NOTES.

1.-Page 24.

Death on the Pale Horse.

A fine imitation of the Terzetta Rima of Dante, from the pen of a young writer of the name of Wade. I am not acquainted with any other of his poems; but should his future productions realise the promise here held out, he can hardly fail of becoming favourably known to the public.

2.-Page 31.

Lines suggested by the death of Ismael Fitzadum.

99 66

These exquisitely beautiful lines, as honourable to the heart as to the genius of the accomplished writer, originated in the death of Mr. John Macken, of Enniskillen, the high-minded but ill-fated author of the Harp of the Desert," Lays on Land," and several poems, in this and the former volume of the Poetical Album, under the signature of Ismael Fitzadam. The following is an extract from a letter addressed by Mr. Macken to the Editor, a short time before his death: and most pathetically does it depict the miseries to which persons of genius and keen sensibility are not unfrequently exposed in their voyage through life.

says he, It was assumed

"With respect of my nom de guerre, or nom de mer,' "I have no wish to be known by any other name.

under the pressure of evil, as indicative of the destiny of a wandering and desolate man, and I have since found no reason to abandon it.

"The history of the earlier years of my life, and previous to my debut as a rhymester, furnishes but little that could interest the sympathies of even a heart like yours. It may be sufficient to remark, that my taste for poetical composition displayed itself at a very early age, and was tenacious enough to maintain its ascendency over my mind, in defiance of opposition, in despite of circumstances, and in the midst of avocations every way unpropitious to its devolopement. Mine has been, indeed, no scholastic life, passed in the cloistered shade of academic bowers.' My literary opportunities were casual and infrequent, and snatched at hasty intervals. After various attempts in the periodical publications of the day, I at length ventured on a volume of verses, entitled, 'Stolen Moments.' They were the productions of boyhood, and died upon their birth-day. My taste for poetry had early associated itself with themes of national glory, and I longed to select some such subject as 'Talavera,' or 'Trafalgar.' I had projected a Nelsoniad,' intended to comprise the achievements and death of that great man. Before I could mature my plan, retarded as I was by a variety of accidental circumstances, the expedition against Algiers afforded me a subject of more recent interest, and one more commensurate with my leisure, experience, and capacity. This, therefore, I prosecuted with much diligence and good will; inspired by an ambitious desire to celebrate, in some way, the naval renown of old England. With my manuscript, which I was not long in completing, and a few pounds in my pocket, I started for London, dreaming of patronage all the way. Wholly a novice in literary matters, and a total stranger in the metropolis, I soon found that I had entered upon speculations, and had been indulging in prospects, more uncertain and fugitive than even the winds and waves. Mr. Murray's situation, as bookseller to the Admiralty, directed me, in the first instance, to him; and I proposed, if he required it, to pay him in advance for the printing. After a good deal of delay, and a little of the hauteur of prosperous trade, he declined my proposition, informing me that his hands were just then too full.' My chagrin evaporated in an epigram. I afterwards stumbled upon another bookseller, and having advanced him such a sum as reconciled him to the risk of printing

a small volume, consisting of about 130 pages, my object was effected. Thus my national tribute saw the light, unaided by a fashionable publisher, without a patron, and almost without a single announcement or advertisement. No sooner was it published, than I sent a copy, with a dutiful letter, to Lord Exmouth, who, I suppose, never opened either the one or the other, as he was never so far influenced, either by his taste or humanity, as to condescend to make the slightest inquiry after his volunteer Laureate. Depressed by this, and a thousand cankering disappointments, I grew every day more and more indifferent to the fate of my unfortunate volume, until all hope of acquiring either fame or profit as a poet, died within me. The disappointment of an author's first hopes has something of bitterness about it; and although, like Junius, I was the sole depository of my own secret, I felt mortified by the neglect of the critical press, and more especially of that portion of it for whose patronage of a national poem I conceived I had some right to look. From one party, my line of politics and religion led me to expect no favour; but from the liberality of the other, I confess I did anticipate something, because I shall not disguise that I felt that something was due to me. An acquaintance, under this impression, wrote to Mr. Croker, with the view of interesting him so far in my book, as to induce him to make some allusion to it in the Quarterly Review. From this gentleman's official connexion with the navy, and from the circumstance of his having written a poem on a similar subject himself, I conceived I had a double right to claim kindred there, and have my claims allowed.' The only notice, however, which this application procured for me, was a mutilated insertion of the title of my book in the ensuing number of the Quarterly; omitting just that part of it which had reference to the peculiar character of the poem.

