Poor Dermody! — for, while we condemn we pity him — has found a friendly biographer in Mr. Raymond, the actor. It has been truly observed, that, "perhaps, no memoirs ever appeared more dishonourable to the person of whom they treat, and more honourable to the age in which he lived than those of Thomas Dermody." He was indeed vicious; but he was also unfortunate; and heavily did he atone for his crimes. Let, then, the tear of pity bedew his grave.
No more the soft Eolian flute
Breathes through the heart the melting strain,
The powers of harmony are mute,
And leave the once delighted plain;
With heavy wing I seem them beat the air,
Damp'd by the leaden hand of comfortless despair.