortunes 
 did he suffer in this time, for running into 
 churches and barking at the clerk, attacking 
 young children and forcibly stealing their 
 half-munched apples, &c. He was the 
 terror of the country, and as much dreaded 
 as the famous robber in Don Quixote. Bat 
 I need say no more ; as all the particulars 
 omitted here will be perspicuously set forth 
 in the History of his Own Times, written 
 by himself, and shortly to be published.
 
 184 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " We now approach the (not much- 
 lamented) death of this celebrated ma- 
 rauder ; who, after a troublesome reign of 
 nineteen years, five months, and three 
 days, expired peaceably by the fireside, in 
 the year 1791 . Some affirm that his 
 sudden departure from this vale of tears was 
 occasioned by a pungent fit of remorse. 
 It is remarkable that all tyrants (a very few 
 excepted) have repented in the end, and at 
 least died very good. It is to be hoped 
 therefore that the wiles and stratagems of 
 Ramble will be forgotten in the remem- 
 brance of his innumerable sufferings ; and 
 his virtues alone be preserved, together 
 with the narrative of his eventful end, for 
 the perusal of candid posterity. But 
 
 * I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him ;' 
 
 and must inform the reader that his bones 
 were deposited in the earth with all due 
 ceremony, where they rest in hopes of a 
 resurrection by the hand of some in- 
 telligent antiquary."
 
 CERMODY. 185 
 
 DURANWS jUND DURANU. 
 
 A FAIRYTALE*. 
 
 " In days of yore, when innocence and 
 simplicity were sure to find a guardian in 
 some beneficent fairy ; when every cottage 
 was attended by a supernatural being, 
 either good or evil according to the merits 
 of the inhabitants ; lived the shepherd 
 Serenus, a youth of humble fortunes but 
 of elegant manners. Though his occupa- 
 tion was mean, his sentiments were noble. 
 It was his custom to go out every morning 
 after a frugal meal, and remain till the 
 gloom of night, busied in feeding his 
 flocks and rearing his young lambs. 
 
 " Once in the dusk of evening, as he was 
 playing on his artless pipe, a cloud of the 
 
 * Dermody wrote this in ridicule of the common 
 fairy tales, and in order to shew how easy it was to com- 
 bine allegory with the ordinary insipid style of those 
 narratives. . .
 
 186 THE LIFE OF 
 
 most orient brightness opened to his eyes ? 
 and an emerald chariot drawn by four came- 
 leons, their harness all studded with pearls, 
 burst forth, and descended lightly on the 
 green bank where he lay. Two ladies of 
 the most incomparable beauty stepped 
 out. The elder of them had a venerable 
 decency, attempered with the most bene- 
 volent softness in her looks : but the beauty 
 of the younger was astonishing ; her cheeks 
 shone with the rose's own lustre, and her 
 eye was expressive of modest diffidence. 
 
 " Serenus was amazed at the sight. He 
 attempted to kneel ; but the benevolent 
 Sceraba (for that was the name of the 
 former lady) prevented him, and cried : 
 1 Injured youth ; I perceive in thy features 
 the ingenuous bashfulness ofworth, through 
 the dim vapours of rusticity. I am thy 
 friend : follow me.' She then ordered her 
 chariot away, and led our young adventurer 
 by her side. 
 
 " They walked along for a good while,
 
 DERMODY, 187 
 
 till at last they met an old hag of the most 
 hideous visage : her eye-balls were sunk in 
 her head ; her nose was flat, like an ape's ; 
 her mouth a den of loathsomeness ; her 
 chin picked ; her hair snaky ; in short, 
 she was every thing disgustful and horrible. 
 She passed by with a side-glance ; and in a 
 moment vanished in a flame of sulphur, 
 that left a dreadful stench behind. 
 
 " ' This beldam,' said the fairy, c is the 
 fiend Suspicion ; the messenger of Envy, 
 who is an implacable foe to us all. To 
 beguile the tediousness of the way, I will 
 tell you the short but eventful history of 
 my dear Dulassa, the young lady whom you 
 see. She is the daughter of a king : and 
 at her birth her father gave a sumptuous 
 entertainment to all the aerial beings, Envy 
 alone excepted ; who, in revenge for this 
 neglect, followed his darling child with the 
 most assiduous hatred, and embittered her 
 life. Still Dulassa grew more and more 
 accomplished, and was celebrated as the
 
 188 THE tIFE OP 
 
 paragon of beauty. A young prince namecf 
 Duranius paid his addresses to her, but 
 on the nuptial day he was not to be found. 
 I suspect that he was removed by the 
 malignant designs of Envy ; and, in com- 
 passion at the fate of Dulassa, will exert 
 my utmost powers to defeat the evil machi- 
 nations which that mischievous fiend has 
 planned. I myself am a fairy : my name 
 is Perfection.' 
 
 " They now approached a castle of tre- 
 mendous aspect. Its turrets were black 
 and damaged, and its loop-holes presented 
 to the sight myriads of monstrous faces 
 which were continually on the watch. The 
 gate was closed with bars of adamant, and 
 no possible entrance could be found. They 
 were thus at a total stand, when the 
 figure of an archer drest in green appeared 
 and came forward to them. His quiver 
 was scooped from a hollow touchstone ; his 
 shafts were tipt with diamonds ; and each 
 of them haji a label affixed to it, on which
 
 DEHMODY. J 80 
 
 its name was written. On one shaft was 
 inscribed confidence, on a second forti- 
 tude, on a third philosophy, on a fourth 
 penetration, &c. This last he now em- 
 ployed ; and taking a steady aim at the bar, 
 transfixed it. It fell, the gates flew open, 
 and they all three entered without any 
 obstacle. Envy started aghast ; but at 
 the appearance of Perfection, fainted. 
 Glad of the opportunity, the archer shot 
 an arrow with the title conviction to her 
 heart, and she expired. 
 
 " On a sudden the gloomy mansion 
 appeared a magnificent palace; and Serenus, 
 now Duranius, embraced his beloved 
 Durania, so long disguised under the 
 appellation of Dulassa. The king, her 
 father, consented to their immediate mar- 
 riage ; and the solemnization of this illus- 
 trious alliance was not deferred an instant. 
 Perfection bestowed every blessing in her 
 power on them and their future offspring ; 
 and the unknown archer stood before them
 
 T0O THE LIFE OF 
 
 in all his native radiance, and was known 
 to be the mighty spirit of Truth. e Learn,' 
 said he, as he unfurled his wings for heaven, 
 * that merit, however opposed by Envy, 
 will ever retain its intrinsic value ; and be 
 at last brought to light by some auspicious 
 power*.'* 
 
 SIR POLYDORE FOR BRITAIN, 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY GAUNTLET. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 [Translated from the Latin of Romanio ofNectranoj 
 by Geraldus Olorus, a monk.] 
 
 " The next morning, by the dawn of 
 day, he mounted his steed, and set off on 
 a new adventure, the most difficult one 
 treated of in this stupendous history. In 
 the first book, the reader has seen the 
 necessity he lay under of fulfilling his pro* 
 mise to the princess Angelica, whose future 
 happiness depended on the success of his
 
 DERMODY. 191 
 
 exploit ; for she was at present under the 
 influence of the fury Insulsa, whom he 
 was determined to vanquish. 
 
 " After a long journey, he at length 
 arrived at a palace built on a precipice of 
 sand. The roof was covered with a veil 
 of gossamer and the down of doves inter- 
 mixed, the walls were made of lead, the 
 floors of crystal, and the windows of 
 thick ebony. All the parts of the building 
 were incongruously put together. Our 
 knight desired his squire to wind the bugle 
 of defiance, as they passed over the draw- 
 bridge of chrysolite and amber. Roused 
 by the note of terror, a huge giant ap- 
 proached. His front was brazen, his eyes 
 of Are, and his lips turgid with venom. 
 At his first appearance he seemed in stature 
 a pigmy ; but as the bugle sounded louder, 
 by degrees his figure f swelled, till his head 
 appeared to touch the stars. ( Whoever 
 thou art, caitiff/ cried he with a voice like 
 thunder, < that darest attempt an entrance
 
 192 THE LIFE OP 
 
 here without special leave, take this token 
 of my kindness to the grave:' saying which, 
 he lifted his ponderous club, and aimed a 
 blow at sir Polydore that would have felled 
 a squadron ; but the knight, not at all 
 daunted, urged on, and pointing his 
 lance rushed against him with amazing 
 gallantry. The combat thickened. Our 
 knight, having received a stunning fall from 
 the giant, rose with redoubled vigour ; and, 
 fired by revenge, gave him such a gash on 
 the right arm, as disabled the monster on 
 that side. From this time the giant de- 
 creased in height ; and after many wounds, 
 at last seemed sunk to a mere dwarf. His 
 frowns subsided ; his loud terrific voice 
 grew quite womanish ; and, prostrating 
 himself before his conqueror, he begged 
 for mercy. Sir Polydore however, un- 
 willing that such a tyrant should longer live, 
 smote him on the crest, and buried his 
 falchion fairly in his forehead. The giant 
 tittered a loud groan, and expired. At
 
 DERMODY. 193 
 
 that instant the gate flew open, and a band 
 of fantastic dames issued out to welcome 
 the hero : styling him the mighty of the 
 mightiest, and the mirror of chivalry ; and 
 paying him every exorbitant compliment 
 they could. 
 
