་ those base affociates, he wandered about for many weeks without any habitation, or any means of fubfiftence, but the cafual donations which his wretched appearance extorted from the humanity of those to whom he prefented mean petitions. In this fituation he meditated a vifit to London, and wrote fome abufive and fcurrilous verfes upon that country which had fo long tolerated and fupported his vices by its liberal and long-fuffering munificence. In his drunken fits he was twice enlifted by a crimping ferjeant, and twice fet at liberty by his friends; but, upon falling into this fcrape for the third time, it was judged proper by Lord Moira and his other patrons, that he fhould be allowed to remain, for fome time at least, in the ranks, to try whether military difcipline might not effect that reformation which had proved impracticable by any other method. the For a confiderable time there feemed to be good ground for hoping that this experiment would prove fuccefsful ;-he was promoted to be a ferjeant for good behaviour, and at laft, upon failing of the English army for Flanders, was appointed by Lord Moira fecond lieutenant to a waggon corps, and ferved abroad, with no difcredit or remarkable irregularity, for the long period of four years. On the reduction of this army, he was put upon half-pay, which fecured him a regular annuity of 321. The beneficence of the Earl of Moira now induced him to provide for his accommodation, and put him in the way of literary advancement; but he fquandered the liberal fupplies of his protector, and returning to the pursuits of low debauchery, was very foon reduced to prifon, from which he was only released by the kindnefs of his patron. He was no fooner at liberty, than all thoughts of reformation vanifhed;-he mortgaged his half-pay, boarded himself with a drunken Irish cobler in Weftminster, and fpent his days and nights in the most offenfive intemperance with him and his affociates. Lord Moira, though he never deserted him entirely, was now forced to abandon the idea of bringing him forward to public notice. In 1800 he published a collection of his poems; but he was now twenty-five years of age; and the public, that had clapped and fhouted the infant poet, did not find any fubject for rapturous admiration in the improved production of the man. He was foon naked and destitute again, and then applied to Sir James Bland Burges. Sir James gave him a draught on his banker for ten pounds; and as foon as he had got home, Dermody wrote a letter, ftating that he had loft the draught by the way, and requefting to have another of equal value. On fending to the banker, Sir James found that the first draught had been prefented and paid to the poet, who makes a most awkward apology for the impofition, and is again received into favour. By the interceffion interceffion of this new patron, he was now recommended to the confideration of the Literary Fund; and received a fupply of money and clothes, that feemed to put him, for a time at least, beyond the reach of expofure. Our readers, however, will perceive, from the following extract, how greatly his mifconduct exceeded all ordinary calculation. As he was now well dreft, apparently relieved from his embarrafments, and with favourable profpects opening to him, his friends entertained a hope that he would have discretion enough to make a good use of his profperity. But this expectation was very fhort-lived. Within a week after he had appeared in his new clothes, as Sir James Burges was fitting in the evening in his library, he heard a loud noise and a violent: altercation in his hall. On going out to inquire the cause of fuch an unusual tumult, he found Dermody ftruggling with two of his fervants, who endeavoured to prevent him from forcing his way into the house. And, indeed, his appearance was such as completely to justify them; for he was literally in rags, was covered with mud (in which it appeared that he had been juft rolled), had a black eye, and a fresh wound on his bead from which the blood trickled down his breaft; and, to crown the whole, was fo drunk as to be hardly able to ftand or fpeak. As foon as Sir James could recognize him, he released him from the hands of his fervants; and conducting him into his library, inquired the reason of his appearing in fuch a condition. Dermody accounted for his being fo ill dreft, by faying that he had pawned his new clothes. As for his dirt and wounds, he faid he had been arrested and carried to a fpunginghouse, where he had been drinking with the bailiffs, and writing a poem which he wished to take to Sir James, but they would not let him; so that he had watched his opportunity, and flipped off; but had been overtaken by them, and obliged to fight his way.' II. 169.70. The compaffion of Sir James