that delectable spring of wonders, were carried in them to the last point of extravagance. One of the most memorable of the fictions which were first given to the world in the pages of Walker's Magazine, was the Romance of the Pyrenees, which has since been published in four or five volumes. It was continued for a series of years through the magazine, and actually prolonged its life beyond its natural term, in despite of a waning connection, and many general causes of depression; until, at last, after an existence of twenty or thirty years, as fluctuating as the lottery itself, the readers of Walker's Miscellany suddenly found their shares turn up blanks!

The demise of this pleasant old twaddler was followed by a magazine entitled the Anthologia Hibernica, which exhibited a hundred fold its claims to public patronage, and which lived only through two years. It was commenced in 1793, the year when some of the most oppressive parts of the Penal Code in reference to the Catholics were repealed. Previously to that time, the office of the Roman Catholic priest was discharged under the terrors of the law, Catholics were not allowed to hold property, nor to possess educational foundations. It was a period of considerable excitement, but the Anthologia was established with a pledge of neutrality, which, however, at such a season it was almost impossible to fulfil. Accordingly we find incidental traces of a political tendency, which, with an instinct natural, perhaps, to genius in want of patronage, ran throughout in favour of the government. By the way, the editor had some very strange notions upon the subject of parliamentary reform; for, at the foot of an elaborate table of parliamentary patronage, which must have cost him some labour in the compilation, he innocently inquires, "what inconvenience had arisen to the country from the state of its representation?" and in that very table he shows, without reservation of names or places, that of a Parliament consisting of 300 members, 94 members were nominated and influenced by 53 commoners, and 134 members were nominated and influenced by 54 peers, leaving to the people the election of only 72-Yet the editor asks what inconveniences had arisen to the country from the state of its representation!

The Anthologia was a work of ability, and would have reflected credit upon a

more accomplished and advanced age. It administered, of course, to the taste of the day, against which it would have been vain to run counter, and surrendered a portion of its space to idle and frivolous matter; but it rescued many important antiquarian researches from oblivion, and drew into its pages nearly all the available ability within the reach of its influence. Some embellishments which it presented to the public at intervals, attest the advance that had then been made in the art of engraving in Ireland, since sadly fallen away; while its political pieces were selected, on the whole, with some care and judgment. One division of the work was dedicated to the solution of mathematical problems. Such a feature in a magazine now-a-days would weigh it down like lead; but it must be remembered that extraordinary advances have been made in that department of science since the time when the Anthologia flourished, and that people had not then such facilities of acquiring knowledge of that kind as we possess. The principal contributor of the mathematical conundrums, was a gentleman who always printed his name in full, Daniel O'Reardon. He took the greatest delight in announcing himself to the public as the author of the mysterious papers filled with diagrams and profound calculations; and enlarged with commendable pride upon elaborate explanations of things, that to the vulgar were wondrous strange, but that every young gentleman of fifteen years of age could、 have elucidated quite as clearly as Mr. Daniel O'Reardon. Poor O'Reardon used to consider himself the first mathematician in Europe. He had a share in shortening the days of the Anthologia, which drooped under the weight of his solemn rodomontade. But his glory was not to be eclipsed by the death of the periodical through which he illuminated the world. He survived it many years, to the ineffable satisfaction of his numerous pupils. O'Reardon's employment was that of preparing students in the "mathematical line" to enter college. He generally had the good fortune to obtain pupils who had money to spend, who did not care how they spent it, and who had no desire whatever to learn any thing. This exactly suited O'Reardon: he was a bon-vivant of the first water—not gay, not witty, not even musical-but he could drink deeply, could listen conscientiously, enjoy any mischief

that was going forward, provided he was allowed to get drunk, and he possessed the art of talking blarney in perfection. His pupils-wild Irish roystering rogues—were enchanted with so lax a master of the mathematics, and accordingly the evenings were usually appointed for giving lessons, when O'Reardon might drink as much as he liked, and his élèves might learn as little as they thought fit. Had they taken O'Reardon of a morning-when his head was cloudy, and his humour dull-the whole business would have been a mere waste of time, for, in fact, the bibulous O'Reardon knew nothing more of mathematics than its bare forms. To be sure it was a waste of time as it was, but as the night advanced O'Reardon could make the most of what he did know, talk thick and loud, expatiate grandiloquently upon single phrases, and confound the arch pupils so admirably that they felt a sort of wicked pleasure in paying him for getting up so much fun. When he once fell into a mood of talking it was impossible to stop him; then it was that the inward vanity of the teacher broke out; then it was that, with a rich Irish brogue which confiscated all the parts of speech with the most confusing rapidity, he was wont to assert that no man in the British dominions spoke such " pure, vernacular English ;" and then, too, it was that he would propose to his scholars to teach them Latin, in addition to the mathematics, premising that he knew all its depth as intimately as his mother tongue. This was O'Reardon's favourite subject when he became very obtuse over his liquor: and on such occasions he was in the habit of illustrating his knowledge of Latin, by the following familiar quotation, which he gave with a rich flood of voice, and a sinister twinkle of the eye that cannot be made intelligible in description: "And Horace said to his mother, Do you drink punch?” “No, my son," said she, nemo mortalium omnibus Horace caput!" We give this literally as it was rendered by O'Reardon. Poor fellow! his end was like his life-he went out in the same state of mental oblivion in which it was his glory to live!