 ' ' He was led straightway into a magnifi- 
 cent room ; crowded with ornaments irre- 
 gularly placed, though of immense value; 
 The opening of a screen on which the 
 conquests of Nonsense (Insulsa) were dis- 
 played, served to exhibit a faint glimpse of 
 the goddess herself. It was twilight all 
 round her. She was seated on a throne 
 of the most curious workmanship : the 
 pilasters that supported it were erected out 
 of bubbles shaped in the fashion of an 
 inverted pyramid, the fretwork was exe- 
 cuted in the foam of the sea, and the whole 
 was beautifully enameled with variegated 
 dew-drops. The amusements with which 
 she diverted herself consisted sometimes of 
 numbering the waves that followed each 
 
 vol* i. o
 
 194 THE LIFE OF 
 
 other in a rill that ran through a dark grotto 
 near her, of weaving wreaths of sun-beams, 
 or building turrets of ice. Sir Polydore 
 viewed her with attentive curiosity ; but as 
 he looked, he felt a vapourish halo encircle 
 his brows, and his brain grow giddy. A 
 yawning gulf opened before his eyes ; and 
 the more he removed from it, with the 
 greater impetuosity he was sucked towards 
 it. At its bottom appeared ten thousand 
 tempting forms ; Arcadian meads inhabited 
 by blissful shepherds and enchanting shep- 
 herdesses : and the melody of the flute and 
 the harp was heard. The bloody gauntlet 
 loosened from his wrist ; and down he 
 tumbled, ten thousand fathoms deep. "
 
 DERMODY. 1Q5 
 
 CURIOSITIES FOUND IN THE 
 HISTORICAL HERCULANEUM. 
 
 " The original manuscript of Paradise 
 Lost, in Milton's own hand-writing ; which 
 is very curious, considering he was blind at 
 the time. 
 
 " Rabelais's easy chair, some years ago 
 in the possession of dean Swift ; of which 
 Pope makes very honourable mention * : 
 lately occupied by a facetious humorist, one 
 Laurence Stern, or Sterne according to his 
 own spelling. 
 
 " A splendid edition of Quarles's Em- 
 blems. 
 
 " The last cantoes of Spenser's Faery 
 Queene : scarce. 
 
 (e A surprising cast of Oliver Cromwell's 
 
 * * O thou, whatever title please thine ear, 
 Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver ; 
 Whether thou choose Cervantes' sober air, 
 Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair : 
 Mourn not, my Swift,' &c. 
 O 2
 
 J 96 THE LIFE OF 
 
 famous nose, which exalted him to the 
 dignity of protector ; in copper. 
 
 " Doctor Johnson's celebrated wig. 
 
 " The right thumb of Charles the 
 Twelfth, with which he used to spread his 
 butter. 
 
 " Tom Brown's tobacco-stopper ; and 
 the handle of Sam Butler's ale- pot. 
 
 " Erasmus's spatterdashes, which he 
 wore in all his journeys : also the trunk - 
 hose of sir Francis Drake ; two or three 
 stitches dropt, and four buttons wanting. 
 
 " A very curious frying-pan, in which 
 Pope fried his lampreys. 
 
 " The oaken trowel of the very trunk- 
 maker so highly renowned by the Spectator : 
 and John Dennis's snuff-box. 
 
 " A well-devised comb for settling the 
 whiskers ; left as a legacy by the great 
 Cervantes, to his jailor's daughter. 
 
 " Tom Thumb ; an heroic poem, author 
 unknown : in which it is proved that this 
 hero was son to William the Conqueror,
 
 DERMODY. ]Q7 
 
 and the inventor of shooting ducks with a 
 mile-stone. Neatly bound in cock's combs, 
 and illumined with tails of glow-worms. 
 Very scarce. 
 
 Si A tragedy in twenty-four acts, each 
 act containing fifty-two scenes : title lost. 
 
 " Travels to the source of the Nile ; 
 which describe it as an oyster-bed enamelled 
 with crocodiles. 
 
 <l Procrustes's cupping-glass : and Hec- 
 tor Boethius's pamphlet on salivation ; 
 printed by Cornelius Agrippa, at his press 
 in the Hebrides. 
 
 " The Art of making Cuckolds, or Great 
 Horn-book ; to which is added a beautiful 
 print of Helen's modesty in etching, a 
 rough sketch. 
 
 i( An Essay on pickling Snail-shells, 
 Phenixes, and Battering-rams ; with In- 
 structions for preparing Conserves of Gun- 
 powder, and roasted Bullets. 
 
 " Carolan's bagpipe, and Philemon 
 Holland's nut-cracker.
 
 lgS THE LIFE OF 
 
 " The left ear of Daniel Defoe, preserved 
 in spirit of pillory. 
 
 " Queen Elizabeth's under-petticoat of 
 flannel, very bare. 
 
 " A piece of the wall at Babylon, on 
 which certain strange letters were written 
 by a fairy hand. 
 
 " The gridiron on which Ben Jonson 
 roasted his figs ; the carving-knife of Bryan 
 Borooh ; Julius Caesar's tooth-pick ; and the 
 great toe of the witch of Endor." 
 
 JOHN BAYNHAM'S EPITAPH*. 
 
 ** Here lieth Hercules the Second, 
 A penman line by critics reckon'd j 
 With back so huge, and brawny neck on't, 
 
 And shrewdish head, 
 Which oft to smoking hotpot beckon'd : 
 
 John Baynham's dead. 
 
 * This man was the parish-clerk of Killeigh, and the merry 
 fciend and sociable companion of Dermody.
 
 JDERMODY. J 99 
 
 u Woe's me I no more shall younkers crowd 
 About thy hearth, and gabble loud ; 
 Where thou, in magistracy proud, 
 
 Nought humbly said : 
 Alas ! we never thought thee good 
 
 Till thou wast dead. 
 
 " Though, by my soul ! still sober, mellow, 
 I ken'd thee aye a special fellow, 
 Catches or psalm-staves prompt to bellow, 
 
 O pious breed ! 
 I ween thou'rt fixt 'tween heav'n and hell : oh ! 
 
 Our comfort's dead. 
 
 " But for that plaguy profligate, 
 We early might enjoy and late 
 The knowledge of thy teeming pate 
 
 From board to bed : 
 But now thou'rt 'neath a puny slate j 
 
 Droil Johnny's dead. 
 
 " Full many a hard bout hast thou weather'd : 
 By merry Bob severely tether'd ; 
 More sadly than if tarr'd and feather'd, 
 
 Like bull-dog led : 
 Now all thy tools are fairly gather'd ; 
 
 Blithe Baynham's dead.
 
 200 THE LIFE OP 
 
 <* Heav'n lend thy soul its surest port, 
 And introduce thee to the court ; 
 Revive again thy earthly sport, 
 
 And melt thy lead ! 
 Alas ! we mourn ; for, by the mort ! 
 
 John Baynham's dead. 
 
 *' No curate now can work thy throat, 
 And alter clean thy jocund note; 
 Charon has plump'd thee in his boat, 
 
 And run a-head : 
 My curse on death, the meddling sot I 
 
 Gay Johnny's dead. 
 
 " With gills of noblest usquebaugh 
 
 Will we anoint thy epitaph ; 
 
 While thou at the full bowl shalt laugh, 
 
 A precious meed : 
 At last thou liest in harbour safe ; 
 
 Sage Johnny's dead. 
 
 '-' News shall no more thy mornings muzzle^ 
 Or schemes good spirit-punch to guzzle ; 
 Wounds ! thou art past this mortal bustle, 
 
 With manna fed : 
 Satan and thou hadst a long tussel ; 
 
 At last thou'rt dead.
 
 DERMODY. 201 
 
 M May blessings light upon thy gloom, 
 And geese grow fat upon thy tomb ! 
 While uo rash scribbler's impious thumb 
 
 Shall maul thy head ; 
 But greet thee soft in * kingdom come,' 
 
 Though thou art dead." 
 
 POSTSCRIPT, 
 
 *' After inditing these sad stories, 
 I hap'd to hear some brother tories 
 Ranting and roaring loud at Lory's % 
 
 Not quite well bred ; 
 I enter'd, and exclaim'd, ' Ye glories, 
 
 John Baynham's dead.' 
 
 " Scarce had I spoke, when 'neath the table 
 Something sigh'd out most lamentable : 
 Anon, to make my song a fable, 
 
 Starts out brave John ; 
 Sitting, by Jove above ! most stable 
 
 On wicked throne. 
 
 * Lory was another of his associates. He kept a public 
 house ; where the tradesmen of the village assembled, with 
 the parish-clerk John Baynham, and Dermody as their oracle.
 
 202 THE LIPE OF 
 
 " They press'd my sitting : marv'lous dull, 
 
 I gap'd at Banquo like a fool, 
 
 And cried * Good sirs, the table's full, 
 
 And there's a spirit.' 
 
 * Come, reach,' quoth sprite, * an easy stool :' 
 
 And lent a w her ret. 
 
 " * You rogue,' said he, * how dare you write 
 Such stuff on me, as dead outright ; 
 I think, by this good candle-light, 
 
 You've earn'd a drubbing.' 
 
 * Pho ! peace,' said I, I'll blot it quite ; 
 
 Aye, by St. Dobbin.' 
 
