The life of Gerald Griffin

Ipresenteo to

Zhc Umvcveixv of Toronto Xibrarp

ibume JBlafce, Esq,

from tbe books of

Ube late Ibonourable JE^warfc :J6lafte

Chancellor of tbe *amv>ersit\> of tto

(1876*1900)

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

University of Toronto

http://www.archive.org/details/lifeofgeraldgrifOOgrif

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PREFACE

TO THE FIRST EDITION.

f have many npologies to offer to the public, for the serious
interruptions and delays which the following Memoir met
with in its progress through the press. These were prin-
cipally owing to the pressure of professional avocations,
generally of a very distracting character, and so constant
in their operation as to give the nature of a task to that
which would otherwise have been a pleasing relaxation.
The same circumstances have, I also fear, affected, in no
inconsiderable degree, the manner in which the work haa
been executed. I cannot help thinking there is but little
of a brother's partiality in the opinion, that it was a noble
subject for one who had the ability to do it justice. The
lofty nature of our author's early aspirations, — his bright
and undying hope, — his indomitable energy, baffled and
defeated at every step, and the calm religious retirement
in which his life ended, were a theme for poetry rather
than prose, and, with the abundant materials which his
letters supplied, were worthy in every respect of a better
advocacy ; for I feel that the interruptions I speak of often
gave rise to a coldness of SDirit unworthy of a near relative,

A

6 MBFACB TO TEE, «*&T EDfUOK.

and especially unwortJi/ of one who bad known him so

lung and intimately. ihe only countervailing point against
such a disadvantage is a determination, which I early
adopted, to give all the circumstances of his life with a
sincerity and openness that would enable the reader to
form his own conclusions, and leave him but few questions
to ask. This determination I have adhered to, it may be
bumetimes thought, perhaps, with a blameable pertinacity ;
but I was convinced that in such a life there was little to
conceal,

Nothing can be more gratifying to the author's friends
tnaji the manner in which his memory seems to be cherished
by his countrymen since his death ; I speak especially of the
luanner of it ; for in most of the notices which have appeared
respecting him, there are not only marks of the highest
admiration of his genius, but expressions of deep, earnest,
and affectionate attachment, such as could hardly be ex-
pected except among his nearest relatives. To this par-
Lai feeling I may. perhaps, took fur a deg.ee of indulgence
for the following pages, of wjpcfc &ej woojd bo Dhfeerwjae
Moving,

PREFACE

TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The present edition of this Memoir has b°en cart fully re-
vised, some important errors corrected, and nothing omittei
that conlcl have any attractions for the general reader.
Some letters have also been added, which, not being in my
possession originally, were never before published, and
which, from the importance of the subject they treat of, as
well as the manner in which it is discussed, will, I have no
doubt, contribute much to the interest of the volume.
This, however, is far from being the motive with which I
have now inserted them, which was done entirely under
the belief that they would tend to place in a still higher
and brighter point of view, a character in which the Irish
public has, on several occasions, shown a very deep interest,
and render it more deserving than ever of that highly
favourable and friendly feeling and afitclionate regard
which has always been bestowed upon it.

LlMEKICK,

July 30, 1857.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER L

1803—1810.
Gerald Griffin's Birth, Childhood, and early Education — Anec-
dotes and Incidents of this Period — Removal to the Counjry 13

CHAPTER II.
1810-1819.
Fairy Lawn, and Mode of Life there — Gerald's First Signs of a
Love for Literature — Anecdotes of his Boyhood - - '29

CHAPTER TIL

1810—1823.
Deputes* from Fairy Lawn, and Emigration to America— Idea
of "bringing Gerald up to the Medical Profession — Adare —
His firet regular connection with Literature — Letters to his
Mother— His writing and acting Tragedies — Removal to
Pallaa Ker\ry, and his first Journey to Locdorj - - 51

CHAPTER IV.
1623—1826.
Gerald's eany Struggles in London — Tragedy of Aguire pre-
sented— His Letters — State of the Drama — Madam Riego —
Mr. Banim — Difficulties— Public Taste— Rejection of Aguire
— Plaj of Gisippus — Author's Remarks regarding it — Scene
from Gisippus in his Letters — His Observations on the Char-
acters in it — His further Struggles — Mr. Banim's Friend*
ship Authojr's own De*criptiuu of his Difficulties - • <6

CONTENTS. 9

CHAPTER V.

1823—1826.

Performance of Gisrppug at Drury Lane in 1842 — Letter*
to America — The Author's Account of his Labours — First
Successes — His great Mental Energy — His writing anony-
mously— Success of these Attempts — Account of the Discovery
of his Incognito — Satirical Verses — Verses on Recent Topics
— Feelings of Depression — Poetry — Anecdotes — Independence
of Character— Mr. Crabbe ------ 119

CHAPTER VL

1823— 1S26.

Letters from London — Literary People— Dr. Maginn — Mr.
Campbell — Miss Landon — Mr. Alaric Watts — Death of Mr.
Foster— The O'Hara Tales— Public Taste— Literary Puf-
fing— Party to Westminster Abbey — Religion in London —
Mr. Keats — Catholic Meeting — O'Connell — Shiel — Author's
Objurations on Literary Reputation — Sonnet — He devotes
hinibelf to Writings in Prose — State of Health — Drama ac-
cepted <jt the English Opera-house — His Feelings upon it - 15S

CHAPTER VTL

1826.
Author's Occnnafion as a Reviewer — His state of Health on bit

Brother's Arrival — Proposal for a genuine English Ope
Correspondence with Mr. Arnold on the subject — Correspoo-
dence with Mr. Banim — Gerald's Distaste for Patronage—
Instances oi it — His Love of Originality — New Comedy writ-
ten and subsequently destroyed — Frequency of Coincidences
in Literature, and strong natural Probability of them — Com-
plete, of " Holland- tide" - - 1*7

2 A

30

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER VIII.

1827—1828.

Continuation of the Correspondence vith Mr. Banim — Explana-
tions— Reconciliation — Allusion to Religious Opinions — Clare
Election of 1828 — Conclusion of Correspondence - - 17.1

CHAPTER EX.

1827—1828.
Gerald's Return to Pallas Kenry — Death of his Sister— Sonnet
to her Memory — Reviews of Holland-tide — Tales of the
Munster Festivals — Life at Pallas Kenry — His great Power
of Abstraction — Opinions on Literary People — Campbell-
Byron — Moore and Burns — Fondness for Nature and Reality
— The unintelligible School of Poetry — Coleridge's Table-
talk — Gerald's Love of Music, and fine Taste in it - - 193

CHAPTER X.
1828— 1S29.
Publication of Tales of the Munster Festivals — Gerald's Return
to London — The Collegians — Circumstances in which it waa
written — His Remarks on the Moral of the "Work — George
Coleman, as a Deputy Licenser — Gerald enters as a Law Stu-
dent at the London University — His Mode of Life in London
— His Study of Irish History — The Invasion — Letters —
Anecdote - ....... 219

CHAPTER XL

1829—1830.
Jseturn to Pallas Kenry — Correspondence with Mr. and Mrs.

. — Renewed Tisit to London — Letters from thence — A

Dinner Party of Metaphysicians — Return to Ireland — Letters
from the Sea-side ....... 242

CONTENTS. 11

CHAPTER XIL

1830—1832.

Alteration in Gerald's Opinions regarding Literature — Circum-
stances which tended to produce it — Earnestness and Depth
of his Religious Feelings — Effect of this change upon his
Pursuits and the Character of his "Writings — Letters — Poems
of a Religious Character — Continuation of the Correspondence
with Mrs. ...267

CHAPTER XIII.

1832—1835.

Cisit to Mr. Moore at Sloperton — Anecdotes — Mr. Moore and

Grattan — Letters to Mrs. , describing this Visit — Gerald's

Remarks on his alteration of Feeling — Continuation of Cor-
respondence— Verses addressed to Mrs. . — Singular

Presentiment — Sonnet - - - • ■• - -307

CHAPTER XIV.

1838.

Gerald's latest Publications — The Barber of Bantry — the Duke

of Monmouth -—A Trip to Scotland — Letter to Mrs. .

Shorthand Notes of our Tour — Scenery on the Clyde — His
Enthusiasm about it - - - - • • -32!

CHAPTER XV.

1838.

Continuation of Tour — Glasgow — Falkirk — Linlithgow — Edin-
burgh— Remarks on Burns' Monument — Holy rood House—
Apartments — Portrait of David Rizzio — Miniature of Queen
Mary-— Remarks on reading Character — Botanic Gardens-
Slight Blness— Reflections --,-.- 338

12 CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XVI.

1838.

Tour in Scotland continued— Stirling — Callander — Locb Achray
—The Trosaclis— Fellow Travellers— Settling a Waiter's Bill
— Loch Katrine — Beautiful Day — Pass of Inversnaid — An
Edinburgh Schoolmaster — Loch Lomond— Remarks on Smol-
lett and Fielding — Miss Martineau's Opinion on Cemeteries —
Farewell to Scotland — Lovely Weather — Dublin — Return by
Canal — Passengers — Anecdote — Conclusion ... 351

CHAPTER XVIL

1838—1840.

Gerald's Return home — His Determination to embrace & Monas-
tic Life — The Christian Brothers — His previous Habits and
Conversations — Destruction of his Manuscripts — His Depar-
ture— Letter to Mrs. . — His Religious Life — Feeling

of Happiness in it — Strength of his Attachments — Removal
to Cork — Visit to his Sister — His Illness and Death — Char-
acteristic Incident*— Lines addressed to Mis. - 364

THE LIFE
or

GERALD GRIFFIN.

CHAPTER I.
.1803—1810.

GERALD GRIFFIN'S BIRTH, CHILDHOOD, AND EARLY EDUCATION —
ANECDOTES AND INCIDENTS OF THIS PERIOD — REMOVAL TO THB
COUNTRY.

Gerald Griffin, the subject of the present memoir, was
born in the city of Limerick on the 12th of December,
1803. The family from which he was descended was of
Irish origin,* and appears, from ancient manuscripts still in

* I am glad to have an opportunity of correcting a very serious
error into -which I fell on this subject on the publication of the first
edition of this memoir, which represented the family as probably of
Welsh origin. From the moment I discovered this error I regretted
it exceedingly, and can only plead as an excuse, that ray opportuni-
ties for inquiry were, at that time, extremely limited, -which made
me attach undue weight to circumstances hardly deserving of notice.
I was, besides, then wholly unacquainted with the fact, that there
had long existed in this country an ancient and purely Irish sept of
that name. My ignorance of this will excite surprise, but so it was.
Of course, if I had been aware of it, it would have been ridiculous and
absurd to look elsewhere for the lineage of a family living in the

14: LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

existence, to have been located from a very early period in
the barony of Inchiquin, and the northern and western parts
of the connty of Clare. The name is mentioned as O'Gri-
obhth, prononnced O'Greefa, and anglicised Griffy, Griffith,
and Griffin. Members of the family passed from time to
time into the neighbouring counties of Kerry and Limerick,
and settled there ; of these, our author's grandfather, James
Griffin of Corgarriff, or Corgrigg, in the latter connty, was
one. His third son, Patrick, having dwelt several years in
a lovely and romantic spot called "Woodfield, on the border
of one of those beautiful lakes which abound in the county
of Clare, came into Limerick for the education of his chil-
dren, and undertook the management of a brewery in
Brunswick-street, a business with which he was but little
acquainted. During the progress of a dwelling-house which
he was building near it, he took a house in that part of the
city called the King's Island, and here, in one of the most
ancient and celebrated parts of the town, within the old
city wall, and close by the cathedral, his ninth son. Gerald,
first saw the light.

In encountering the first steep ascent by which the

country in ray own time, and of the same name ; but in truth, I had
not the least idea that any means existed of establishing it histori-
cally. Mr. Eugene Carry, the eminent Professor of Irish in the Ca-
tholic University, has kindly favoured me with a paper, to be found
in the Appendix, containing extracts from the book of Lecan, the
Annals of the Four Masters, and other authorities, which, with the
assistance of traditionary local testimony, sets the question entirely
at rest, and proves beyond doubt that the family of Gerald Grifhu
was of the old Milesian stock. Dr. John 0' Donovan, another equally
well-known and eminent Irbh scholar, also notices this error in a note
in the last edition of the Annals of the Four Ma-ters, and passes son e
severe strictures — in this instance somewhat undeserved — on "the
attempt, in modern times, to obscure the Irish origin of some families.1'
I trust I shall not be thought obtrusive in directing attention to these
documents. I venture to insert them, first, with the view of estab-
Hshing what is undoubtedly true : and secondly, lest the first erroneous
itatements made should be considered of anv ^uthorifv. from the fact
of their having come from a near relative of the author.

lirrJ.ODUCTCRY. lb

votaries of literature obtain a footing within the threshold of
her temple, the subject of the present memoir will be found
to have had his full share of those difficulties which are the
unfailing inheritance of the untried and unknown, and per-
haps, beset the paths of many melancholy souls who sink in
the contest. Independent of these circumstances, which
may be considered in some sort an apology for bringing for-
ward the following notices of the life of Gerald Griffin,
there are others which, without any unjust partiality to his
memory, his friends cannot help thinking of much interest.
In him, above all other men that ever lived or wrote, the
passion for literature was least mixed up with the desire of
gain. He always felt that it was deserving of a more ex-
alted aim, and of ends that were not personal. For these
he contended, and when, eventually, his devotion to it de-
clined, this occurred only because he thought it an imperfect
instrument for the accomplishment of that which he had
principally in view ; for, at the time this change came over
his mind, his reputation was at its highest, and his success,
in a worldly point of view, complete. Besides, with such
extraordinary dramatic power as the world has acknow-
ledged in at least one of his works, there was united a
lowliness of pretension that was altogether remarkable.
"With a turn of mind singularly graceful and pure, and an
imagination that threw off the richest gems in a certain
walk of poetry, there was never seen the least trace of thai
coarseness and grossness of sentiment which is so often
intermixed with even the finest passages of our best writers,
that it has been thought by many an essential ingredient of
the strength by which they are characterised. He was one
of the very few, indeed almost a solitary instance, of a
young person of nineteen, thrown upon the world in Lon-
don, without a single friend to look to for counsel, assistance,
or support ; with the wasting labours of literature for his
hope : with a feeling of independence so strong, and a scorn
rtf aii paa-ona^*) so intense, that, as if in contrast v>ith the,

16 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFD?.

want of those high and manly principles exhibited by many
men of genius of earlier times, he seems to have cultivated
them with a severe and almost antithetical zeal ; relying
entirely upon his own resources ; unaided by experience ;
exposed to all those dangers which genius is sure to fall in
with in a great city ; and yet coming out of this fiery trial
with the character of his mind only elevated and purified
in every one of those qualities we are accustomed to admire.
The circumstance too, of a young man entering on his
career with a stroug thirst for literary fame, having this
thirst completely gratified, and then, at an early age, de-
voting the remainder of his life to religion, is a fact rather
new to literary history ; one which, though it may be dis-
tasteful to a certain portion of the public in these frenzied
times, will surprise, and perhaps startle many who live
uuder the dangerous despotism of a worldly pride ; and the
motives to which will be a curious subject of reflection even
with those whom it cannot edify.

I believe few persons have ever entered on a work of
tins kind without a certain feeling of incompetency. It is
not easy, with all the materials one can collect, to give a
true history of the movements of the mind of any one in-
dividual, and there are many sources of error on particular
points from which it is difficult to escape. With the im-
mediate friends, too, this sense of incompetency must b&
rather increased than diminished. It is true, their intimacy
and relationship give them many opportunities of informa-
tion from which others are shut out ; but a partiality that
is not unnatural, exposes them at the same time to the
danger of overlooking many imperfections of character which
to strangers would be obvious, while their affectionate
interest in the memory of those who are gone, may tempt
them to form too high an estimate of their abilities, or to
run into panegyrics with which the public will not sympa-
thise. All these circumstances render the biography of an
individual a matter of delicacy and difficulty v> ith. his im-

INTRODUCTORY. 17

mediate friends ; but it may be stated, that at least the first
of the dangers alluded to can certainly have no place here,
since, in the history of literature, there have been few char-
acters so slightly soiled by imperfection as that of which
we treat, and for the rest, the works of the Author of the
Collegians, his letters, and many pieces both of prose and
poetry never before brought forward, will enable the public
to form & correct notion of the justice of any opinion that
is offered.

The principal part of the narrative has been entrusted to
me, as one who, being next above him in age, was the con- .
stant companion of his childhood, and had on this account
the still further happiness of enjoying through his whole
life that confidence and intimacy to which, from a certain
not unamiable peculiarity in his disposition, very few were
admitted ; and further, that I was the only member of his
family to whom fell the melancholy office of closing his eyes
in death. A memory very defective upon particular points,
with other circumstances besides those above-mentioned,
makes me feel strongly my incapacity for such a task, but
I undertake it with the less unwillingness, that many ch>
cumstances relating to the more advanced and more im-
portant portions of his life will I hope be furnished by others
more capable of doing them justice. In these communica-
tions, and more especially in his letters, will be seen much
evidence of the constant cheerfulness by which he was ani-
mated even in circumstances of great mental toil. He had
a natural flow of good spirits, which at times burst forth,
into such a sparkling and brilliant playfulness, as would be
little anticipated in one apparently so grave, by those who
had but a slight acquaintance with him. With these, from
a constitutional timidity of habit, he was usually reserved,
unobtrusive, and even retiring. They will no doubt bo
astonished to perceive what a gentle and playful fire was
screened from the public eye under that subdued and quiefc
bearing, for it was one of his characteristics that he should

18 LIFE OF GERALD GP.IFFIX.

be known intimately to be known at all. Indeed, there
conld hardly be a stronger contrast than that which was
exhibited by his manner before strangers and in his owu
family. While in the former case it was not deprived of
that peculiar grace and charm, which a certain moderate
dinidence always gives, and by which the interest of his
conversation was enhanced when in the society of persons
whose tastes were similar to his own ; his reserve was still
£uch as to render it impossible for those persons to conceive
the uncontrolled bursts of merriment of which he was capa-
ble when at the firesides of those with whom, from frequent
intercourse, he was accustomed to consider himself perfectly
at home. His affection for his friends, and particularly for
the members of his own immediate family, was so strong,
that its full power was not always understood even by those
who were the objects of it, a circumstance which arose in a
great measure from the total absence of any tendency to
display, so that it was sometimes revealed in its deepest
forms by the occurence of trivial incidents, often far apart,
and of a passing and accidental nature. One might indeed
have lived for years with him before its entire force could
be fully apprecia:

My memory does not carry me so far back as the period
of his infancy. The first I can remember of my young
brother, was after our removal to the house in Brunswick-
street, and of this time only a few incidents that tend to
show his gentleness and susceptibility of spirit, and the
vividness of his imagination. At that time the King's
!▼, repeated beyond the ordinary number of terms,
was celebrated by the usual signs of public joy, such as
bonfires — the firing of cannon and musketry, «fcc, and the
head of our street was a customary station for such dis-
On one of these occasions, and it is my earliest
recollection, I remember him, a small an I child,

falling into floods of tears at the discharge of every new
volley — my mother taking him into : raring him

CHILDHOOD — SENSE OF THE SUPERNATURAL. 32

diere was no danger, and trying to comfort him with *
.song that he seemed at other time* fond of,

His disposition to be affected by the supernatural was
at thi3 time so strong that it sometimes put me upon pranks
that were very unamiable, and some of which, considering
the extreme sensitiveness of his nature, even the thought-
lessness of childhood would scarcely sufficiently excuse. On
one occasion, when we were together in a dark room, I
observed that a light through the key-hole from a candle
iu the next chamber fell upon the wall near where we sat,
making a bright spot, and I asked him what it was ? He
could not tell — I showed him that I could make it appear
and disappear at my pleasure, while the motion of my
hands in doing so were quite unseen by him. At length,
when he was perfectly puzzled and seemed to be fully
under the influence of that insecure feeling which attends
the indefinite, I hinted to him the possibility of its being
a spirit's eye. 'Twas like a match to gunpowder — he
screamed out violently, and instantly brought the house
about us. Before the authorities could appear, however, I
found time to tell him what it was, which immediately
quieted him. To all their inquiries as to the cause of the
outcry they could obtain no satisfactory explanation, and if
they continued to think of the affair afterwards it must
have remained a mystery, for i" felt ashamed to acknow-
ledge that I had been so mischievously occupied, and her
that he could have been so simply imposed upon, or so
easily frightened.

His imagination, always deep and glowing, had, as I have
said, a strong tendency to be affected by the supernatural.
This disposition, and even somewhat of a leaning to super-
stition, has been often noticed as characteristic of the poetic
temperament. It appears to arise partly from the power
of the creative faculty itself — that great treasury of every
poetical gem — and partly from that sensibility of spirit,
which gives every impression of the fancy the fore

20 LIFE OF GEBALD GRIFFIN.

reality. If the credulity of childhood seem9 to come
under the dominion of a more mature and rational feeliDg a3
life advances, the strength of the imagination is, on the other
hand, rather increased than diminished by the treasures it
has collected in its progress, so that this tendency, when
once established in early life, is seldom found to decline,
and perhaps it would not be favourable to poetry that it
should do so. The cold spirit, which has not a strong
feeling of the incorporeal world, will be seldom found to
originate powerfully. It is curious to trace tins feeling from
early childhood through one's riper years. With Gerald,
though strong, it was never paramount or irrational. He
was, however, himself, very sensible of its power, and as
it may be interesting to notice some of his allusions to it
m after life, I insert a few of them here. The following
exquisite address to Fancy forms the introduction to a
published poem of his, called " Matt Hyland :"

Thou rushing spirit, that oft of old

Hast thrilled my veins at evening lonely.
When musing by some ivied hold,

Where dwelt the daw or martin only ;
Thit oft hast stirred my rising hair,

When midnight on the heath has found me,
And told me potent things of air

Were haunting all the waste around me.

n.

■■veep'st upon the inland breeze,
By rock and glen in autumn weather,
With fragrance of wild myrtle trees,

And yellow furze, and mountain heather*
Who sea-ward, on the scented gale,
To meet the exile coursest fleetly,
."."hen slowly from the ocean- vale
His native land arises sweetly.

ADDRESS TO FANCT. 21

m.
•That oft hast thrilled with creeping fear

My shuddering nerves at ghostly'storr,
Or sweetly drew the pitying tear,

At thought of Erin's ruined glory.
A fire that burns— a frost that chills,

As turns the song to woe or gladness ;
N ow couched by wisdom's fountain rills,

And skirting now the wilds of madnese.

IV.

Oh ! spirit of my Island home,

Oh ! spirit of my native mountain,
Eomantic fancy ! quickly come !

Unseal for me thy sparkling fountain,
If e'er by lone Killarney's wave,

Or wild Glengariff's evening billow,
My opening soul a welcome gave

To thee beneath the rustling willow.

v.

Or rather who, in riper days,

In ruined aisles at solemn even,
My thoughtful bosom wont to raise

To themes of purity and heaven !
And people all the silent shades

"With saintly forms of days departed,
When holy men and votive maids

Lived humbly there, and heavenly hearted

VL

Oh thou, the minstrel's bliss and bane,

His fellest foe, and highest treasure,
That keep'st him from the heedless train,

Apart in grief— apart in pleasure.
That chainless as the wandering wind,

Where'er thou wilt, unbidden blowes*.
And o'er the rapt, expectant mind,

All freely com'st, and freely goesL

vn.
Come, breathe along my eager chord,
And mingle in the rising measure.

22 LIFE OF GEEALD GElFFDi.

Those burning thoughts and tinted words
That pierce the inmost soul with pleasure.

Possess my tongue — possess my brain,
Through every nerve, electric thrilling,

That I may pour my ardent strain

With tuneful force, and fervent feeling.

His father having been unsuccessful in business gave up
the concerns in Brunswick-street, and retired again to the
Island, but not to the same house he formerly occupied.
Here began Gerald's earliest school days, under Richard
MacEIigot, a character of some celebrity at that time in
Limerick, and still well remembered there — a man of singu-
lar ability and industry — a self-taught scholar, and one
who, notwithstanding some peculiarities of manner, and per-
haps a little pardonable vanity at the variety and extent
of hi3 acquirements, had yet amassed a great amount of
solid learning, and was held in very high esteem by Irish
scholars of the time.*

My mother went to the school with the boys on the first
day of their entrance. " Mr. MacEIigot," said she, " you
will oblige me very much by paying particular attention to
the boys' pronunciation, and making them perfect in their
reading." He looked at her with astonishment — " Madam/'
said he, abruptly, " you had better take your children home,
I can have nothing to do with them !" She expressed some
surprise. " Perhaps, Mrs. Griffin," said he, after a pause,
" you are not aware that there are only three persons in
Ireland who know how to read." "Three!" said she.
" Yes, madam, there are only three — the Bishop of Killaloe,
—the Earl of Clare — and your humble servant. Reading,
madam, is a natural gift, not an acquirement. If you

* A very able and learned essay from his pen, on the grammatical
structure, character, and literature of the Irish language, is still ex-
tant in the first volume of the Transactions of the Gaelic Society o£
Dublin : 1806. He is said also to have compiled an Irish Grammar ;
Lut this, I believe, was never published.

EARLY SCHOOL DAYS. 23

choose to expect impossibilities, you had better take yonr
children home." My mother found much difficulty in keep-
ing her countenance, but, confessing her ignorance of this
important fact, she gave him to understand, that she would
not look for a degree of perfection, so rarely attainable, and
the matter was made up.

I scarcely remember what Gerald was put to just then —
not more than the first rudiments of learning ; and, indeed,
I believe he was sent' to school at that early age, rather for
the purpose of being drilled into the habit of saying lessons,
than for any knowledge he was likely to acquire, or, per-
haps, for the sake of keeping him out of mischief at homey
where he used to indulge his fancy in pranks of so singular
a nature, that when the astonishment of the house at one
of them had subsided, it was difficult to tell how soon, or
by what strange frolic, it might be called up again. On one
occasion, while the family were out, he took the hearth-
brush and went up the parlour chimney to sweep it. On
being called, he descended to the earth. He wore, I think,
a little plaid dress, and this, as well as his hands and face,
were so smutted, dingy, and black, as not only indicated
great zeal in his new vocation, but made it absolutely diffi-
cult at first to distinguish him from a real sweep. Among
his other tendencies at this age, he showed a taste for draw-
ing, and much of his time at school was spent in endeavour-
ing to copy figures of dogs, horses, and other animals,
which he found in the various spelling-books around him.
For this he seems to have had a strong natural bent, and
though he took no pains afterwards to cultivate it, and
scarcely ever received any instructions, he was capable of
taking sketches of any scenes that interested him, in a cor-
rect and agreeable manner. The engraving which is at-
tached to the Collegians in this series, and in which a figure
of Eily O'Connor on horseback has been introduced by the
artist, is taken from a drawing of the gap of Dunloe by his
hand, which is however, an exceedingly rude one, compared
to some of his other sketches.

24 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

He was, when a child, of a timid aud shy disposition, and,
though cheerful and free among friends, was very much
disconcerted by any circumstance that brought him under
the observation of strangers. A woman came to the school
one day with the singular request, that he might be allowed
to touch her child for the evil. It is an opinion among the
lower classes in Ireland, that the seventh son is born a
physician, and has the same healing virtue in his touch,
that was once attributed to the kings of England. Gerald,
though the seventh son living, was, in fact, the ninth son
born, as I have before stated, but this, the woman was
probably not aware of. Mr. MacEligot kindly chose to
gratify her wish, and one of the boys was desired to take
him down to her. The circumstance immediately attracted
the attention of the whole school. The moment he was
singled out, he seemed thunderstruck at becoming at once
an object of such public notice, and burst into tears. It
was found difficult to get him to comply, as he seemed to
be under some apprehension of danger, and I was directed
to speak to him. After some persuasion, I took him by
the hand, and led him down amid much tribulation, and an
arm was presented? to him, such, that it was no wonder a
child of a sensitive turn of mind should shrink from ap-
proaching it. The woman took his hand, and passed it
over the affected parts with such movements as were usual
in these circumstances, but her attempts were frequently
interrupted by his pulling away his hand eveiy moment,
from his constant horror of the unhappy object. Indeed,
he went through the whole ceremony very unwillingly,
and with much suppressed grief. The poor woman seemed
to go away dissatisfied, and certainly if the grace of cheerful-
ness in the giver was necessary to sanctify the gift, or render
the issue prosperous, this case must have been wholly un-
successful. I have thought it not out of place to mention
the particulars connected with it, as it presented some signs
of that retiring and diffident manner before strangers, which
go strongly marked his character in after life.

INCIDENTS OF CHILDHOOD. 25

I must now mention an occurrence which took place a,
year or two after this period, and which, though he was
not the principal actor in it, it is necessary to describe,
partly because it gave me one of the earliest occasions of
observing and feeling the strength of his affection, and partly
because it was on the point of involving his destruction.