withstood this exhibition; and he perfifted in his attention to this devoted bacchanal, till his repeated mifconduct and fhameless folicitations at laft wearied out his benevolence, and fhut his ears to his entreaties. The way in which he now lived, may be judged of from the following paffages. At one time he might be feen in his garret in company with his hofts the cobler and his wife, and fome attic lodger of equal confequence, regaling on a goofe which his induftry had roafted by a ftring in his own apartment while the pallet-bed, which flood in a corner, was ftrewed with various vegetables; the fire-fide decorated with numerous foaming pots of porter; and the cobler's work-ftool, boot-leg, Jap-ftone, &c. were commodiously placed as feats. On another occafion, in fome neighbouring alehoufe, entertaining the fame perfonages with the various rarities which reforts of this defcription generally afford; where, as the aftonished guefts, enveloped in clouds of fmoke, fat liftening with rapture to the eloquence of Dermody, the hoft was to be discovered in the back ground applauding with one hand, while his other dexterously scored an additional item to the bill. II. 223-4. 6 At At another time, his biographer having occafion to call for him, on entering the house his ears were affailed by violent plaudits and huzzas, which appeared to iffue from the attic ftorey. Having little curiofity to inquire into the cause of these extraordinary rejoicings, he only requested to fee Dermody. The good woman of the houfe quick, ly despatched a meffenger to give the proper information; and the author was foon ufhered into a room, at the top of which fat Dermody in a new fuit of clothes, furrounded by half a score of the landlord's fmoking acquaintances; the table strewed with tobacco, pipes, and a plentiful flow of wine and spirits; and the fideboard loaded with bottles, the late contents of which had left the members of this elevated fociety in a ftate of equal jollity and confufion.' 11. 225-6. We add but one trait more. A few days previous to writing this letter, Dermody had dined in Piccadilly; when the author, perceiving his fhoes and flockings to be in a very bad condition, fent and purchafed a pair of each, which Dermody put into his pocket with the intention of wearing them the following morning. The next evening, however, he made his appearance without either shoes, stockings, hat, neckcloth, or waistcoat; and in a state of intoxication not to be endured. He had pledged the shoes and ftockings, got drunk with the money, and in a fray in the streets had loft his other neceffaries. He entered the house in this state, told his tale, threw on the floor the duplicate of the articles he had pledged, demanded other apparel, was refused, swore a few oaths, threatened to deftroy a fideboard of glass, alarmed the whole family, was turned out of doors, and during the remainder of the night took shelter in a fhed fitted up for fome cattle in one of the fields leading from Westminster to Chelfea. Vol. 11. Note, p. 229-30. His laft patron was Lord Sidmouth, who enabled him to bring out another volume of poetry in 1802, and contributed liberally to his comfort and relief. But no admonitions could withhold Dermody many hours from the pot-houfe, and no money could keep him many days from the gaol. His conftitution at last gave way under the preffure of fo many irregularities; he ran from his creditors and benefactors, to a miferable cottage in the vil-' lage of Sydenham, where he expired, in July 1802, at the of 27. age Such is the hiftory of Thomas Dermody; whose adventures are chronicled in thefe volumes with as much minutenefs as if he had been a paragon of worth and accomplishment, and whose genius is trumpeted forth as if it had outfhone that of all his poetical predeceffors. We confefs that we do not perceive the utility of fuch a publication; and that we look with fome degree of difapprobation on the patronage and indulgence which was lavifhed upon fuch a wretch as Dermody. Of his poetical productions, we know nothing more than is contained in these volumes; but they they are fufficient to fatisfy us that his talents were of an inferior defcription. He has confiderable sweetness of verfification, and a copious and eafy flow of expreffion; but we find little original in his conceptions: he is a great copyift; and, where he does not give way to a vein of puerile parody, or vulgar mock heroic, feems generally contented with amplifying, in loose and declamatory language, the ideas which he borrows from our most popular authors. After all, it is by no means fo difficult to write tolerable poetry, as the world appears to imagine; nor is the merit of this kind of labour fo great, in our apprehenfion, as to atone for the want of common