 ** Witness therefore, by my small finger, 
 John chooses still on earth to linger, 
 As penman, poet, toper, singer, 
 
 In trade full thriving ; 
 Know then, old bellman, barber, tinker, 
 
 John Baynham's living." 
 
 LORY'S OF THE LANE. 
 
 "There never was sa * rare a fight 
 Described since Kirst-kirk squabble, 
 As that which hap'd on T uesday night 
 At Lory's near the stable : 
 
 * So.
 
 DEEMODY. 203 
 
 For all the lads were drunken quite, 
 To stand or sit unable ; 
 Some lay in hole till morning light, 
 Some underneath the table, 
 
 Fu' * black that night. 
 
 " Hughye was there, a simple sage 
 
 Who would contend with Newton, 
 
 Break heads upon Descartes's page, 
 
 And lechery dispute on : 
 
 So wise was he in learned rage, 
 
 Of books a very glutton ; 
 
 And better lov'd deep truths to gaze, 
 
 Than gobble loin of mutton : 
 
 Fu' fast that night. 
 
 " Johnnie was there, the parish-clerk, 
 Who fine psalm-staves couid hum well ; 
 But finer chaunt in tavern dark, 
 Where he'd quaff gin and rum well. 
 Devotion too was half his mark : 
 Though folks were prompt to grumble ; 
 For all his song, at play or work, 
 Was Culloden and Cromwell, 
 
 Fu' loud each night. 
 
 * Full.
 
 204 THE LIFE OP 
 
 " And rhyming Tom, who stunn'd each ear 
 
 With music's harshest jingle, 
 
 Composing while full pot of beer 
 
 Was frying on the ingle *. 
 
 He had with many a well-feign'd tear 
 
 Sent youths with earth to mingle ; 
 
 And sung their elegies so clear, 
 
 It gar'd a' lugs -j- to tingle, 
 
 Fu' shrill that night. 
 
 ** But chief was Dick, who pranc'd about. 
 
 And made the benches crackle ; 
 
 Bade Johnnie lilt the screeching shout, 
 
 Like dying gander's cackle ; 
 
 And threw the ancient bedstead out 
 
 With all its shatter'd tackle, 
 
 Till we had like to get the gout 
 
 Wi' X laughing at his hackle, 
 
 Fu' sweet that night. 
 
 " Dick drank a quart of Adam's ale, 
 And swore that it was Lory's ; 
 That it was double-still'd, and stale, 
 Right fit for any tories : 
 
 # Fire of a kiln for drying malt and corn, 
 f Made or forced one's ears* 
 t With.
 
 BERMODY. 205 
 
 Then told a twenty-fathom tale, 
 As long as John-a-Dory's ; 
 While we down-drooping did not fail 
 To curse his blath'ring * stories, 
 
 Fu' gruff that night. 
 
 " Now John and Hughye 'gan contend 
 
 'Bout Rodney, Blake, and Keppel ; 
 
 Or whjsper'd they knew things would mend 
 
 The state of church and chapel : 
 
 While I advis'd them like a friend, 
 
 To mind not what would hap ill ; 
 
 But John insisted to the end 
 
 That Hughye was a rebel : 
 
 Fu' dark that night. 
 
 " Each toast poetic that we quaff'd 
 Was Milton, Pope, or Willy f ; 
 And while the nutbrown tankard soft 
 Inspir'd old bloated Billy, 
 We struck the board, and loudly laught 
 At all my pranks in Killeigh : 
 Hughye forgot to take his draught, 
 He was sae fir'd, I tell ye, 
 
 Wi' all that night. 
 
 * JFoolish. f Shakspeare.
 
 206 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " At last the hour of reckoning came ; 
 The reckoning soon was paid, mon : 
 Bab sent for Johnnie, Iong-nos'd dame, 
 And curs'd his drunken head, mon. 
 Hughye went borne wi' loss of fame ; 
 But Tarn, with gentle tread, mon, 
 While Bess was busy at her game, 
 Grop'd out his tott'ring bed, mon, 
 
 Fu' slow that night. 
 
 " While Johnnie told the last bad news, 
 Or sung sweet ' Cowden-knows,' mon, 
 Hughye was mending horse's shoes, 
 And Tarn in dead repose, mon. 
 Next morn at one o'clock my muse 
 Remember 'd this in prose, mon ; 
 But I the doggrel-gallop choose, 
 'Cause 'twill best please your nose, mon, 
 Fu' swift this day. 
 
 " Now let us sing * God save the King ;' 
 
 And Lory, long live he. mon ! 
 
 For none the foamy nnig can bring 
 
 With such glad honesty, mon. 
 
 And may we never drink cold spring * 
 
 While nutmeg'd ale is free, mon ; 
 
 So shall the bairns f our wives may bring, 
 
 Lisp out the hour of glee, mon, 
 
 We spent last night." 
 
 Tam .fecit. 
 
 - 
 
 * Water. f Children.
 
 DERMODY. 10? 
 
 WILL GORMAN, THE KILLEIGH WEAVER. 
 
 A piteous elegy, indeed ', 
 Endlted sad on gabbling Gorman ; 
 Who, from his loom and shuttle freed, 
 Took voyage for the Stygian shore, man. 
 
 " So dapper was he in bis size, 
 That midwife gossips would surmise 
 Some fay did blind his mother's eyes, 
 
 And stitit him short; 
 Yet would he merry tales devise 
 
 With mickle * sport. 
 
 ** The Killeigh Mercury he was, 
 To pen songs on the corner-cross ; 
 Or lay them on the pump across, 
 
 With cautious look. 
 I' faith, we hare a piteous loss, 
 
 Since he forsook. 
 
 " When o'er his loom the great mon f sat, 
 He'd verses make on this or that, 
 On Norah's stockings, Nelly's hat, 
 
 Or Nancy's garters ; 
 Or satires pen black as tny bat, 
 
 And cut in quarters, 
 
 * Much. f Mstv
 
 208 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " Not Hudibras himself was greater 
 In forging Babylonish metre ; 
 Rebus he'd fix on any creature, 
 
 And ne'er the worse i 
 I think his numscull was completer 
 
 Stor'd than his purse. 
 
 " Know then (for him you 'II ne'er ken more, man), 
 Here lies the shell-work of Will Gorman." 
 
 A LAMENTABLE ELEGY ON NICHOLAS, 
 THE KILLEIGH TAYLOR. 
 
 " Thy namesake * saw thy worth at last; 
 And took thee, faith, at a dead cast : 
 Thy revels and thy routs are past, 
 
 Ill-fated Nichol; 
 Auld don f thy carcase threw with haste 
 
 Into his pickle. 
 
 " Now you may deck the prince of soot 
 With goodly clothes from head to foot 
 I ween he wants a new recruit ; 
 
 For since his fall 
 He's got no tolerable suit, 
 
 But an old pail. 
 
 * . Old Nick (as we say) . 
 
 f The old don (explained in the preceding note).
 
 DERMODY. 209 
 
 ** Much good may this new custom do thee ! 
 May the coquettes of lowland woo thee, 
 And am'rous scratch thy cheeks so ruddy 
 
 With tooth and nail ; 
 And when thou enter'st on their study, 
 
 Bid thee all-hail ! 
 
 " Cesar may want thy aid, sir, there ; 
 Or Alexander, the great bear, 
 Pawn his lank knapsack in despair, 
 
 To get thee credit : 
 For authors say, queer clothes they wear, 
 
 As you may read it. 
 
 " We'll give thee joy of thy free trade. 
 May'st thou by Satan be well paid : 
 And never be by duns dismay'd ; 
 
 Save now and then, 
 By some fair brimstone-blooded jade ! 
 
 John says, * Amen.' 
 
 ** What pompous words thy tongue adorn'd ! 
 
 For monosyllables were scorn'd. 
 
 Full many a husband hast thou horn'd ; 
 
 For which sweet sport, 
 Fortfend you be not now suborn'd 
 
 In Pluto's court ! 
 vol*. 1. P
 
 210 THE LIFE OP 
 
 " At Andrew's shall thy praise remain, 
 While ale is made of malt and grain, 
 While Johnnie trembles at the dean : 
 
 Ev'n, Nic, so long 
 Shall bards thy hapless fate complain 
 
 In lofty song. 
 
 " What though the Killeigh knell be broke r 
 Kind memory shall thy name invoke, 
 And every jovial heart of oak 
 
 Inscribe thy stone 
 With epitaphs, at whose each stroke 
 
 The De'il would groan. 
 
 " Fu' long shall Marks * thy merit tell, 
 And Hugh recount thy gambols well : 
 For in sly pranks thou bor'st the bell, 
 
 And wouldst succeed ; 
 While Gragueall* cries, in sad farewell, 
 
 * Nick Surlock's dead.' 
 
 M O matchless taylor, whose bra f clothes 
 Would swathe J so fine the country beaus I 
 Must Death thus take thee by the nose, 
 
 And pinch it red ; 
 While boys resound, in tuneful woes, 
 
 ' Our taylor's dead ?* 
 
 -V 
 
 * Marks and Gragueall, two of his village friends, 
 f Brave, fine. % Dress.
 
 DERMODY. 211 
 
 " When the old surly haugher * came, 
 Why didst thou not defend thy fame; 
 His dog's-ears with thy scissars maim, 
 
 Or hurl thy goose ? 
 Ah, no ! poor wight, thou went'st quite tame 
 
 Into his noose. 
 