One Sunday, Gerald and I, with two younger sisters,
being left at home while the rest of the family were at
their devotions at the chapel, were amusing ourselves
together in the parlour. While playing about the room, I
don't know which of us first perceived a case of pistols
that my father had very imprudently laid on the chimney-
piece before his departure. Such things are always an
object of curiosity to children, and we eagerly seized on
them. We must have been still very young at the time,
for I remember we could only see them as we stood at the
farther end of the room, and we were obliged to place a
chair near the chimney-piece to take them clown. I was
old enough, however, to know, that the length of the ram-
rod was a measure of the ban-el of the pistol when empty,
and as the question at once arose whether they were
loaded or not, I looked for this instrument to try, but they
were screw-barrelled pistols and therefore had no ram-rod.
I then threw back the pan — there was no priming — so, with
that common feeling which leads people to lean to what
they most wish where the circumstances are doubtful, we
took it for granted, in the absence of any positive proof to
the contrary, that they were not loaded. It was imme-
diately agreed that Gerald and I should right a duel. The
little girls were too young to take much interest in such
things, and the amusement was therefore entirely our own. I
cocked both pistols — Gerald had net sufficient strength to
cock his — and we took our stand at opposite comers of
the room, took aim at each other, and snapped at a given
signal, but no effect took place beyond a few sparks. This
as repeated several times with the same result. At

26 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

length we grew tired of it, and I began to cock and snap
my own pistol without any other object than to watch the
gay shower of sparks that sometimes arose from the pan.
Gerald came over to look at me. It is an old and oft-
repeated remark, " The mystery of the ways of providence."
I have often thought since how inscrutable is its course —
what excessive dangers it sometimes permits, and what
trifling circumstances the preservation of a life of some
importance seems occasionally to depend upon. I had the
stock of the pistol to my breast, holding the barrel in my
left hand, and he stood opposite me in such a position that
if it went off then, the ball could take no other direction
than through the centre of his heart. From what took
place immediately afterwards, I have so often thought of
this fearful moment, that every circumstance connected with
it has entered my mind with a force that time can never
weaken. I see it all as if it occurred an hour ago. I could
point out the very board of the floor he stood upon. I
could almost tell the direction of every spark in the magni-
ficent shower that flew upwards as I drew the trigger-
but Heaven, in whose hands is the guidance of every one
of those illuminated atoms, was then watching over him
and decreed it otherwise. The constellation of fiery points
that arose at that moment was so much more brilliant than
usual that we both shouted with delight, and I ran with
ecstasy to repeat the experiment for one of my little sisters
who was seated upon the end of a table near the window,
with her feet upon a chair, laughing and enjoying herself.
" Oh, Anna, said I, look at this !" I pulled the trigger,
and was immediately stunned by a loud and ringing report.
We were both enveloped in smoke, and the pistol fell from
my hand. The ball passed through both her thighs — she'
uttered a piercing cry, sprung from the chair, ran across
the room, and fell bleeding at the door. There was a
military hospital opposite us, and one of the surgeons being
there at the moment, the sentinel directed his attention to

EARLY AFFECTIONS. 27

our house, saying he feared some accident had occurred, as
he had just heard the report of firearms and saw smoke
in ^ the parlour. The surgeon ran over, caught up the
child in his arms, dressed her wounds, and had her placed
quietly in bed by the time my father and mother returned.
She was quite well in a month.*

Meantime, I was beyond conception miserable. Not that
I felt very acutely the consequences of my thoughtlessness,
for though I had frequent tremblings as to the fate of my
little sister, about whom there was for a time much anxiety,
I had in general too little quickness to be impressed by
such things as I ought. Neither was it the fear of being
handed over to the public executioner for the act, though
I was repeatedly assured by the servants, that this ceremony
would certainly take place, as soon as my sister's wounds
were healed, and the family had time to attend to it; nor
was it a dread of my parents' anger, for my father, I
believe, blamed his own imprudence principally for what
had occurred, and my mother was too much stunned by the
shock, and too much occupied with the object of her grief
and solicitude to think of me. But there was a host of
visitors' every day at the house, relatives and others, who
came to inquire and sympathise, none of whom ever thought
of leaving it without paying me the compliment of a visit,
however obscure the comer I fled to, and letting me know,
in person, then- opinion of me, together with the methods
they would take to illustrate it, if the matter was left in then-
hands. It is needless to describe these occurrences minutely.
The expressions used, though they indicated no more than
a strong feeling of horror at the deed, yet, as they took no
note^of the slight degree of criminality, by which it might
possibly be accompanied, were sufficient to make me
wretched. It was the constant and miserable sense of

This young lady afterwards entered the religious order of the
Sisters of Charity, and is at present living in that community.

28 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

being in disgrace with everybody, — of meeting almost
everyone with an altered countenance, a state of things lesi
intolerable to grown persons than to children, who usuall)
depend so much for their comfort on those around them, —
this it was that affected me. I spent my time every day
either in tears, or in a wearied and tearless stupor from
morning till night. In these circumstances, — and I only
go into the detail of them for the sake of noticing it, —
there was one faithful friend, who never deserted me for a
moment, night or day. Has not the reader observed that
kind of affection — pure and beautiful in its manifestation,
as it is deep and fervent in its character — which shows
itself not by words, or sounds, or the contemptible alphabet
of professions, — which is best observed in early childhood,
when all the good feelings of our nature are springing forth
with the enchanting tenderness of life's first season, before
vanity has yet aiisen to spoil them, or the selfishness of
the world has come to cool them, — that fine attachment
which is seen only in the silent testimonies of motion,
those mute signals of a deep sympathy, innate and perfect ?
Such was the affection I experienced in this mournful time,
and that one friend was my young brother Gerald. I do
not think, during the whole continuance of these vexations,
he ever left my side for an hour. He scarcely ever opened
his lips to me, but from the moment the accident first
occurred, he seemed to feel it as I did, gave up all his little
amusements, observed my looks, watched all my motions,
brought me what I wanted before it was asked for, and
followed me wherever I went. If I sat upon a stool,
he placed himself upon the end of it ; if I sat upon a
chair, he occupied the corner of it ; and if I went to my
room and flung myself on the bed, he lingered some-
where about the bedstead, or sat at its foot. It was more
like the silent ministering of some benevolent guardian
spirit, than of any earthly being, even of a brother.
Such are the principal events, few but significant, which

FAIRY LAWN. 29

I can call to mind, regarding the period of his infancy and
early childhood. During the latter part of our residence
in limerick, my father had taken a place in the country, and
•was occupied in building a house upon it according to a
design of his own, the principal character of which was
internal comfort To this we removed about the year
1810, which leads me to a new portion of the subject.

CHAPTER II.
1810—1819.

FAtBY LAWN AN"D MODE OF LIFE THERE — GERALD'S FIRST SIGN&
OP A LOVE FOE LITERATURE — ANECDOTES OF HIS BOYHOOD.

Our new residence, to which the name of Fairy Lawn wa3
given, was situated on the Shannon, about eight-and-
twenty miles from Limerick, and having left the city
finally, we entered on our life there with all the freshness
of a new beginning, and cheered by the novelty and the
natural charms of a country home. The river, which grows
wider by degrees in its onward course, expands a little
above this spot into a vast sheet of water, separating the
shores of Limerick and Clare by a distance of three miles,
and giving the last named county, when viewed from the
Limerick side, the appearance of a thin line of land stretch-
ing away to the westward, where the shores seem to meet,
and the river becomes again land-locked. Nothing can be
more glorious than the magnificent floor of silver it presents
to the eye on a fine evening in summer, when the sun ia
setting, and the winds are at rest. The prospect from any
elevated ground in such circumstances is quite enchanting.
Indeed, there is no river in these countries that at all ap-
proaches it in magnitude. Viewed from the heights of

SO LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Knock-Patrick on a clear day, when the tide is full, and
from whence one can see the broad Fergus, one of its tri-
butaries, dotted with islands, and the Shannon itself as far
as the distant island of Scatteiy, with its round tower aud
ruined churches — that bright spot, where the stern saint
sung his inhospitable melody —

" Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle,"
" Unholy barque," &c. ;

and where its waters mingle with the Atlantic, it is pre-
cisely what the poet Spencer has described it —

"The spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea.:'

To the minds of those who have spent years on its margin,
and enjoyed its ever-changing beauties, this oft-quoted
eulogy is ever present. Yet these beauties are considerably
diminished by the absence of lofty mountain scenery along
its shores, and by its vastness, which makes any such fea-
tures as do exist, as well as the woods and plantations with
which it is too scantily furnished, shrink into nothing.

It was on a lovely evening, just such as I have alluded to,
that Gerald and I first arrived there. My father and mo-
ther, who had gone there some time before, were walking
about the grounds at the moment, and we ran up to them
with the utmost delight. The latter, after welcoming us
affectionately, immediately cast her eyes on our dress, some
derangement in which was sure to betray us, whenever we
indulged in any riotous or forbidden pastimes. About this
she was always very particular, and the observation ap-
pearing to be satisfactoiy, she dismissed us, saying we
might run about and amuse ourselves. Nothing could ex-
ceed our transport on beholding the grounds, the house, the
garden, the river, the boats, with then* sails of glossy black,
passing up and down ; and the enchanting views of the

FAIRY LAWN. 31

western sky. In the fever of our ecstasy, we ran to my
mother, repeatedly and urgently requesting to know, '• how
long we were to live there ?" She said, " I don't know —
1 hope a very long time." " Were we to live ten years
there?" "Oh, go now — don't ask foolish questions."
We skipped off and "Taced about, until we became heated
with exercise in our eagerness to see and examine every-
thing. We then went into the house. Our two little sis-
ters, nicely dressed — the eldest some time recovered from
her wounds — stood, one at each side of the fire, leaning
against the chimney-piece. They looked beautiful, and the
very pictures of happiness, but were so bashful and timid
from not having seen us for some time, that we could
scarcely get a word from them, and it was half an hour or
so before the ice was broke, and they became perfectly
playful. It may be easily judged with what fondness and
warmth of feeling Gerald was accustomed to look back
to these scenes of his boyhood, from the opening stanzas in
" Shanid Castle," one of his late poems, and perhaps it was
tins very evening — though indeed there were many such —
that was present to his mind, when writing the few sweet
descriptive lines with which it commences :

On Shannon side, the day is closing fair,

The Kern sits musing by his shieling low,
And marks beyond the lonely hills of Clare,

Blue rimm'd with gold, the clouds of sunset glow.

Hush in that sun the wide-spread waters flow,
Returning warm the day's departing smile,

Along the sunny highland pacing slow,
The Keyriaght lingers with his herd the while.
And bells are tolling faint from far Saint Simon's isle !

H.
Oh, loved shore ! with softest memories twined,

Sweet fell the summer on thy margin fair!
And peace ccme whispering like a morning wind,

Dear thou gits of love, to every bosom there

82 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

The horrid wreck, and driving storm forbear
Thy smiling strand — nor oft the accents swell

Along thy hills, of grief or heart-wrung care,
But heav'n look down upon each lowly dell,
And bless thee for the joys I yet remember well !

As the period of onr residence at Fairy Lawn was an
important part of Gerald's life, being that in which children
usually receive the most lasting impressions for good or for
evil, it will be well to show how the early part of his edu-
cation was conducted ; and for this purpose, in giving some
account of our mode of life there, it may perhaps be inter-
esting to give also a slight sketch of those on whom the
charge of it principally devolved.

The family at this time consisted of his father and mo-
ther, two elder sisters unmarried, two younger ones before
spoken of, Gerald and myself. His eldest brother, while
yet a mere boy, had obtained a commission in the army,
and was gone to join his regiment. The next was sent to
sea as a midshipman in the Venerable, a seventy-four gun
ship, then cruising with the fleet in the channel ; and two
others had been put to business in Limerick.

His father was a man of active, business-like habits, but
of such an easy, quiet temper, that few things could ever
seriously disturb his equanimity. He seemed to possess, in
a very high degree, that calmness of mind, and that cool,
philosophic turn of thought, which are so much admired by
Hamlet in his friend Horatio :

-for thou hast been,

As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing ;
A man that fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast taken with equal thanks ;"

fltnd was truly one of those persons —

" Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger,
To sound what stop she please ;"

FAIRY LAWN. 33

and whom, therefore, the thotight-worn and unhappy prince
in the same passage pronounces as blest. Many a time
have I seen him in those embarrassments, the distressing
nature of which he was by no means insensible of, endea-
vour to quiet the apprehensions of my mother, who always
felt them more acutely, by representing to her the inutility
of grieving for evils that were inevitable. When reasoning
failed, he sometimes tried to laugh her out of her despon-
dency ; and it was amusing to observe the slight toss of the
head with which he gave up the contest, and the smile that
played around his countenance, when he found both equally
unavailing. He possessed a constant fund of humour, un-
tinged by any shade of sarcasm, which, with his unchang-
ing cheerful temper, always promoted cheerfulness in those
around him, and made every one, even the youngest, quite
happy in his society. He was fond of reading, and, though
delighted with works of fiction, showed rather a leaning to
those of a more solid character, though sometimes, when
nothing better offered, he would take up with almost any-
thing that came in his way, the most trifling works which
Gerald or I brought from school, especially those from
which he derived pleasure in his childhood, being sufficient
to fill a vacant horn and satisfy his wants for the time. He
was now and then, when at home, a little careless in his
dress, for which he was sometimes taken to task by mem-
bers of the family, though often without much amendment.
He was, however, rather more particular, though not always
so, before strangers, and I remember an amusing incident
in relation to it. Walking one day towards the garden, he
thought he perceived the bonnets of several ladies appear-
ing above the hedge. As it was somewhat deep in the
afternoon, and he took it for granted these visitors would
remain for the day, he turned back to the house, called for
hot water, shaved and dressed, and having made himself
all right, returned to reconnoitre. On drawing nearer to
the scene, he discovered, with much mortification at the

c

ol LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

trouble he bad been pnt to, that the appearance arose from
a number of tall hollyhocks, which, as the season advanced,
had grown above the hedge, and, by the brightness of their
tints, gave the idea of the bonnets and gay ribands of a
rich summer fashion. Every one was astonished to see
the old gentleman come out so unusually gay at dinner, and
bia explanation of the cause produced much laughter and
quizzing.

With these touches of the philosophic spirit, he was ex-
tremely fond of politics, and entered with the warmest
patriotism into the successful demonstration made in 1782
in favour of free trade. It was always a subject of satis-
faction to him to have been one of the Irish Volunteers,
though he deeply regretted that they finally lost sight of
their one great and true vocation, and in some sense be-
trayed their trust, by omitting to seize the immense occa-
sion which Providence had placed within their reach for
the deliverance of their country. His natural equanimity
of character and habitual patience was sustained by a deep
religious principle, which attended him under every trial,
and remained, even to his latest hour, unchanging through
severe and tedious illness ; while his own disappointments
in life, and the anxieties to which they gave rise, only
made him more keenly alive to the distresses of others.
Among other calls for his sympathy, he felt acutely the
sufferings of the peasantry in the disastrous period of 1798,
and did everytliing in his power to mitigate them. During
these unhappy times, his words of warning or advice, and
his endeavours to avert punishment, prevented or softened
many instances of individual hardship wherever he had influ-
ence. He was intensely interested in the straggle for eman-
cipation, and in the great historical drama then in pro-
gress on the European stage, and afterwards brought to
such a brilliant conclusion on the fields of Waterloo. He
was a great admirer of some public characters, particularly
of Sir Samuel Piomilly, and I do not know that I ever saw

FAIRY LAWN. 35

him more violently or more deeply affected — at least by any
thing that did not concern his own immediate family — than
on one occasion when I met him on the lawn, and hand-
ing him the newspaper, which I had just looked into at
the village, gave him an account of the melancholy end of
that lamented statesman.

Gerald's mother, who was sister to an eminent physician
in Limerick, a man of considerable talent and ability, was
a person of exceedingly fine taste on most subjects, par-
ticularly in literature, for which she had a strong and origi-
nal turn, and which was indeed her passion. She pos-
sessed, in an exquisite degree, that sensibility of mind which
I have above noticed, as in some circumstances so distress-
ing to her ; and this sensibility, the restless and inexhausti-
ble fountain of so much happiness and so much pain, she
handed down to her son Gerald in all its entireness. She
was intimately acquainted with the best models of English
classical literature, took great delight in then- study, and
always endeavoured to cultivate a taste for them in her
children. Besides that sound religious instruction which
she made secondary to nothing, and which in her opinion
was the foundation of everything good, it was her constant
aim to infuse more strongly into their minds that nobility
of sentiment, and princely and honourable feeling in all
transactions with others, -which are its necessary fruits, and
which the world itself, in its greatest faithlessness to re-
ligion, is compelled to worship. She would frequently
through the day, or in the evening, ask us questions in
history, and these were generally such as tended to strengthen
our remembrance of the more important passages, or to
point out in any historical character, those traits of moral
beauty she admired. " Gerald," I have heard her ask, " what
did Camillus say to the schoolmaster of Falerii?" Gerald
instantly sat erect in his chair, his countenance glowing
with the indignation such an act of baseness inspired, and
repeated with energy — "Execrable villain;" cried the nobla

36 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Roman, " offer thy abominable proposals to creatures like
thyself and not to me. What ! though we be enemies of
your city, are there not natural ties that bind all mankind
which should never be broken ?" Sentiments of the same
exalted character were often renewed in her letters, but,
whether spoken or written, they always assumed an attrac-
tive form, and seemed principally intended to lay the
ground-work of those virtuous habits of feeling and oi
action, the formation of which it was her delight to secure.
To this her exhortations were chiefly directed, and they
were dwelt upon and repeated with an earnestness and force
that could hardly fail to enter deeply into the minds of
those to whom they were addressed. In one of these
letters, written the first time Gerald was ever removed from
her anxious and affectionate eye, and which I find pre-
served among his papers with an almost religious care, she
says: ." We were very apprehensive the morning you went
away, lest the weather should turn out too rough for the
small boat. I was not easy, indeed, until she returned. I
hope, my dear Gerald, you will attend to all the advice I
gave you on leaving this. Our parting was a painful
moment to me, and the greatest comfort I can have, will
be to hear that you are a good boy, and attentive to your
duties." And in another of a later date : " And^now, my
dear Gerald, this subject gone by, I hope you have quite
recovered your strength and spirits after your late attack.
I feel grateful to our good friends for their kind attention
to you, and hope you will always continue to deserve it. I
shall be glad to hear that you have been at conrmunion,
as the best thanksgiving you can offer for the blessing of
health, and it will always be my pride and sweetest pleasure,
and my best comfort in your absence, to hear that you are
a good boy." Will the reader forgive another short ex-
tract in this place, from the letters of one, of whom but
too little will be ever known, and who, even from these
faint outlines, must ever be considered by persons of all

fAIRY LAWN. 37

shades of opinion, an admirable character — one indeed in
regard to which it may be said, that the most fervent praise
of her children can never be called enthusiasm ? The letter
is from America, where she spent the latter part of her
life. She still addresses Gerald, and speaking of him and
me, with the touching earnestness of one who felt that sh©
had made her final parting, says : " I hope, dear Gerald, you
will continue to love one another, and that you will always
strengthen each other in virtuous sentiments ; and let me
impress on both your minds that nothing will procure you
such solid peace in the evening of life, as the consciousness
of having lived virtuously, and having served in spirit and
in truth the great Creator of all." How deeply these early
lessons had sunk into his mind, may be easily seen from
the religious tone, and the fine spirit of morality that
breathes through all his works. Whether that hope, which
so constantly casts its light before the reality that is too
often doomed to disappoint it, and which naturally burns
with unusual brightness in the bosom of a mother, ever
led her fully to anticipate the triumphs he afterwards
achieved, it is difficult to say. In all probability not ; but
it cannot be doubted, that in these early examinations her
acute mind was able to perceive the seeds of much genius,
for I remember distinctly, that, during the course of them,
his recollection of events and their circumstances was ex-
ceedingly strong, and though he was much younger, wag
beyond all comparison superior to mine. She had the
happiness of living to witness and enjoy the rich harvest
that sprung from germs thus implanted and nourished by
her own hand ; and it is a source of keen satisfaction to
those who have survived her, and remember a thousand
things deserving of praise — too long however to detain
the reader with — that an occasion has risen for recording
a few of those virtues, which were daily exercised without
a thonght or a wish that they should ever come before the
world, and without an end or a hope, beyond what heaven

SS LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

itself would "ardently sanction. She died, as I have stated,
in America, whither she and my father with some other
members of the family had emigrated some years before,
and was buried " on Susquehanna's side," after a few days'
illness, caught during an attendance on my eldest brother,
who had left the army, and was then living with them.
A piece of glass was inserted into the lid of her coffin, to
enable her friends to look on her countenance to the latest
moment, and that calm, pale face, too soon to be for ever
hidden, was gazed on with veneration by her weeping
children, during the few short hours that elapsed before
her remains were conveyed to then- final resting-place.

Soon after our arrival at Fairy Lawn, a tutor was en-
gaged to attend us for some horns every day. He was a
man of great integrity, of very industrious habits, an ex-
cellent English scholar, a good grammarian, and wrote a
beautiful hand. He was very fond of quoting Shakspeare,
Goldsmith, and Pope, and the first Hues of our copies almost
always consisted of some striking sentiment from one of
these authors. Goldsmith, however, seemed his great fa-
vourite, and he frequently repeated long extracts from the
"Deserted Village," and other poems, which, if it were not
for their extraordinary sweetness and truth, would have
become very unpopular with us, from the flippancy and
settled accent with which, from long familiarity, the finest
thoughts in them were expressed. Even with all their
beauties, this constant iteration was subjecting them to a
very severe test. Besides the loss of that novelty and
freshness which drives the world eternally to seek for some-
thing new, and to prize originality in every production, the
most beautiful pictures in them were associated with tones
and inflexions of voice not always agreeable, and but little
calculated to convey the depth and tenderness of the author's
meaning ; yet I well remember that even at this early time,
and under all these disadvantages, they laid a strong hold
on Gerald's imagination This was the case particularly

FAIRY LA\ry, 39

with many exquisite passages in the "Traveller," and those
charming scenes and touching delineations of character in

the " Deserted Village," which, when once read, whether
in childhood, youth, or age, can never be forgotten. He
repeated them frequently to me, and made remarks on
them which I now forget, bat his favourite parts seemed
to be the description of the clergyman and the village
schoolmaster, together with that enchanting apostrophe to
poetry at the close of the latter poem. On going over his
papers lately, I have found among them a manuscript copy
of this beautiful poem, which seems by the date to have
been given him when he was about ten years of age, and
is in the hand-writing of that fond parent who cherished
his rising love of literature, with a mother's warmest aspi-
rations. It begins without any title, but at the foot of the
last page is written, in the same hand, the words : " De-
serted Village, an invaluable treasure." I mention these
matters just to enable the reader to judge how far they may
have influenced his subsequent tastes ; and I cannot help
thinking that such sweet scenes being presented to his mind
at this early and susceptible age, may have produced a
lasting impression, and may have had something to do in
forming that delicacy of thought, and that passion for truth,
and nature, by which his writings were afterwards distin-
guished, and which were such strong characteristics of that
poet, to whom he seems in many respects, in the tone and
colouring of his ideas, to have borne a marked resemblance.
As our tutor had a school in the neighbouring village of
Loughill, he could only devote the first part of the day to
us, and he was so active and punctual in his attendance,
that we were usually dressed and seated on the side of the
bed for some time before we had sufficient light to go to our
lessons. He generally knocked at our window at the first
glimmering of dawn, and repeated the word " up," slowly
at first, but then several times in succession, with a rapid
articulation and gradually rising voice, until at length it

40 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

sounded on our startled ears like a discharge ot artillery,
and put the possibility of sleep quite out of the question.
We remained with him until breakfast hour, when he went
away to his school, but usually returned in the evening to
give us lessons in writing and arithmetic. Our elder sisters,
whose education was completed, took the instruction of the
little girls almost entirely into their own hands, and during
the course of the day made us join them in their Frenchlessons.
While these lasted it was the rule to speak nothing but
French, and any one who then inadvertently let slip a word
of English, had a card instantly hung by a riband round
his neck, which was looked on as a mark of disgrace, and
obliged to be worn until some other person transgressed in
a similar manner, when it was joyfully transferred. As
these lessons were over early, there was a considerable space
left for recreation, between them and dinner. In the even-
ing, Gerald or I, or one of my sisters, read a chapter or
two in the Bible, after which my father and mother played
a few games of chess — rarely, however, more than one.
Those who have witnessed their contests at this beautiful
game, will not forget the pleasant, good-natured raillery on
past triumphs over each other by which they were accom-
panied, nor the little poetical scraps which the latter brought
to her aid on any emergency, and by one of which she was
accustomed sometimes, after a pause of deep consideration,
to intimate the difficulty of her position —

" I do not like thee, Doctor Fell —
The reason why, I cannot tell ;
But this I'm sure I know full well,
I do not like th«e, Doctor Fell !"

^ot nnfrequently they and my elder sisters, or some occa-
sional visitors, formed a party for whist, or sometimes there
was a round game of cards, in which, when our evening
tasks were completed, wc were occasionally permitted to
join. These recreations were soon over, and the family re-
tired to rest early.

LIFE AT FAIRY LAWN. 4l

The circumstances in which Gerald was placed, therefore,
though they did not afford opportunities for extensive or
varied information, were not, on the whole, unfavourable to
the cultivation of literature, and his early love for it was re-
markable. It evinced itself at this time by his generally
sitting to his breakfast or tea with a book before him, which
he was reading, two or three under his arm, and a few
more on the chair behind him ! This was often a source of
amusement to the rest of the family. He had a secret
drawer in which he kept his papers, and it was whispered
that he wrote scraps and put them there ; but he was such
a little fellow then, that it was thought to be in imitation
of one of his elder brothers, who had a strong taste for
poetry, and as it did not, on this account, excite the least
curiosity, no one ever tried to see, or asked him a question
about them. His mother met him one night going to his
room with several large octavo volumes of " Goldsmith's
Animated Nature" under his arm. " My dear child," said
she, with astonishment, " do you mean to read all those
great books before morning ?" He seemed a little puzzled,
but looking wistfully at the books, and not knowing which
to part with, said he wanted them all, upon which he was
allowed to take them. One evening, while one of our young
people was reading aloud something about the trade-winds,
one of his elder brothers, to whose tastes I have before
alluded, and who from his childhood had shown the greatest
activity of mind, imagined he could illustrate the subject
with a spinning-wheel that was in the kitchen, and went
out to try. While the servants observed him with aston-
ishment, and some concern for his senses, Gerald instantly
guessed what he was about. On returning to the parlour,
his mother asked, " Gerald, where is William ?" " He is
spinning monsoons, mamma," said Gerald, with an air of
great gravity. He made a blank book, and many of hi3
hours of recreation were occupied in copying pieces of poetry
into it. As our library was not large, the poetry it con-

42 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

tained was very select in its character, so that anything he
could lay hands on in general qnite satisfied him, but for
the most part the pieces he copied consisted of Moore's
Melodies, .or extracts from his longer poems, which were
written out with a care and completeness that showed his
high admiration of them, the ah* being marked at the head
of each of the melodies, and even the notes to them being
included.

A few more anecdotes of his childhood may not be un-
acceptable, though I have some fear of dwelling too long
npon them. One day an uncle of ours came to the house,
brought a large dog with him. and stayed to dinner. Ger-
ald dined at the side table, and the dog stood behind his
chair, seeming to watch where his best chance lay. He
was one of the most beautiful specimens of the greyhound
tribe, being of a mouse colour, with the lofty stature, slender
bead and limbs, flowing outline, and piercing vision, that
give to that species its full perfection. On this occasion he
took a dishonourable advantage of these personal qualities,
for when Gerald lifted his arm a little from his side, he
popped Ms head through the opening, and the plate was
cleared. A second supply met with the same fate, and this
was repeated two or three times in succession, the dog
coming in unobserved every time the parlour door was
opened. At length the quantity the little fellow was con-
suming seemed to attract his mother's attention. Having
supplied him once more, she cast her eye a few minutes
afterwards towards the side table, and the state of affairs
there set the whole table in a roar. Gerald had this time
watched his interests much more closely, and when his ag-
gressor thrust his head again through the narrow defile, he
closed his arm upon it and kept it fast locked. When she
looked over she saw him very contentedly prosecuting his
dinner, with the huge animal's head under his arm, his left
hand being, however, a little limited in its motions by the
necessity of keeping his prisoner close. The dog did not

AMUSEMENTS. 43

struggle, nor attempt to get away, the agreeable prospect
before him probably compensating for his temporary loss of
liberty ; but he seemed to follow with his eyes the point of
the fork, in the very important semicircles it was describing
between his keeper's plate and his lips.