decency, or to monopolize the charity on which virtuous misfortune has fo much stronger a claim. There are quantities of poetry as good as most of Dermody's, which pafs quietly to oblivion every fix months, whithout ever being miffed by the world; and when his name ceafes to be heard of, which will happen, we doubt not, in four or five years, in spite of the stir occafioned by his eccentricities, we rather think that the ftate of our poetical readers will be more gracious than that of the prefent generation. In fhort, we cannot help fufpecting that it is more to our national vanity, and our taste for monsters of all defcriptions, than to any tender fympathies for the fufferings of genius, that we should afcribe the profufe and unmerited bounty which was poured into the purfe of this prodigy of verfe and debauchery. For our own parts, we think it would have been quite as well for the world, and much better for himself, if he had been allowed to follow out his natural progrefs, from the house of correction to the gallows; or, at any rate, if he had been left under the wholefome difcipline of the ferjeants and drummers in the ranks of Lord Granard's regi ment of foot. ART. XIV. Paradis Perdu. Traduit par Jacques De Lille, &c. Paris et Londres. 1805. MR R De LILLE, the most famous of living poets, has, in the decline of life, undertaken a tranflation of the most celebrated of English poems. The merits of Paradife Loft, indeed, are not confined to England alone; they have been fo univerfally felt and acknowledged throughout Europe, that many critics have gone the length of comparing the author with the most illuftrious poets of antiquity; and few have fcrupled to place him on the fame pedeftal with the great Italian poets of the middle age. In attempting to lay before the public our remarks on this tranflation, we are aware that we may appear to have undertaken a L 4 tafk task of great delicacy. Fortunately however, fome of thofe circumstances, which at first fight feem to threaten us with the most formidable obftacles, on a nearer approach produce a very contrary effect. The established reputation of Milton confiderably alleviates our labours. His excellences and his defects have been fo frequently and fo ably canvaffed, and his merits as an epic poet have been fo accurately afcertained, that it would be fuperfluous to attempt to add to the numerous criticisms on this subject that are already in the poffeffion of the public. Mr De Lille's reputation, too, as a poet, is very generally understood. Multa virum meritis fuftentat fama tropæis. The work, however, immediately under our confideration, differs materially from any that he has hitherto fent forth into the world, fince it is in this that he has for the first time deferted his ordinary style of poetry, and has attempted to foar, on a loftier and more adventurous wing, into regions he had never penetrated before. It remains, therefore, for us to examine, how far he was qualified for this attempt, and how he has fucceeded in the execution of it. It is fcarcely neceffary, we truft, to fay that we are actuated by no illiberal prejudice, when we ftate the style and character of French poetry to be among the greateft difficulties Mr De Lille had to encounter. Differing, as the French language does from our own, it is ftill the fair and honourable rival of it. Each has its characteristic excellences, each its characteristic defects; and, whatever may be our opinion of their comparative merits, it would be abfurd deny the excellence of that language, which, with the fingle exception of England, is more or lefs the language of polished fociety throughout all the countries of Europe. This general diffufion, indeed, may be partly owing to the extended power and political intereft of the French nation; but it muft in till greater part be attributed to its own intrinsic merit, and to its delicacy and perfpicuity, which fo peculiarly adapt it to the purposes of conversation and business. It is not with conversation or bufinefs, however, that we are now concerned; and we fhall not be accufed, we believe, of any national injuftice to the poetical merits of the French, if we affert that it is not fo well calculated for the loftier flights of poetry as the Spanish, the Italian, or the English. Much may be faid, certainly, for the language of a Corneille, a Racine, and a Voltaire; and all that we feriously pretend to maintain is, that the flyle and character of French poetry is not only very different from the ftyle and character of English poetry, but that it is peculiar to the nation to which it belongs. Neither Italy nor England, we admit, have ever produced an author exactly of the fame calibre as Racine; and France, on the other hand, never has, and probably never will, pro duce |