 ** * Done-over taylor' art thou now : 
 A cold stone on thy weam below, 
 Knock'd by thy rude carniv'rous foe 
 
 Upon the head ; 
 Ah ! soon shall ill-made garments shew, 
 
 Nice Nick is dead." 
 
 THE DEATH OF POOR DAF1E, THE 
 KILLEIGH PIPER. 
 
 " Come all ye jolly folks of Killeigh, 
 And ponder on the tale I tell ye : 
 Relinquish Susan, Kate, and Nelly, 
 
 And droop the head ; 
 Grim Death has stopt your piper's gullie f j 
 
 Poor Davie's dead. 
 
 Death. f Throat, 
 
 P 2
 
 21'2 t THE LIFE OP 
 
 " Wae's me ! no more shall thy stufPd pudding * 
 Set heels quick stamping on a sudden, 
 And fill the hearts of Giles and Cudden 
 
 With huge delight : 
 Just when the rose of life was budding, 
 
 Came a fell blight. 
 
 " Oft have I heard your windy music 
 Till it would make both me and you sick, 
 And drunk the beer of Goody Cusack 
 
 Till darkness fled ; 
 Now on your grave I must a yew stick ; 
 
 Poor Davie's dead ! 
 
 " When Death, the gilligapus, stole 
 To pluck away thy gabby soul, 
 Had'st thou inspir'd thy tuneful hole 
 
 With skilful head, 
 He would have run like filly-foal ; 
 
 But now thou'rt dead. 
 
 " Southerne shall strew thy coal-black hearse 
 With epic Hudibrastic verse ; 
 Thy praise in lofty lays rehearse, 
 
 And blath'ring rhyme; 
 Wow f , he thy future fame shall nurse 
 
 In scrawls sublime. 
 
 * Bagpipe. f Ah me, alas.
 
 DERMODY. 213 
 
 " To greyhound's tail he'll tie * thy glory, 
 And propagate the rev'rend story : 
 Fam'd as the famous John-a-Dory, 
 
 His song shall save ye ; 
 And tell to trimmer, whig, and tory, 
 
 Hicjacet Davie. 
 
 " At wedding-dinner when thou'st been, 
 With breeches red and cravat clean, 
 How thou would'st tune thy engine keen ; 
 
 And, droning loudly, 
 Set cats, maids, dogs, upon the green, 
 
 A prancing proudly ! 
 
 " Then, when the sheepskin cloth was spread, 
 Grasp at the bacon white and red, 
 Against the tankard knock thy head, 
 
 Or spill the gravy ; 
 While younkers laugh'd at a* you said, 
 
 Right hum'rous Davie. 
 
 " Around thy tomb shall May-maids revel, 
 Scatt'ring sweet flow'rs to scare the devil, 
 And keep thy corse from nightly evil ; 
 
 And bless the sod 
 Where shuffling Davie, blithe yet civil, 
 
 Lies cold as toad." 
 
 * A custom he used to put in practice.
 
 214 THE LIFE OF 
 
 RECANTATORT POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 " Be it known to all men, as I stumbled 
 Towards Hughye's cot, and fell, and fumbled, 
 Something I heard that strangely grumbled : 
 
 Amaz'd T canter; 
 Lest by the fays I should be home led, 
 
 Or Ariel's chanter. 
 
 " However, I took heart o' grace, 
 And ken'd a noise i' that same place, 
 At which I blest myself with face 
 
 As pale as stone ; 
 For I could swear, in any case, 
 
 'Twas Davie's drone. 
 
 " So in I went, pry'd all about ; 
 The people wonder'd at the rout : 
 At last, with one outrageous shout, 
 
 Unkennel'd Davie ; 
 So stunn'd, that scarce one word came out, 
 
 To say * God save ye !' 
 
 " Like that madcap in Hamlet's play, 
 We star'd, and star'd our fears away ; 
 And then sat down, full spruce and gay, 
 
 As sound as cherry : 
 And Davie's here this very day, 
 
 Alive and merry.
 
 DERMODY. 21! 
 
 w Though all the town, in well-feign'd sorrow, 
 Swore Death had pink'd his body thorough, 
 And laid him flatter than the furrow, 
 
 There 's no believing : 
 In come, and you shall see to-morrow 
 
 Poor Davie living." 
 
 THE PARISH-CLERK'S SONG * : 
 BY MERRY JOHN BAYNHAM, OF KILLEIGH. 
 
 " Great Jove, and Bacchu-s too, sir, 
 Came down, this orb to view, sir, 
 Silenus on his ass, sir, 
 And Hebe with her glass, sir, 
 In drinking to regale. 
 
 * The reader of taste need not be informed that this song 
 was written in imitation of Congreve's celebrated song in the 
 Comedy of Love for Love ; which is here inserted for the 
 purpose of comparison, and to shew with what ease Dermody 
 could do such trifles. 
 
 A soldier and a sailor, 
 A tinker and a taylor, 
 Had once a doubtful strife, sir, 
 To make a maid a wife, sir, 
 Whose name was buxom Joan.
 
 21 6 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Long time the world they rov'd, sir, 
 From inn to inn remov'd, sir, 
 At last met what they lov'd, sir, 
 A hogshead of stout ale. 
 
 " Full quickly they fell to, sir, 
 Till they w-re black and blue, sir, 
 And swore that they would brew, sir, 
 
 Such nappy mild and stale. 
 Then toss your noggins off, sir, 
 And neither kick nor cough, sir, 
 Since deities aloft, sir, 
 
 Have nectar chang'd for ale. 
 
 " 'T is all that warms the jecur *, 
 It makes the dunce a speaker, 
 And may it ne'er be weaker 
 When we a pint assail. 
 
 For now the time was ended 
 When she no more intended 
 To lick her lips at men, sir, 
 And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, 
 And lie o' nights alone. 
 
 The soldier swore like thunder 
 He lov'd her more than plunder ; 
 And shew'd her many a scar, sir, 
 That he had brought from far, sir, 
 With fighting for her sake. 
 
 * Liver. (Latin.}
 
 DERMODY. 21? 
 
 St. Martin and the martyrs 
 Would hang in their own garters, 
 Could they in heav'nly quarters 
 Get kisses and stout ale." 
 
 The taylor thought to please her 
 With off'ring her his measure ; 
 The turker n;o with mettle 
 Said he could mend her kettle, 
 And stop up every leak. 
 
 But while these three were prating, 
 The sailor slily waiting 
 Thought if it came about, sir, 
 That they should all fall out, sir, 
 
 He then might play his part. 
 And just e'en as he meant, sir, 
 To loggerheads they went, sir j 
 And then he let fly at her 
 A shot 'twixt wind and water, 
 
 That won this fair maid's heart.
 
 118 THE LIFE OF 
 
 MY OWN ELEGY. 
 
 " Gude faith ! with all thy roguish trick, 
 
 Thy Pegasus has got a kick ; 
 
 Flat as a tomb-stone, dumb as stick, 
 
 Thou liest at last : 
 God send, thou gang'st not to old Nick 
 
 For frolics past ! 
 
 M I do remember thee right well : 
 Thou didst in witty pranks excel, 
 Can all thy deeds of sly note tell, 
 
 Thou great verse- fighter; 
 But, ah ! auld Death has borne the bell, 
 
 And bit the biter. 
 
 " Right glum * is all thy rhyming glee ; 
 Struck mute, who wont to be so free : 
 Yet, yet shall J, on bended knee 
 
 (Faithfu' Achates f ) 
 Drink to thy amorous memory ; 
 
 Fine off'ring that is, 
 
 " For thou didst long to t3ste the bowl : 
 And if from limbo-logwood whole i, 
 I ken, thy jovial fluttering soul 
 
 Will snuff the vapours ; 
 Gleam pure good humour o'er the whole, 
 
 And light the tapers. 
 
 * Silent, f * Fidus Achates.' VtrgiU % Sound, safe.
 
 DERMODY. 2lp 
 
 " * Bathe the delighted sprite *' in ale, 
 Lie * wedg'd in fiery' mugs, exhale 
 The quintessence of pipes, and rail 
 
 At good old sages $. 
 Flouting the de'il and his long tail 
 
 In smoky pages. 
 
 *' When landlady, with burly mien, 
 Bids purses gleam with twinklers sheen f , 
 J Tis * nuncle pays for thee j,' I ween ; 
 
 Gold grow'th not in heaven : 
 Yet, by the laws, we'll lug thee in 
 
 For reck'ning even. 
 
 " Well, blessings on thy shade so Iaurel'd ! 
 'Mid all thy high words thou ne'er quarrel'd ; 
 Laugh'd loud, and leer'd, when malice snarl'd, 
 
 A smiling wizard : 
 And when renown'd good beer was barrel'd, 
 
 Grinn'd in thy gizzard. 
 
 " No thanks to those who Iong'd to pelt or 
 Abuse thy poor muse, helter-skelter; 
 Send thee to solitude for shelter, 
 
 To grief and moping, 
 Her dim lyre (cause enough to melt her) 
 
 In darkness groping. 
 
 * Shahpeare : Measure for Measure. 
 
 + Bright money. 
 
 % Alluding to a well-known story of Shuter, the actor.
 