At this time he was very fond of birds, and made re-
peated attempts to rear them, but most unfortunate were
those that came under his guardianship. They seemed ever
fated to disappoint the care he bestowed on them. He once
asked one of his elder sisters to feed one while he was away
somewhere, which she never thought of doing until she saw
him on his return within a few steps of the door. Her for-
getfulness provoked a general laugh, and she had not time
to compose her countenance again properly, when Gerald
found her trying to revive the drooping little victim, but too
late. He said afterwards, complaining gently of it to one
of the family, " Ellen speaks to me sometimes about cruelty
to animals, but I actually saw her laughing and my bird
gasping." " I observed," says one of his sisters, " the cat
flit by him once or twice with an appearance of fear, and
said, ' How have you managed, Gerald, to make the cat so
much afraid of you ?' ' Oh, not of me particularly, per-
haps,' said he, * but she generally feels a little timid after
having killed a bird.' " He usually reared his birds in the
nests in which they were found. These were placed in a
bandbox for security. He laid the cover on it after having
fed them at night, and put it on the top of a high roofed
bed in which he slept. On taking it clown one morning,
he thought it felt unusually heavy, and lifting the cover,
which was loose, he foimd the cat there, taking a comfort-
able nap, after having disposed of the whole of his young
family. The feeling with which he would regard an enor-
mity of this nature may be guessed, and in such circum-
stances it would not be wonderful if the animal knew some
good reasons for flitting by him in the manner represented.

His principal amusements at this period were fishing and

44 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

shooting. In the latter art his ambition was not very high,
being confined for the roost part to sparrows, larks, yellow-
hammers, and the smaller tribe. He used a rusty old gun
of my father's, about the performance of which, in other
hands, there were many traditions, but which in his did
little credit either to his skill as a sportsman, or to its own
ancient fame. He sometimes manufactured his own pow-
der from a recipe found in some old book about the house,
a bold idea to which he was tempted by the distance to
Limerick, and the uncertainty of messengers. It was,
however, veiy slow to ignite, and though wonderful as the
production of a boy nine or ten years old, was, a? may be
conjectured, but indifferent stuff compared to what he might
have purchased for a small sum in town. He eventually gave
up these attempts entirely, his resolution to do so being
hastened by the explosion of a large platefull of it which
he was drying near the fire, and on which he incautiously
let a spark fall. By a singular coincidence, the very sister
who was before so dangerously wounded, was sitting before
the plate when the explosion took place, but did not suffer
any injury this time, though the flame of the powder seemed
to fly in her face. In these sporting excursions a cousin
of his,vto whom he was much attached, and who was a
great quiz, used to tell a story of him, which, without pro-
nouncing upon its accuracy, I will just mention, since, though
very repugnant to his well-known sensibility, it may, amid
the changing and unsettled feelings of boyhood, be consi-
dered somewhat characteristic. He said that Gerald one
day, when out shooting, had just presented his gun at a little
bird perched on the top branch of a tree, and was about to
fire, when suddenly the bird began to sing. Gerald's ear
was caught ; he took down the piece, fell into a listening
attitude, and seemed to drink in the melody of the little*
songster with the greatest delight. When it was entirely
over, however, the temptation to a sitting shot becoming
irresistible, he resumed his first intention, and " the mia-

SHOOTING. 45

strel fell." This horrible profanation of the tenderness usually
allied to the poetical, Gerald strongly abjured all remem-
brance of, while his friend has strongly persisted in its
truth.

With such rude appliances as I have mentioned, his
home-made powder and shot, and his flints sometimes
formed of pieces of white silex found on the shore of the
river, it will readily be believed that his essays as a sports-
man consisted rather in a succession of rude alarms, than
any very extensive destruction among the feathered inhabi-
tants of our neighbourhood. Such as they were, however,
they afforded him much amusement, and formed a bright
contrast with the ill-requited pursuits of his later years.
There are few persons, however calmly they may have
passed through the after part of life, that do not feel the
force of this contrast, and look back with a fondness un-
exampled to the sunny days of their childhood : and how
firmly do its pictures remain fixed in the memory ! I can
call up those happy visions still, with the distinctness of
yesterday ; his slender figure, fight and active step, and
the calm yet thoughtful light that beamed in his eyes.
When I have shown all that has passed since; hi3
desperate yet vain struggles for dramatic distinction, his
shattered constitution, half gratified ambition, and early
death, I cannot help thinking that the public will feel a
Strong sympathy for the wearied spirit that was obliged
at last to place its hopes where they could not again be
cheated : even now, while praises are poured forth that can
never reach his ear, and the press teems with eulogies
too late for his heart to prize, it is not without an intense
degree of feeling that I turn to the time, when, with that
heart buoyant and fight, and with the current of life still
fresh upon his cheek, he stooped and stole along the hedges
in the afternoon, in the pursuit of some one of the little
persecuted inhabitants of our plantation, who, with an
attraction for him more keen than the " talisman's glitter-
ing glory," flitted from tree to tree.

46 HFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

In the year 1814, being then about eleven years 01 age,
he was sent to Limerick and placed at the school oi Mr.
T. M. O'Brien, whom I have before mentioned as one of
the first classical teachers in the city. Here he had the
high advantage of having as an instructor one who wag
passionately devoted to the ancient poets, and showed a
highly cultivated taste in then- study. In addition to his
natural bent, he therefore caught up much of this spirit,
and from this, as well as a good natural capacity, made very
rapid progress. He was exceedingly fond of Virgil, Ovid,
and Horace, particularly the first, winch he read with such
an absorbing interest that his lessons lost all the character
of a school-boy's task. Lucian, also, he was greatly taken
with, though he did not make much progress in it until
afterwards. The strong interest he took in these authors,
which was so much in accordance with Mr. O'Brien's own
tastes, made him a prime favourite with him, and long
alter he had left the school he was asked for with an
affectionate regard, and spoken of by his kind instructor,
as one who would yet become distinguished. A young
man named Donovan, from the classical " Kingdom of
Kerry," having opened a school in the village of Loughill,
near Fairy Lawn, and being already engaged in teaching
'two of his brothers, it was determined to take him from
Mr. O'Brien's and place him under his care. The tastes,
however, which he had imbibed in Limerick never left him,
and there was always a strong contrast between the elegant
yet simple language which Mr. O'Brien had taught him to
seek in his translations, and the rough, homely, and straight-
forward methods pursued at the village school, which last
were sometimes made surpassingly ridiculous, by the literal
rendering of expressions purely metaphorical. How much
alive he was to the drollery of this contrast is shown by
his sketch of a country school in the " £:vals.:' which, as
far as regards the attempts at translation made by the
scholars, is not in the dightest degree exaggerated. Is

AMUSEMENTS. 47

must, however, be stated, that the amusing and characteristic
commentary on the beauties of the poet in that sketch,
is not a correct representation of what fell from the lips of
our instructor there, who was a young man of very respec-
table acquirements, and would have been himself as much
diverted by it as any other person could be. It is, neverthe-
less, not at all untrue. It is a perfectly correct type of a
class of teachers that once existed in the south of Ireland,
and perhaps may still be found there, whose progress in the
classics, particularly in the western part of the country,
forms as remarkable a contrast to their primitive and
unpolished manners, as it does to the poverty and almost
raggedness of their dress. Even with the more respectable
pretensions of our Kerry master, some droll incidents in
connection with our studies occasionally took place, of
which the following may be taken as a specimen. " Mr.
Donovan," said one of the scholars, " how ought a person
to pronounce the letter i in reading Latin ?" If you intend
to become a priest, Dick," said the master in reply, " you
may as well call it ee, for I observe the clergy pronounce it
in that manner i but if not, you may call it ee or i just as
you fancy." " Dick" has become a priest since, and a
most excellent one, and I have no doubt pronounces the
letter in the manner recommended in that contingency.
Gerald was excessively amused with this answer, having
never learned anything of this conditional pronunciation
during the progress cf his studies in Limerick.

I have mentioned fishing as one of his amusements, and
it was a recreation of which he was exceedingly fond.
The country to the southward and eastward of our house
was cut by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a
river called the Ovaan, or white river, which, during the
lapse of centuries, had cut its way down to the very basement,
and there, flinging itself over shelving rocks of limestone
in cataracts and rapids, sometimes forming dark and deep
pools, at others, broad and glistening shallows, sometimes

48 LIFE OF GEEALD GEIFFEN'.

bound by a lofty cliff, sometimes by a pebbly shore or grassy
slope, gave rise in its serpentine and winding course to
every beauty of which that kind of scenery is susceptible.
Part of it was very well wooded, and I do not know a ramble
more delightful in its solitude than that which might be had
by wandering through the ravine for some miles along its
bed. In a wild and lonely glen, on a little green spot near
its margin, and close by a huge cliff, stood the parish
chapel, a small cruciform thatched building, in which Mr.
Donovan on week days was permitted to hold his school,
and which, therefore, besides the beauty of its situation, had
other winning associations for us. This, which was a
favourite haunt of my brother's in his fishing days, has
been long gone to decay. He alludes to it feelingly, and
to other scenes associated with it, in the introductory
stanzas to the earliest of the " Tales of the Monster Fes-
tivals," in which the reader will see the abiding affection
with which his heart was drawn to the parents and friends
from whom he was too early separated :

Friends, far away — and late in life exiled,

Whene'er these scattered pages meet your gaze,
Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled,

The land that was your home in happier days.

The sloping lawn, in which the tired rays
Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood,

The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze.
Looked vapour-like and dim, the lonely wood,

The cliff-bound Inch, the chapel in the glen,
Where oft with bare and reverent locks we stood,

To hear th' Eternal truths ; the small, dark maze

Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blossom'd plain,
And toiling through the varied solitude,

I prais'd its hundred silver tongues and babbled praise

That home is desolate ! — our quiet hearth
Is ruinous and cold— and many a sight

OVAAN RIVER. 49

And many a sound are met, of vulgar mirth,

Where once your gentle laughter cheer'd the night.

It is as with your country ; the calm light
Of social peace for her is quenched too,

Rude discord blots her scenes of old delight,
Her gentle virtues scared away, like you :

Remember her, when in this Tale ye meet
The story of a struggling right — of ties

Fast bound, and swiftly rent — of joy— of pain —

Legends which by the cottage-fire sound sweet,
Nor let the hand that wakes those memories

(In faint, but fond essay) be unremembered then.

He took great delight in straying along the glen, by the
bed of the river, usually taking a book with him, sticking
the end of his- fishing rod in the bank, and lying down on
the grass to read while waiting for a bite. A good deal
of time was spent in this recreation, but he was encouraged
in the pursuit of it by the circumstance, that one of his
sisters, the same wkom he had so touchingly charged with
the neglect of his bird, had for some time been in a declin-
ing state of health, and shown a capricious and delicate
appetite, to which fish was a great treat. Though his ap-
paratus for the exercise of this art was even still more rude
than that used in shooting, and consisted generally of a
crooked pin, with a worm on it, regular fishing-hooks being
a luxury which, in practice, he knew nothing of, his suc-
cess in it was infinitely greater, and he seldom returned at
five o'clock — the hour at which he usually made his ap-
pearance— without a nice dish of trout, drawn from the
shaded depths of this sweet stream. In these excursions
he was generally attended by a poor little creature from the
village, who seemed to have a wonderful desire for his
society. He was a little simpleton named Kilmartin, who
went about with a sort of one-sided jerking gait, like St.
Vitus's dance, spoke with a very indistinct articulation, and
stammered dreadfully, his attempts to make himself under-
stood throwing his countenance into contortions, that only

D

50 • LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

in a more horrible manner relieved its natural expression of
imbecility. Wherever Gerald's line was thrown, little Kil*
martin's was sure to be beside it, or sometimes flung across
it, as if he was determined to share in all his fortunes whe-
ther good or evil, and it was amusing, and yet touching
and pitiful, to observe the joyous light that straggled feebly
in his eyes, and the distortions of face and indistinct chuck-
ling that expressed his pleasure and his triumph when-
ever he drew a trout from the spot, where the line of his
companion lay in dull and unpromising repose. Gerald
always looked upon this poor creature with the strongest
sympathy, and at length became so accustomed to his at-
tendance, that he felt rather lonely whenever accident or
illness prevented his appearance. He often asked him
questions, with the view of ascertaining the degree of in-
telligence he possessed, and though the little fellow's an-
swers could seldom be understood, he yet made such at-
tempts at communication as few others could have drawn
from him, and my brother often expressed his conviction,
that his mental faculties were not as weak as they were
thought to be.

This unhappy object some years afterwards was bitten
by a mad dog, and died of hydrophobia in frightful agony.
It was after we had left that part of the country, but Gerald;
I remember, was very much affected when he heard it. The
memory of these sweet scenes of his boyhood always rested
in his mind with an indwelling and powerful feeling that
nothing could remove or weaken. He recurs to them again
and again, in various passages of his poetry, and a few of
the descriptive scenes in his novels are taken from them.
One of his sisters, writing from America some years ago,
requested him to send her some words to the air of " Roy's
wife,"* as she was dissatisfied with those they were accus-

* This air is equally well known in the south of Ireland by the
name of " Garnevilla," from some words which were adapted to it by
the late Edmund Lysaght, of Gars, which were at one time extremely
popular.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 51

tomed to sing to it. In complying with her desire, he re-
calls the same subject again, and takes occasion once more
to indulge his long cherished recollections in the following
beautiful lines :

Know ye not that lovely river ?
Know ye not that smiling river ?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
With wildering sound goes winding ever.
Oh ! often yet with feeling strong,

On that dear stream my memory ponders.
And still I prize its murmuring song,
For by my childhood's home it wanders
Know ye not, &c

n.

There's music in each wind that blows

Within our native valley breathing ;
There's beauty in each flower that grows

Around our native woodland wreathing.
The memory of the brightest joys

In childhood's happy morn that found us,
Is dearer than the richest toys,

The present vainly sheds around us-
Knw ye not, &a

m.

Oh, sister ! when 'mid doubts and fears,

That haunt life's onward journey ever,
I turn to those departed years,

And that beloved and lovely river ;
With sinking mind and bosom riven,

And heart with lonely anguish aching,
It needs my long-taught hope in Heaven,

To keep that wer.ry heart from breaking !
Know ye not, &c.

The exquisite tenderness and depth of the feeling con-
veyed in these lines rendered them, like those touching ones

52 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIX.

addressed by the late Rev. C. Woulfe to " Mary," but badly
adapted to be sung to any air, however beautiful. It is
evident they were written after that change had come over
his mind, to which I have already slightly alluded, and which
took away entirely his early and strong thirst for literary
fame. However people in general may regret such an
alteration, there are few persons who have arrived at that
period of life when reflection begins to prevail, and enables
them to perceive clearly the fleeting destiny of every tem-
poral interest, who have not themselves at one time or
another been under the visitation of those " doubts and
fears" they so beautifully express, and who will fail therefore
to sympathise with that serious cast of thought, which was
so prevalent in his later writings, though it lessened their in-
terest, by depriving them of that character of passion which
is so prized by the multitude.

I cannot perhaps conclude this chapter better than by
the insertion of a few other verses of his — to be found I
believe in the story of " Suil Dhuv" — in which the same
tender glance towards childhood — the same " longing,
lingering look behind" — is given with great sweetness and
simplicity :

Old times ! old times ! the gay old times!

When I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easter chimes

Under the sally tree ;
My Sunday palni beside me placed,

My cross upon my hand,
A heart at rest within my breast,

And sunshine on the land !

Old times! old times!

n.
It is not that my fortunes flee,

Nor that my cheek is pale,
I mourn whene'er I think of thee,

My darling native vale !

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS. 53

A wiser head I have, I know,

Than when I loitered there ;
But in my wisdom there is woe,

And in my knowledge, care.

Old times! old times!

m.
Tve lived to know my share of joy,

To feel my share of pain,
To learn that friendship's self can cloy,

To love, and love in vain :
To feel a pang and wear a smile,

To tire of other climes,
To like my own unhappy isle,

And sing the gay old times !

Old times ! old times !

And sure the land is nothing changed,

The birds are singing still ;
The flowers are springing where we ranged

There's sunshine on the hill ;
The sally waving o'er my head,

Still sweetly shades my frame,
But, ah those happy days are fled,

And I am not the same !

Old times! old times!

Oh, come again, ye merry times !

Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,

And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,

My tears would flow in vain ;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,

They'll never come again !

Old times! old times!

54

CHAPTER IIL
1810—1823.

DEPARTURE FROM FAIRY LAWN AND EMIGRATION TO AMERICA —
IDEA OF BRINGING GERALD UP TO THE MEDICAL PROFESSION—

ADARE HIS FIRST REGULAR CONNECTION -WITH LITERATURE —

LETTERS TO HIS MOTHJSR — HIS WRITING AND ACTING TRAGEDIES
— REMOVAL TO PALLAS KENEY, AND HIS FIRST JOURNEY TO
LONDON.

In the year 1817, my eldest brother having spent several
years in the army, came to reside with us at Fairy Lawn. He
had been stationed several years in Canada, and being greatly
delighted with the country, and the advantages it afforded
to settlers, and perceiving the difficulties the family had to
contend with at home, urged them to emigrate. This
proposal they were not at first disposed to listen to, but
after some time, finding their circumstances still not in an
easy condition, and his praises and solicitations continu-
ing, it began at length to be seriously thought of, and was
finally determined on and put into execution in the year
1820. My father, however, being now rather advanced
in life, and neither he nor my mother enjoying very vigorous
health, the severity of the Canada winters was feared
for them, and after a good deal of consideration, it was
arranged that they should settle farther south. They there-
fore took shipping for the States, and chose for their future
abode a sweet spot in Pennsylvania, in the county of
Susquehanna, about a hundred and forty miles from New
York, to which, influenced by old and happy associations,
they gave the name of Fairy Lawn. I have already quoted
some lines that show the keenness with which Gerald felt
this separation. It was the first misfortune that touched
his young and sensitive spirit, and he felt it with all the

HIS IDEA OF ADOPTING THE MEDICAL PROFESSION. 55

heaviness of a deep affliction. Some of the family, how-
ever, were to remain in Ireland. His sister, already once
or twice alluded to, was considered incapable of undertaking
a long sea voyage, and was left under the care of Dr.
Griffin, who, having completed his medical education, had
for some time resided with the family, and on their abandon-
ment of Fairy Lawn, took up his residence in the village of
Adare, about ten miles from Limerick. A younger sister,
whose affectionate attention could never be too highly
thought of, remained with her as a companion. These,
together with Gerald and myself, completed the party. At
this time there was some idea of bringing him up to the
medical profession, and he had even made some slight progress
in his studies under his brother's instruction, until that passion
arose which soon swallowed up all other desires. He once
told me how much puzzled he was in one of his earliest
essays in the art about this period. Dr. Griffin being from
home, he was sent for to see a man who had hurt his knee
severely. One of those empirics, known in the country
by the name of " bone-setters," had arrived before him.
These persons assume an air of learning in their intercourse
with the poor, and pick up technical terms, which they
use with as much ease and confidence as if they were
familiar with the deepest mysteries of the science. Gerald
examined the injured limb with the timidity and diffidence
which were natural to him, and which were heightened at
this moment by his being placed under the severely critical
eye of the bone-setter, who looked on in silence, and when
his examination was entirely over, asked with an air of
great gravity before all the people — " Pray, sir, do you think
the patella is fractured ?" " I was puzzled," said Gerald,
" to think what answer I should give him, for I did not
so much as know what the patella was. I kept looking
at the limb, all the while engaged in trying to^ keep my
countenance. At length I said as gravely as I could, and
with perfect truth, ' I do not know that it is/ with which

56 LIFE OF GEE ALT) GRIFFIN.

be seemed satisfied, so I recommended some soothing appli-
cations, and got ont of the house as quickly as I could, to
avoid any more of his learned questions."

The circumstances he was now placed in, if not favour-
able to the cultivation of his taste for literature, were at
least very much so to its development. The village of
Adare was situated on a winding river called the Mague,
which, though passing through an almost level country, had
many beauties. The seat of the Earl of Dunraven adjoined
the town, and contained some enchanting scenery. Its
gentle undulating grounds, rich and extensive pastures, and
the various aspects of the sweet river that ran through it ;
its ancient and lofty elms ; its enormous oaks, flinging wide
their knotted arms, which shaded the turf beneath them to
an immense extent ; the charming solitude of its distant
plantations ; but, above all, its ruins, some of the finest in
the south of Ireland, which gave to this feeling of solitude
its grandest character, that of reverence and piety — all these
were circumstances well calculated to affect such a dispo*
sition as Gerald's, and he felt their influence with the full
force and fervour of a poet's heart and mind. Ecclesiasti-
cal and monastic ruins especially, had always a deep and
touching interest for him. Here, within the demesne, is the
abbey of the Franciscans, with its slender-shafted windows,
shaded cloister, and lofty tower — a ruin that, for those to
whom it brings no deeper feeling than a love of the pic-
turesque, must, like Melrose, be seen by moonlight to have
its mournful beauties properly appreciated ; the ancient
abbey of the Trinitarians, in the village, an order instituted
for the redemption of Christian captives, each of the mem.
bers of which was bound by one of their vows, to offer him-
self in the place of any captive whose ransom he could nok
otherwise procure ; and the abbey of the Augnstinians, also
a beautiful one, the ruins of which are in a better state of
preservation than those of the rest. The two last have
been long used as the Protestant and Catholic parochial

MONASTIC RUINS. 57

churches, and have lately been beautifully restored, the
former by Caroline, Countess of Dunraven, the latter —
which has been entirely remodelled and made a beautiful
church of — by her ladyship's eldest son, the present Earl.
Here also are the remains of the old castle of the Earl of
Desmond, remarkable for having been the scene of many
fierce contests, until it was dismantled, in 1657, by the
orders of Cromwell. Gerald took the greatest delight in
wandering with his sisters through these sweet scenes, steal-
ing sometimes at dusk of evening through the dim cloisters
of the abbey, and calling to mind the time when religion
held her undisturbed abode there ; when the bell tolled for
morning prayer or the vesper hymn ; or the sounds of war
or revelry were heard in startling contrast from the adjacent
castle. All these ruins, particularly the religious ones,
affected him with a warm and reverent enthusiasm, and his
familiarity with t.hem at this time produced an impression
which, I have reason to think, was never entirely lost
during the highest flights of his literary ambition, and which
was awakened, and gathered new strength again at a later
period, when he perceived the hollowness of such an aim.
He looked back to them with the same affection that he
felt towards the scenes of his childhood, and everything
with which they were associated was dear to him. The
following lines from a poem I have already spoken of, con-
tain some allusion to these remains, which will be read with
interest :

A ruin now the castle shows,

The ivy clothes its mouldering towers,
The wild rose on the hearthstone blows,

And roofless stand its secret bowers j
Close by its long abandoned hall,

The narrow tide is idly straying j
While ruin saps its tottering wall,

Like those who held it, fast decaying.

58 LIFE OF GEBALD GRIFFEY

EL

Peaceful it stands, the mighty pile,

By many a heart's blood once defended,
Yet silent now as cloister'd aisle,

Where rung the sounds of banquet splendid.
Age holds his undivided state,

Where youth and beauty once were cherished ,
And leverets pass the wardless gate,

Where heroes once essayed and perished.

m.
Oh, sweet Adare ! Oh, lovely vale !

Oh pleasant haunt of sylvan splendour,
Nor summer sun, nor morning gale,

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender.
How shall I tell the thousand charms,

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling !
Where, nursed in Nature's fostering anal,

Soft peace abides, and joy excelling.

IV.

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn

The slumbering boughs your songs awaken,
Or linger o'er the silent lawn,

With odour of the hare -bell taken.
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams

Thy smile from far Knock Fierna's mountain.
O'er waving woods and bounding streams,

And many a grove and glancing fountain.

V.

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there,

When summer heats the open meadows,
O'er parched hill and valley fair

All coolly lie your veiling shadows.
Ye rolling shades and vapours gray,

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven,
How soft ye seal the eye of day,

And wreath the dusky brow of even,

VL

There oft at eve the peasants say

Around the ruined convent haunting,

When dimly fades the lingering day,
Till even the twilight gleam is wanting ;

SCENERY. 59

All sadly shrieks the suffering ghost,''

Above those bones now mouldering slowly,

And mourns eternal quiet lost,

For fleeting joys and thoughts unholy.

vn.

There, glides the Mague as ■ilver clear,

Among the elms so sweetly flowing,
There fragrant in the early year,

"Wiid roses on the banks are blowing.
There wild duck sport on rapid wing

Beneath the alder's leafy awning,
And sweetly there the small birds sing,

When daylight on the hill is dawning.

vm.

There mirror' d in the shallow tide,

Around his trunks so coolly laving,
High towers the grove in vernal pride,

His solemn boughs majestic waving.
And, there, beside the parting flood,

That murmured round a lowly island,
■Within the sheltering woodland stood

The humble roof of poor Matt Hyland.

Beside the beauty of its scenery, Adare had other ad-
vantages. Being within ten miles of Limerick, he was
enabled frequently to consult such works as his taste in-
clined him to, and had opportunities of meeting there occa-
sionally, persons whose pursuits were similar to his own.
It was in Limerick he first met his friend Mr. Banim, who
afterwards, by many important services in London, proved
the warmth and deep sincerity of his attachment. Mr.
Banim was then in the commencement of his literary la-
bours, and was, I believe, scarcely yet known to the world.
There was a Thespian Society established at the time in
Limerick, which consisted of several respectable young men
©f the city, assisted by two or three professional persons.
They used to perform two or three times a week, and the,

60 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

receipts were applied to charitable purposes. During his
occasioual visits to the city, Mr. Banim was accustomed to
write critiques on their performances, under the signature
of " A Traveller," which displayed considerable knowledge
of the stage, and from the superiority of their style attracted
very general attention. It was during the progress of these
that he became acquainted with Gerald, who had the high-
est admiration of his talent, and who, young as he was,
was excited by his literary tastes to similar attempts.
These, however, were carried on with perfect secresy. A
young acquaintance of his, whose tastes were also of the
same character, afterwards told me an anecdote of him,
which occurred about this period. This gentleman had,
under an assumed name, written a letter to one of the
Limerick papers, upon some subject of a literary character,
the nature of which I quite forget. In the next post a
letter appeared, with an anonymous signature, containing
some severe strictures upon it ; he brought both to Gerald
to consult him as to his reply ; they put their heads toge-
ther, and an answer was agreed upon, to which another
letter appeared from the unknown enemy, so completely
crushing as to induce the gentleman to " hide his diminished
head." " What was my astonishment," said he to me in
telling the story, " to find, when the whole thing was at an
end, that both these epistles were written by no other per-
son than my friend Gerald himself, and only just think of
the coolness with which he preserved his incognito in such
circumstances !"

Up to this time, the passion for literature which had been
gradually growing upon him, had only shown itself by the
intense interest he took in the poets, especially in dra-
matic poetry, and in the production of occasional short
pieces, such as I have noticed, together with others which
were principally of a pastoral character, but now it de-
veloped itself so strongly, that all idea of the medical pro-
fession was entirely given up ; he became \ery fond of

CARES OP EDITORSHIP. 61

theatricals, and soon began to occupy himself in writing
tragedies. I am uncertain whether he completed any re-
gular piece at this period, at least if he did, none of then
came under the observation of the elders of the family.
He used, however, with the assistance of some of his
cousins, to enact scenes from those he wrote ; and on one
occasion, when it was necessary to poison one of the char-
acters, he made a niece of his, who played the heroine,
drink off a glass of infusion of quassia, in order, probably,
to deprive her of all pretext for hypocrisy in the contortions
of visage that were to usher in death. From his occa-
sional visits to his native city, his talent for writing began
to be known there, and his services were found useful in
various offices connected with the public press. These en-
gagements, though attended with very little remuneration,
presented advantages that he was unwilling to forego. They
enabled him, as he says, " to write with quickness, and
without much study ;" though the following extract from
a letter to his mother, about this period, will show that
they now and then involved compliances which were gra-
ting to his natural feeling and early instilled principles of
truth :

" I was applied to a short time since by McDonnel, of the
Advertiser ', to manage his paper, and did so for about a month,
but could not get him to come to any reasonable settlement.
I saw, moreover, that it was a sinking concern. Though a fine,
large, well printed journal, having a dashing appearance, it
is only a painted sepulchre. Even if he had answered my ex-
pectations, I should still have considered the editing of such a
paper a most disagreeable office, for, although it professed a little
liberality, it is in reality quite dependent upon the government.
His manner of considering my ideas would have amused me
much, if I was not so heartily sick of his trilling and timidity.
When I wrote, he always threw the proclamations into on&
scale and the article de quoi il s'agitaii into the other, and
'if all did not tally, the latter was sure to he exploded. His
maxim was to ' please the Castle,' and I, in.< gnificant as my
opinions were, wished to tell a little truth, which could not l>j

62 LIFE OF GEBALD GBIFFW.

any means be always pleasing to the Castle. A few days since,*
after I had ceased going to McDonnel's, he called to me,'
and with a very long face told me that an article which I had
inserted had 'pulled the Castle about his ears,' and that he
got, by that day's mail, a severe ' rap on the knuckles' for it.
This ' rap on the knuckles' I afterward learned from him-
self was nothing less than a peremptory order to withdraw
the proclamations, and I felt really uneasy at having been
the means of such a ruinous injury to his establishment ; al-
though if I had foreseen any such consequence, I should be very
sorry, through so vain a weakness as an eagerness to display
elevated feelings, to do so against the interest of a poor man
who could only hope to maintain his place with them by doing
as they wished. To make some amends, therefore, I filled two
columns of an after publication with a truly editorial sketch of
the life and character of our Lord Lieutenant, the Marquis
Wellesley, most charitably blind to all his foibles, and sharp-
sighted as an eagle in displaying his good qualities. It was my
first step into that commodious versatility of principle which is
so very useful to newspaper writers, but it will be my last also.
Indeed, I could hardly call it a compromise, for he is in reality
a worthy character. I have since found, with much gratifica-
tion, that the displeasure of the Castle was owing to a very
different cause. Though I derived little pecuniary advantage
from my connection with McDonnel, yet I was not sorry for
the time I spent with him, as I could not say it was lost. By
constantly attending the courts I acquired a considerable faci-
lity in reporting, which is a very useful attainment in any situ-
ation almost, and the short time which I had spared to prepare an
original article obliged me to write with quickness and without
much study. During the few months I was idle, I applied my-
self more closely to French, and can now read any book I meet
with in that language almost as easily as English. It was not
bad at the end of three months to be able to write a pretty long
French verse for the newspaper correctly and without assis-
tance. You will say I am grown an egotist, but believe me I
only mention it be«use I know it will be some gratification to
you to see that I am not very idly disposed."