66

But there were other contributors to the Anthologia who have since acquired a wider fame than our thirsty mathematician. It is worth recording, that the Anthologia Hibernica first introduced to the public two poets, one of whom at least

will survive as long as our language is spoken or read. Those poets were Dermody and Moore. The first verses that are known to have been published by Moore appeared in the Anthologia, and are, no doubt, some of the earliest he ever wrote. As there is always attached to such reliques a greater or lesser amount of curiosity, we will present the lines to our readers exactly as we find them in the pages of the Magazine, with the note, introductory and deprecatory, to the editor.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ANTHOLOGIA
HIBERNICA.

;

'Tis true my muse to love inclines,
And wreaths of Cypria's myrtle twines
Quits all aspiring, lofty views,
And chants what Nature's gifts infuse;
Timid to try the mountain's height,
Beneath she strays, retired from sight;
Careless, culling amorous flowers,
Or quaffing mirth in Bacchus' bowers.
When first she raised her simplest lays
In Cupid's never ceasing praise,
The god a faithful promise gave-
That never should she feel love's stings,
Never to burning passion be a slave,
But feel the purer joy thy friendship brings.

The argument, it must be confessed, is not very satisfactory; but the tone of this little poem, and its epigrammatic termination, indicate the character of the writer's genius, subsequently developed in more ambitious and brilliant displays. To this piece was added the following:

:

PASTORAL BALLAD.
Ah, Celia! when wilt thou be kind?
When pity my tears and complaint?
To mercy, my fair! be inclined,
For mercy belongs to the saint.
Oh! dart not disdain from thine eye!
Propitiously smile on my love!
No more let me heave the sad sigh,
But all cares from my bosom remove!
My gardens are crowded with flowers,
My vines are all loaded with grapes;
Nature sports in my fountains and bowers,
And assumes her most beautiful shapes.

The shepherds admire my lays,
When I pipe they all flock to my song;
They deck me with laurel and bays,
And list to me all the day long.

But their laurels and praises are vain,

They've no joy or delight for me now,
For Celia despises the strain,

And that withers the wreath on my brow.
Then, adieu! ye gay shepherds and maids!
I'll hie to the woods and the groves;
There complain in the thicket's dark shades,
And chaunt the sad tale of my loves!

That the young poet's head, when he was writing this pastoral, was filled with Shenstone, whose very words as well as rhythm he echoes in this artificial strain, is apparent enough; but poets are, in nine cases out of ten, the source from whence young poets first derive their inspiration. Moore was a boy when he wrote these verses; but in seven years afterwards he produced his translation of Anacreon, which was the foundation of his fame. The address which he gives in his note to the editor, will remind the reader of his well-known answer to the Prince Regent's question, whether he belonged to a certain ancient family of his name, residing in Ireland. “No,” replied the poet, " my father kept a grocer's shop in Aungier Street, in Dublin!" That reply lost him the favour of the prince, and threw him into an opposition that produced those withering satires, in which his royal highness's name will be transmitted to all posterity.

Dermody's history is one of the most melancholy in the whole range of literary biography. He was rather in advance of Moore, and had he possessed as much respect for the dignity of the poetical character, he might have, perhaps successfully, contested with his contemporary the honour of being regarded as the bard of his country. But Dermody, suddenly noticed by the great, and raised from poverty to high and flattering associations, was unable to keep his dazzling position. His mind constantly reverted to the original meanness of his condition. Nature had made him a poet, but circumstances degraded him into a profligate of the lowest grade. His life was filled to overflowing with miseries of his own creation. As the story runs, his abilities were discovered by an accident. One day a gentleman, whose name has escaped us, was turning over the leaves of an old volume at a book-stand in the vicinity of the Four Courts, in Dublin, when his attention was attracted by a squalid boy in the ragged dress of a peasant, standing close beside him, devouring in silent abstraction the contents of a mutilated Greek Homer. The circumstance naturally excited curiosity, and