 110 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " Yes : all must grant thee too a smack 
 Of genius, and of warmth. Alack ! 
 Genius and warmth are gone apack 
 
 To land unknown ; 
 They'll never come, I fear me, back, 
 
 To make us groan. 
 
 ** The merry catch shall greet thy sprite: 
 And in the dead of list'ning night 
 We'll drone sincere at thy ill plight, 
 
 And sprinkle strong dews ; 
 The hop shall on thy tomb rise light, 
 
 Nor yield us wrong juice. 
 
 " Tobacco-tubes, like trumps inverted, 
 Shall deck thy grave, and smoke thick-darted 
 Nourish the flow'rs around thee started 
 
 With d'rous aid : 
 Then, mon, be not this once faint-hearted ; 
 
 Thy fortune's made. 
 
 ** At judgment-day, when strong-lung'd cherub 
 Shall pipe all bands from silence here up, 
 He'll know thee, Tom, to be a queer cub, 
 
 And give thee quarters ; 
 Wouns ! what a sight, to see thy knee rub 
 
 'Gainst saints and martyrs !
 
 DERMODY. 22 1 
 
 *' D'ye now remember, youth, the time 
 Thou'st rattled off sweet-chinking rhime, 
 Till, rapt in doggerel sublime, 
 
 Thou staid'st all night out; 
 While Mumpus* rang'd from clime to clime, 
 
 Raising a right rout ? 
 
 " Peace to thy manes, lad of wax ! 
 
 Free from all venomous attacks, 
 
 Thou liest in harbour snug : what lacks 
 
 Thy heart on high ? 
 Would that thy friends here could go snacks, 
 
 And mount the sky !" 
 
 AN ODE TO MYSELF. 
 
 " Thrice hail, thou prince of jovial fellows, 
 Tuning so blithe thy lyric bellows, 
 Of no one's brighter genius jealous ; 
 
 Whose little span 
 Is spent 'twixt poetry and alehouse, 
 
 'Twixt quill and cann ! 
 
 " Reckless howe'er the world may fadge, 
 
 Variety thy only badge : 
 
 Now courting Susan, Kate, or Madge, 
 
 Or black- ey'd Molly ; 
 For living in one sullen lodge 
 
 Is downright folly. 
 
 * One of his associates at John Baynham's.
 
 222 THE LIFE OF 
 
 " Thy classics sleeping on the shelf, 
 Thou'rt muse and patron to thyself : 
 Aye* frolic when profuse of pelf; 
 
 Grim as the gallows 
 When dunn'd by that obstreperous elf, 
 
 False-scoring Alice. 
 
 " Long may'st thou punch ambrosial swill, 
 Drinking no water from that hill 
 By temperate bards recorded still 
 
 In tasteless rhyme ; 
 For noble punch shall sweetly fill 
 
 The thought sublime. 
 
 " By many wrong'd, gay bloom of song. 
 Thou yet art innocent of wrong : 
 Virtue and truth to thee belong, 
 
 Virtue and truth; 
 Though Pleasure led thy step along, 
 
 And trapp'd thy youth. 
 44 With Baynham, social spring f of wit, 
 Thou hadst full many a merry fit ; 
 And whether haply thou shalt sir 
 
 W T ith clown or peer, 
 Never shall lingering honour quit 
 
 Thy heart sincere." 
 
 * Ever. So Milton : 
 
 And hear the Muses in a ring 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing. 
 f So Falstaff : " I am not only witty myself, but the caute 
 Of wit in others."
 
 DERMODY. <223 
 
 MY OWN EPITAPH. 
 
 Guiltless he met grim Death, and sporting: 
 The farce is finish'd, drop the curtain ; 
 The bubble's burst, the whim is ended, 
 The rattle either lost or mended. 
 
 ; ' Here Dermody, oddest of odd compositions; 
 By Virtue and Vice, two contending physicians, 
 Most strangely work'd up ; who of each wore jthe fetter; 
 Just loos'd from this world, lies in hopes of a better : 
 If no blessing ensue he can't suffer a curse ; 
 As Fortune and Fate could not find out a worse. 
 All formal rule slighting of plain mortals above ; 
 The pole-star of friendship, the comet of love ; 
 Though sadly distrest, a vile squand'rer of pelf, 
 For others he felt what he felt not for self. 
 Most injur'd by folks whom he most wish'd to please; 
 To preferment no foe, but a friend to his ease ; 
 Unnotic'd for talents he had, and forgot, 
 But most famously notic'd for faults he had not; 
 Though meek as a lamb, deem'd the lion of satire ; 
 The madman of rage, and the fool of good-nature; 
 Whenever to praise he sometimes condescended, 
 They squeez'd out sly rubs which were never intended; 
 No deist, no drunkard, no rake at a gypsy ; 
 Yet often both swearing, and courting, and tipsy, 
 As an author, conceited when once he began; 
 Facetious, and social, and free, as a man :
 
 224 THE LIFE OP 
 
 As a man, did I say ? when death shifted the scene, 
 
 A giant of genius, he was not fifteen. 
 
 Him whom living ye nourish'd with ink and with bays, 
 
 To others the profit, to him the mere praise, 
 
 Sage critics and cavilers, take it in head 
 
 To burden with praise and with profit when dead ; 
 
 Oh ! now that you fear nor his smiles nor his lashes, 
 
 Be candid for once, and disturb not his ashes." 
 
 In this manner, for two years, did he 
 amuse those hours which were not allotted 
 to scholastic studies ; and while many of 
 his poems written on such merry occasions 
 are light and airy, exhibit a variety of 
 measure, and are pleasing, whimsical, and 
 harmless, they likewise display that par- 
 tiality to low company and drinking which 
 often obscured his splendid genius, and 
 ultimately brought him to an early grave. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding his almost insatiable 
 desire for ale and good fellowship, he had 
 his hours of reflection ; at which he flew 
 from the folly, noise, and irregularity of 
 his associates, from the giddy pleasures 
 calculated only for ignorance and youth,
 
 DERMODY. 225 
 
 and indulged in melancholy and meditation. 
 He had his particular periods of reserve, 
 which generally continued for some time, 
 and from these neither mirth could allure 
 nor pleasure charm him : he then resigned 
 himself wholly to his Muse, nor did she 
 fly the embraces of her enthusiastic adorer. 
 He felt the inspiration ; and hard indeed 
 must that heart be, unfeeling the mind, 
 that can remain indifferent to the pathetic 
 beauty of the following stanzas. Perhaps 
 in the breast of my readers a sigh may 
 rise for the unhappy boy, a tear of pity 
 fall to blot from their memory his frail- 
 ties, who could thus strongly rouse their 
 soul to enjoy the finest feelings of humanity ; 
 and while acknowledging the force of genius, 
 they will pity the misfortunes of him who 
 could thus tenderly write his own com^ 
 memorative verse. 
 
 vol. i.
 
 1lQ THE LIFE OF 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF. 
 
 " To Pleasure's wiles an easy prey, 
 Beneath this sod a bosom lies ; 
 Yet spare the meek offender's clay, 
 Nor part with dry averted eyes. 
 
 ** O stranger ! if thy wayward lot 
 Through Folly's heedless maze has led, 
 Here nurse the true, the tender thought,, 
 And fling the wild flow'r on his head. 
 
 " For he, by this cold hillock clad, 
 Where tall grass twines the pointed stone, 
 Each gentlest balm of feeling had, 
 To sooth all sorrow but his own. 
 
 " For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd, 
 (Though ever-dumb he sleeps below,) 
 The stillest sigh of anguish heard, 
 And gave a tear to ev'ry woe. 
 
 44 Oh ! place his dear harp by his side, 
 (His harp, alas ! his only hoard ;) 
 The fairy breeze at even tide 
 Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.
 
 DERMODT. 227 
 
 " Oft on yon crested cliff he stood, 
 When misty twilight stream'd around ; 
 To mark the slowly-heaving flood, 
 And catch the deep wave's sullen sound. 
 
 ** Oft when the rosy dawn was seen 
 'Mid blue to gild the blushing steep, 
 He trac'd o'er yonder margent green 
 The curling cloud of fragrance sweep. 
 
 " Oft did he pause, the lark to hear, 
 With speckled wing, the skies explore j 
 Oft paus'd to see the slow flock near : 
 But he shall hear and see no more. 
 
 " Then, stranger, be his foibles lost ; 
 At such small foibles Virtue smil'd : 
 Few was their number, large their cost, 
 For he was Nature's orphan-child. 
 
 " The graceful drop of pity spare, 
 (To him the bright drop once belong'd :) 
 Well, well his doom deserves thy care ; 
 Much, much he suffer'd, much was wrong'd. 
 
 " When taught by life its pangs to know, 
 Ah ! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom, 
 Bid the sweet night-bird's numbers flow, 
 And the last sunbeam light his tomb." 
 o^a
 
 228 THE LIFE OF 
 
 His noble patroness, the countess or 
 Moira, still anxious for his improvement 
 and prosperity, with unceasing care en- 
 deavoured to correct the foibles which by 
 this time she well knew sullied his cha- 
 racter. Having been informed of the 
 habits which he had contracted and the 
 faults he had committed during his stay 
 with Mr. Austin, she frequently con- 
 descended to give him friendly lectures ; 
 which unfortunately were soon forgotten, 
 though it appears that at the time he felt 
 their force. 
 