The letters to and from America, from one of which the
above extract is taken, were very closely written on large
sheets of paper, and frequently crossed, so that the corre-
spondence, having lasted several years, is very voluminous.

LETTERS. 63

It contains many passages of much interest to the memoir,
some of which I may occasionally be tempted to make use of.
The following extract, which I find on the same sheet with
the above, is from the sister whose feeble state of health
obliged her to remain in Ireland, and the delicacy of whose
appetite made the industry of his recreations more keen and
gratifying in his fishing days. It is addressed to his mother,
and shows, more than anything I have yet saijl, the nature
of those hopes and wishes which the writer knew were
uppermost in the mother's heart : " Gerald has a biscuit
from your sea store, which he says he will produce at the
first meal we eat together in Susquehanna. He seems in
principle, conduct, and sentiments, more every thing you
can wish than any lad of his age that I am acquainted
with."

The following letter, of a subsequent date, contains some
passage's of interest, and gives an account of the success of
his friend Banim in his first great literary effort :

To his Sister.

Limerick, May 7th, 1822.

My dearest Mary Anne, — Notwithstanding the apology
I made to you for not writing, to show you it was not indolence
induced me to do so I will now double my claim on you for an
answer. The weather has been exceedingly oppressive here,
early as the season is. The end of April was as hot as any

summer day I can recollect. I perceive sent you some

extracts from his tragedy. If I had known he was doing so I
would have selected other passages than those he has done, for
I do not think they are the very best in the piece. The poem
on death I am sure you will like, though I am not fond of such
subjects. Kirke White and Mrs. Tighe always put me in the
horrors; yet I read this a second time with a great deal of
interest. The destruction of the Indian in his canoe is I think
drawn with much spirit, as also the shipwreck, I don't know
whether you recollect some letters in the Limerick Evening
Posi, signed " A Traveller," which I remember you all admired
at Fairy Lawn, containing critiques on the Thespian Society.
The writer of them, a Mr. Banim, whom I had the pleasure of

64 LIFE OP GERALD GFJFFD7.

knowing very "well during his occasional visits to this city, has
since written a tragedy on the ancient story of Damon and
Pythias, which met with the most brilliant success in Covent
Garden. The critics say it is the best historical tragedy which
the age has produced. He has also written a piece called ' ' The
Celt's Paradise," from which I have seen several beautiful ex-
tracts. I was sorry I could not procure more newspapers for
you. I could not obtain possession of many London or Dubliir
ones. Perhaps, howevtr, those which contain an account or
the state of our county will be more interesting to you than
others, and perhaps, also, you may find some amusement in
them if it was only in laughing at my editorial blunders. At
all events, whether you laugh at them, paper your hair with
them, or make up your home-made sugar in them, I shall be
oontent if you will believe that it was my affection, not my
vanity, sent them. Dearest Mary Anne, your fondly attached,

Gerald Geotix.

The quantity of time left on his hands from the unsatis-
factory nature of his engagements with the press made him
devote himself with more assiduity to literature, and I be-
lieve it was about this time the idea became strongly fixed
in his mind of looking forward to it as a profession. Adare
was the scene of his earliest labours. The morning was
usually occupied in writing. In the day time, as I have
already said, he refreshed himself by a ramble with his
sisters through the demesne — wandering by the river side,
or visiting the old ruins and enjoying their ever welcome-
associations. The evening, after Dr. Griffin's return from
his professional avocations, was spent in reading some of
the most popular literary works of the time, or in conversa-
tion, or occasionally in trials of skill at our favourite game
of chess. Such was the usual routine of cm' little family
party. Dr. Griinn observed that for some time he had
been writing more constantly than usual, but had no idea
of what he was engaged in. At length, Gerald called him
into his room one morning, and gave him a L-agedy called
"Aguire" to read, which wa3 founded upon some old
Spanish story. On reading it, Dr. Griffin, was perfectly

YOUTHFUL PROJECTS. 65

astonished at so extraordinary a production from a person
then scarcely above the age of boyhood. As the play has
been since destroyed, we can only form an opinion of it from
the impressions then produced on his mind by its perusal.
He says there were many passages of exquisitely beautiful
poetry throughout ; that the scenes were well contrived ,
the passions naturally and forcibly portrayed; and th*
interest intense and well supported. "We shall afterwards
see that it was also highly thought of, by one who was no
inferior judge of dramatic excellence, Mr. Banim.- When
the reader is informed that this play was produced in his
eighteenth year — that Gisippus, received with such brilliant
success at Drury Lane, was written in his twentieth, and
the Collegians, one of the most thrilling tales in our language,
before he had completed his twenty-fifth, it cannot be
doubted that the destruction of this, and two other dramas
written at a later period, was a serious loss to literature.
These, as we shall find, he made various efforts to get ac-
cepted at the theatres in London, but without success, and
Gisippus, the last of them, is the only one of the four that
has survived the wreck of his hopes.

I shall have to speak of these efforts in detail afterwards,
and will now mention some circumstances that may have
influenced the result to which they led. Young as he then
was, and entirely removed from the great tribunals before
which all dramatic productions must be tried, his interest
in such, subjects enabled him to perceive that the public
taste was vitiated, and that the managers of the time, so
far from taking any step to improve it, lent themselves to
the childish fancies of the multitude, with all the zeal that
a love of full houses and of money could inspire. The
theatres indeed had become the scenes of many exhibitions
of an amphitheatrical kind, tending merely to attract the
admiration of the senses, but of such a gorgeous and im-
posing character, that many persons of good taste who longed
for a better state of things, were for a time dazzled by their

E

66 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN,

brilliancy ; while the literary portion of the pieces repre-
sented had become quite subordinate, and was wanting in
every quality that could give it the least claim to public
attention. With a strong sense of this prostrate condition of
i the draina, and with that sustaining hope which ever
lights the eye and stands firm in the heart of the young
aspirant for literary fame, Gerald bent himself to the des-
perate task of, as he himself says, " revolutionising the
dramatic taste of the time by writing for the stage." Extra-
vagant as the notion may seem, of a young person totally
unknown to anybody, and without a particle of influence
or experience, attempting a task of the kind, it is quite
certain that he entertained it, and that these lost dramas
were constructed upon such a design, though the idea created
as much amusement in his own mind afterwards as it could
possibly do in that of any other person. These circum-
stances render it probable that the very character which
would tend to make us regret the loss of these plays the
more — that of their being much purer specimens of the
genuine drama than those which were popular at the time —
was one of the causes why he found it impossible to ob-
tain a trial for them at all. Another in all likelihood was
their highly poetical character, and their containing several
passages the tendency of which was, rather to indulge the
imagination than carry on the purposes of the piece. This,
the natural effect of the luxuriance of a young mind, how-
ever allowable and even pleasing it may be in a mere dra-
matic poem intended for the closet, requires exceeding great
skill and moderation in its use to make it tolerated to any
extent upon the stage. It is perhaps an unhappy circum-
stance for the poetry of dramatic writings, that the portion
of the public that can properly appreciate its merits is but
small, and that however theatrical managers may respect
the opinions of this intellectual minority, it is very seldom
their interest to make its approbation a primary object.
However this be, it is, as I have before said, certain, that

YOUTHFUL PROJECTS. 67

the high and at that time extravagant aim of his hopes, as
well as the warmth of his fancy, had an influence upon the
whole cast and course of these his first dramatic productions,
and gave them a character of novelty very little likely to
be relished by those in London, who, from experience, and
from their want of all sympathy with any attempt at reform,
preferred consulting the public taste, whatever it might be.
When he showed this play to his brother he explained to
him his desire to try his fortune in the literary world in
London. It was a serious consideration, committing one so
young to the dangers of a great city, and to the fierce
struggle for intellectual existence, in which so few eventu-
ally attain any decided success. There were circumstances,
too, which might well make Dr. Griffin hesitate. Gerald was
his youngest brother ; from the similarity of their tastes he
had taken more than a brother's interest in him from his
childhood up ; his parents had left him under his protection,
and, as he took their place, this, with his strong natural
feeling, made him share fully their anxiety : besides, his
young protege had always shown a quickness of apprehen-
sion, and a capacity which would render him fully fit for
whatever pursuit he might turn himself to, and he was young
enough for any. On the other hand, his high opinion of
Gerald's talent, the extreme beauty of the writings now
put into his hands, and perhaps somewhat of a brother's
if not of a parent's pride in the success he anticipated as
certain, led him to attach less weight to these considerations
than they deserved. In fact, he felt fully confident that
it would require but a short time to have such talent as
Gerald's perceived and properly appreciated, and he made
but little difficulty ia yielding to his wishes. The event
proved, after a severe and wasting trial, that the degree of
success attained was not worth what it cost, and in the end
brought even to the mind of him who was most sanguine
of all, the sad conviction, that a constitution sapped and
shattered by mental toil, and hopes so deeply blasted that

68 LIFE 09 GERALD GRIFFIN.

no earthly ones could ever take their place again, were too
high a price to pay for the " half of a name," which he con-
sidered himself to have won in the struggle. Dr. Griffin
little dreamed then of the difficulties both mental and bodily,
in heart, in mind, and in frame, that beset the progress of
a young writer in London : the incessant intellectual exer-
tion, the continual rejection by the publishers, the separa-
tion from friends, the heart-breaking depression of mind,
from a sense of literary merit despised and defeated, a
feeling heightened by the observation of the worthies*
stuff every day palmed upon the world as literature, while
the reality pleads for its place in vain. There was, besides,
another circumstance of great importance left out of the
calculation altogether, the full force of which was only
perceived at a long and late period afterwards, but which was
then entirely unthought of. It will scarcely be anticipating
the narrative just to allude to it. Gerald had, as I have
already hinted, always shown a strong sense of indepen-
dence. When the unfortunate issue of his literary efforts
in London, had, after considerable perseverance, led him
into great distress, this feeling, so far from sinking under
it, became heightened, and at length attained for a time a
degree of morbid sensibility that could neither have been
anticipated nor provided for. Under its suggestion, he
concealed his circumstances from his friends, hid himself
from all his acquaintances, and went through a degree of
suffering extremely painful to think of, and the occurrence
of which indeed is hardly credible, considering how easily
it might have been avoided. It was exceedingly distress-
ing to his relatives when it first came to their ears, though
this took place entirely through another channel, and only
when the contest was over and their assistance was no
longer needed. Could all these things have been foreseen
at the time, they would have added in no light degree to
the anxiety which his brother felt in letting him pass from
under his protection, and trusting him alone to the world.,

PASSION FOR LITERATURE. 69

It was, however, as I have said, settled that he should go,
though some circumstances delayed his departure for a few
months. During this interval he wrote a play, the name of
which I have not been able to ascertain, and was far
advanced in a second, founded on the same story which
suggested Thompson's " Tancred and Sigismunda." In
his moments of leisure the passion for literary fame, already
fully awakened, began to grow strong upon him, and he
indulged in all those fond visions of the future, and those
bright and enchanting creations which the heart of the
inexperienced will never be brought to look upon as aerial.
At this period of life hope reigns paramount ; casts her
rich light on all things to come ; belies truth to her face,
and, being much the boldest speaker, receives, according to
the usual rule of the world, implicit credit. In this instance
she had one to deal with who, so far from struggling against
her delusions, was caught by every changing light in which
they were exhibited, and indeed it would be difficult to
have any conception of the degree to which he delivered
himself up to then' influence. His whole soul was en-
grossed with the thought of literature and its triumphs,
and the desire of excelling in it became so overwhelming,
aud so deeply planted in his heart, that it was no wonder
the storm that tore it away should have rooted up every
earthly feeling with it. In truth, as it was this passion
that led him into the difficulties he afterwards endured in
London, so nothing but its violence and intensfty could
have supported him under them. If all great performances
may be traced to some deep and ruling passion, it is im-
possible to say what such a disposition as this might not
have been capable of, if it had only received the proper
encouragement, for at this time it possessed him to such a
degree, as made his sister, with whom he used to converse
on the subject, somewhat alarmed at its vehemence.
When he indulged in those high flights she used some-
times endeavour to pluck a few feathers from his wing, but

70 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

without success. She was a person of very extraordinary
understanding, with a considerable knowledge of human
nature, and much acuteness and solidity of thonght. There
are some persons who, without stirring from the spot of
their birth, seem by a sort of intuitive keenness of mind to
have as full a knowledge of the world and its modes of
thought, and even of the vices and corruptions of society, as
if they had always been its most devoted worshippers, and
won their knowledge from experience. It is an old remark,
how frequently these intellectual attributes are foimd in
individuals whose health is sapped by some fatal disease,
in which instances their exalted quality seems a kind of
compensating gift for the briefness of the term duriug
which they are to be exercised. His sister was blessed
with them to the last hour of her life, and that to a degree
which it was surprising to witness, considering the extreme
and daily increasing feebleness of her bodily powers.
Gerald had a strong affection for her, and the highest
respect for her opinions, her influence over him being
strengthened by the depth of her religious feelings, and
by a piety elevated and rational, and quite free from every
kind of enthusiasm. In reverting to then* intercourse
afterwards, I have often admired the tact and skill with
which she managed him. She did not venture to offer aay
direct or violent opposition to his opinions in the first
instance. Such a proceeding would have lessened her
influence with him in the excited state of feeling by which
he was then possessed; but she met him by dexterous
insinuations and allusions to the past history of authorship,
and by occasional questions that led to inferences which
she knew would attack him in his calmer moments, at the
same time stating her opinion quietly, that the object he
aimed at with so much earnestness was very difficult of
attainment, and even if secured would fail to satisfy him.
This prophecy was verified in both points, and her argu-
ments produced the effect she intended, though she did not

ALTERATION OF FEELING. 71

live to witness it ; and indeed they failed altogether in
bringing about the end she had principally in view at the
time, which was to moderate the violence of his passion.
When, however, the world withheld or gave but spariDgly
that encouragement on which his heart was so fondly set,
and he turned in disappointment from it, he was in a frame
of mind more suitable for recognising the wisdom of his
sweet sister's counsel, though it came, as the truth ever
does, late and tardily. The power with which this altered
state of feeling aifected him was probably augmented by
the circumstance, that he departed on his high mission with
her kind warnings in his ear, while the lips that had
uttered them were found for ever sealed on his return. He
notices the change himself in a little poem addressed to
her after her death, and published under the title of
" Lines to a departed friend," in a volume of his moral
tales which is very popular, called the Christian Physi-
ologist. It contains so many touching allusions to their
intercourse, and to this altered state of feeling as well
as of health, that I make no apology for inserting it
entire :

When May, with all her blooming train,
Came o'er the woodland and the plain —
When mingling winds and waters made
A murmuring music in the shade —
I loved to hear that artless song,
I loved to stray those groves among ;
And every sound of rustic pleasure
Waked in my heart an answering measure.

But now no more that gentle scene
Of mellow light and freshening green
Seems lovely to mine altered eye ;
And that soft west wind hastening by
Seems breathing near me faint and low,
Some warning dirge, some song of woe.
How have 1 loved, at early morn,
When the dew topp'd the glistening thorn,
When o'er the hill the day-beam broke,
And nature's plumed minstrels woke,

72 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

To praise with them tlie will divine
That bade that glorious sun to Rhine !

That day -beam burns as brightly still,
The -wild birds charm the echoing hill $
But light and song alike are vain
To soothe a heart "that throbs in pain ;
And pale disease that scene surreys
Without one languid smile of praise.

Thine was the gift, Almighty power J
That brightened many a youthful hour,
Found joys in winter's havoc drear,
"When heaven was dark, and earth was bare,
And raised the heart on secret wing
To rapture in the bloom of spring.
That blessing thou hast claimed again,
And left me rapt in lingering pain :
Almighty power ! the will was thine,
And this weak heart shall ne'er repine ;
In joy or grief, in good or ill,
This tongue shall praise thy mercies still !
But may that feeble praise be blest,
And deeply felt, though ill confessed —
Blest, in my own awakened heed ;
Felt, in the hearts of those who read.

Lost days of youth ! Oh, holy days,
When joy was blent with prayer and praise c-
When the sad heart, now deeply dyed
With many a thought unsanctified,
Trembled at every venial stain,
And shrank from sin, as now from pain !
Oh ! not that even in that hour
Of early reason's dawning power,
My soul was pure from thoughts of sin, —
But now so dark the past hath been,
That those first stains of young offence
Were the light hue of innocence I

Departed spirit ! often then,
By peaceful fire, in lonely gien,
Did thy maturer reason shine*,
A guidance and a light to mine ;

TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 78

Did thy maturer piety

Awake some holy thoughts in me !

Late, wandering in those silent ways,

I thought upon our early days ;

Oh ! may I never feel again

The pain that touched my spirit then !

For every shrub and every tree

Spoke with a still reproach to me,

And even the scene of boyish crime

Seem'd hallow'd by the flight of time !

What could my heart, in passion tried,
If it could err when by thy side ?
Ambitious, there it would not dwell j
We parted — and the faithless fell !
We parted — and the world since then
Has learn'd the lesson o'er again,
That Virtue, humble, simple, fair,
Is all the knowledge worth our care ;
That heavenly wisdom is a thing
Above the flight of reason's wing ;
That human genius cannot sound
The depths in which her truth is found ;
While a poor peasant's simple prayer
Will find her always watching there :
That hearts untaught can learn her rules,
While far she flies from human schools ;
That learning oft is but a rod —
That he knows all who loves his God ;
And every other eye is dim
Save theirs, who hope and trust in Him.
Willing to serve is truly free ;
Obedience is best liberty ;
And man's first power — a bended knee.

'Twere vain to hope, if I could park
Upon this page my bleeding heart,
And to the young inquirer show
How often knowledge ends in woe,
Hearts would no more by earth be riven.
And souls no longer lost to heaven.
No ! — human pride and passion still
Will hold the reins of human will ;
And even in passion's fierce excess
Find argument of haughtiness !

74 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Youth's budding virtues -will be blighted,
The law of heaven forgot and slighted,
Age follow age, yet, hurrying on,
Trust no experience but its own —
Yet it is something if we steal
One spirit from the dizzy reel ;
A few may wake where thousands sleep,
Millions may scoff, but one may weep !

'Tis something, too, to think that, now,
"While I renew mine infant vow,
Thy gentle shade may wander near,
And smile on each repentant tear ■
To find, as thus I glance mine eye
Over those pages mournfully,
Something that might in former days
Have won that blameless spirit's praise.
Oh ! it were all, if now, at last,
This offering for evil past
Might pierce the ear of heaven, and win
Oblivion for that faithless sin ;
If thy pure, saintly, fervent prayer
Might find a sweet acceptance there ;
And from that sacred home on me
Draw down the fire of charity !
That 1 might scatter wide and far
My Maker's praise from star to star ,
And joyous sing how he had smiled
Forgiveness on his erring child !
That all who heard that grateful song
Might learn to grieve for secret wrong ;
And turn their hearts from joys of sen36
To holy praise and penitence J

Ah, sanguine hope ! not in an hour
Can zeal from passion wrest his power !
Nor former scandals be removed,
Though those we teach be dearly loved ;
All the repentant soul can do
Is still to toil and labour through
The remnant of life's shortening day,
And for the rest, to hope and pray.

rOETIC PIECES. 75

What a contrast the sentiments conveyed in these lines
present to those by which he was animated in the early
part of his career ! Before he had yet left Ireland, some
advantageous circumstances that offered induced Dr. Griffin
to remove with the family to a village called Pallas Kenry,
about six miles from Adare and twelve from Limerick.
Gerald of course accompanied them, but no other incident
of any note took place previous to his departure.

Though most of the pieces which he wrote at this time
were filled with the ardour and warmth of feeling which is
peculiar to youth, there is about some of them a chasteness
and grace of expression, and a maturity of thought, which
would not be unworthy of the best poet even in his bright-
est hours. The following, written in 1820, in his seven-
teenth year, may be taken as a specimen :

I looked upon a dark and sullen sea,

Over whose, slumbering waves the night-mista hung.
Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh wind sprung,

And swept its brightening bosom joyously ;

Then fled the mists its quickening breath before !
The glad sea rose to meet it— and each wave
Retiring from the sweet caress it gave,

Made summer music to the listening shore.

So slept my soul, unmindful of Thy reign :
But the sweet breath of Thy celestial grace,
Hath risen— oh, let its quickening spirit chase

From that dark seat, each mist and secret stain,

Till, as in yon clear water mirror'd fair,

Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected there.

76

CHAPTER IV.

1823—1826.

GEBALD'S EARLY STRUGGLES IN LONDON — TRAGEDY OP AGUIRE
PRESENTED — HIS LETTERS — STATE OF THE DRAMA — MADAME

RTEGO MR. B ANTM — DIFFICULTIES — PUBLIC TASTE — REJECTION

OF AGUTEE — PLAY OF GISIPPUS — AUTHOR'S REMARKS REGARD-
ING IT — SCENE FROM GISIPPUS IN HIS LETTERS — HIS OBSERVA-
TIONS ON THE CHARACTERS IN IT — HIS FURTHER STRUGGLES —
KB. BANIM's FRIENDSHD? — AUTHOR'S OWN DESCRIPTION OF HIS
DIFFICULTIES.

To the public, as well as to literary aspirants themselves,
the history of the early struggles of a young writer in Lon-
don must always be a subject of interest. To the former
it brings evidence of the costly nature of their amusements
to those with whom their sympathy would be strong, if
they but knew their condition, and of the many obstacles
that stand between them and the exercise of that patronage
which they are ever willing to bestow upon merit ; while
to the latter, who often only hear of an author for the first
time when he bursts upon them in the noon of his fame, it
reveals the secret, that the reputation he has at last attained
is not the consummation of a long series of successes, but
was preceded by many trials and disappointments of a very
painful nature, under the pressure of which some of them-
selves, perhaps, at the time lie withering. If to the more
desponding of these, the present narrative brings the hope
that perseverance may at last prevail, and if it warns the
more sanguine with the oft-repeated lesson, that even con-
siderable abilities have occasionally difficulties almost insur-
mountable to contend with, it will effect some good ; and
in any case, as the character of an author is sure to be de-
veloped with more sharpness under the stern influence of

PLAT OF AGUIRE. 77

such trials, it would be ridiculous, through any falsefdeli-
cacy, not to enter into as minute a detail of them as our
information is at all capable of supplying.

It was in the autumn of 1823, ere he had yet completed
Ills twentieth year, that Gerald first arrived in London. I
have dwelt so fully upon the feelings with which he set
out, and the reader so well understands the objects he had
in view, that the account of his progress there will be much
more agreeably given by transcribing the letters received
from him from time to time than by any other method.
As these treat of many subjects unconnected with his own
immediate interests, his opinions and feelings with regard
to them will be interesting, and will exhibit his character
with a delicacy, vividness, and truth, of which description
is incapable. I shall therefore proceed to give them in the
order of their date, with such remarks and explanations as
they seem to require, and such additional information as I
have been able to obtain from other sQurces.

To his Brother.

Londor, Monday, Nov. 10, 1823.
My dear William, — I have just had a rather long interview

with , at his house, and lie has kept the tragedy of " Aguire"

for the purpose of reading it. He asked me what the plot, &c.
of the piece was, and promised to give me an answer in the
course of next week, if possible ; at least he said I might de-
pend on the earliest he could give. I was surprised to find it
so difficult to ascertain Banim's address. In fact, I could not
learn whether he is in town. I called on Mr. Kenible, who
could give me no information, but referred me to Mr. Young,
and all the success I could procure in the latter quarter was a re-
quest if I should ascertain it to let him know it, as he also wished

to see that gentleman. I asked if he was in town, and he

told me that he had not seen him this year. I am very much
surprised that Banim should not have availed himself of the
success "Damon and Pythias" met with, to push his fortune,
although that piece is not, I think, so much a favourite here as
it deserves. says " it is a very effective piece in represen-
tation, but not one that would attract houses. The femab

78 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

character Calantlie was wretchedly performed on its first ap-
pearance, which tended much to injure it." You may remem-
ber some time before I left Ireland, I told you tbe plot of a
tragedy, which I at first intended to be called " The Pro-
digal Son." tells me that it is the name of the new tra-
gedy which Banim has presented, and which has been accepted
at Drury Lane. He does not know the subject. He asked me
if I had written anj-thing else, and I told him I had another
unfinished — though, by the way, I have looked over that lately,
and scarcely think, even if Aguire succeeded, that I should ever
present it. He says there was a new piece in preparation at
Drury Lane, where he is engaged, but it has been withdrawn
in consequence of some disagreement about the casting of the
parts. If it is not again brought on, he will give me an answer
next week ; otherwise he cannot promise so soon, so that until
then I can enjoy all the delights of suspense in their fullest
force. Every one to whom I showed the play here assured me

of its success ; among the rest, your old friend ^Ir. W , who

was particular in his inquiries about you, and whom I like very
much, although at first sight I thought I never should. His
circumstances are, I believe, so so. I have had a tiresome piece
of work since I came, transcribing the play, which, I was told,
was almost illegible. With respect to the situation of reporter,
it is almost impossible to procure it at present, as the business
season has not commenced. That of pvlice reporter is easy-
enough, I believe, to be procured, but I am told the office is
scarcely reputable. I shall take a report of some matter, and
send it to the papers the first opportunity. I have had such
harassing work, looking after addresses, &c, together with
continued writing, and the terrible damp fogs that have pre-
vailed here lately, that I got this week a renewal of my old
attacks of chest. I am, however, much better. With respect
to the state of my finances, they are getting low. I was put to
some expense while looking for lodgings, as my good friend

P had no bed. If you could spare me a few pounds, I am

pretty certain I can do something shortly. At all events write
to me and let me know what you think of my prospects, and
of what I have done and ought to do. Believe me, my dear
William, ever affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

The letter he received in answer to this, brought him
some painful intelligence. His brother, Dr. Griffin, was
seized with a species of nervous rheumatism in one of his

LITERARY PROSPECTS. 79

limbs, which was at first mistaken for a more formidable
affection by some eminent surgeons, and seemed to require
the most perfect repose for its cure. The illness, though
protracted, did not, in the end, lead to the serious conse-
quences at first apprehended, but Gerald seems to have felt
it keenly at the time, as may be seen by the following letter
which he wrote immediately :

To hit Brother.

London, Nov. 22, 1823.

My dear William, — I never experienced until this morning
what the pain was of receiving unpleasant news from home. I
opened your letter with anticipations very different from the
information it brought me, but I was cruelly disappointed. The
account which you give of the state of your health was as unex-
pected as it was distressing. I am still, however, in hopes that
the case is not so bad as you seem to apprehend, but at all events
I think you ought to avoid despondency. I have myself ex-
perienced, since I came here, the advantage of using eve^r
means of distracting the attention from the state of one's health?
I have scarcely thought about it, and am much better than I
was when in Ireland. I have not once had those palpitations
which were my great annoyance, though my chest was a little
affected, by too much writing, for a few days.

The bill on Sir E. Flyn and Co. I have received. It was en-
tirely too much for you to send me under the circumstances.
Half the money would, I am sure, with economy, enable me to
get through until I have procured a way of doing something.
I have sent some pieces to the new monthly magazine, and if
they are accepted, intend to offer Colburn the first number of
a series of papers. He pay3 liberally for these contributions.
The success of this, however, I do not set much reliance upon.
1 intend to report the trial of the murderers of Weare, which
will come on soon. H I can effect it I will agree beforehand
with some publisher. I have not yet received an answer from

, as the new piece which he spoke of has been produced.

It is called Caius Gracchus, written by Knowles, but not near

so happy an effort as his Virginius, nor so successful. Mr. P

procures me box tickets now and then for the theatres. I am
not so sanguine about my prospects as that I could not easily
resign myself to a disappointment. Mr. W often advises

80 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

me to avoid it, as he says there are so many mortifications
mingled even with success, that a person who is very sanguine
is sure to be disappointed. But among all the dampers I meet,
there is not such a finished croaker as a young student at the
bar, who is himself a disappointed dramatist, and never meets
me without some agreeable foreboding or other. With respect
to the taste of a London audience, you may judge what it is,
when I tell you that Venice Preserved will scarcely draw a
decent house ; while such a piece of unmeaning absurdity as the
Cataract of the Ganges has filled Drury Lane every night those
three weeks past. The scenery and decorations, field of battle,
burning forest, and cataract of real water, afforded a succession
of splendour I had no conception of, but I was heartily tired of
the eternal galloping, burning, marching and counter-marching,
and the dull speechifying with which it abounds. A lady on
horseback, riding up a cataract, is rather a bold stroke, but
these things are quite the rage now. They are hissed by the
gods, but that is a trifle so long as they fill the house and the
manager's pockets. Damon and Pythias has not variety nor
scenic effect enough for them. I build great hopes out of the
burning convent and the thunder storm, if Aguire should be
accepted, as well as a grand procession and chorus which I have
introduced in the second act. My dearest William, I hope
your next letter will bring me better accounts than that which
now lies before me. I have set my happiness, if I should suc-
ceed, on sharing with you the pleasures and pains of authorship,
and if this unfortunate attack should disable you (though I
have fervent hopes it may not turn out so serious as you fear),
greater success than I can ever hope for would make no amends.
Your affectionate and grateful,

Geeald Griffin.

