because they are small, and would readily, as Mr. W. prefer a diamond of the size of his own thumb, to a Bristol stone as big as Mr. W.'s head! He exclaims against wretched miniatures, and when he talks of miniature painting being the refuge of blockheads, he most pointedly and merely directs his aim at the crowd of fuce makers, or more properly speaking, ivory spoilers, who infest, disgrace, and plunder this metropolis.

We have not the advantage of knowing Mr. Watts, but if he paints miniatures as well as Mr. Shee writes verses, he is hors du combat, and had no right to put the cap on his head, and strut about in it in this ridiculous manner.

The Life of Dermody: interspersed with Pieces of Original Poetry; many exhibiting unexampled Prematurity of genuine Poeticul Talent; and containing a series of Correspondence with several eminent Characters. By James Grant Raymond. 2 Vols. 12mo. Miller. 1806.

THE readers of the Monthly Mirror are already in some degree acquainted with the character and merits of Thomas Dermody.— Several of his smaller pieces have, at different times, appeared in our work, and at his death we published his portrait, from an excellent painting by Mr. Charles Allingham, accompanied with a few particulars of his extraordinary history. Several elegiac tributes to his memory have been likewise inserted, some of which will be allowed to possess considerable poetical merit. The pretensions, however, of Dermody to the character of a poet, were not sufficiently established during his life. Though known to many eminent literary characters, and privately patronized by them, he lived almost in obscurity; the world at large were ignorant of his talents, and it remained for Mr. Raymond to secure him a niche in the temple of immortality, by collecting the interesting facts and documents which he has here presented to the public.

Mr. Raymond could not have selected a more characteristic motto for his book than the following:

"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."

1

It is from Dermody's own little poem of the Enthusiast, in which he no doubt meant to describe himself. In talent he was superior to Savage; perhaps not far behind Chatterton; but, like the

former he was fatally addicted to low society; and, like him, defeated, by his own misconduct, all the plans that were benevolently projected for his benefit.

But it is time now to attend to the memoirs of his life by Mr. Raymond, a gentleman who knew him at an early period of his life; who often assisted him in his most urgent necessities; and after many ineffectual efforts to save him from a premature death, which he saw would be the consequence of his excesses, performed for him the last sad office, by attending his remains to the grave.

Thomas Dermody was born at Engis in 1775. His father was a school-master, and paid so much attention to the education of his son, that he placed him in his ninth year in the situation of Greek and Latin assistant in his school. How soon he became a poet cannot be known; at ten years old however he wrote a monody on the death of his brother, which abounds with natural pathos, beautiful imagery, and nervous expression, (p. 6.). Unfortunately, with his taste for poetry he imbibed an inclination for vulgar society; his father, fond of drinking, set him an example, which unhappily be followed through life, Towards the end of his tenth year, he quitted his home, with a couple of shillings in his pocket, and the second volume of Tom Jones, which, as he often said, determined him on this adventure. On the road he fell in with a poor carrier, who, pitying his situation, shared with him his homely morsel, and by giving him a short ride now and then, enabled him to accomplish his journey to Dublin, above one hundred and forty En glish miles from Ennis. Here the carrier parted with him; and here he soon met with another friend, the owner of a book stall, who, surprised at seeing a boy of Dermody's forlorn appearance, poring over a Greek author, and still more astonished at finding that he understood it, asked him down into the cellar, and gave him some refreshment. He engaged him to teach his son Latin; but the pupil and the tutor not very well agreeing, the bookseller recommended him as shop-boy to another dealer in his own line, but in easier circumstances. He was soon afterwards received into the house of Dr. Houlton, who had at that period a medical appointment under the Irish government. Dr. Houlton, in a very interest ing letter to Mr. Raymond, relates the manner in which he met with this surprising boy.

"It was, to the best of my recollection, in the year 1786, that chance brought me acquainted with young Derimody. Happening, 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 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.". P. 28.

"I produced Horace and Homer," writes Dr. H. "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 proficiency 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." P. 29.

Pleased with his new acquaintance, Dr. H. proposed that he should make his house his residence, till some better and more agreeable situation could be obtained for the prosecution of his studies. His offer was accepted, and in the evening he received from his guest a bundle of manuscript poems consisting of translations and sonnets, of which he speaks in high terms. It was natural that Dr. Houlton should be proud of introducing the infant poet and scholar to his friends. One of them, (continues Dr. H.) a Mr. French, eager to satisfy his curiosity, though far from crediting the accounts he had heard, put Horace into his hands.

"He 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. '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, 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. 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 opportunity 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 afterwards procured a copy from Mr. French, permit me to introduce it with the original text; particularly on account of an interesting conversation that took place between my friend and Dermody, respecting some particular passages in it. The Latin ode is as follows:

Tu ne quæsieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi,
Fine Di dederint, Louconoë; nec Babylonios

Tentaris numeros: ut melius, quicquid erit, pati,
Seu plures hyemes, seu tribuit Jupiter ultimam,
Quæ nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Ætas: carpe diem, quàm minimùm credula postero.

TRANSLATION.

THY search, Leuconoë, 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'lt sustain,
If thou incurious wilt remain
Whether, by potent Jove's decree,
Tyrrhenian floods thou'lt 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 lengthen'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 surprise, asked Dermody what induced him to translate quem tibi finem by 'When Death shall summon at thy gate? From a passage, Sir,' replied Dermody, in Horace's fourth ode of the first book. 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 æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,
Regumque turres.

Right, my dear boy!' exclaimed Mr. French; and with rapture again shook him by the hand.

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, 'be too hard with him; you ought to be content with his ready version of the ode.'— 'But I am confident,' resumed Mr. French, from what I have already heard

and

seen, that he will be able to answer me.' Then gratify your inclination,' 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 Leuconoë had a mansion,' Dermody answered,' he was sure it was unnecessary te inform

A A VOL. XXI.

him, that Italy stretched out between the Mare Tyrrhenum and Mare Adriaticum; and that a French critic was of opinion that Leuconoë 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, 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 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 filtering wines: and secondly, as it was evident, from the whole tenor of the ode, that Leuconoë was very inquisitive, our unlearned wits perhaps would say, that after filtering the wines, she doubtless had the curiosity to taste freely of them.' 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 Leuconoë than Horace himself was.' There might be a reason,' replied Dermody, why Horace did not wish to be too severe on her.'-' What was that, my boy?'Why, Sir, some critics are of opinion that Leuconoë 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." P. 42-48.

In a few weeks Dr. H. was under the necessity of going to a remote part of Ireland on professional business. Dermody was again his own master, and soon wasting the money he had received on parting with his late benefactor, distress and poverty once more assailed him. Without a settled home, he roved about the streets by day, and begged the meanest shelter for the night. His next friend was a Mr. Coyle, a scene painter, belonging to the Dublin theatre, who had been employed to paint and decorate Dr. Houlton's house. To him, in his present distress, Dermody frequently

went.

"I then resided," says Mr. Coyle, "in Dorset-Street, Dublin, 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 ;