 To the Right Honourable the Counter 
 of Moira. 
 " Madam, 
 
 " I have received your last letter, 
 and am sorry to see that I have failed in 
 every desire of pleasing your ladyship. 
 What is the effect of penitence and grati- 
 tude, you mistake for selfishness ; and 
 seem determined to misunderstand every
 
 DERMODY. 229 
 
 good sentiment of my heart. It is a 
 miserable situation ; and the more grievous 
 to an innocent, at least a repentant, mind. 
 Though I hate the name of Killeigh, yet, 
 to please your ladyship, I shall willingly 
 remain there till Christmas or spring ; and 
 till I see you, madam, if that honour shall 
 be allowed me, I will never trouble your 
 ladyship with one letter. I will rely on 
 my kind Creator for comfort, and fly from 
 melancholy as much as I can. With tears 
 of anguish and disappointment I write this; 
 but, alas ! my tears of anguish and dis- 
 appointment are unheeded. 
 
 " But when your ladyship speaks of 
 flattery, I am agonized indeed. Why 
 should I flatter ? Was flattery required in 
 such a case ? In many instances, had I 
 been capable of gross flattery, I should 
 have done better. A lady of your sense 
 can penetrate the flimsy veil of flattery, I 
 am assured : then say with candour, was 
 my little letter flattery? I wrote every thing
 
 *230 THE LIFE OF 
 
 that could appease your well-deserved 
 anger ; I confessed my faults : was that 
 flattery ? I confessed your kindness, your 
 bounty : was that flattery ? Was it from 
 selfish motives ? No, my lady : I am too 
 little regardless of self, and still gentleman 
 enough to keep free of servility. It is 
 dependance my soul abhors : the love of 
 independance has ruined me once ; it 
 cannot be gained, and I must therefore 
 submit to my fate. Good heaven ! why 
 have I the name of poetry, or talents, or 
 rather distractions ? They only introduce 
 accumulated misfortunes : they make the 
 feelings more sensible of pain. 
 
 " To your ladyship's humane disposal I 
 leave my hopes of life; and whether 
 Dublin-college, or Glasgow, or Oxford, is 
 to receive me, is equally indifferent. My 
 last wish is, that you may see I am no 
 flatterer or selfish person, but possessing 
 a soul abhorrent of any thing low or un- 
 becoming. Till Christmas or spring \
 
 DERMODY. 231 
 
 shall behave here with all possible diligence 
 and respect to your ladyship ; and shall 
 remain, 
 
 " Madam, your ladyship's humble, re- 
 spectful, and grateful servant, 
 
 " Thomas Dermody." 
 
 " KiUeigh) Sept. yh, 1790." 
 
 To the Right Honourable the Countess of 
 
 Moira. 
 " Madam, 
 
 " Being conscious of no glaring fault, 
 I cannot well make any apology. Had I 
 been guilty of what you have heard con- 
 cerning me, I should be very much con- 
 fused in my application to your ladyship 
 for pardon. I am sorry that the only 
 person in the world whom I can call a real 
 friend and patron, should conceive ideas 
 so horrid of my disposition. I had some 
 notion of going to Dublin, and trying to 
 assert my innocence before your ladyship ;
 
 232 THE LIFE Or 
 
 but on consideration, I desisted from 
 troubling you with so uninteresting a cir- 
 cumstance. My last and most sincere 
 petition is, that you will remove me from 
 Killeigh, as soon as your ladyship or Mr. 
 Berwick can have time ; and then perhaps 
 I might clear myself, by immediate proofs 
 and future good behaviour, from the bad 
 opinion you are pleased to entertain of me. 
 As for Mr. Boyd, I am assured he would do 
 nothing prejudicial to my character : if 
 he could be capable of such conduct, he 
 disappoints very much indeed my opinion 
 of his humanity and tenderness. With 
 regard to my talents (if they presume to 
 that name), they are wholly submissive to 
 your ladyship's disposal of them ; and as 
 they are the only tribute I can lay before 
 you, I should be glad to have them worthy 
 of your approbation. 
 
 iC With shame and sorrow I confess my 
 whimsical and reprehensible behaviour to 
 Mr. Austin^ but I hope the sins of my
 
 DERMODY. 233 
 
 former days have been erased by the fre- 
 quent tears afterwards caused by a fervent 
 sense of my folly on that melancholy 
 occasion. Heaven alone knows my mind; 
 and if I have been too severely treated, 
 heaven alone can reinstate me in true 
 happiness. One fatal step in my infancy, 
 I fear, has entirely ruined my reputation ; 
 and though followed by silent penitence, 
 yet the good-natured world seems inclined 
 to anneal my transgressions to the most 
 lasting monument. I am fully sensible of 
 my own indiscretions (if they deserve an 
 appellation so lenient) ; and confess that, 
 when pressed down by misfortunes either 
 real or imaginary, being of a melancholy 
 turn, I soon proceed to desperation, and 
 do things which I afterwards view with 
 perfect abhorrence. I therefore conjure 
 your ladyship to remove me as soon as 
 convenient ; and if I do not justify my 
 own assertions with regard to propriety of
 
 234 THE LIFE OF 
 
 conduct in future, I shall fully deserve any 
 fate that may follow. 
 
 " I have the honour to be your ladyship's 
 obedient and grateful servant, 
 
 (i Thomas Dermody." 
 
 " Killeig/i, Nov. 15M, 1790." 
 
 (From the Countess of Moira.) 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Dermody, at the Rev. 
 Mr. Boyd's, Killeigh. 
 
 " Moira House, January 21, 1 79 1 . 
 " In answer to your inquiries, Dermody, 
 respecting your being placed in England, 
 I have to inform you that lieutenant-colonel 
 Barry, who out of friendship to me has 
 agreed to take the trouble of settling that 
 point, has been and is still delayed in 
 Ireland ; and till he has returned to Eng- 
 land, no decisive time can be named. This 
 to you is rather advantageous than other- 
 wise. Your leisure for study must be
 
 JDERMODY. 335 
 
 considerably abridged when your time 
 becomes the property of a master, whose 
 right it will be to employ it as suits his 
 pleasure and utility. You are now at that 
 period of life when memory is most reten- 
 tive ; and you ought to employ the small 
 remaining portion of that time which you 
 can call your own, in application to study, 
 and the forming your mind. From Mr. 
 Boyd's instructions you have the fullest 
 opportunity to acquire that classic know- 
 ledge which is the solid foundation for 
 every other science, and from his precepts 
 and example you will learn the duty and 
 respectability of moral virtue. You will 
 be inclined, I know, to tell me that you 
 are thoroughly versed in all manner of 
 knowledge. At your age one is apt to 
 mistake, and to appreciate our own talents 
 and acquisitions much too highly: ex- 
 perience and subsequent information alone, 
 teach one how difficult, or rather labo- 
 rious, it is for the greatest genius to gain
 
 236 THE LIFE OF 
 
 extensive knowledge ; and therefore hu- 
 mility is generally found to be an attendant 
 on great minds. I allow you considerable 
 facility in rhyming : nature has bestowed 
 upon you that particular branch of ability. 
 But if your rhymes convey not great, noble, 
 just, and striking sentiments ; or do not 
 flow embellished by picturesque ideas, or 
 adorned by elegance of style ; your reputa- 
 tion as a poet will never rise above me- 
 diocrity. Be not misled by the fanciful 
 caprice of a short period : you would not 
 have met that flattering share of applause 
 in England ; where criticism is more rigid 
 in its scrutiny, and unsparing in its censure. 
 Apply yourself to the close study of elegant 
 authors, applauded for their respective ex- 
 cellences, to form your taste and style ; 
 and lose not the few weeks you have to 
 command, in negligence and inattention. 
 
 ** I expect Mr. Berwick over in a short 
 time, and shall get him to inform you of 
 what may hereafter concern you. I thank
 
 DERM0DY. '237 
 
 you for the verses ; as being gratefully 
 intended, though the subject did not merit 
 the trouble. Tributes of that kind how- 
 ever, be assured, have not the slightest 
 weight to add to the wish I have to be ser- 
 viceable to you ; which, having hitherto 
 shewn it to be my inclination, will be con- 
 tinued as long as you act with integrity. 
 
 " E. M. H." 
 
 To the Right Honourable the Countess of 
 Moira. 
 " Madam, 
 
 " Though your exalted situation in life 
 may deter me from entering into any super- 
 fluous vindication of myself, yet I cannot 
 refrain from hoping you will receive this 
 insignificant answer to your ladyship's 
 message. True it is, I am uncouth in. 
 manners, ' and little vers'd in the spft art 
 of courts ;' with a taste unsusceptible of 
 any finer sensation. The loss of those
 
 3'8 
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 talents I value not ; but when my character 
 is accused by every one, and held up as a 
 butt for the malevolent (the worst tribe of 
 mankind), how can I hesitate to assert my 
 innocence, to take up the pen of satire and 
 proceed ? Whoever could be so inhuman 
 as to insinuate all my foibles to your lady- 
 ship's ear, whoever could injure the de- 
 serted and (with their leave, for I must do 
 myself justice) the innocent, is not worth 
 my notice. 
 