The following, written on the same sheet, breathes a
similar spirit, and brings before us the name of one whose
fate excited much sympathy at the time :

To his Sister.

My deaeest Ellen, — I have but a small space left for you,
so I must confine myself. William does not mention whether
you wrote to or heard from America since I left Ireland. When
you write, tell Mary Anne that while her affectionate remem-
brance of me in her last letter gave me pleasure, I felt no small

MADAME E1EG0. 81

degree of pain at the air of. doubt with which she requested
that "the muses should not supersede her in my affections."
I was hurt by it at the time, and have not since forgot it. Tell
her that, long as we have been acquainted, she yet knows little
of me, if she thought the charge necessaiy. Since I came hero
I have discovered that home is more necessaiy to my content
than I previously imagined. The novelty of change is beginning
to wear off, and even amid the bustle of this great city I think
of you already with a feeling of loneliness, which rather increases
than lessens by time. I do net expect you to write to me, as I
know it distresses you, but you can remember me now and then,
and make William, or whoever writes, be particular in the ac-
count of your health. Never give up hope. It is the sweetest
cordial with which heaven qualifies the cup of calamity, next
to that which you never lose sight of, religion. I have been
negotiating lately with my host, for lodgings for the widow and
brother of poor General Eiego. They are splendid apartments,
but the affair has been broken off by the account of his death.
It has been concealed from her. She is a young woman, and is
following him fast, being far advanced in a consumption. His
brother is in deep grief. He says he will go and bury himself
for the. remainder of his days in the woods of America. I am
cut short — Dearest Ellen, remember me affectionately to all,
and believe me, Yours ever,

Gerald Griffin.

To his Brother.

London, Dec. 29, 1829.
My dear William, — I mentioned to you a few days since
that I had seen Banim. I dined with him on Thursday ; there
were INIrs. Banim, and an Irish gentleman, and we had a
pleasant evening enough. He had read Aguire twice. He
went over it scene by scene with me, and pointed out all the
passages he disliked. He then gave me his candid opinion,
which was, that after making those alterations the play
ought to be accepted and to succeed. He gave it very high
praise indeed, especially the third and fourth acts, which he
said could not be better. Parts of the others he found fault
with. The piece would not suffer by the loss of those passages,
as he thought the acts too long. He recommended me to per*
severe in writing for the stage, and if I did so, to forswear
roses, dewdrops, and sunbeama for ever. _ The fate of the
unfortunate Vespers of Palermo told me this before. Poetry
is not listened to on the stage here, I coidd not, on the whole,

82 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

have expected Banim to act a more friendly or generous part
than he has done. On the second day I called on him (Satur-
day) he made me stop to dinner. I put the direct question to
him, whether from what he had seen it was his real opinion
that I should be successful as a dramatist. His reply was,
that he thought I had every claim, and since I had dealt so
candidly with him, he advised me to write on, and that he
would do everything for any piece I wished to bring forward
that he would do if it was his own. With respect to the pre-
sent piece, he advised me to leave it in 's hands until he

sends it to me, and not call or write to him. If he knows any-
thing of him, he says he will keep and play it. I am very
sorry I did not see Banim first. In that case I should long
since have known its fate, as he could have procured me an
answer from the committee in ten days. "With regard to his
present views, he has placed me on my honour not to breathe a
word of them, therefore on that subject 1 can say nothing ,
but I may talk of the Prodigal Son, as I had before heard
of it. You recollect I mentioned the coincidence in name
with a play of mine. I asked him about it. He showed me
sketches of it in his note-book. The story is the same, and the
scene is laid in the same place, so that all my fine visions are
knocked on the head there. He also lent me part of another
manuscript tragedy of his, which will come out at Covent
Garden, in which I found the counterpart of my character of
Canabe. Is not this vexatious ? But, enough of theatricals, as
Lucy calls them. Your last letter gave me a great deal of
pleasure. I should scarcely have believed you capable of so
much perseverance, and I hope you will continue to follow Mr.
Abernethys prescription, as jovl find it has done you good.
The weather here is extremely mild, so I am in hopes that
with you the winter will not be too severe for Ellen. I have
not been able to procure an engagement since I wrote last.
It is very difficult to do so. I intend, however, to make a
desperate effort this week, for it must be done before long or
not at all. I have got a cold and an ugly cough at present,
but my health on the whole is very tolerable. I have been
obliged to lay out nearly half the money you sent me in
clothes, as without them I might as well have remained at
home. I owe but the last week for my lodgings, but if I can-
not get an engagement very shortly, I will give them up
altogether, for the rent is too m"ch for me. Mr. P. could
manage forme I believe, but it wo old not be to my advantage
under the present circumstances. Besides, his prospects are
wheeling about sadly, and I fear his speculations are not so

THE ENGLISH DRAMA. 83

prudent as they ought to be. I am now run dry. Knowing aa\
I do the obstacles which have occurred to retard you in your
profession, it gives me great pain to think what an expense I
nave already been to you. I would before have gone to Mr.

P while I was endeavouring to procure an engagement, but

was unwilling to take that step without letting you know it.
I could manage not to be an expense to him, but it would be a
great advantage to me if I could keep my lodgings for some
time, as with such a friend as Banim, acquainted in the first
literary circles in London, and willing to give me every assis-
tance in his power, there can be little doubt of eventual
success. He is in high estimation at the theatres, and says he
will procure me an answer immediately to any piece I wish to
present. He has lent me a new French tragedy, which was
sent him by Talma ; a very fine piece as far as I have read. I
don't know if you will be able to decipher this scrawl. I
have of course a bad pen and write hastily. Believe me, my
dear William, Your affectionate,

Gerald Griffin.

It is amusing to observe by one of these letters how his first
notions about the reformation of the English drama began
to decline on observing the tastes that prevailed at the
time, and how such nnintellectual incidents as " a burning
convent," " a thunder storm,' and a "grand procession and
chorus," which he would have scorned to place any reliance
on before he left home, began now to strengthen his hopes.
There was no one who would have been more amused by,
the consideration of this sudden change than himself, witi
the feelings he afterwards entertained of dramatic pursuits.
In another, written about the same time, however, he makes
a remark on the subject which is worthy of notice : " When
I spoke of the rage for spectacle which at present charac-
terises the London audience, I thought only of 'the
million.' The taste of ' the few^ is still correct, and real
merit will, after all, be successful, even without the allure-
ments of scenery and show." The Vespers of Palermo, to
which he alludes in the last letter, was produced at Covent
Garden on the twelfth of December, 1823, which was
about a fortnight before that letter was written. Mrs.

84 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Hemans' friends, as well as others at the time, attributed
the ill success of that play to the inefficiency of the actress
who personated the principal female character Constance,
and we see by these letters that a circumstance of the
aame kind was thought to have materially injured the play
of Damon and Pythias also on its first appearance. If
such trivial incidents as what Mr. Kemble calls a " singu-
larity of intonation in one of the actresses,"* are capable of
injuring pieces of considerable merit, or even of throwing
them altogether off the stage, it is obvious that where
reliance is placed upon literary excellence rather than any
other quality, it is difficult for any piece to obtain a footing
or maintain its place on the boards in times when the taste
for pure dramatic literature is low, since the performance of
the principal characters by people of the first repute in their
profession is at all times attainable with difficulty, and
would then be less appreciated than ever. This circum-
stance may perhaps account for the hesitation of those to
whose judgment Gerald's plays were at the time submitted,
particularly if the earliest of them were, as that of Mrs.
Hemans was said to be, redundant in poetical imagery.
We must therefore look upon the tone of disappointment
in the following letter, and the sharp little flashes of half
suppressed anger which it exhibits, as the natural effect of
the unsuccessful issue of a deeply interesting affair on a
mind more than usually sanguine, aud we must not be too
ready to infer that an unsound discretion was exercised
regarding it. Notwithstanding the high praise bestowed
upon the play by other good judges, it is probable that it
would not have been at all prudent to proceed further with
it in the circumstances of the time. Indeed, Gerald him*
self, as will be seen, admits this fully, almost in the same
breath with his censure ; and when we remember how deeply
his feelings were wound up in its success, and how his

* Memoir of Mrs. Hemans by her sister, page 71.

THZ DRAMA, 85

pride was hurt at having exposed himself to what he con-
ceived a want of consideration for his feelings in the length
of time he was kept in suspense, we cannot help admiring
the promptness and candour with which he makes this
admission. In this letter we see the first distinct expres-
sion of that wish to rely upon his own powers solely, and
that utter dislike of all patronage, which began just then
in his difficulties to grow more strongly upon him, and of
which Ave shall afterwards meet some singular examples.

To Ms Brother,

London, January 12, 1824.

My dear William, — I have just received yours with the

enclosure, but too late for this night's post. ■ has sent me

back my piece (I don't like that word rejected), after keeping
it nearly three months, without any opinion, other than the
mere act of doing so. I had just the day before said to Banim,
that I wished he would do it, for I heartily disliked the idea of
his being considered my patron if he should accept it. From
the description I have received of the manner in which actors
deal with those who are brought before the public through
their instrumentality, I am in a fine vein for cutting at them.
Pope says very truly, they are judges of what is good just as
a tailor is of what is graceful. Johnson, that sensible old fel-
low, always despised them. The fact was, of all the introduc-
tions I could get, none could have been slighter than that I

handed to , though I thought it a fine thing at the time.

Of all the people I could have applied to, an actor was thfe
least likely to pay me attention ; and of all actors I could have

selected, was the worst : for you must know he dabbles

in tragedy himself ; and I suppose you recollect the whisper to
Sir Fretful, or Puff, (which is it ?) in the Critic, — "Never send
a piece to Drury" — "Writes himself?" "I know it, sir."
However, after all this, the piece deserved to be rejected, for
it had many and grievous sins. Banim said if I change th«
name, and make those alterations he pointed out, he will pre-
sent it for me, and get me an immediate answer. I have not
seen him since I wrote to you, for I was unwilling to be too
troublesome to him, especially as he is himself constantly en-
gaged. I let him know 's decision, however, and have a

letter from Hm by me, where, in answer to my question, whe-

86 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

ther I should send Aguire or another ? he encourages me to do
the former, but at the same time he leaves the utrum horum to
myself. For many reasons I have chosen the latter. In the

first plaee it would not be pleasant if should recognise it

at the Jheatre ; secondly, it was known too generally that I was
the writer ; and lastly, Banim seems to think it better I should
do so. "With a true, indefatigable Grub-street spirit, I have
therefore commenced a new one, and have it nearly half finished.
The plot is that of Tancred and Sigismunda. Banim, I think,
would be apt to interest himself more in one which is written
under his own eye. He says, at the conclusion of his letter,
if I give him a call he will speak about my commencing a con-
nexion with the press in a limited way. I don't know what he
means, bat I will see him this week. On looking over a num-
ber of old books the other day, I found a Comedy founded on
that story in GilfBlas, of Aurora and Don Lewis Pacheco, by
Edward Moore, author of the Gamester, but I believe a very
poor thing. There is a great dearth of talent in that way at
present. You were right in supposing that there are a great
number of pieces presented at the theatres. Banim tells me ha
supposes there are no less than a thousand rejected every year.
I was born under some extraordinary planet, I believe. You
recollect the coincidences I before mentioned to you. A tragedy
founded on the story of Aguire, and called the Spanish Revenge,
has been presented at Covent Garden and rejected. The profits
of a successful play vary from £300 to £700, and over, accord-
ing to the run it has. The bookseller who bought Mirandola
gave £300 for the copyright. I have been very busy lately,
both in writing and endeavouring to procure some regular em-
ployment. P tells me it is very difficult at present, but

as soon as parliament opens, he says I would have a very good
chanee at the Law Courts. Banim said he thought he could be

©f^wrvice to me in that way, and P promised to do all he

cosHL A Spanish gentleman, with whom I have some acquain-
tance, proposed to me to engage in a translation of the drama of
hi 3 country, which has not yet been published in England.
Banim thinks the idea a very good one, and advises me to pro-
ceed with ^specimen and submit it to the booksellers. My
Lealth is very good ; at least I don't think about it. Believe
me, my dear William, affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

In the following letter we find the first notice of Gisippus,
and perceive some of the author's feelings regarding it. It

GISIPPU6. 87

contains some further allusion to poor Madame Riego,
with several remarks on various subjects connected with
the stage.

To his Brother,

76, Regent-street, Feb. 1824
Thursday Night.

My dear William, — I have delayed thus long answering
your kind letter, which was duly received, that I might if
possible be enabled to let you know something decisive with
respect to my prospects, but on hearing again by this day's
post, I determined to put it off no longer. I was in hopes before
that your apprehensions with respect to the malady might have
been premature, but was most grieved to find that you still
hold the same opinion. Do you think those you consulted
in Dublin have sufficiently considered the case to authorise
them to form a just opinion on it ? and do you continue apply-
ing remedies during those long intervals in their attendance
which you complain of ? I hope in God that you may get over
it soon, for it must be dreadful to you as it is. Since I last
wrote I have been making the utmost efforts to secure some im-
mediate way of support, and nevertheless, in that point, still
remain in abeyance. Banim, who is very kind to me, can do
nothing at present with the press, as those with whom he has
influence are all pre-occupied. Of the daily or political press
he knows nothing. On my calling on him, I believe the day
after I wrote to you last, he urged me to alter Aguire in those
passages he pointed out, and told me that he still persevered in
his opinions of it ; that there were scenes in it which, for stage
effect and every requisite, could not be better. I have conned
the play over so often myself, that I don't know what's bad or
good in it but as I am told, and therefore found the alterations
very troublesome. The first four acts now, he says, want no-
thing. The last scene of the fifth I have yet to change. Banim
is much occupied. That comedy of Edward Moore's, from Gil
Bias, I find was almost damned for its resemblance to "She
would and she would not," in plot, &c. You know his forte
was not comedy. The paragraphs which you speak of, neither
of them referred to Banim. That of the interdiction, alluded
to a tragedy written by Shea, a friend of Banim's, whose
" Bhymes of Art" have been so celebrated, and whom Lord
Byron speaks so highly of in the "English Bards and Scotch

SS LIFE OF GERALD GBIFFIS.

Reviewers." As regards the length of pieces, do you know
that the "Pdvals"' was all but damned the first night for its
length ? "Will you excuse niy anxiety to have some opinion on
which I can rely, of a piece which I have written, (and four
acts of which I left to-day with Banini), if I transcribe a scene
from it, merely that you should let me know what you thought
of it ; whether it was better or worse than Aguire. The story
is that which you know already of the two friends in Bocacio.
The passage I give you is part of a scene, subsequent to the
sacrifice which the one makes to his friend. Tell me what it
is really worth, for that is my object in transcribing it. So-
phronia and Fulvius have gone out, and Gisippus remains on
the stage looking after them,
soliloquy.

Gis. — They take their places near the window frame —
Gods ! how they drink each other's smiles. I would
Be spared that picture. What ? yet more ?

Enter Cheemes.
Chre. — Gisippus !

Have you seen Fulvius lately ? There has been
Another messenger to seek him.
Gis.— What
Could he have said to call that crimson shame
Into her cheek and forehead ? Chremes ? ha !
Look there ! look there ! (Grasping his arm and pointing
off the stage.)

Chre. — Sophronia ? — and Fulvius ?

Gis. — I've given her to him, Chremes ; would'st thou think it ?
Poor Fulvius ! he loved her secretly,
And his love pined him ! I have made him blest
In her — and now — I am so happy !

Chez. — Trust me
You do not look so, Gisippus. I hope
You'll not repent this ?

Gis. — Repent ? No, no, I don't repent it, Chremes.
I never will. Why should'st thou fancy that ?

Cure. — I only hope it may be as you say ;
But yet, your accents suit not with your looko—

Gis, —By all the gods on high Olj-mpus— by

ciTsiPPus. 89

The infernal river, and its shrieking wanderers—
And by their torturing ministers, I swear,
I do not grieve for that which I have done.
My looks are false if they belie my words*

Ciiiie. — This vehemence contradicts itself.

Gis. — Come on!

I tell thee I am happy ! The wild joy

Runs through my breast and riots in my veins ;

It eats into my heart, and brain, and soul ! —

A smile ? a rich one ! — How he feasts upon it !

Why should he not be happy, Chremes ? They

Were all I loved on earth, and I have blessed them !

Come ! come ! come ! I shall madden with my joy !

Banim thinks the story a beautiful one for the stage. He gives
me encouragement, without which I should not feel myself
very confident. He jwophesied, as he said, to-day, that I should
hold, a very high place on the English stage. I tell you all
these things that you may see my chances as they stand. Of
course it would be at present most imprudent and unwise in
me to let such sillinesses go further. Besides these things
already mentioned, 1 have been deeply engaged in the Spanish.
The Spaniard's name is Valentine Llanos. I like him very
much. We shaU present a specimen I think in a few days to
a publisher. I will make a most lucrative thing of it if we get
a publisher to undertake it readily, and of that I do not think
there is much doubt. Llanos is acquainted with Bowring,
whom of course you have heard of, and who is now Editor of
the Westminister Review. I trust in God that I may be en-
abled to do something which will prevent my again trespass-
ing on you. I could not economise more rigidly than I do.
My lodgings I have still kept, as at that time I owed a little,
and if 1 was to go into new I should be obliged to pay ready
money for some time, and that is not now absolutely necessary
where I am ; and considering the difference in charge I could
procure another for, the advantage I think was on the side of
remaining. I have now shown you my circumstances. Before
another fortnight or three weeks, I think I shall be able to
let you know that I have been either accepted or rejected at

the theatres. I find has been with you. He left this, I

believe, the very day I received my manuscript. Peace be with
him ! he has cured me of histrionic patrons.

90 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

I was introduced the other day to poor Madame Riego, the
relict of the unfortunate patriot. We could not converse very
fluently, for she knows very little English. I was surprised to
Bee her look much better than I had been prepared to expect,
as she is in a confirmed consumption. You see what a jumble
of intelligence I am huddling together ; but the unity of action
is not necessary in a letter, whatever it may be in a play — and
by the way, I have found from experience that it is absolutely
necessary there. 1 tell everything that comes into my head
that I think may interest or entertain you. The paragraph
which you mention respecting a quarrel between dramatist and
manager, and the consequent rejection of a play, related, I
believe, to a Mr. Clarke of Dublin, who imported here a piece
of his, which was terribly mauled by his own countrymen,
and has not met a very encouraging reception on this side the
water ; I mean in the green room, for further it did not go.
One thing I shall tell you ; never waste a thought on those
newspaper squibs ; they are mere puffing trash. Will you tell
me when you write next, what you consider the faults or weak-
nesses of Aguire ? Again, of those paragraphs : good authors
find them sometimes put in without their knowledge, and
perhaps against their wishes, while bad ones endeavour to make
a show off by their means. You may remember seeing one
about Banim some time back. It was done without his know-
ledge by some of the minor performers while his tragedy was
in rehearsal with Kean and Young. Have you read Yirginius ?
It will be worth your while to get it, but if you would retain
the good opinion it will give you of Knowles, don't read his
Caius Gracchus. "Tis a poor piece of folly, but either will
show you that poetry is a cast off ornament in the drama now.
In fact, mere poetry on the stage sounds like a weakness.
Action is the grand object, and indeed I think justly, con-
sidering that plays are not composed for the closet. Milman's
Fazio, which I admired so much, and do still admire, I have
got quite cold about as an acting play. If the drarna was in-
tended to develope the characters of men, and show us our-
selves by reflection, that end is not likely to be attained by
flowing numbers and poetical conceits. I don't know if I make
my feeling clear, but so do I feel at present.

On looking over my letter, I find it a most whimsical piece
of confusion, but it will answer the purpose. I hope in my
next to be able to tell you that I have done something certain.
Heaven knows how I toil for it. I know not how I've got this
adamantine health since I came, but though I am writing from

MADAME RIEGO— LITERARY SQUIBS. 91

morning until two or three at night regularly, I am quite well ;
if I except a cough that is sticking to me.

Yours affectionately,

Gerald Grtjtin.

I have not finished Tancred and Sigismunda, for the reason
that you give for your fears. An accident led me to the con-
clusion, that it would not be wise in a first piece.

I believe the reason assigned, was the injudiciousness of
choosing an old subject for the first piece of an unknown
author. By a letter of Dr. Griffin's, which I have disco-
vered among Gerald's papers, I find that the idea of Gisip-
pus was conceived even before he had left Ireland, though
I do not believe any progress was made it. He says : " the
grand difficulty that struck me in the plot from Boccaccio,
in which you are engaged, when first you mentioned it to
me here, was how to reconcile the lady so naturally and
readily to the disposal of her person or affections from one
of the friends to the other. How have you got over that ?"
I shall have to give such a number of letters from time to
time, that it is unnecessary to trouble the reader with many,
which contain only repetitions of several unsuccessful at-
tempts to biing his writings before the public. They
afford evidence of much perseverance, and show that he
left no effort untried, that offered a reasonable hope. In
one of them he says, " I must have heartily tired and sick-
ened you before now, and I am sick and tired myself. I
had little idea before I left Ireland that it was possible I
could be nearly five months in London without doing any-
thing : but it is not through my remissness that has been
the case. A very little time longer will tell me all that I
have to expect, and I shall then take measures accordingly.
I had a visit from Banim the other day. What with the
delays and disappointments I have met since I came here,
it is only his encouragement, and his friendship, that keeps
hope alive. I shall write to you again when I know the
issue of the play, which I have long since finished." The

92 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

following letters are more interesting. In the first of them
we have some further notice of Gisippus, with an expres-
sion of his own feeling regarding it, while the short one to
his sister, which accompanies it, is again radiant with that
hope which beamed upon him so cheeringly even in his
deepest difficulties. In the second to his brother, we find
the earliest evidence of that feeling, called first into being
by the sickness of hope deferred, which, if it did not after-
wards deprive literature of its charms, at least took away
from it his heart's best devotion, and ripened into that
ardent religious offering in which his life ended. " I mean
the terrible idea that it might jiossibly be he was mispend-
ing time." The " dismal catalogue of misfortunes," which
he alludes to, consisted in the loss of some dear and valued
relatives, with whom he had been long intimately associated,
and who were all carried off within a short period.

To his Brother.

London, March 31st, 1524.
My dear "William. — The enclosure which you sent in your
last was an unexpected, though I will confess not an unseason-
able remittance, but of this by and by. ****** Banim's
friendship I find every day growing more ardent, more cordial,
if possible. I dined with him on Sunday last. I told you in
my last I had left him four acts of a play, for the purpose of
leaving it to his option to present that or Aguire. I antici-
pated the preference of the new, and have with him succeeded
to my wish. He says it is the best I have written yet, and will
be when finished " a most effective play !" But what gives me
the greatest satisfaction respecting it is the consciousness that
I have written an original play. That passion of revenge you
know was threadbare. Banim has made some suggestions
which I have adopted. I will finish it immediatly, place it in
his hands, and abide the result in following other pursuits.
He advises me to have it presented at Covent Garden, for.
many reasons. Imprimis they are more liberal ; next, Gisippus
is a character for Young or Macready ; the former I should'
rather to undertake it, as I have placed the effect of the piece
more in pathos than violent passion. He wishes to «roeak to

GISIPPUS — THE ENGLISH OPERA. 93

Young, who is his intimate friend, before he presents it, in
order to learn all the Green Boom secrets. Young will be in
town this week. Banim made me an offer the other day,
which will be of more immediate advantage than the tragedy,
inasmuch as I need not abide the result. He desired me to
write a piece for the English Opera House. When I have it
finished he will introduce me to Mr. Arnold of Golden-square,
the proprietor, who is his friend, and get me immediate money
for it, without awaiting its performance. This was exactly
such an offer as I wanted, and you may be sure I will avail
myself of it. It is doubly advantageous, as the English Opera
House continues open until next winter, but I must see it
first. You are aware that the performances are of a peculiar
nature, and the fact is, a tailor might as well seek to fit a man
without seeing him, as one might write for a particular theatre
without knowing its performers. I do not speak now of the
legitimate drama. If you have ever seen Miss Kelly, you may
guess what are the performances of the theatre I speak of.
In the meantime I am pushing on my Spanish speculation. I
have made a tolerable progress in the language. We spoke
to Colburn, and had the recommendation of Mr. Blacquiere,
whom you may have heard of. He told us he had been
speaking to Blacquiere two days before on that subject, and
mentioned to him that it was a publication entirely out of his
line. This was no" rejection, for he saw no specimens. We
intend to try the Row, and Colburn said he had no doubt but
many booksellers would undertake it. You see our prospects
go on slowly, but every day 1 feel the ground more firm,
beneath my foot. Banim offers me many introductions. He
i3 acqainted with Thomas Moore — who was to see him the
other day — Campbell and others of celebrity. Ugo Foscolo
of course you have heard of ; he asked me if I should wish to
be introduced to him, but I do not wish to know any one
until I have done something to substantiate my pretensions to
Bueh acquaitance, and to preserve it, if I can do so. You must
not judge of Shell's ability from Bellamira. Of those of his

fieces which have succeeded, it is, I believe, the worst. The less
think that is said about my theatrical views at present the
better. 0 Lord ! if I should be damned after all this. But
no ? that will not be the case I am sure, for I have a presenti-
ment of success. What would I have done if I had not found
Banim ? I should have instantly despaired on 's treat-
ment of me. I should never be tired of talking about and
thinking of Banim. Mark me ! he is a man — the only oae
I have met since I have left Ireland, almost.

94 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

We -walked over Hyde Park together on St. Patrick's day,

and renewed our home recollections by gathering shamrocks,

and placing them in our hats, even under the eye of John

Bull. I had a great deal more to say, but am cut short,

My dear William, affectionately yours,

Glf.ald Grlffdt.

To his Sister.

London, March 31st, 1824.

My dearest Ellen. — It is now a long time since I have
written to, or heard directly from Pallas. William mentioned
in his last that you were very ill, but I hope you do not add
to your already severe sufferings those of imagination : indeed
I know you do' not. Oh ! my dear Ellen, if I could but transfer
to you and William a little of the hope ; the bright expectancy
that cheers and bouys up my own spirit through the anxieties
of suspense, I think it would be well both for your health and
happiness. I am not impatient, though anxious. I should
myself have wondered if I had stalked at once into reputation
and independence. 's rejection of me I regard as a dis-
pensation of Providence. I was a lee tile too confident perhaps,
and it was a seasonable humiliation in the commencement of
my career. However this does not excuse him. I do not say
he might not have rejected me, but his manner of doing so was
bad. He knew I was a stranger in London, young and inex-
perienced in such matters, and his countryman, and he kept
me in suspense three months ; then sent back my piece without
comment, wrapped in an old paper, and unsealed ! If I had
auy wish far a little revenge — but I have not — I understand it
will soon be gratified in some measure. The affair, without men-
tioning names, will be taken up in one of Blackwood's forth-
coming Magazines — not much to his advantage. I have no
enmity to the man, but for justice sake, I don't grudge him
whatever he gets from Blackwood for it.

Dearest Ellen, Yours,

Gsrald Grlfflv.

To his Brother,

London, May ISth, 1824.