produced inquiries which led to the discovery that, with the powerful impetus of genius struggling against obstacles, the wretched-looking boy had abandoned his native village, destitute of friends and means, to seek books and mankind in the metropolis. Fortunately, the gentleman was a patron of letters, and a man of influence he undertook to advance the fortunes of the stranger, and through his means Dermody, whom the reader will have recognized in the ragged urchin, was introduced to the countess of Moira, who continued to patronize him until he exhausted her patience by his irreclaimable vices. At first, his professions of gratitude were boundless, and his numerous odes of devotion to the countess which appeared in the Anthologia, attested the enthusiasm of his feelings. But kindness was lavished upon him in vain. He wasted the gifts of his benefactress in the haunts of depravity. On one day caressed by the virtuous and the noble, he was to be found on the next in the dens of the licentious and the outcast. Many attempts were made to redeem him, but without success. At length, he enlisted in a marching regiment, when his friends again interfered, and purchased him a commission : the restraints of a military life, however, did not suit him; he sold out, came to London, and published a volume of poems, but the fate of Chatterton awaited him. Pressed by the extremity of want, he subsisted for some time upon the bounty of the charitable; but their interest in him was soon wearied out. Homeless and in despair, with a volume of Hudibras in his pocket, he wandered into the village of Lewisham, where he took up his abode at a poor ale-house. As long as his host permitted him, he lived there; but the sympathy of the landlord did not last long, and poor Dermody was driven forth to die upon the highway. His spirit, unbroken by these accumulated misfortunes, still sustained him, and in a mood of morbid resignation, he possessed himself of an unclaimed and untenanted ruin on Hounslowheath, that afforded him one room dilapidated and roofless. Some passing stranger discovered him in this forlorn situation, and communicated the fact to Sir J. B. Brugess, who was then, we believe, the president of the Literary Fund Society. That gentleman immediately hastened to his relief, and when he entered the

wretched apartment he found Dermody seated on a stone which he had dragged into a corner for shelter, with his book in his hand, and ghastly famine in his eyes. To the first question that was put to him, he replied, holding up Hudibras, "See, sir, I am merry to the last!" He was speedily removed to a comfortable inn; but it was too late, his frame was wasted by long suffering, and death was close at hand. He expired in a few hours, and his remains were conveyed to the village church, where a marble slab, inscribed with a few of his own verses, points out the spot where he sleeps.

The poems of Dermody are remarkable for an eastern gorgeousness of imagination; they are full of exuberant feeling, rich images, and a profuse display of critical eccentricities. It is difficult to predicate from what he did, what he might have done had his taste been corrected by time and observation; but he possessed in a remarkable degree some of the elements of poetry—a fertile fancy, a rapid invention, and an extraordinary descriptive power, if not a deep sense of the qualities of beauty.

We ought not, perhaps, to omit from this enumeration of Irish publications, a strange periodical libel that was printed in Dublin for many years, during the worst periods of insurrection, entitled "The Irish Magazine.” It was edited, and written, by a Mr. Walter Cox, who endured in turn, as the reward of his daring violations of truth and decency, the popular punishments of fine, incarceration, and pillory. His monkey glee and truculent satire could not be restrained by the terrors of the law; and, in despite of repeated penalties and imprisonments, he continued to etch coarse caricatures upon the authorities, and to pour forth vulgar ribaldry against men in power who happened to fall under his displeasure. His magazine, however, finally ceased; it was said that his silence was purchased by an annuity of 2007., on condition that he would leave the country. The worthy scribbler went to America, and after scandalizing the Yankees, returned to his native city, where, after a faint struggle to establish another two-penny lampoon, he died in obscurity.

The magazines that remain to be noted may be dismissed briefly. Of these the Examiner, was most distinguished for the spirit with which it was conducted: but

its career was short. Its projectors could not make head against the indifference of the public, and after a few numbers abandoned their ill-repaid labours.

This

The Dublin Magazine was originated by some young students of Trinity College. It wanted solidity, and a general purpose; there was but little talent, and less skill displayed in its pages; and it was too evidently the work of inexperienced hands to exercise an influence over the reading world. It was memorable only as being the work through which the unfortunate Bertridge Clarke was made known. That early genius contributed largely to this periodical. The wildness of his imagination was not more remarkable than the teeming fertility of his mind. He wrote verse with steam-engine velocity; verse, too, in which there was high promise of excellence which he did not live to achieve. His tragedy of Ramiro, produced with some success on the Dublin stage, afforded a fair specimen of his powers and of his faults. It was replete with fantastic images, thrown out in such rapid succession that the spectator was lost as much in the mazes of the design as in wonder at the apparently inexhaustible resources of the writer. was the besetting sin of Bertridge Clarke's poems. He makes one of his characters, after receiving his death wound, deliver a long apostrophe to the beauties of nature, and expire in a cloud of metaphor. Clarke was to the full as passionate and luxurious in his habits (as far as circumstances permitted him) as in his poetry. He used to sleep during the summer months in an Indian hammock, and revel through half the night talking the most extravagant nonsense about the poets that could well be conceived. Dublin was too confined a sphere for a spirit so ardent, and he tried the more ambitious field of London, where he brought out a tragedy, not less wild than Ramiro, but which still promised that, when he had tamed the excesses of his muse, he might accomplish something worthy of perpetuity. To him the London public are indebted for that small scrap of play-bill criticism, called the Theatrical Observer, the plan of which was originated in Dublin, where it had an extraordinary sale, by a Mr. Johnstone. But, although it was a novelty that excited some interest on its first appearance, it did not repay the trouble of its production, and was given up. Some humble hanger-on of the theatres