 " You are so good as to lay down your 
 ladyship's favourite poet * as the most 
 conspicuously formed to deter from literary 
 pursuits by his ill-fated end and matchless 
 genius. He was one of those unfortunate 
 sons of poesy who, when neglected by the 
 great, and spurned from their train as 
 ingrate and abandoned, flew from this world 
 to the protecting bosom of an Almighty 
 and indulgent patron, and by that means 
 
 * Chatterton.
 
 DERMODY. '23 
 
 gained themselves that fame which they 
 never could attain while living. I am not 
 displeased with all the world. I can struggle 
 through the crowd of life, and lie down at 
 my journey's end calm and forgotten. No 
 thoughts of death in defiance and rebellion 
 to my omnipotent Creator, shall ever enter 
 my head. I look with a philosophic, not a 
 jaundiced eye, on this world : I see it a 
 small machine crowded with mortals f fret- 
 ing their hours upon the stage' of life, 
 regardless of the approaching moment of 
 leaving it. Though I despise it, yet J 
 cannot say I dislike it. Can I ever forget 
 your ladyship's kindness ? O my God ! 
 vindicate the sincerity, the gratitude of 
 my heart ; my heart, that shall for ever 
 retain the impression made by such good- 
 ness : and though 1 am not eloquent in 
 sounding the praise of my protectress, 
 surely I may nevertheless be highly sensible 
 of my obligations. 
 
 " Perhaps you may be offended, madam,
 
 240 THE LIFE OF 
 
 at the boldness of my intrusions on your 
 more important avocations, or disgusted 
 at the freedom with which I tell you my 
 sentiments ; but I think you would not 
 despise me a bit more on the latter account. 
 With bad paper, pale ink, and an unin- 
 telligible scrawl, did I. first from Killeigh 
 address your ladyship ; and yet you answer- 
 ed me with a long and estimable essay. 
 How can I improve my taste, or embellish 
 my natural parts, in Killeigh ; in a sordid 
 village, with not one of any literary intelli- 
 gence, or even common sense, that I know 
 of, resident in it ? Mr. Boyd, I allow, is 
 a man of great genius, admirable learning, 
 and wonderful discernment; but can he 
 alone, who moreover is not very talkative, 
 instil an elegant taste into my obdurate and 
 (by my good friends' permission) diabolical 
 heart ? My scheme is, if possible, to gain 
 your ladyship's name to illumine the dedica- 
 tion of my trifles ; and if they succeed in 
 Ireland^ then to beseech some letters to
 
 DERM0DY. * 241 
 
 London. My intention when there, is to 
 publish weekly a periodical paper entitled 
 ( The Inquisitor ;' and I am assured that 
 by the means of your ladyship's even 
 nominal patronage, I cannot fail of sup- 
 porting myself. 
 
 " Now, madam, can you call that in- 
 gratitude ? can you so name my willingness 
 to pursue happiness ? Your ladyship has 
 never seen me but once ; you may be im- 
 posed on by the suggestions of malice and 
 revenge : I shall very soon be in Dublin, 
 and I will then take the liberty of personally 
 defending myself. 
 
 " I am, madam, with sincere gratitude, 
 your ladyship's humble and obedient ser- 
 vant, 
 
 " Thomas Dermody." 
 
 ** Killeigi, March 14//&, 1791." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 242 THE LIFE OP 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Dermody, at the Reverend 
 Mr. Boyd's, Killeigh. 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 Cf I received your letter some days ago; 
 and should have answered it before, had I 
 not been prevented by being obliged to go 
 to the county of Wicklow on particular 
 business. I am sorry you have not made 
 up your mind for college ; and more sorry 
 to think that, from the reasons you have 
 assigned } I fear you never will. We all 
 certainly wished that you should have 
 entered the college, and for this solid 
 reason ; that you might have derived from 
 such an education a maintenance independ- 
 ant of that precarious support which is to 
 be derived from the brightest talents. 
 
 " However, let your determination be 
 what it may, I don't think that lady Moira 
 will withdraw her patronage as long as you 
 continue deserving of it. The difficulty will 
 be, in knowing how that patronage can be 
 2
 
 DERMODY. 243 
 
 exerted with effect, as long as you remain 
 without any profession. If you will publish 
 your poems by subscription, I think we 
 shall be able to extend your list of sub- 
 scribers ; and if any thing sufficient for a 
 London jaunt is made by that means, per- 
 haps we might procure you some recom- 
 mendation there. 
 
 t( I am sorry to hear that your health is 
 bad ; but as Mr. Boyd has not mentioned 
 it to me, I hope you spoke only from the 
 feelings of a headache with which you 
 were affected when you wrote last. You 
 will write to me whenever you have leisure, 
 and be particular about your health. Let 
 me know when I am to mention the con- 
 tents of your last letter to lady Moira : 
 her ladyship's generosity, or that of her 
 family, cannot be affected, I think, by 
 your determination, for which you alledge 
 such reasons. Your interest was the object 
 of all our attention ; and in whatever way 
 that can be promoted, you may expect such 
 r 2
 
 244 THE LIFE OP 
 
 assistance as is in our power : and nothing 
 can make you forfeit that assistance, but a 
 previous forfeiture of character. You will 
 remember me in the most affectionate 
 manner to Mr. Boyd ; and believe me to 
 be, with truth, yours 1 , 
 
 " E. Berwick." 
 
 " Dublin, March 1 791." 
 
 To the Right Honourable the Countess of 
 
 Moira, 
 " Madam, 
 
 u I have read your two last letters (the 
 
 first dated September 20th, the other 
 
 October the ] 8th) many times since I had 
 
 the honour of receiving them ; but this 
 
 morning, in particular, have carefully 
 
 studied them. I considered it as proper, 
 
 now at the expiration of my time, to know 
 
 if the opinions concerning me in the letters 
 
 were your ladyship's sincere sentiments. 
 
 JRardon my boldness for presuming to ques-
 
 DERMODY. 245 
 
 tion your ladyship, but necessity has com- 
 pelled me to it. It is evident that the 
 insinuative tongue of malice has been busy, 
 it is evident that some monster has robbed 
 me of my good name, else your ladyship 
 would not entertain such sentiments re- 
 garding me. You are my only friend, 
 from whom I must expect a future pro- 
 vision. Can I receive your friendship, feed 
 on your bounty, yet know that you po- 
 sitively think me a villain ? for no other 
 name will suffice, if I am guilty of the 
 atrocious crimes you are pleased to lay to 
 my charge. The world must own your 
 ladyship's regard to my character is noble, 
 humane, and worthy of yourself. Your 
 ladyship will not, I hope, look on this as 
 flattery : there are many who, if I had 
 flattered them more, would have accused 
 me less. I am grateful, not a flatterer. 
 Suffer me then, madam, to plead my own 
 cause : and view my pleading with an eye 
 of candour ; if you can, of favour. I am
 
 246 THE LIFE OP 
 
 neither enraged nor flighty now : I am on 
 a solemn matter, on the criterion of my 
 life ; and here is my life, partly at least 
 (the faulty part of it) : 
 
 " Not stooping to live in a kitchen, or 
 open a gate, confirmed my dispute with 
 Mr. Austin. I confess myself guilty of 
 disobedience in some trifling matters, 
 whimsical I may call them. I confess, in 
 a fit of rage, after an unmerciful beating, 
 I wrote some lines, which at evening I 
 either tore or threw away : how he heard 
 of them, I know not. Then see a poor 
 orphan's little subscriptions by the hand of 
 
 < a picture shocking to any tender mind 
 
 on reflection ! Then Mr. Berwick found 
 me out in the prospect of misfortunes ; for 
 at the time I was giddy, and knew them not. 
 Your ladyship generously sent me to a 
 school : here I could, in the sincerity of 
 my heart, say much ; but it is over. Your 
 ladyship thought it best, I am assured ; 
 but in all my misery, a year and a half so
 
 DEBMODY. 247 
 
 bitterlyl never have passed. For God's sake, 
 let the 1st of March be my day of delivery, 
 if ever I am to see the day so welcome. 
 Be then so good, so benevolent, as to 
 let me know your ladyship's real sentiments. 
 If they are so bad, innocence be my 
 guardian ! 
 
 " I am, with the most humble and 
 sincere gratitude, your ladyship's servant, 
 " Thomas Dermody." 
 
 " Kilkigh, Afril^ 1791." 
 
 That his antipathy to Killeigh was not 
 occasioned by either the neglect or the 
 severity of his humane and learned in- 
 structor, will appear from the following 
 stanzas, ft must therefore be attributed 
 solely to his restless disposition, ever on 
 the watch to grasp at new and delusive 
 enjoyments ; which, when attained, he 
 seldom rendered useful to himself or pro* 
 fitable to society.
 
 248 THE LIFE OP 
 
 TO THE REVEREND HENRY BOYD, A.M. 
 
 ** Juverna's tuneful boast, whose sapient skill 
 First bade the Muse's flatt'ring pinion soar, 
 Scale the proud summit of Perfection's hill, 
 And catch the brilliant spark of Latian lore : 
 
 " Whose eye poetic mark'd each sight sublime 
 That sunk on ardent Passion's throbbing breast ; 
 Cloth'd in the magic melody of rhyme, 
 Or in the sage's sober period drest : 
 
 " Whate'er the tragic pow'r of Gallia sung, 
 Or what the tender Tuscan wildly wove, 
 Energic flow'd from your instructive tongue, 
 Softly to charm, and manlier to improve. 
 