My dearest William. — I received last night, too late for
the post, your letter of Thursday. The melancholy intelligence

LETTERS. 95

which that of a fortnight previous brought me, was not relieved
by this. I don't know what to say, or how to express the feel-
ings which both gave me ; to say that I was never so shocked
in my life, would give you a very faint idea of them. A person
who is at home and amongst his friends can scarcely conceives
how terrible it is, in a strange land and amongst strangers, to
open a letter with the gratification which the receiving of iU
always gives, and find it filled with such a dismal catalogue of
misfortunes as yours contained. I thought it would never end.
It has thrown me into a gloominess of mind, which I have not
felt before since I came here, and which I thought I had got
rid of entirely. But it is a subject which cannot, and perhaps
ought not to be dwelt on much if we would remain contented.
My only hope is, that the visitation has for the present passed
away, and that Providence in its mercy may withhold a recur-
rence of it. You speak in a very dreadful way of your own
illness, and the idea is the more dreadful from the reality of the-
cause ; but with respect to the apprehensions you express as to
the result of the attack, I cannot, nor will not, coincide with
you. I look upon it as one of those calamities which are too
mighty to be feared. The last attack which you mention, and
which deprives you of the amusement of writing, must have
left you very miserable indeed, unfurnished as you are with
any extensive means of occupying the hours of suffering — 1
mean as to books or newspapers — they must hang very heavily
upon your hands. But I shall not add to your despondency by
my own sombre reflections. My dear William, when I speak
of your apprehensions, or wish you to avoid them, do not ima-
gine that anybody can appreciate more highly your philosophy
and fortitude. I merely seek to caution you against yielding
too easily, or rather to resist with all the powers of your mind
the physical despondence from which no one is secure. For
myself, I am quite tired of this, if I may use a cockney idiom,
hot-water kind of life ; or our own more rich and expressive
mode of conveying the idea, " pulling the devil by the tail."
It would be a great thing for me if 1 could secure a present
livelihood, while I prosecuted other views at the same time,,
for I cannot do anything with confidence or ease while I have
the terrible idea starting on my mind at intervals, that it may
possibly be that I am mispending time ; but this at least, I
hope, is not the case. At all events there are many things I
could then do which I can scarcely do now with comfort ;
among the rest, writing for magazines, which 1 have been
strongly recommended to try, and which one gentleman whom
I know told me he used to make £300 a year by, and yet with-

96 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

out permanently engaging himself with any. Of the great,
theatres I know I cannot form any immediate expectation, and
the summer one is not open yet. It is not precisely the kind of
piece that you mention that is adapted to it ; something nearer
to the serious ; a kind of vndassical tragedy, I apprehend, but
have not seen it yet. When you write for those places you
must go to the house to see the principal performers, take tJieir
measure, and fit them with a character.

You cannot conceive what a sensation the death of Lord
Byron has produced here. Every individual, in every class,
who were not his enemies, talk and look as if they had lost an
acquaintance or a companion. All his errors and wanderings
seem to have been forgotten in an instant, and the delight
which his genius gave is all that remains in the memory, even
of the most prejudiced. Have you seen Moore's Captain Rock
yet? when you do, you will remark a note which refers to
Br.nim — a very friendly one. I wish I knew some friend going
to Limerick, I would send you his Loves of the Angels — a very
feeble thing for him — and some of Byron's poems, which have
been given me. I find that Banim's amanuensis is a fel-
low citizen of mine, but I have never seen him, as he writes in
another room, and Banim, who laughed when he told me of it,
would not, I suppose, from motives of delicacy, tell me his
name : not that I ashed it. He came over, I understand, with
great hopes, from our poor pestered countryman, Sir Matthew
Tierney. The comedy from which you have seen extracts, and
which you admire so much, is written by the Bev. Mr. Croly,
of the Literary Gazette, the author of Paris. It has had great
6uccess on the stage, more, I believe, than it has met with from
the critics, the wise few ; at least I have seen, here and there,
hints about Parsons writing five act farces, &c. &c. I have not
eeen it, but I heard that on the whole it was not worthy of Croly.
I will tell you now some things which will give you some idea
of the drama, and the dramatic management of the day, which,
however, for the credit of the metier, I would not breathe to
' ' ears prophane. " Of all the walks in literature, it certainly is
at present the most heart-rending, the most toilsome, and the
most harrassing to a man who is possessed of a mind that may
be at all wrought on by circumstances. The managers only
seek to fill their houses, and don't care a curse for all the dra-
matists that ever lived. There is a rage for fire and water, and
iorses got abroad, and as long as it continues — fire and water
.and horses are the lookout of the sovereigns of the drama.
Literary men see the trouble which attends it, the bending and
inging to performers— the chicanery of managers, and the

STATE OF THE DRAMA. 97

anxiety of suspense, which no previous success can relieve them
from — and therefore it is that they seek to make a talent for
some other walk, and content themselves with the quiet fame
of a " closet writer," which is accompanied with little or none
of the uneasiness of mind which the former brings with it.
Elliston wrote some time hack to Scott, asking him to write a
play, and leaving a blank for his terms. Scott laughed at him.
This was told me by a person who had it from Elliston himself.
At the same time, allow me to say, that with all my veneration
for the Great Unknown, I am not very ready to admit his
capabilities for actual dramatic— at least tragic writing ; nor
indeed can I immediately fix my eye upon any one who I should
say, without hesitation, was qualified to furnish us with a good
tragedy, excepting only my friend Banim, and countryman
Kuowles. They decidedly stand best on the stage at present.
Kean is going off to America, and Macready, I understand,
speaks of entering the Church, a curinus idea enough, but I
should be sorry for it. This I have only just heard said, and
know not whether it be quiz or earnest, but it is widely re-
ported. That he is not strongly attached to his present pro-
fession I am very sure. Have you jeen any more of Shiel's
works ? I think his last piece, the Hugonot, a very indifferent
one, and the public thought so too, for they damned it to three
nights. For us, poor devils — who love the drama well and are
not so confident in other branches of that most toilsome and
thankless of all professions, authorship — we must only be con-
tent to wade through thick and thin, and make our goal as soon
as we may. This saw-dust and water work will pass away
like every thing else, and then perchance the poor half-drowned
muse of the buskin may be permitted to lift her head above the
flood once more. I don't know how it is, though I have never
put a line in print since I came here — at least so that I waa
known in it by any body — I have got a sneaking kind of repu-
tation as a poet among my acquaintances. The Canon Riego,
brother to the poor martyr, sent me the other day a Spanish
poem of many cantos, having for its subject the career of the
unhappy General, and expressed a wish that I might find ma-
teriel for an English one in it, if I felt disposed to make any-
thing of the subject. Apropos, Madam Riego is almost dead.
The fire is in her eye, and the flush on her cheek, which are, I
believe, no beacons for hope to the consumptive. She is an in-
teresting woman, and I pity her from my soul. This Mr.
Mathews, who was confined with her husband, and arrived
lately in London, and who, moreover, is a countryman of mine,
brought her, from her dying husband, a little favourite dog and

G

98 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

a parrot, which were his companions in his dungeon. He ve.17
indiscreetly came before her with the remembrances without
any preparation, and she received a shock from it which she
has not yet, nor ever will recover. What affecting little cir-
cumstances these are ! and how interesting to one who has the
least mingling of enthusiasm in his character.

With regard to comedy, the surest ground for a comic writer
to go on, is to select present manners, follies, and fashions for
his target. These hits always tell well in the performance, and
carry off many a heavy plot. Croly has practised this with suc-
cess in his piece. Shall I tell you a secret ? The most successful
dramatist of our day, I mean as to the number of successful
pieces he produced, wrote six plays before he could get one ac-
cepted. My dearest William, yours affectionately,

Gerald Griffin.

From a passage in one of the letters to his brother last
given, it appears that he considered the character of Gisip-
pus well adapted to Mr. Young, or Mr. Macready, though
he preferred the former. Had he lived to witness Mr.
Macready's performance of it, he would I think have found
that there was no sufficient reason for this preference, as
all the criticisms of the day, almost without exception, as
well as the strong public feeling regarding it, show it to
have been a most finished piece of acting. The keen in-
terest which has been excited with regard to this play from
several circumstances, makes every particular connected
with it of some importance. The following short notice of
it written to his mother will therefore be very acceptable,
as he not only gives an account of the plot, but enters very
fully into his own designs with respect to the characters,
and into a pretty minute analysis of the two principal ones.
The reader will perceive the circumstances in which it was
written : " all in coffee houses, and upon little slips of
paper '."

" Here I give you what I believe you have never had any-
thing of— a specimen of my tragedy writing. The drama I
have written since I came to London. You'd laugh if you
saw how it was got through. I wrote it all in coffee houses,

THE DRAHA. 99

and on little slips of paper, from which I afterwards copied it
out. The story is that Greek one of the friend who gave up<
his love, who loved him not, to the friend who loved her,
and whom she loved ; and who afterwards got fame and
wealth, and forgot his benefactor. I have been compelled to in-
troduce many additional circumstances, which I cannot detail,
but you must suppose that Gisippus, the generous friend, after
numberless hardships, arrives in Rome, where he first hears of
the wealth and new-sprung pride and pomposity of his college
chum Fulvius, to whom he gave up his early love and happiness.
Two words on the character of the friends. Gisippus I have
made a fellow of exquisite susceptibility, almost touching on
weakness; a hero in soul, but plagued with an excessive
nervousness of feeling, which induces him to almost anticipate
unkindness, and of course drives him frantic, when he finds
it great and real — at least apparently so. Fulvius is a sincere
fellow, but an enthusiast for renown, and made insolent by
success. This is the fourth act, when Gisippus has not
appeared for many scenes — when he was the gay, manly
student of the Lyceum — and is supposed entirely forgotten, or
not thought of by Fulvius. He then comes upon the stage,
after being persecuted for giving up Sophronia by her relatives,
and appears a totally altered being, as you may perceive, The
preceding scene has been one of splendour, and clash, and honour
to Fulvius, who has just been made a Prsetor. This is not

the play I showed

(Here is inserted the fourth act of Gisippus.)
" Fulvius succeeds in pacifying Gisippus, and the scene runs
on to much greater length, but I have given you enough in all
conscience. Give me all your separate criticisms upon this
broken bit, by no means the best in the play ; but the situation
is original. It is, Banim says, one of the best acting scenes. I
have had the bad taste to suffer three lines of poetry to creep
into it, but I let them stand.

The following, to his sister, under the same date witk
that to his brother last given, shows further how the fervour
of his feeling was beginning to wear down under the vexa-
tion of repeated delays. He still, however, contends for
the usefulness of the drama, and it is a curious circumstance,
that the same arguments he here uses in its defence, were
found totally ineffectual with himself at a later period,
when his passion for it became lost in a deeper feeling.

LOO LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

To his Sister.

My dearest Ellen. — I give you a thousand thanks for
your kind letter, and I am the more grateful for it, as I know
writing is no easy effort for you. I am sorry you do not say
anything of the state of your own health, but I take that very
silence as a sign that you are perhaps experiencing some relief.
Do you know I cannot help thinking sometimes, that we should
all have been better and happier if we had accompanied the first
emigrants of our family and settled with them in Susquehanna.
For my part, situated as I am at present, uncertain of the
ground I stand on, and sickened by repeated delays and dis-
appointments, there is only one thing that makes me imagine
1 should not be more at ease there, and that is that I know I
never could be so anywhere, until I had tried London ; and
even yet, nothing but the consideration of being amongst my
friends would induce me to make the exchange ; I mean to
say being amongst them, and seeing them in health and
comfort. 1 look on success now as a matter of mere business, and
nothing more. As to fame, if I could accomplish it in any
way, I should scarcely try for its sake alone. I believe it is
the case with almost everybody before they succeed, to wear
away all relish for it in the exertion. I have seen enough of lite-
rature and literary men to know what it is, and I feel convinced
that at the best, and with the highest reputation, a man might
make himself al happy in other walks of life. I see those who
have got it as indifferent about it as if totally unknown, while
at the same time they like to add to it. But money ! money
is the grand object — the all in all. I am not avaricious, but I
see that they are the happiest who are making the most, and
am so convinced of the reality of its blessings, that if I coidd
make a fortune by spitting matches, I think I never would put
a word in print. 1 thought to have set your mind at rest upon
the question of the draina in this letter, but I have scarcely
room for my arguments. Give me leave to say, however, that
where an humble individual observes a great deal of immo- -
rality in a very alluring form, I cannot see anything wrong in
his making whatever exertions he can to use an efficient means
in a more worthy cause. I believe no one ever asserted that
• the stage was in itself immoral, and to destroy it altogether,
■would be — to use a medical simile — to abolish a very powerful
medicine because quacks had contrived to make it kill. Every
inght on which you prevent a number of people from doing ill,
and help them to do well, is in my opinion, not badly spent

INDUSTRY AND PERSEVERENCE. 101

Don't you know that one of the fathers — St. Gregory as I
recollect — did not deem it beneath his gravity to write a play ?
At the time, when the church launched its thunders against the
scene, it was certainly deserving of censure ; but we are
reforming. Old Reynolds, who reads for Drury-lane, would
not permit an exclamation bearing a resemblance to a curse,
even from a tragic hero. This I was told by a tragedian, who
showed in mentioning it great symptoms of contempt for the
preciseness. Dearest Ellen, yours affectionately,

Gerald Griffin.

The " saw-dust and water work," as he calls it, did not
pass away as speedily as he anticipated. His friend Mr.
Banim's efforts to get Gisippus forward were as unsuccess-
ful as his own were with regard to Aguire, and he was left
to his struggles. He wrote for weekly publications, all of
which, he says, except the Literary Gazette, "cheated him
abominably " finding this to be the case, he wrote for the
great magazines. His articles were generally inserted, but on
calling for payment, " there was so much shuffling and shabby
work," that it disgusted him, and he gave it up. It will
be seen by a letter which I received about this time, as also
by many expressions in others, that there was no trace of
indolence or apathy about him, even when his prospects
were most discouraging, but that he was always eager for
employment, and desirous to turn himself to any occupation
however laborious or ill-requited, that would carry him
over the interval during which his dramatic prospects
were in abeyance.

" My employment, I mean that which procured me immediate
remuneration, has for the present ceased. I have something
yet on hands, but though the bookseller who suggested the idea
to me promised to engage in it, he would not speak of terms
until it is completed. This will not be before six or seven weeks,
and though certain of disposing of it after that time, mere hope
will not lend me her wings to lly over the interval. You may
judge what a mercenary scribbler I am, and how unwilling to
let a job slip through my finders, whenl tell you that I engaged

102 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

to translate, and actually translated a volume and a half of one
of Prevot's works, for two guineas ! My dear Dan, tell this
not in Gath; publish it not in the streets of Askalon."

We have seen in one of the letters to his sister, " the
hope — the bright expectancy, that," as he says, " cheered
and buoyed up his spirit through the anxieties of suspense."
When we consider the length of time he had been in Lon-
don without doing anything ; the utter failure of all his at-
tempts to get his plays accepted ; the thorough and inti-
mate sense he had of his own powers, and the hard neces-
sity that compelled a spirit like his, capable as it was of
better things, to work at the commonest, almost mechanical
drudgery, it is astonishing that such feelings should re-
main to him at all ; and their not having been extinguished
in these circumstances, showed a depth and devotedness of
character that was worthy of a better recompense. It may
have been observed that in most of his letters, though he
speaks pretty freely of his plans, expectations, and efforts,
he makes but little allusion, except in very general terms,
to his circumstances. From a hasty but painfully interest-
ing sketch of his labours in London, which he gives in a
letter to his mother, it would appear that this reserve arose
from his unwillingness to trespass further on his brother
who had already been very generous to him, and to whom,
in his early and confident anticipations of success, he thought
he should only be indebted for his first outfit. Dr. Griffin
never had the least idea that any circumstances could occur,
which would tempt him to conceal his real condition. It
was, however, one of the remarkable features in his cha-
racter, that while he could be as cheerful, free, and degage
as possible in his intercourse with those around him, there
was still an extraordinary and unaccountable reluctance to
enter minutely, even with intimate friends, upon the sub-
ject of his own feelings and circumstances, and he was yet
more unwilling to do this by letter, as he felt that any hints
about his necessities would be answered from home with

EMBARRASSMENTS. 103

the same ready generosity they had ever been, and which
^ he feared was sometimes preductive of inconvenience.
There were however occasional revealments of a very start-
ling nature in some of his letters, (one of which may have
been noticed already,) which induced Dr. Griffin to forward
remittances to him without waiting to hear that he stood
in need of them. In one of them he says •" I have changed
my lodgings and pay at present about half what I did in
Regent Street." He then speaks of some French transla-
tions, and other literary drudgery which enabled him to
pay for them, and of some papers of his, by which he got
into considerable favour with the periodicals, and says :

"Under such circumstances as these, it is rather vexatious
that I cannot avail myself of my own exertions through such a
mortifying and apparently trivial obstacle as the state of my
garde-robe. Banim has been with me twice within the last
fortnight ; first to tell me that Dr. Maginn, who is the princi-
pal writer in Blackwood, had very kindly offered, without any
personal knowledge of me, to introduce me to the Editor of the
Literary Gazette (his intimate friend), and the second time to
ask me to dine at his house with some literary gentlemen,
amongst whom was Dr. Maginn. Both invitations I was obliged
to decline, (on the score of being closely occupied,) and the
next morning Banim called again at my lodgings, and not find-
ing me at home, left a note to say that he was sorry I did not
come, but whenever I chose he would feel great pleasure in
introducing me to those gentlemen, who were anxious for my
acquaintance. With the assistance of heaven, I hope I shall
after some time be enabled to get over this difficulty."

Again he says :

" It will be necessary for me now in order to procure more
drudgery, to go out among the publishers ; this I cannot do,
because of the prevention I have mentioned. The fact is I am
at present almost a complete prisoner ; I wait until dusk every
evening to creep from my mouse-hole, and snatch a little fresh
air on the bridge close by. Good heaven ! to think that I am
here in the centre of mountains of wealth ! almost ' upon
Change,' and to have no opportunity of laying an honest hand
upon a stray draught in its flight from one commercial fellow

104 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

to another, who has no more business with it than I have with
— any thing that I have too much of already and don't know
what to do with — say common sense and modesty."

The remittances I speak of were generally acknowledged
with thankfulness as " unexpected though not unseason-
able." It is singular, that in the Litter part of one of the
very letters in which these announcements are made, I find
a sentence which looks as if he again shrunk from the
effect of such disclosures. He says : " at present let me
distinctly say I am not in want of money, and the furthest,
inconvenience which I apprehend is the being obliged for
some time to remain in statu quo." The following written
to his sister in America, is but one of many passages which
will show the ardour with which lie clung to his favourite
pursuit, and the many mortifications it subjected him to.

1 ' You have no idea what a heart-breaking life that of a young
scribbler beating about, and endeavouring to make his way in
London is : going into a bookseller's shop, as I have often
done, and being obliged to praise up my own manuscript, to
induce him to look at it at all — for there is so much competi-
tion, that a person without a name will not even get a trial
— while he puts on his spectacles, and answers all your sebf-
commendation with a " hum — urn ;" — a set of hardened vil-
lains ! and yet at no time whatever could I have been pre-
vailed upon to quit London altogether. That horrid word
failure, — Xo ! — death first ! There is a great tragic actress
here, who offered to present my play, and do all in her power
to have it acted, but I have been sickened of such matters
for a little while. I may however set about it some other time.
Why I have yesterday written a play (in one act) which is to
be published this week with a most laughable illustration by
the Hogarth of the day, George Cruikshank. There's dramatic
fame for you ! Lu blank verse too, mind I don't saj* poetry '
I have a conscience as well as another man.

'•That horrid word failure.— Xo ; death first!" The
reader will see presently, that tins was not the vehement
expression of a transitory feeling, nor the vain boast of an
energy he did not possess, but that the dreadful alternative

LITERATURE AS A PROFESSION, 105

lie alludes to "was absolutely not far from its accomplish-
ment. His mind, indeed, contained the one essential ele-
ment of all greatness in execution — a deep and unfaltering
devotion to its subject that nothing but a downright im-
possibility could discourage or overthrow. It was not,
therefore, to be thrown aside from its purpose by any light
or trivial obstacles. This disposition, coupled with his
natural independence of character, made him determine at
a very early period, to rely as much as possible on his own
efforts, and to make it a point, that everything he achieved
should be owing to the force of his own genius and energy
alone. He remarks somewhere : " It is odd, but I have
never been successful except where I depended entirely on
my own exertions ; where I had set to work anonymously."
He had always an utter distaste for what is commonly called
patronage, and depending, as he did, upon the merit of his
writings alone for eventual success, was unwilling even to
lend himself to that which in the course of events fell easily
in his way, except merely for the purpose of bringing them
under the notice of the public. He viewed with a dislike
almost amounting to loathing, that cringing to and fawning
upon great men, by which many gifted individuals of an
earlier time sacrificed their independence of character, and
in several instances drew upon themselves the undisguised
contempt even of those whose assistance they sought. He
had from time to time been receiving employment in various
ways, but there is reason to believe that this was in general
very unremunerating.

"I have," he says "dashed into print more since my last
than at any time. The first of the original articles in the Lite-
rary Gazette of Saturday week is mine. I also sent a long string
of nonsense to the Literary Chronicle, to which I perceive
they have given high honour. They call me their ' kind cor-
respondent,' and wish to see some more o^ my handiwork ;
but I mention these things because a writer at my acquain-
tance, who has made some efforts to serve me before, called on
me yesterday to say that if I would write some similar sketches

106 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

to that in the Gazette, together with some pieces of ' crambo-
jingle,' he would get his publisher to present them to the
Editor of this new weekly publication that is coming out in
connexion with the ' European Revu w.1 This would be a good
thing if I could bring it about, and if I fail will cost nothing
but the pains. I have also sent something to one of the maga-
zines, of which I know not the result yet. For some time after
I received your letter, I was, without exaggeration, perfectly
miserable. The looking for lodgings, for an engagement, and
several other matters took up my time so entirely, that I was
compelled to break an appointment I had made with Banim,
that I would call on him for a particular purpose — to have my
criticism, as he did me the honour to say — on a work which he
is sending to the press, and which so far as I had read, is really
a delightful performance. The consequence was, when I did
call, it had been sent off, and though his manner was as friendly
as ever, I could see that what he considered the neglect had
somewhat cooled him. I could not explain then, and I per-
ceived that he thought the apology I did make a very lame
one indeed. However, I did explain after nearly three
weeks absence, and received too or three days since a letter
full of kindness and friendship ; in short everything that
I could wish. I shoidd almost like to transcribe part of it
here ; it would so fully show you what manner of man he is."

In another letter of a later date he says :

1 ' You ask me of my dramatic prospects. I have done nothing
— I could do nothing in them while I was prevented from call-
ing on Banim, my kind, my true friend, which I have not done
these two months. The restraint in this instance is absolute
torture to me, when I consider what a cold return I must appear
to make to his most friendly and pressing invitations, fcince
I wrote last I have heard or seen nothing of him. "

Notwithstanding all I have stated, it may appear extra-
ordinary, that when his affairs began to wear such a gloomy
aspect, he did not explain the state of them clearly and
plainly to his brother, who would have been shocked at the
thought of his allowing matters to run to such an extremity,
but I believe he would readily have done so, if it were not
for the unfortunate occurrence of that illness to which be
alludes in his letters, and which he was sensible would, in

MR. banim's friendship. 107

a professional person, have a tendency to lead to embarass-
ment. All the circumstances I have mentioned ; the depth
and earnestness with which he felt his vocation ; his obser-
vation that his partial success had been due to himself alone,
aud bis delicacy about trespassing further on his brother;
bis many distressing efforts to obtain employment, together
with the wasting anxiety which such a state of things na-
turally engendered in a mind like his — seem to have made
him adhere only the more strongly to his eai ly determi-
nation, and when his difficulties thickened, and his necessities
became more urgent, induced him to push those feelings to
an extremity; to shrink entirely within himself; and to
reject even the commonest offices of friendship ; those little
favours which it delights to bestow ; which are often the
very tests of its truth, and without the exercise of which on
proper occasions, its professions would be worthless, and
itself a mere " shade that follows wealth or fame." It is
perhaps, one of the characteristics of all minds endowed
with much sensibility, and with a high feeling of indepen-
dence, to have this sensibility exalted, and to become quick
and irritable beyond what is rational, in circumstances such
as those I am about to mention. We all remember the in-
dignation with winch Johnson, in his poverty, flung away
a pair of new shoes which some unknown but kind friend,
as related by Boswell, had left at his door. The difficulty
which friendship has to overcome in these instances, is not
so much to bestow the favour, which it is always willing to
do cheerfully, but to bestow it in such a manner as not to
rouse a very universal feeling, which is seldom dormant,
and is at such times more than usually watchful. The care-
ful consideration of tins difficulty, during the exercise of
such favours, is, perhaps, one of the surest trials of its sin-
cerity and depth. Mr. Banim was at that time in the noon
of his literary reputation. As the author of Damon and
Pythias — a tragedy which had met with the most brilliant
success — he had won the acquaintance of some cf the most

108 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

distinguished literary characters of the day ; and the ex-
treme originality, power, and truth displayed in the " Tales
by the O'Hara Family," had rendered them far more
popular than any Irish 'work of fiction since the first ap-
pearance of Miss Edgeworth's writings. To this the com-
plete revolution effected in works of that class, by this ac-
complished lady and Sir Walter Scott, and the attention
then beginning to be bestowed upon Irish affairs, also in
some degree contributed. Gerald was, as we have seen, at
the time, a poor straggler against heavy circumstances ;
unacquainted with any body, and there was a great contrast
between their positions. It is therefore evident, that in any
acts of friendship which then suggested themselves to Mr.
Banim's mind, he could have been influenced by nothing
but the purest generosity and benevolence. We have also
seen the deep feeling with which Gerald speaks of his kind-
ness, the strong terms in which he mentions his many
friendly offices, and the warrn acknowledgments he makes
of his goodness of heart. In a letter whicli now lies be-
fore me, he says, '; I cannot tell you here the many, many
instances in which Banim has shown his friendship since I
wrote last ; let it suffice to say, that he is the sincerest,
heartiest, most disinterested being that breathes. His fire-
side is the only one where I enjoy anything like social life,
or home. I go out occasionally in an evening, and talk or
read for some hours ; or have a bed, and leave next day."
I am the more anxious to iusist on both these points, lest
on the one hand, the thoughtful and considerate spirit which
prompted Mr. Banim to watch over his friend in his ne-
cessities, should, by any chance, not be appreciated as it
deserves, or should lose any of its advantages by a forget-
fulness of the circumstances by which it was attended ; and,
on the other, lest the spirit in which his kindness was re-
ceived, should be considered anything more than the momen-
tary flach of a mind writhing under accumulated anxieties
and evils, weakened, perhaps, for the time, by the pressuro

MR. bakim's friendship. 109

of circumstances, and trembling -with the fear that it was
about to lose its last hold of that feeling, which is at all
times laudable, a proper sense of independence. Moreover,
it is not impossible that Mr. Banim himself may have been
entirely unaware of the reality and depth of Gerald's senti-
ments regarding him, and if the hasty and inconsiderate
manner in which his proffered kindness was rejected in this
instance should have left any trace of soreness in his mind,
the warm testimony contained in these letters, would, I am
sure, have removed such a feeling entirely. Gerald had,
as we have seen by one of the last quoted letters, not gone
near Mr. Banim's house for the last two months, though
frequently urged by the most pressing invitations, which he
seems to have met by various excuses that were not even
to himself satisfactory, and could not, of course, appear so
to his friend. This was so unusual an absence, that Mr.
Banim made various conjectures to account for it, but with-
out success ; at length a light suddenly broke in upon him,
and he began to apprehend that the cause was a much more
serious one than any he had fallen upon. He instantly set
out in search of him, but had much difficulty in ascertain-
ing his address, as he had not seen him for some time, and
Gerald had, as we have seen, changed his lodgings. At
length he found the place, a small room in some obscure
court, near St. Paul's. Gerald was not at home. He called
again next day. He was still out on his mission, perhaps
for " more drudgery." He then questioned the woman who
kept his lodgings as to his condition and circumstances.
These she spoke of in teims of pity ; represented him as in
great distress ; said she had never spoken to him on the
subject, but she was afraid he denied himself even the com-
monest necessaries, that he appeared in bad spirits, dressed
but indifferently, shut himself up for whole days together
In his room, without sending her for any provision, and when
he went out, it was only at night-fall when he was likely
to meet no one that he knew. This was a very distressing

110 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFDT.

picture, particularly when considered in connection with his
incommunicativeness, and the silent endurance with which
it was going on. Mr. Banim immediately returned home,
and wrote him a very kind letter, offering him some pecu-
niary assistance, until he should be able to get over his
present difficulties. As I am not in possession either of
this letter, or the one written in reply to it, and as all that
is characteristic in such things depends more upon the man-
ner, almost, than the matter, it would not be quite fair to
attempt to give a version of them here, especially as the
account I have had of the transaction was not received from
Mr. Banim himself. It is sufficient to say that the offer
s:as rejected with a degree of heat and sharpness which
showed that he had not succeeded in lulling the dangerous
feeling to which I have alluded, and that his good-natured
attempt proved so completely abortive, that there was evi-
dently no use in pursuing the matter further. The friends
did not meet again for some time, and the circumstance
occasioned a degree of estrangement which it was not easy
to repair.