"Thus baffled on all points, I went to Paris to economize and forget. After spending a few months there, I was induced to return to London, on an invitation to arrange, and superintend the publication of a work, which promised large remuneration; but which, in the sequel, ended as all my other undertakings had terminated, in disappointment and vexation. But for this proposal I should, most probably, have forgotten myself amidst the amiable follies of the French metropolis, until I had

received a hint from the last of the thirty-five napoleons, which had constituted my whole travelling stock on leaving London.

"However, I was not entirely daunted by the failure of my second venture. The ceremony of the Coronation was now about to take place, and it struck me that it would afford an excellent groundwork for an historical and descriptive poem, in the stanza of Spenser. Full of this new, and, as it appeared to me, feasible plan, I set about arranging the topics; and in the meantime, knowing no other person, I ventured to write once more to Lord Exmouth, then in town, to request that he would procure me a ticket of admission to Westminster Abbey, for the purpose of witnessing the ceremony. On this, however, as on the former occasion, he maintained the same dignified and contumelious indifference, declining all manner of reply. That his lordship should not have been found among the patrons of literature, will excite no great surprise in those who know any thing of his origin, and the limited opportunities which have been afforded him of cultivating a literary taste; but every one must regret to find him thus deficient in the politeness, I might add humanity, we look for in an English gentleman. Here then was an end to my coronation scheme. I subsequently made several attempts to procure some permanent employment connected with the periodical press, but was unsuccessful in all. Had I been so fortunate as to have been acquainted with you then, this might not have been the case. Circumstances will speedily break the spirit down to the level of expedients, from which the philosophy of prosperous life would shrink with a feeling almost of horror. At this crisis, painful beyond all my powers of description even were I disposed to harrow up your feelings by the recital, an anonymous recommendation to the Editor of the Literary Gazette, raised a diversion in my favour, which led ultimately to the publication of my 'Lays on Land.' I had experienced enough of the vicissitudes and vexations of literary adventure to be prepared for further disappointment. My constitution had suffered severely; and I was compelled, finally, to leave London in 1821, for the restoration of my health, after a poetical campaign which had ended in defeat, if not in disgrace; my expectations from authorship blown 'vagabond and prostrate.' Thus, my dear Sir, you have all that can interest you of my little history."

I lament to add, that whatever profits might have accrued from the sale of Mr. Macken's "Lays on Land," none ever reached the author. Mr. Warren, the bookseller, failed a very short time after its publication, and Mr. M. repaired to his friends at Enniskillen, where he died, in little more than two months from the date of his letter.

Whatever may have been the griefs to which his extremely sensitive temperament may have subjected him, he could not have been, as has been currently affirmed, in any pecuniary distress; for he had at the time of his decease a considerable sum of money in the hands of his friends, which would have been forwarded to him instantly, had he expressed a wish to receive it. Equally fallacious was the supposition, that he was a common sailor. On the contrary, he had received the advantage of a classical education at Trinity College, Dublin, and possessed all the refinement consequent upon high poetical talent and extensive scholastic attainments. He assumed the sobriquet of Ismael Fitzadam merely to conceal his identity from the public; but the correctness and propriety of his nautical allusions, and the fidelity of his account of the battle, would lead to the inference that he must have been present at the scenes he describes. The work to which he refers in his letter, was the Huntingdon Peerage, published with the name of Mr. Henry Nugent Bell, of title-finding notoriety. For the arrangement of this volume he was promised five hundred pounds, but had great difficulty in getting fifty.

3.-Page 34.

The Virgin Mary's Bank.

The production of a young Irish poet, Mr. J. Callanan, formerly a student of Trinity College, Dublin, and now a resident of Cork. Mr. C. is also the author of some spirited translations from the Irish, in Blackwood's Magazine for February, 1823.

4.-Page 42.

Lines on the Temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens.

Extracted from the letter-press to Mr. Williams' charming Views in Greece; decidedly the most interesting of the class of publications to which it belongs.