 " While wrapt in bold Orlando's deeds you lean, 
 Truant the green wood's echoing arch I rove, 
 Trace the small elfin-path that prints the green, 
 And court coy Fancy in her ev'ning grove. 
 
 * l Soon jnay your perfect labour public shine, 
 While Dante * robs the poplar pale to bind 
 His guerdon with your late-gain'd bay divine ; 
 And share a portion of his mighty mind 1" 
 
 * Alluding to the translation of Dante, by this gentleman*
 
 DERMODY. 249 
 
 The following whimsical rhapsody (which, 
 it may be supposed, never met the eye of 
 his benevolent patroness) will prove that 
 grief and serious reflection were not always 
 his companions in his solitary hours, and 
 that fancy and whim were acceptable guests 
 to him even in the gloomy habitation of 
 care and despondency. 
 
 THE PETITION OF POOR TOM 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MOIRA : 
 
 " Sheweth, 
 
 " That your ladyship's fool 
 Is too long at school : 
 And needs not a rule 
 To keep his head cool ; 
 For black bogs, and mountains, and wintry skies, 
 With some dozen of sighs, 
 Have made him so sad 
 That he is, I 'm sure, rather sorry than mad, 
 And less witty than wise. 
 
 " Then pardon transgressions, 
 Of conning no lessons : 
 And let him go free, 
 Without any degree ;
 
 250 THE LIFE OP 
 
 For he needs much more, O mighty director ! 
 A purse than a lecture, 
 Soft words than a whipping ; 
 So let him be skipping, 
 
 Or surely his sop will be spoil'd in the dripping. 
 
 *' No books and no pens, 
 
 No musical sally ; 
 
 But the chirping of hens, 
 
 Or lame ducks in the alley. 
 
 Allow not such bastings, 
 
 Great offspring of Hastings ; 
 
 Nor hang up his Iyre-a, 
 
 Bright consort of Moira ; 
 But give him strong pensions, to keep up his spirit, 
 And praises, which he will endeavour to merit. 
 
 M I warrant he '11 soon 
 Try a different tune, 
 And reward every boon 
 
 With a frolicsome ditty. 
 Now hear his petition, 
 In doleful contrition : 
 Be Mirth his physician; 
 For, your hand humbly kissing, 
 
 He pleads for all pity."
 
 DERMODY. 251 
 
 Neither the heart of affection, nor the 
 mind of sensibility, can be offended at such 
 harmless eccentricity ; as it in some degree 
 illustrates the operations of the human 
 disposition, which in many situations 
 gathers strength from weakness, and can 
 neither be subdued by the weight of ad- 
 versity nor exalted" by the splendour of 
 fortune. 
 
 Whatever were the sensations that now 
 filled the breast of Dermody ; whether they 
 prompted him to the pursuit of knowledge, 
 or urged him to move onward in the career 
 of folly ; the hour was fast advancing that 
 was once more to cast him upon the world 
 despised and friendless. His untoward 
 nature urging him, on every frivolous occa- 
 sion, to interrogate his noble patroness in a 
 strain rather of conscious equality than of 
 submissive modesty, lady Moira, in answer 
 to his unwise and repeated solicitations, 
 wrote him the following prophetic letter.
 
 252 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Zb Mr. Thomas Dermody, at the Reverend 
 Mr. Boyd's, Killeigh. 
 
 cc Lady Moira. informs Thomas Der- 
 mody, that Mr. Berwick (who is in the 
 country) has transmitted to her a letter 
 which Dermody had written to him, and 
 that she has also received that which Der- 
 mody has written to her ; both letters 
 intimating his desire and design to withdraw 
 himself from lady Moira's direction, and 
 consequent protection. Lady Moira makes 
 not the least objection to that determina- 
 tion ; and has inclosed to Mr. Boyd ten 
 guineas, that he may enter upon his future 
 schemes, and follow his own pursuits, not 
 totally in a destitute condition. 
 
 " Lady Moira had hoped that from his 
 residence with the reverend Mr. Boyd, he 
 would not only have acquired literary in- 
 formation, but also in the course of two 
 years, from the influence of mature reason, 
 have attained to the prudent reflection of 
 how incumbent it was for him to practise 
 an exact conduct, to efface the prejudices
 
 DERMODY. 233 
 
 fys former behaviour had impressed. What 
 attainments he has made in literature, it is 
 not in her power to decide: she is persuaded 
 that it could only arise from his own negli- 
 gence, if he has not profited from Mr. 
 Boyd's instructions. That he has not re- 
 peivedany benefit from reflection, the style 
 of impropriety which runs through his 
 letters plainly evinces. Lady Moira warns 
 him, that the waywardness of his nature, 
 and the ill-founded degree of self-conceit 
 he indulges himself in respecting his genius, 
 will prevent his ever having friends, or 
 arriving at success, through the course of 
 his future life, unless he alters his conduct 
 and his sentiments. 
 
 " As Dermody has thought proper to 
 withdraw himself from her direction and 
 protection in a manner equally ungracious 
 and absurd, Lady Moira informs him that 
 the donation which accompanies this note, 
 is the last attention or favour that he is ever 
 to expect from lady Moira, or any of her 
 family." 
 
 u Moira House j Nov. 10, 1791."
 
 254 THE LIFE OP 
 
 Thus by an act of unparallelled folly did 
 Dermody banish himself from the abode of 
 learning and hospitality ; from a pious 
 monitor, a warm and indulgent protectress, 
 a noble, enlightened, and affectionate 
 friend ; and wandered forth a forlorn ad- 
 venturer, without the prospect of gaining 
 support, . respect, or friendship. But he 
 was either too young or too thoughtless to 
 let any loss or misfortune afflict him long. 
 The sorrows of to-day were generally chased 
 away by the flattering allurements of to- 
 morrow. The view of future though 
 distant pleasures, blunted the sting of 
 reflection ; and made that separation pleas- 
 ing to him, which to others would have 
 been a source of perpetual anguish. He 
 summoned his associates, and bade them 
 an eternal adieu.
 
 DERMODY. 235 
 
 FAREWELL TO KILLE1GH. 
 
 tl At last, while you've been heedless napping, 
 Egad, I'm ready just for hopping : 
 There's neither staying now nor stopping, 
 
 But dash away ; 
 Perchance your bard no more may drop in, 
 
 To make you gay. 
 
 " Howe'er, I hope you'll place my head 
 Upon a column white and red ; 
 Record the witty things I said, 
 
 And con each joke : 
 You will, I wot, be so well-bred, 
 
 My hearts of oak. 
 
 " Oft in the dear lost school convene, 
 Smoke deep your funny gab * between ; 
 While honest John, in doleful teen f , 
 
 Sighs out my name r 
 Boys, I must alter now the scene, 
 
 And climb to fame. 
 
 u If to old Lory's you repair, 
 To tipple off the fortnight's care, 
 Still Tom shall steal upon you there, 
 
 And prompt each wish ; 
 Tom, that would smoke like a lord-may'r," 
 
 Drink like a fish. 
 
 * Talk. f Sound of sorrow.
 
 256 THE LIFE OP 
 
 '* When Shakspeare fills each pate so fine, 
 And Dick repeats the pompous line, 
 You'll mouth once more my verse divine; 
 
 My slipshod muse 
 Shall make the ale as strong as wine, 
 
 And sweets infuse. 
 
 " How often have we met the moon 
 With vapours bland, and pipe in tune : 
 Ready with Ariel to commune, 
 
 Or Caliban : 
 Not caring half a taylor's croon 
 
 For dev'l or man ! 
 
 *' No more shall I so deeply muse 
 O'er pamphlet bare, or dusty news ; 
 No more antiquities peruse 
 
 With craving eye: 
 Good lack ! no more destroy my shoes, 
 
 Capping for joy. 
 
 * No more love-sonnets sweetly sing, 
 To Hudibrastics chime the string, 
 Or elegies right baleful bring 
 
 For Davie dead ; 
 AUs ! 'tis quite another thing : 
 
 All frolic's fled.
 
 DERMODY. 257 
 
 "But friendship still shall fresh remain ; 
 And when I'm o'er the envious main, 
 Tell all my old tricks o'er again 
 
 With smiling glee r 
 ' Heav'ns !' will ye cry in ranting strain, 
 
 * Who'll equal thee ? 
 
 " * Killeigh is now, alack ! deserted : 
 Her once-lov'd poet's quite departed ; 
 Full cruel wert thou and hard-hearted 
 
 To serve her so.* 
 Partners of all my life, though parted, 
 
 My soul's with you. 
 
 " Though riches fill my chest, though Glory 
 Swell up my heart, I'm no such tory 
 To gain up all those things before ye, 
 
 Nor lend a mite ; 
 Whate'er I be, 'tis the old story, 
 
 And all is right. 
 
 " Should I in future years be able 
 To take an arm-chair at your table, 
 Then you wont think this boast a fable, 
 
 But good stout reason : 
 You'll find me, though but poor, right stable j 
 
 Ne'er out of season. 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 THE LIFE OP DERMODY. 
 
 " And now God's luck to this fair meeting ! 
 
 And may we have another greeting ; 
 
 When bairns and wives, the tribe completing, 
 
 Shall hug each other : 
 While I, of noble actions treating, 
 
 Hail each a brother !" 
 
 THE END OF VOT,. i, 
 
 *. Gosncll, Printer, 
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