It is difficult, after all, to account for a course so extraor-
dinary. If we suppose it to have arisen from any suspicion
of Mr. Banim's motives, there does not seem to have been
any ground whatever for such an opinion, and such a sup-
position is quite irreconcileabie with the warm terms in
which Gerald speaks of his friendship and disinterestedness;
and if we imagine it to have arisen from any objection to
take the position of a protege' of Mr. Banim, it does not
appear that he had any disinclination to do this, at least as
far as regarded the efforts of the latter to bring his plays
before the public. The probability seems to be, that he
had not up to this time (for we shall find he had afterwards
with others, as well as Mr. Banim), any unwillingness to
accept of his patronage in securing the success of his dearest
and most cherished pursuits, but that his pride revolted when
he saw his friendship descend to the petty necessities of

Ill

life ; and, pernaps, the irritation of that fiery moment arose
from the discovery that his friend had, in his absence, (for
how few friends are admitted to the profoundest depths of
the heart,) endeavoured to penetrate the veil of secrecy in
which he chose to envelop himself in his distress. Indeed
it is vain to conjecture on the subject. It seems to have
been a mystery even to himself, if we may judge by the
following introductory sonnet to " Suil Dhuv," one of the
Tales of the Mnnster Festivals, in which he evidently al-
ludes to it. There is something affecting in the little plead-
ing allusion he makes to his struggles and ill success, and in
the humble confessing spirit in which the sonnet is written.
It would appear too, from some passages in it, that there
was nothing in Mr. Banim's manner of conferring the favour
that in Gerald's opinion could at all justify the mode of its
rejection.

i.
I hold not out my hand in grateful love,

Because ye were my friend, where friends were few,
Nor in the pride of conscious truth, to prove

The heart ye wronged and doubted, yet was true —
It is that while the close and blinding veil,
That youth and blissful ignorance had cast
Around mine inward sight, is clearing fast
Before its strengthening vision — while the scale

Falls from mine eye-balls, and the gloomy stream
Of human motive, whitening in my view,

Shows clear as dew showers in the gray morn beam,
While hearts and acts, whose impulse seemed divine,

Put on the grossness of an earthlier hue,
I still can gaze and deeply still can honour thine.

n.
Judge not your friend by what he seemed, when Fat©

Had crossed him in his chosen — cherished aim,
When spirit-broken — baffled — moved to hate

The very kindness that but made his shame
More self induced, — he rudely turned aside

In bitter — hopeless agony from all

Alike — of those who mocked or mourned his fall,
And fenced his injured heart in lonely pride.

112 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Wayward and sullen as suspicion's soul !

To his own mind he lived a mystery —
But now the heavens have changed — the vapours roll
Far from his heart, and in his solitude,

While the fell night-mares of his spirit flee,
He wakes to wave for thee a tale of joy renewed.

Whatever the feeling may have been that influenced him
at the moment in this transaction, it is certain that he soon
regretted the hasty and inconsiderate manner in which he
had acted. A friend of his, to whom he mentioned the
circumstance, and whom he was in the habit of consulting
on various occasions, took some pains to impress more
strongly upon him this sense of its impropriety. " It was
wrong," said he, " very wrong — Mr. Banim will now think
you were unwilling to be under an obligation to him, even
for so paltry a thing as the loan of a small sum of money.
You ought to take some steps as soon as possible to divest
him of this feeling ; the first time you meet him you should
boiTOw some money from bim, whether you want it or not
— you can return it again in a few days if you have no
business of it." Gerald seemed to give his full approval to
this piece of advice, and the gentleman was under the im-
pression that he complied with it, but this I think very un-
likely.

An incident took place soon after the circumstances I
have just mentioned, which not only showed how deeply
this feeling of independence was fixed in his character, but
proved that with all the knowledge of human nature which
his writings display, he had, on some points, but a very
slight acquaintance with the world. The friend to whom
I have above alluded, and whose name, from motives that
will be obvious, I am obliged to suppress, Avas one who had
known him intimately from his childhood, and at whose
house he had always on that account made himself perfectly
at home. It was his custom sometimes to call there in the
afternoon, and remain to dinner, and these visits were

FEELINGS OF INDEPENDENCE. 113

latterly so regular, that when a clay passed by without his
making his appearance, it was a very unusual circumstance.
This gentleman becoming unfortunate in his affairs was
arrested for debt, but contrived to get himself placed with
his family within the Rules of the King's Bench.* Here
he expected Gerald would renew his customary visits, but
three or four days passed away and there was no trace of
him; at length remembering his circumstances, and the
nature of the conversation they held the last time he saw
him, and filled with good-natured alarm at the probable
consequence of leaving him to himself, this kind friend, dis-
regarding the danger to which he exposed himself by such
an act, ventured one night to break the " Rules," and make
for Gerald's quarters ; he found him in a wretched room at
the top of the house in which he lived. It was past mid-
night, and he was still at his desk, writing on with his
accustomed energy. On a little inquiry, he found that he
had left himself without a single shilling, and he was shocked
at the discovery that he had spent nearly three days with-
out tasting food ! " Good God," said he, " why did you
not come to me ?" " Oh !" said Gerald quietly, " you
would not have me throw myself upon a man who was him-
self in prison ?" " Then, why did you not write to
William ?" " Why," said he, " I have been a trouble to
William so often, and he has always been so kind and so
generous to me, that I could not bring myself to be always
a burden to him." His friend immediately insisted on his
accompanying him to his house, where he had him paid the

* For the information of such of my readers as are unacquainted
with the subject, I may mention that the "Rules of the King's Bench,'*
consist of a certain area round the King's Bench prison, within the
limits of which persons arrested for debt are permitted to reside, and
carry on their usual business, on giving bail and paying a per centage
to the Marshal ; an arrangement as advantageous to the creditor as
to the debtor, where the latter happens to be engaged in trade. A
breach of the " Rules," of course, subjects the party committing it U
close confinement, and his bail becomes forfeit.

H

114 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

attention which his condition required. This midnight visit
was a fortunate one, and showed him the existence of feel-
ings, the strength of which he had little suspected, giving
at the same time ample proof that Gerald's disposition was
one which required much watching.

It is painful to dwell on such a picture ; and what even
he himself could have looked to as the result of such a pro-
ceeding it is difficult to conjecture. It is singular, too, to
consider what an extreme innocence it showed of all the
common affairs of life ; for with regard to his objection to
trespass on one, who, as he said, was himself in prison, a
very little knowledge of the world would have enabled him
to perceive that the very circumstance of his friend's being
able to get himself placed in the "Rules," and to live there,
argued a certain moderate competency which placed him
above immediate want, and his being unwilling even in such
a fearful necessity to accept of the hospitality of one at
whose house he was always welcome, and where he was
almost daily expected, discloses a notion of independence
so severe, as to be rarely met with. Though his judgment
may have erred as to the manner in which this feeling was
evinced, an error which we see made him reject even the
warmest efforts of friendship, with an unceremonious harsh-
ness, yet most people will look with sympathy upon the
principle in which this error originated, and when they have
considered the many distressing influences by which his
mind was for a long time depressed, will pardon at least,
if they do not admire, the strictness with which it was fol-
lowed out.

The following letter, written in the latter part of the next
year gives such a fearful picture of the struggles I have at-
tempted to describe, and exhibits so characteristically the man-
ner in which he was relieved from them, that this seems the
proper place for it. It presents such evidence of energy,
perseverance, manly endurance, and lofty and honourable
principle, that it cannot fail to be deeply interesting. I

HIS OWN ACCOUNT OF HIS STRUGGLES. 115

cannot conceive anything more dreadful than the sufferings
it so forcibly pourtrays, if we consider the high sensibility
of the mind that was subjected to them. Nor can I think,
of any state of things more directly tending to insanity, if
his constitution had been at all predisposed to it, than the
circumstances he speaks of, when he describes himself as
working on without hope, merely to divert his mind from
the "horrible gloom," that in spite of himself, he felt grow-
ing upon him.

15, Paddington Street, Kegent's Park, London.
October 12th, 1825.
My dear, ever dear Father and Mother. — To make sure
of your hearing from me now, I send a second letter. I have just

received from the editor of the Gazette, J, W 's letter of

the 6th of last August. By the merest chance in the world it
reached me, as its direction was indeed the most uncertain pos-
sible. Mary Anne's I never got. Under the circumstances,
as they appear to you, it is matter more of pain than astonish-
ment to me, that you should have been so entirely at a loss
in finding excusable motives for my silence, and I have no
objection whatsoever to offer to J — s's " unwilling suppositions."
It is one of those misfortunes (and I hope the last of them),
which the miserable and galling life I have led since I came
to London (until very lately,) has thrown on my shoulders,
and which, of course, I must endure as well as I can. But if
you knew, my dear Mother, what that life has been, it would,
I believe, have led you to a less injurious conclusion to me.
Until within a short time back I have not had since I left
Ireland a single moment's peace of mind — constantly — con-
stantly running backward and forward, and trying a thousand
expedients, and only to meet disappointments every where I
turned. It may perhaps appear strange and unaccountable to
you, but I could not sit down to tell you only that I was in
despair of ever being able to do anything in London, as was the
fact for a long time. I never will think or talk upon the subject
again. It was a year such as I did not think it possible I could
have outlived, and the very recollection of it puts me into the
horrors. William has, I suppose, let you know my movements,
and I fear I shall be repeating him if I set about telling you
how I have fared. But I have a long sheet before me, and may as
well just glance at a few of them. Let me first, however, beg

116 LIFE OF GEKALD GBIFFIN.

you to be satisfied that this it was, and no neglect — I was not
guilty of it for an instant — that prevented my writing ; beside
that when I do write I must nil up a large sheet, or send none.
When first I came to London, my own self-conceit, backed by
the opinion of one of the most original geniuses of the age, in-
duced me to set about revolutionising the dramatic taste of
the time by writing for the stage. Indeed the design was
formed and the first step taken (a couple of pieces written.)
in Ireland. I cannot with my present experience conceive any-
thing more comical than my own views and measures at the
time. A young gentleman totally unknown, even to a single
family in London, coming into town with a few pounds in one
pocket, and a brace of tragedies in the other, supposing that
the one will set him up before the others are exhausted, is not
a very novel, but a very laughable delusion. 'Twould weary you,
or I would cany you through a number of curious scenes into
which it led me. Only imagine the modest young Munsterman
spouting his tragedy to a room full of literary ladies and gen-
tlemen ; some of high consideration too. The applause how-
ever of that circle on that night was sweeter, far sweeter to
me, than would be the bravos of a whole theatre at present,
being united at the time to the confident anticipation of it.
One of the people present immediately got me an introduction

to (I was offered several for all the actors.) To I went

— and he let down the pegs that made my music. He was
Yery polite — talked and chatted about himself and Shiel and
tay friend — excellent friend Banim. He kept my play four
months, wrote me some nonsensical apologies about keeping it
so long, and cut off to Ireland, leaving orders to have it sent
to my lodgings, without any opinion. I was quite surprised
at this, and the more so, as Banim, who is one of the most sue
cessful dramatic writers, told me he was sure he would keep
it : at the same time saying, what indeed I found every person
who had the least theatrical knowledge join in, that I acted
most unwisely in putting a play into an actor's hands. But
enough of theatricals ! Well, this disappointment sent me into
the contrary extreme. I before imagined I could do any thing;
I now thought I could do nothing. One supposition was just
as foolish as the other. It was then I set about writing for
those weekly publications ; all of which, except the Literary
Gazette, cheated me abominably. Then, finding this to be the
case, I wrote for the great magazines. My articles were gene-
rally inserted ; but on calling for payment — seeing that I was
a poor inexperienced devil, there was so much shuffling and
shabby work that it disgusted me, and I gave up the idea of

HIS OWN ACCOUNT OF HIS STRUGGLES. 117

making money that way. I now lost heart for every thing ;
got into the cheapest lodgings I could make out, and there
worked on, rather to divert my mind from the horrible gloom
that I felt growing on me in "spite of myself, than with any
hope of being remunerated. This, and the recollection of the ex-
pense I had put William to, and the fears — that every moment
became conviction — that I should never be enabled to fulfil his
hopes or my own expectations, all came pressing together upon
my mind and made me miserable. A thousand, and a thousand
times I wished that I could He down quietly, and die at once,
and be forgotten for ever. But that however, was not to be had
for the asking. I don't think I left anything undone that
could have changed the course of affairs, or brought me a little
portion of the good luck that was going on about me ; but good
lack was too busy elsewhere. I can hardly describe to you the
state of mind I was in at this time. It was not an indolent
despondency, for I was working hard, and I am now — and it is
only now — receiving money for the labour of those dreadful
hours. I used not to see a face that I knew, and after sitting
writing all day, when I walked in the streets in the evening,
it actually seemed to me as if I was of a different species alto-
gether from the people about me. The fact was, from pure
anxiety alone, I was more than half dead, and would most cer-
tainly have given up the ghost, I believe, were it not that by
the merest accident on earth, the literary friend who had pro-
cured me the unfortunate introduction a year before, dropped
in one evening to " have a talk" with me. I had not seen him
nor anybody else that I knew for some months, and he fright-
ened me by saying I looked like a ghost. In a few days, how-
ever, a publisher of his acquaintance had got some things to
do — works to arrange, regulate, and revise ; so he asked me if
I would devote a few hours in the middle of every day to the
purpose for £50 a year. I did so, and among other things
which I got to revise, was a weekly fashionable journal. After
I had read this for some weeks, I said to myself, "Why hang
it, I am sure I can write better than this at any rate." And
at the same time I knew that the contributors were well paid.
I wrote some sketches of London life, and sent them anony-
mously to the Editor, offering to contribute without payment.
He inserted the little sketches, and sent a very handsome siun,
to my anonymous address for them ; desiring me to continue,
and he would be always happy to pay for similar ones. This

Eut me in great spirits, and by the knowledge I had acquired of
terary people and transactions altogether, I was enabled to
manage in this instance so as to secure a good engagement.

118 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

The Editor made several attempts to find me out. He asked
my name plainly in one letter, and I told him Joseph (Gerald's
name in confirmation). This did not satisfy him. He invited
me to his house in the country (a splendid place he has got)
and I declined. He repeated the invitation — and at last find-
ing I could not preserve the incognito any longer, I left the
publisher, and secured myself with him by making myself
known. I went to his country house and found him there with
his wife — a very elegant woman, and family ; surrounded by
harps, harpsicords, pianos, piazzas, gardens, in fact a perfect
palace, within and without. He professed the highest admi-
ration for me, for which I did not care one farthing ; but that at
first it led me to suspect he had some design of cheating me at
the end ; such is the way of the wor] ' ; but I do so much for
him now, that I have in some degree made myself necessary.
I have the satisfaction to see — and he sees it too — my articles
quoted and commended in the daily papers ; satisfaction, I say,
as every thing of that kind gives me a firmer hold of the paper.
The theatrical department is left altogether to me ; and I mor-
tify my revengful spirit by invariably giving all the ap-
plause he could expect, or in justice lay claim to. I assure you
I feel a philosophical pride and comfort in thus proving to my-
self that my conduct is not to be influenced by that of another,
no matter how nearly the latter may affect my interests.

^Ir. W , the Editor I speak of — has this week given me a new

engagement on a new weekly publication — and also on one of
the Quarterly Eeviews, of which he is Editor ; that is, as he
told me plainly enough, if he liked my articles, that they should
be inserted and paid for ; and if not, sent back to me. I have
sent one and he has kept it. This you must know is no slight
honour, for all the other contributors are the very first men of
the time. The review appears on the same day in four diffe-
rent languages, in four countries of Europe. Thus, things begin
to look m smiles upon me at last. I have within the past fort-
night cleared away the last of the debts I had incurred here,
with the good fortune of meeting them in full time to prevent
even a murmur. "With the assistance of Heaven, I hope my
actual embarrassments (it is laughable to apply the words to such
little matters as they are) have passed away for ever. "Will
you direct a letter for me, my dear mother, to the address I have
given above, and as soon as you receive this ? I have not seen
a line from one of you since I came to London. Let it be a
long one, and contrive to say something about every separate
indiviual of that dear circle to which my thoughts are constantly
and affectionately wandering and where I have resolved on

LETTERS. 119

wrandering myself as soon as the despotism of circumstances
will allow it. I sometimes luxuriate in the prospect of being
able to arrange matters with a publisher here, so that a trip
might set me down, at least as it foimd me j and such an
arrangement, it is not improbable, I may accomplish when I
nave established a better connexion here. My dear Father
and Mother,

Your affectionate Son,

Gerald Gkufht.

CHAPTER V.
1823—1826.

PERFORMANCE OF GISIPPUS AT PRURY LAN'S, IN 1842. — LETTERS
TO AMERICA — TUE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIS LABOURS — FIRST
SUCCESSES — HIS GclEAT MENTAL ENERGY — HIS WRITING ANONY-
MOUSLY— SUCCESS OF THESE ATTEMPTS — ACCOUNT OF THE
DISCOVERY OF HIS INCOGNITO — SATIRICAL VERSES — VERSFS ON
RECENT TOPICS — FEELINGS OF DEPRESSION — POETRY — ANEC-
DOTES— INDEPENDENCE OF CHARACTER — MR. CRABBE.

The play of Gisippus, with the origin of which the reader is
now familiar, was performed for the first time at Drury Lane
in the year 1842, and received with the utmost enthusiasm
both by the press and the public. It was one of the pieces
selected by Mr. Macready in his efforts at that time to
restore the classical drama to the stage, and from the num-
ber of times its performance was repeated to overflowing
houses, the attempt must be considered, as regards this
piece, eminently successful.

I proceed to select from our author's letters a few which,
give a more particular account of the manner in which
he gradually surmounted those difficulties of which he
has given such a distressing picture. It may be interesting
however, first to lay before the reader a short letter which
he received from his mother, in answer to the harrowing

120 LIFE OF GEEALD GEIFFIX.

one last quoted. Though she was unacquainted with these
difficulties in detail, it contains many passages that are
characteristic.

Fairy Lawn, Susquehana County, Dec. 26th, 1825.

My ever beloved Gerald. — We were sitting with a little
party of friends on Christmas eve, when your letter reached me,
and a more welcome visitor, unless indeed it were the dear
writer himself, could hardly have appeared amongst us. It was
unlucky that I could not procure your address since you left
Ireland. I did all that writing could do to obtain it and yet
failed. The sympathy of his family would have been some com-
fort to my poor Gerald under the adverse coiu^se which his pro-
bation as an author has subjected him to. It is an ordeal how-
ever, which some of our greatest writers have been obliged to
pass through.

I have, dear Gerald, travelled with you through your mortify-
ing difficulties, and am proud of my son, — proud of his integrity,
talents, prudence, and above all, his appearing superior to that
passion of common minds, revenge ; I must own, fully provoked

to it by 's conduct. I hope however they may soon have to

seek you, not you them. Perhaps after all, it may have been
as well that we did not know at the time what you were to
endure on your first outset. We should in that case have been
advising you to come out here, which, perhaps, would have
been turning your back on that fame and fortune, which I hope
will one day reward your laudable perseverance and industry.
When the very intention you mention of paying us a visit de-
lights me so much, what should I feel if Providence should have
in reserve for me, the blessing of once again embracing my
Gerald.

We have had one of the finest summers and most delightful
autumns you can imagine, the latter I like best here, the wood-
land scenery is so beautiful, tinged with a thousand dyes at that
season — the air so still and so serene, that if you come to visit us-,
your muse will surely be inspired. It is very interesting to
witness the progress of vegetation here, after the winter is over
it is so very rapid. Nothing can equal the variety of colours
the woods exhibit in the latter part of ths year. They look
very beautiful indeed, though I suppose I shall not admire them
so much this season as I did the last, they are so associated in
my mind with the approach of winter, which I do not like,
notwithstanding it is the season of amusement to all the people
here, who are continually sleighing about, and go hundreds of

LETTERS. 121

miles to visit their friends. The place about us is pretty
thickly inhabited by the Yankees, as they call the people of
New England. They are decent and obliging, and seem to take
an interest in showing us the easiest mode of doing fanning
business, as theirs is in many things different from ours. They
have an agreeable accent, and are very intelligent, but their pecu-
liar application of words is sometimes very diverting. A man
called here the other day, who was going to Chenango, a town
about nine miles off. He told me that if I had got any little
notions to send for, he would bring them for me with great
pleasure. I have observed some others use the word in the
same way since. May God bless my dearest Gerald, prays
his fond mother,

Ellen Griffin.

By the next letter, written soon after, we find him in the
House of Commons as a parliamentary reporter. This is
the same letter from which I have already made an extract
relative to Gisippus, and in which he copied the fourth act
for the purpose of obtaining the opinion of his American
friends upon it. It was about this time he began to turn
his attention to novels, tales, and other prose writings, from
the ill success of his efforts in the drama, and it is interest-
ing to observe, by the warmth of his expressions on the
more encouraging prospects now open before him, now little
his early ardour seems to have been dissipated by that
ill success. The book with which he states he was occu-
pied was the first work which established his reputation as
a powerful and original writer — the volume published under
the name of " Holland-tide," or Munster Popular Tales.

To his Mother,

15, Paddington Street, Regent's Park, London,

Feb. 1, 1826.
My beloved Mother, — I received your affectionate letter
while I was at breakfast this morning. I had been expecting
it with impatience and anxiety for the last month, and I thought
from the quick passage your letters generally make, that some
accident must have prevented mine from reaching you. Since

122 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

I wrote last I have been continuing my literary engagements
with increasing encouragement, and might have formed many
new ones, but that I have been occupied with a book, which
will be of more permanent and considerable, though not so
immediate advantage. I have also taken the situation of
parliamentary reporter for a session ; not that I needed it, but
it will be of great use to me to know all the usages of the house,
and the manner of the talking senators of the day. My duties
in the gallery commence to-morrow, and I do not delay an
instant writing, as I fear I shall have an immensity to do during

the session. Mr. "W" and I still get on very well together.

He has given me the reviewing department of his paper, as
well as the political and dramatic ; so that here I have been
made a critic almost before I became an author. I have had one
severe attack of the chest this winter, but on the whole am
much better than I have been during that season for many
years, and this improvement I attribute (after Heaven's mercy)
to the buoyant excitement of mind and heart into which 1 have
been thrown by the stirring prospects the last few months have
laid before me. I feel that, situated as I now am, if no new and
great misfortune occurs, it is not possible for any person to have
a fairer course before him, and notwithstanding my disappoint-
ments in the first instance, I assure you I have enough of my
eager confidence remaining to enter upon the first trial with
glorious spirits. All I fear for is my health. Let the great
God continue that, and if all my exertions should fail and my
wishes should still remain unaccomplished, I shall have nothing
— nothing for it but to sit me down quietly and say, ' ' My honest
friend, Gerald, you deceived yourself, you took a wrong course,
you never had any claims to the high place you aimed at, you're a
blockhead — be quiet." A dcnbt often startles me, and that is :
if I should succeed in all that I am at present labouring to ac-
complish, whether the joy which will attend that consummation
may equal the delicious feeling with which I now contemplate
the probable result of my efforts — the strong, ardent, gloving
hope, made doubly exquisite by the slightest mingling of uncer-
tainty which stimulates every movement at present. But what
have I to do with the future more than to do my part, and
hope it may prosper ? I have been most delighted, dear mother,
witn your kind, kind letter. Any remembrance from my old
and dear friends coming upon me in the midst of arduous,
though congenial occupations, is a more gratifying relief to
my heai-t and mind, than I can express to you. 1 hope you
will write again, without delay, when you receive this, as a

LETTERS. 123

person's address in London is so uncertain ; but direct as
before.

How I should wish we were all here, provided one can
have one's friends about one. I can quite enter into Johnson's
sentiments with respect to London, and those of Madame de
Stael with regard to Paris. There is no place like a great
metropolis for a fellow who cannot content himself with the
quiet ease and security of a still life ; or rather who is naturally
of a spirit so irregular and so dependent for the proper exercise
of its energies on the excitation of outward circumstances,
that he must be continually in the way of that excitation, if
he would not lead a neutral life. But it may be I treat
myself too severely in this long sentence. I would not have
you think but I do. Mary Anne asks me to give her some
mark by which she may know my papers, but I cannot furnish
one. I put five hundred different signatures ; often none
whatever, as I would not have acquaintances here recognise
all I chose to write. The letter she speaks of was not mine,
I believe it was Neale's, the American novelist, of whom I spoke
to you before, and I'll tell you why I think so — because he
met me after it appeared, and said it was "a capital thing."
I will not finish or send off any letter until I give you an
account of my debut in Parliament. To-morrow is expected to
be what the press folks call a heavy night. You tax me with
my illegible writing, but 1 fear I cannot amend it, for I must
not stay to shape my letters, and I have, I believe, got a bad
habit from the facility with which the printers here make it
out. I verily believe, if I shut my eyes, or flung the pen at the
paper so as to make any kind of mark, the London printers
would know what I intended to say. They always send
me back my manuscript with my printed proofs for correction,
and I actually have repeatedly been unable to make out what
I had written, until I had referred to the same articles in print.
What a dull, mechanical, imperfect mode of communication this
is though, of writing, and readings and speaking ? Why cannot
we invent some more rapid and vivid means of transferring our
ideas ? Why cannot we commune in spirit, or by intelligence ?
I suppose I must give myself a lady's reason in reply : It is
because we can't. Well, we shall do better in Heaven.

Saturday, Feb. 4. — I have just dragged myself up here, after
the Lord knows all the work I have dorie since Wednesday.
I have, on the first night I attended the house, had the Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer's speech to report, ("a deuced cramp
piece of work," as Tony Lumpkin says,) and I understand, my
report gave high satisfaction. Indeed, the proprietor told m«

124 LIFE OF GEEALD GEIFFIN.

I should never again have to give them so much matter as I
furnished that night, and promised to raise my salary. I shall
write often, and let you know how my plans get on. You, my
dear father, would be surprised, I dare say, if you heard some
jf those folks speak, who enjoy so high a reputation for parlia-
mentary eloquence. There are many, whom I supposed persons
of extraordinary ability, and I am astounded, on seeing them
get up in the house, to find what absolute blockheads they are.

H for instance — he is the most stupid, tiresome, actual ass

that ever opened his lips. It is solely to the reporters he is
indebted for the straightforward, sensible air his speeches as-
sume. But there are other splendid fellows, whom it is posi-
tively inspiring to listen to. It will be of the utmost service to
me, this attending the house, and I find, somehow or other,
that the more work a man is made to do, the more he is able
to do, and the more he desires to do. I have had just now a

scolding letter fromW for preferring the House of Commons

to him ; and here's the editor of a new monthly publication has
been (now give me credit for modesty) wishing for an introduction
to G. G. to give him an engagement, which, however, I can't
take. I am very, very sorry I filled so much of this sheet with
my tragedy trash, as I find I have a great deal to say, and
here's my paper run out, but I will write soon again, and I
will never more be guilty of this extracting offence. I won't

quarrel with you for saving it was J. W 's letter renewed

our correspondence. I assure you I had repeatedly, and even
the week before, commenced a letter, but could riot bring my
heart to go through, in the state of mind I was in, to say,
" My dear friends in America, I came over here to be great all

at once, and" "but enough of that, an' thou lovest me,

Hal" — I don't understand what right EichmondHill has to be
four miles from Fairy Lawn. When a body hears of a number
of his friends being in a distant place in foriegn parts — I don't
know how it is — but he gets a confused general idea, that they
are all cooped up as it were in a band-box, where one cannot
poke out his elbow without another's ribs groaning for it. But
give my true and affectionate love to B. W., the great, fat, ma-
licious thing. I saw an amendment of hers in J 's letter,

in which she had not so much as a " how do ye do" for poor
me. Tell her I write by this post to her and him. And now,
my dear father, mother, and friends, God bless you all, and
bless America for your sake,

Prays your affectionate,

Gerald Gauim

GREAT MENTAL ENERGY. 125

The following extracts from some of his letters will
show how earnestly he toiled, during such times as afibrded
any occupation for his hand or his pen:

"During the last two months I have been more occupied
than you can conceive without my explaining. This situation,
which was to have taken up six hours of my time per day,
goes much nearer to the twelve regularly. I never return
before evening to my lodging, and then, to half complete every
evening's work keeps me drudging until two or three — some-
times four and five o'clock every morning — unless when I
happen to doctor myself, and that is not often. I can't afford
to lose a certainty, and therefore must submit to this, but the
consequences to me are very grievous. I have not since I
wrote last been able to furnish articles for periodicals, although;
I had made arrangements -with some, and was actually obliged
to leave a series incomplete in one instance, consequently
received nothing. The work of which I speak above is dry-
drudgery — making indexes, cutting down dictionaries, &c,
not one of which, when I have completed what I have or*
hands, will I ever undertake again. I was villanously
deceived about them. I am actually quite stupid, and can
hardly see to write with pains in the eyes. I have made many
efforts to get out of thi3 drudgery, but unsuccessfully, for want
of time. I proposed to a bookseller to translate or adapt ' Les
Causes Ceiebres' of the French Courts, a good idea, and he
caught at it, but he could not engage in it so quickly as
I wished, and. I now find Knight and Lacy are doing it, so

that spec's gone. I broke my word to E about writing,

but could not avoid it. I have not been in bed before three
any night this week past — and it is now after two. I assure
you nothing is more hateful to me (tell me if I speak for or
against myself) than to sit down to write a letter, when I am
as at present wearied with aniexty. You can't conceive the
utter drudgery of beating your unfortunate brains to write
articles without receiving remuneration regularly, and I have,
since tea this evening, written and put into the post a number
of articles, for which perhaps I must battle for my three
farthings ; otherwise I could write. All this while, here is my
Spanish friend — who has just been with me — because he had
a little capital to work upon, sat down at his ease, and wrote a
three volume book — a novel — for which he received £200, —
£100 more to be added if it reaches a second edition, and
that's likely, for it is highly praised — ' Don Etteban/ I got

126 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

a letter the other day, from a company of booksellers in the
Row, to furnish them with some articles for a new magazine,
which I can't do. I have not seen three acquaintances for as
many months, and the fact is — here I am, alive and in statu quo.
One thing that worries me out of my life. is, that I am losing
too much time ever to be able to retrieve it. It sometimes
vexes me very much. I am too ready to undertake what I
can't do, and that insures me a continual round of anxieties.
With all that I have spoken of above, I agreed to furnish a
bookseller with matter for a pamphlet of the" Catholic meeting
here, and did so ; I wonder how. 'Twas about as much as
would make one of the common size cf novel volumes, and
furnished in five days ! without even interfering with my
regular engagements."

These extracts serve to point out the trials and pains of
authorship. The following passages are more encouraging :

" The very day I received your letter I set to work, and
since that tune nave achieved a multiplicity of engagements
with publishers and periodicals. In the first place, I procured
an introduction from Dr. Maginn (an LL.D., whom I believe
I mentioned to you before as a friend of Banian's) to the editor
of the Literary Gazette, and got an engagement froni him to
furnish sketches, &c, at a very liberal remuneration, — a guinea
a page. Then I sent articles to the European Magazine, which
I accompanied with the offer of a series, if they would pay for
them, and requesting that the others might be returned if
they did not feel disposed to accept them on the usual terms.
Here also I was successful — there was not a word of objection,
and they have already inserted several pieces. Then I made
an essay on one of the lions — the London Magazine— and was
accepted there too. As this was very lately, I know not what
the net proceeds will be, but I am told by an old contributor
that I have made ' a palpable hit. ' I know their usual pay is
twelve guineas a sheet. Then I got an engagement from the
proprietor of the new Catholic newspaper, to furnish reports,
&c, by which I have already made several guineas. Still hav-
ing time on my hands, I sold six hours per diem — from nine
to three — to the publisher of several weekly publications for a
guinea a week, which salary, however, he has assured me that he
will raise. Then Bauim tells me he can get any reviews which
I may choose to write, inserted in the Universe! Review, anew
one, edited by Croly, the author of • Pride shall have a Fall' —

FIRST SUCCESSES. 127

and also with the Quarterly he can do something — I mean
Knight's Quarterly Magazine. So far so good. Then he has
repeatedly offered to hand any essay or sketch I give him to
Thomas Campbell, whom he knows intimately. I think I'll
put out my best leg and make an advance on that gentleman —
though I don't know how it is, but if I were only now entering
London with the experience I have, I should take a very dif-
ferent course from that which I have followed. It is odd — but
I never have been successful, except where I depended entirely
on my own exertions ; where I have set to work anonymously.
I have been so pressed fcr time lately, that I cannot find a few
spare hours to correct a two act piece I have written for
the English Opera House, though Banim has repeatedly pro-
mised to introduce me to the manager the instant I have it
finished. The same reason has prevented my doing anything
further with respect to the winter theatres."

The subjoined passage contains a curious and amusing
account of the manner in which some of his engagements
originated :

" I am in statu quo, with one exception ; that is, that I have
got an engagement on a paper {The News of Fashion) of which
you've seen a number. I sent the editor a couple of essays or
sketches of London life, or some trash of the kind anonymously.
He begged to know my name. I did not tell, but offered to con-
tinue them gratuitously. He wrote to say he would be glad to
pay for them. I had no objection whatever, and he gives me
a pound per page — fair enough. I am furnishing him now
with a regular series, of which he has had six in number already.
I generally get in from thirty shillings to two pounds per week
in this way, which, if it continues, is pleasant enough, consider-
ing that it does not interfere with my other occupations. The
gentleman, however, is confoundedly apt to slip a column or so
in the reckoning, which is not agreeable.

" This editor of the News has dealt handsomely enough too.
He made out several articles which I had published anony-
mously in his paper, before I dreamed of asking him for an en-
gagement, and paid me liberally for each of them. This I took
as an inducement to make me do my lest It is pleasant too,
inasmuch as the rest of the paper is furnished by the first
periodical hands of the day. By the way, he don't know me
as it is. He sends the money to my address every week by a
livery servant, who never says a word, but slips the note to a

1*28 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

servant — touches his lips, and, mum ! presto ! off he is. All
very romantic isn't it ? A good illustration of a remark I made
to you concerning patronage in the literary world is this. I
applied openly to this same gentleman about a year since
through his publisher. He wouldn't have any thing to do with
me. Lately however he determined, it seems, to rind me out,
though I gave a wrong najiie. and I was a little surprised one
day to see here in my room a tall stout fellow, with mustachio'd

lip and braided coat, announcing himself as Mr. TV , after

I had three or four times declined invitations to his country
seat (wishing to keep incog). I went there yesterday, and had
a long chat with him. He has a perfect palace there, with
Corinthian piazzas— garden — vines — and the Lord knows what
besides ; a magnificent apartment with low windows going to
the garden, &c. On one side, a splendid double-action harp,
for which he gave, as he says, three hundred guineas. On
another a grand piano — his wife a pleasing woman — no great
shakes of a musician after all. We settled that he should give
me £100 a year — paid weekly according to what I sent. I
have just been scribbling off now two hundred lines of an epistle
to Liston on his return to London — poetry of course !"

This was the instance in which, as the reader will re-
member, he gave the name of Joseph while he chose to
preserve his incognito.

He had been from time to time, as he says, " dashing
more into print latterly than at first." The pieces he wrote
consisted both of prose and poetry, and were published,
some in the Literary Gazette, and some in the News of
Literature. Speaking of them himself, he says : " They
are great trash, with, however, a few novelties, and some
passable writing — free and easy on my part you will say.
The editor tells me they are admirable, but he's a quiz."
In another place he says : " By the rhymes I sometimes
send yon, you may perceive that I am putting myself in
training for Warren's Jet Blacking." The prose pieces
seemed intended to delineate the manners, feelings, and
habits of thinking of the peasantry of the south of Ireland,
and were usually engrafted on some short tale, sometimes
of a deep and touching interest. Those in verse, which he

SATIRICAL VERSES. 129

designated " crambo jingle," were generally of a light and
lively character, struck off, in the heat of the moment, on
any subject or incident that happened to catch the public
attention at the time. The sprightliness of the following, and
its freedom from all bitterness, is remarkable, considering
how severely he had suffered from the false taste he satirises :

When dullness, friend of peers and kings,

Sworn enemy (alas !) to me,
Last shook her nagging, dingy winga

O'er the first island of the sea,
She fixed on London as a place

Where she might find some friends or so,
And travelling up, at mud-cart pace,

She hired a cellar in Soho.

But sad reverse ! since her last visit,

A novel rage had seized the nation,
" Sacre !" the goddess cried — " how is it ?

Genius — my foe — grown into fashion."
In vain she rail'd — her ancient friends,

The booksellers, had burst her trammels,
And in the new league found their ends,

And left her for the Moores and Campbells.

An unknown lawyer in the north,

Shook her Minerva press to splinters ;
Her favourite children sunk to earth,

And hateful light profaned her winters.
If she took up a rhyme, 'twas Byron's ;

If to the stage she turned her sight,
Kean scared her from its loved environs,

And Fanny Kelly kill'd her quite.

Desparing thus — despis'd, decried —

Dullness put up her ardent prayer,
"Grant me, 0 mighty Jove," she sighed,

*' Some ally in my hour of care ;
Look on my votaries' sunken jaws,

My ragged file of thin lampedos,
Have mercy on their yearning qraw3,

Send some bad taste on earth to feed $3."

I

130 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Her prayer was heard ; the rafters o'er her

Sundered — and through the fissure came
A pale white form — he stood before her,

Lanky and gawky in his frame.
Over one bony shoulder hung

A pot of coarse paint, with a brush in't j
His front was like white parchment strung—

The devil couldn't have raised a blush in' .

A brazen trumpet hung beside him,

On which he blew a thrilling blast ;
With doubt and hope the goddess eyed him ,

"Fat Madam !" he exclaimed at last,
" I am your servant — sent by Jove,

To bid you never be cast down,
By me your reign shall prosperous prove,

By me you yet shall sway the town.

' • My name is Puff, the guardian sprite

And patron of the dull and shameless,
Things bom in shade I bring to light,
And give a high fame to the nameless.
J Me modest merit shuns to meet,

His timid footsteps backward tracking ;
The worthless all my influence greet,
Frcni 'a books to Turners blacking.

"Receive me, goddess, in thy train,

And thou shall see a change ere long,
The stage shall be thine own again,

Thine, all the soils of prose and song ;
shall delight the wenches

"Where Richard shook the tragic scene cnce,
Pat Chester shall draw crowded benches,

And Fanny Kelly play to thin ones."

The prophecy was registered,
/ The prophecy has been fulfilled,

The brazen trumpet's beast is heard

Where once the voice of Genius thrilled.
Header, before your hopes are undone,

This axiom you will bear in mind,
That puffing has been proved in London

The only way to raise the wind

VERSES ON RECENT TOPICS. 131

The next was written on the occasion of Miss Dawson
going up with Mr. Graham in a balloon. It appeared in
the News of Literature and Fashion.

MR. GRAHAM TO MISS DAWSON IN THE CLOUDS.

" Mr. Graham now handed Miss Dawson into the car, and in a few
minutes the aeronaut and his accomplished and beautiful fellow-
voyager were lost to the gaze of the admiring multitude."

Kendal Paper,

11 Here we go up, up, up,

And now we go down, down, down,
Now we go backward and forward,
And heigh for London town !"

Bean Svfift*

Who says the moon is made of cheese ?

The sky a sheet of paper ?
The little stars so many peas —

The sun a mere ga3 taper ?
That all the clouds are chimney smoke

The Sun's attraction draws on ?
Tis clear as noon tis all a joke

To you and me, Miss Dawson.

The secrets of the sky are ours —

The heaven is opening o'er us —
The region of the thunder-showers

Is spreading wide before us.
How pleasant from this fleecy cloud

To look on ancient places,
And peer upon the pigmy crowd
»Of upturn'd gaping faces !

Oh ! what a place were this for love 1~

Nay, never start, I pray —
Sappose our hearts could jointly move

And in a lawful way,
Like Lxion I should scorn the crowds

Of earthly beauties to know,
And love a lady in the clouds —

And you should be my Juno.

132 LIFE OF GERALD CRIFFIN.

Speed higher yet— throw out more sand—

We're not the last who'll rise
By scattering with lavish hand

Dust in our neighbours' eyes.
Away ! away ! the clouds divide —

Hiah ! what a freezing here ! —
And now we thread the mist-hill side,

And now the heavens appear.

" How blest," (so Tommy Moore might sing,)

4 'Did worldly love not blind us,
Could we to yon bright cloud but wing,

And leave this earth behind us !
There, fed on sunshine — safe from woe —

We'd live and love together !"
Ah, you and I, Miss Dawson, know,

'Tis very foggy weather.

Suppose some future act made void

And lawless Gretna marriages,
The snuff-man joiner's trade destroy 'd,

And nullified post carriages :
What think you if a Gretna here,

With post-balloons were given ?
Such marriages (we all could swear)

^t least were made in Heaven.

How small, Miss Dawson, from the sky

Appears that man below —
The Triton of the nabbing fry,

The saddler-king of Bow ?
A ng for Dogberry, say we !

For leathern bench and " watchus !"
A fig for law ! I'd like to see

What Bishop* here could catch ua !

'Suppose we smash the stars for fun ?

Have with the larks a lark ?
Or hang a cloak upon the sun

And leave the world all dark ?
Or upwards still pursue our flight,

Leave that dull world at rest,
And into Eden peep— and fright

The banquet of the blest ?
* The reader will not forget the celebrated Bow-Street officer of
this aaioe.

SOLITARY HOURS. 183

Whiz ! whiz ! the fatal word is spoke —

The sprites are round our car —
Our gas is spent — our pinion broke,

And, like a shooting star,
Down, down we glide — the clouds divide,

They close above our head —
Now safe and sound we touch the ground,

And now we go to bed.

These verses will serve to show that the prevailing turn
of his imagination was lively and cheerful. There were
times, however, when his mind fell into the opposite mood,
and when the tone of his writings exhibit a degree of
painful loneliness. I have heard him say more than once,
that there was nowhere such a perfect desert as London
to one without friends; and that a person might spend
whole years there, with a sense of solitude as great as if
he actually lived in a wilderness. The following seems to
have been written in one of those gloomy moments. The
feeling it displays is extremely natural and tender, and the
faithfulness and absence of all affectation with which it is
translated into language is remarkable. It presents, more-
over, a very true picture of his own disposition — one which
glowed with affection, yet was reserved in its expression
— which burned with ambition of the loftiest kind, yet
was continually beaten from its aim, and while it prized
the sweets of friendship, and lived upon hope, was doomed
to be disappointed in both. It was published in the
Literary Gazette of July the 3rd, 1824, with the signature
of " Oscar."

My soul is sick and lone,

No social ties its love entwine ;
A heart upon a desert thrown

Beats not in solitude like mine ;
For though the pleasant sunlight shine—

It shows no form that I may own.
And closed to me is friendship's shrine —

I am alone ! — I am alone !

13-i LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIX.

It is no joy for me

To mark the fond and eager meeting
Of friends whom absence pined — and see

The love-lit eyes speak out their greeting ;
For then a stilly voice, repeating

"What oft hath woke its deepest moan,
Startles my heart, and stays its beating —

I am alone ! — I am alone !

Why hath my soul been given

A zeal to soar at higher things
Than quiet rest — to seek a heaven,

And fall with scathed heart and wings ?
Have I been blest ? the sea-wave sings

'Tween me and all that was mine own }
I've found the joy ambition brings,

And walk alone ! — and walk alone !

I have a heart : — I'd live

And die for him whose worth I knew —
But could not clasp his hand and give

My full heart forth as talkers do.
And they who loved nie — the kind few

Believed me changed in heart and tone,
And left me, while it burned as true,

To live alone ! — to live alone !

And such shall be my day

Of life, unfriended, cold, and dead,
!My hope shall slowly wear away

As all my young affections fled —
2so kindred hand shall grace my head

When life's lost flickering light is gone ;
But I shall find a silent bed,

And die alone ! — and die alone !

As I shall not have to return to the consideration of his
difficulties again, I may, before I close this chapter, be
allowed to .say a few words with regard to his bearing un-
uer them. The reader, I am sure, must have viewed with
admiration, the steady energy, perseverance, and industry,
which so young a person continued to exhibit during the
progress of a long train of disappointments, and this with

CHARACTER. 135

so untiring a constancy, that I do not think he ever let slip
an occasion that could have given him an additional advan-
tage. Nor can any one fail to be struck with the warm
and generous feeling, rectitude of principle, and unshaken
reliance upon Divine. Providence, with which they were as-
sociated. On calling to mind the countless instances in
which the bright treasures of nature and grace hoarded up
during early youth, the purity of moral feeling, and deep
religious reverence cherished in that innocent time, are
squandered, spoiled, and sunk in the corruption of a great
city, we cannot help turning with an affectionate and ad-
miring interest to those favoured individuals who never for
a moment lost the consciousness of their worth, but pre-
served them with unwasted faith, amid circumstances
involving the doom of thousands. It is true, there is
something in the pursuit of literature itself which tends to
preserve the mind from the contamination of the grosser
passions ; yet, while it raises a barrier against these, it is
still open to many dangers, not, perhaps, of a less serious
character. It may be doubted, indeed, whether the mind
is more truly darkened by the grovellings of sense, than by
the blind pride of intellectual ascendency which prompts it,
while it glories in its freedom from the tyranny of a lower
nature, to plunge with a bold scrutiny into the mysteries of
religion, to believe itself omnipotent as it is all-searching,
and to treat every thing as an absurdity which it is unable
to explain. Such dangers as these, too, are the greater,
the higher the intellectual pre-eminence. They too often
end in scepticism, irreligion, and infidelity ; and it may be
said that there is seldom a more signal triumph of morality
and religion over the conniptions of the world, than when a
young and gifted mind, reared in the simplicity of an un-
thinking virtue, is suddenly flung into such society as
besets it in a city like London, and comes out of its gloomy
atmosphere with the light of its early truth unclouded.'
Wc shall find, by one of his later letters, that Gerald had

136 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

reason to see and feel those dangers fully, and to be
thankful for his deliverance from them. Such results are
rare in the history of literature. Johnson was a singular
example of one preserved from these dangers, and not so
much by the power of the reasoning (faculty — for there is
often, as I have said, less of safety than of peril in that —
as by the inborn and enduring strength of his moral feel-
ings. I know but of one other character to whom, in the
points I have alluded to, Gerald bore some resemblance,
and with whom he might well be proud to be compared —
the ever venerated Crabbe. In him there was the same
untiring industry, the same warmth of feeling and disposi-
tion, the same untainted purity of mind ; above all, there
was in his days of distress and suffering, the same firm re-
liance upon Divine Providence and submission to its de-
crees. These qualities, indeed, existed in Mr. Crabbe in
so remarkable a degree, that no one who has the least sen-
sibility can fail to be touched by the deep and unaffected
devotion of the sentences in which they are expressed. In
observing upon these resemblances, it is impossible not to
perceive that there is a point in which the parallel is lost,
and in which Gerald's character has a decided advantage.
During Mr. Crabbe's early straggles, the days had not yet
gone by (though they were already numbered) when the
smiles of great men were the sunshine that ripened the har-
vest of literature ; and it is painful to think that a man like
him, who in every other respect claims our keenest sympathy,
should have been not only willing to bend under the siavery
of patronage, but should have even courted its commonest
gifts with a weak and almost servile adulation. If it must
be confessed that there is something extreme in the decree
to which Gerald pushed his notions of independence, I still
think such a severe and unbending feeling would be consi-
dered preferable to that too yielding and undignified spirit
in which all sense of this principle is lost. No one, I am
sure, can read, without a degree of pain proportioned Co

S£NSE OF INDEPENDENCE. 137

his respect for Mr. Crabbe's memory, the epistles to Prince
"William Henry, and to the Earl of Shelbourne, which are
given in the early part of his life by his son, and which,
besides that they exhibit him in a point of view extremely
unpleasant to witness, contain nothing that is at all worthy
of his later writings ; neither is it easy to reconcile one's self
to the circumstance of his accepting a gift of a hundred
pounds from Lord Thurlow, after his lordship's previous un-
feeling neglect of him, and at a time when, under the kind and
successful patronage of Mr. Burke, he had become an author
of considerable note, and his necessities could not have been
very urgent. Johnson would have either spurned the offer
with indignation, or declined it with the same manly dig-
nity with which he rejected Lord Chesterfield's proffered
patronage in circumstances somewhat similar.* When a
prince or minister of state, as such, chooses to bestow place
or pension on men distinguished for their learning or talents,
he has two objects in view : to encourage literature as a
great national benefit, and to reward those who have con-
tributed to its advancement. Though the second of these
objects may be more gratifying in its exercise, the first is
certainly by far the most important ; but both are legiti-
mate, both are undertaken for the public advantage, and
paid for out of the public purse. But it is not easy to re-
cognise any principle upon which a private individual, no
matter how exalted his station, can be called on to pay a
considerable sum out of his private purse to a person dis-
tinguished by literary talent or other marks of genius, for

* It is difficult to account for the apparent insensibility of Mr.
Crabbe's biographer on this point. So far from perceiving anything
unpleasant in such a position, or from having a notion that it would
have been more dignified to have refused such a present, when he had
on a former application been treated with such apparent contempt,
he seems only to participate in the surprise and gratification which
Mr. Crabbe felt, that the present was a hundred pounds instead of
ten or twenty, as be expected it to be, and says, " It was a supply
which effectually relieved him from all his present difficulties."

1 38 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

it would be too heavy a tax upon any individual for the
national advantage, and it would not be accepted as a cha-
rity. Happily, for the respectability of authorship, the
vast extension of literature in modern times has set aside
such practices for ever.

CHAPTER VI.
1823—1826.

LETTERS FROM LONDON — LITERARY PEOrLE — DR. MAGWN— MB.

CAMPBELL MISS LASDON — JIE. ALARIC WATTS— DEATH OF MR.

FOSTER — THE o'HARA TALES — PUBLIC TASTE — LITERARY PUF-
FING— PABTY TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY — RELIGION IN LONDON

MR. KEATS— CATHOLIC MEETING— o'CONNELL— SHIEL— AUTHOR'S
OBSERVATIONS ON LITERARY REPUTATION — SONNET — HE DE-
VOTES HIMSELF TO WRITINGS IN PROSE — STATE OF HEALTH —
DRAMA ACCEPTED AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE— HIS FEEL-
INGS UPON IT.

In giving an account of Gerald's trials in London, I
omitted to notice several of his letters which related prin-
cipally to literary subjects and literary people. These may
now be found interesting. They breathe a deep and earnest
spirit, and contain many passages which illustrate, in a re-
markable degree, the power of that passion to which I have
already so often alluded.

To his Brother.

London, Nov. 10, 1824.

My dear William, — Since my last I have visited Mr. J

several times. The last time, he wished me to dine with him,
which I happened not to be able to do, and was very sorry for
it. for his acquaintance is to me a matter of great importance,
not only from the engine he wields — and a formidable one it
is, being the most widely circulated journal in Europe — but also

DR. MAGINN — MR. CAMPBELL. 139

because he is acquainted with all the principal literary charac-
ters of the day, and a very pleasant kind of man. He was
talking of Maginn, who writes a good deal for Blackwood, and
spoke in high terms of his talents ; nevertheless, though he is his
friend, he confessed he did not think him a very considerate
critic, and thought there was something unfeeling in his perse-
cution of Barry Cornwall, who by the way is an acquaintance
of my Spanish friend's. You may have seen those letters to
Bryan Proctor in Blackwood's Magazine. Barry Cornwall is,
he says, one of the mildest, modestest yoimg fellows he ever
knew, and does anything but assume. Maginn, however, ima-
gines that those he attacks think as little of the affair as him-
self, which is by no means the case. The other day he attacked
Campbell's Eitter Bann most happily, and at the same time

cuttingly, and afterwards wanted J to get up a dinner and

bring Campbell and him together. J begged leave to de-
cline. He is a singular looking being. Dr. Maginn. A young
man about twenty-six years of age, with gray hair, and one of
the most talented eyes, when he lets it speak out, I ever beheld.
Banim, who is his bosom crony, says, he considers him the most
extraordinary man he ever knew. He attacked Banim too
before they were acquainted, but that's all forgot long since.
Hazlitt praised Banim in the London Magazine, and of course
rendered it imperative on Blackwood to abuse him. Have you
seen Campbell's late poems, any of them ? I have been told
that the volume of his, which is coming out shortly, Theodric,
&c. , is very poor indeed — lamentably so. Campbell is the most
finical, exact kind of fellow in the whole world. As an instance,
I have heard that he was asked to write a little poem some
time since for the occasion of Burns' monument, which was then
in agitation, and in which my informant took great interest.
Campbell consented, but directed that proofs should be sent
to him to the country, and before the poem appeared had
actually sent five or six messengers back and forward to and
from town, with revisions of commas and semicolons ! ! There
is a young writer here, Miss Landon, the author of the " Im-
provisatrice," a poem which has made some noise lately, who

has been brought out by J , and to be sure he does praise

her. She sent some pieces to the Literary Gazette a few years
since, and through that journal (without intending any insi-
nuations as to desert) has made herself popular enough to run

through a few editions. J has asked me to meet Alario

Watts at his house, when the latter comes to town, which ha
intends shortly. Watts is a very sweet writer in his own way,
and rather a favourite. I have got, a few days since, a not©

140 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

from my friend Banim to know " what has become of me?"
;jid he adds as a spur that Dr. Maginn has just been with him,

and said that Mr. J expressed himself highly pleased with

the series I am at present furnishing him. I dined the other
day — at least about a month since — with him and a friend of
his, an artist of the name of Foster (to whom, if you recollect,
Madame de Genlis dedicated one of her works, and expresses
her gratitude for his assistance in some of her literary labours).
He is one of the most delightful, facetious fellows I ever saw.
My dear William, ever affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

This Mr. Foster had been acquainted with Gerald about
a year and a half before this meeting, and had then
procured him some introductions to parties who he thought
might be useful to him. He was the same friend who, by
the merest accident, dropped in one evening, in the hour of
his greatest distress, " to have a talk with him," and of
whom he says in a letter which I have already given, " I
had not seen him, nor anybody else that I knew, for some
months, and he frightened me by saying I looked like a
ghost." He appears to have been a person of the most
warm and generous disposition, and highly esteemed by
those who knew him. In this instance he was the chief
cause of Gerald's deliverance from his embarrassments, though
the latter did not know at the time the full extent to which
he was indebted to him. Immediately after the visit
alluded to, he went straight to Dr. Maginn and described
what he saw. Dr. Maginn, with extreme good nature,
immediately communicated with the editor of the Literary
Gazette, and this led to the engagement which Gerald alludes
to above, and to the series of papers he there speaks of.
How singular it is that one has so often to lament the un-
timely and disastrous fate of persons gifted with qualities so
endearing as those I have mentioned ! It was about a year
or so after these transactions, that this young man, to the
inexpressible grief of all his acquaintances, put an end
to his existence by shooting himself through the head with

DEATH OF MR. FOSTER. 141

a pistol. For some time before this shocking act, he had
been observed occasionally to labour under a depression of
spirits which was quite unnatural to him, but there was
nothing else either in his circumstances or manner to lead
his friends at all to anticipate so dreadful a result. Gerald
was deeply affected by the occurrence, and told me the
following touching incident in connection with it. A maid
was engaged in making up a room next to that in which
the horrid catastrophe took place. Mr. Foster walked up
to her, took her by the hand, pressed it warmly between
his, and with tears in his eyes looked silently into her face
with an expression of the most melancholy earnestness.
It might have been a recognition of some former kindness
of her's ; or perhaps it was his last farewell to the world
in the person of the only human being who was near him
at the moment. Having repeated this heart-broken gaze,
he pressed her hand and departed. The maid looked on
in mute astonishment, and resumed her occupation, when
presently the report of a pistol was heard in the adjoining
apartment, and all was at an end. " The stupid girl,"
said Gerald with vehemence in relating it, " to look on with
her stupid wonderment at such a state of things and say or
do nothing ! If it had been an Irish girl, she would
sooner have plucked out one of her eyes, than allow such
a circumstance to pass before her without instantly finding
out the meaning of it."

To his Brother,

London, June 18th, 1825.

My dear William, — I do not intend to send this until I
have more to tell you than I can do at present. Your letter
was a great prize. I wish you could send me what you intend.
I know not how to turn it to account, until I see it all ; but I
apprehend the idea of a journal is not good, for mine must be
all tales, short and attractive in their appearance.

I called the other day on a^celebrated American scribbler,
Mr. N . He is a pleasant fellow, and we had some chat.

1-42 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

He has been filling half Blaclncood since lie came with American
topics, and is about novdidng here, as I perceive, by the ad-
vertisement of " Brother Jonathan." His cool egotism is amus-
ing. " Tragedy, Mr. Griffin," says he to me, " is your passion,
1 presume ? I •wrote one myself the other day, and sent it in
to the players ; they returned, it -without any answer, which
■was wise on their parts. I was sorry for it, however, for I
thought it was such a thing as would do them a good deal of
credit and me too." He is, I believe, a lawyer. You understand
.my reason for mentioning this precisely in that place. He is,
I think, clever. Have you seen Banim's O'Hara Tales ? If not,
read them, and say what you think of them. I think them
most vigorous and original things ; overflowing with the very
spirit of poetry, passion, and painting. H you think otherwise,

don't say so. My friend W sends me word that they are

udl tcritttn. All our critics here say that they are admirably
written ; that nothing since Scott's first novels has equalled.

them. I differ entirely with W in his idea of the fidelity

of their delineations. He says they argue unacquaintance with
the country. I think they are astonishing in nothing so much
as in the power of creating an intense interest without stepping
out of real life, and in the very easy and natural drama that is
carried through them, as well as in the excellent tact which he
shows, in seizing on all the points of national character which
are capable of effect. Mind, I don*t speak of the fetches now.
That is a romance. But is it not a splendid one ?

Plays are now out of fashion completely. Elliston advanced
Banim one hundred pounds on his tragedy, and yet is not bring-
ing it out. Stephens is at Drury Lane ; Elliston is done up —
" peppered for this world, I warrant ;" and the management
changes. But theatrical affairs are wonderfully altered. No
person of any respectability goes to a play now. Even the pit
of the Opera has been blackballed, and the boxes of that house
are the only places of this kind where people of any fashion are
to be found.. Xobody knew anything of Banim till he pub-
lished his O'Hara Tales, which are becoming more and more
popular every day. I have seen pictures taken from them al-
feady, by first rate artists, and engravings in the windows.
Tales, in fact, are the only things the public look for. Miss
Kelly has been trying to pull Congreve above water, and has
lieen holding him by the nose for the last month, but it won't
do ; he must down. When I came to London the play-goer3
were spectacle mad, then horse mad, then devil mad, now they
are monkey mad, and the Lord knows, my dear William, when
they will be G. G. mad. I wish I could get "a vacancy at

LITERARY PUFFING. 143

Every day shows me more and more of the
humbug of literature. It is laughable and sickening. What
curious ideas I had of fame, &c. , before I left Ireland ! Even
the Waverly novels -were puffed into notice. Nothing is done,

can be dene, without it. Herelsee puffed by his^own family.

A good writer puffing himself. Men of talent writing in one
periodical, and replying to, criticising, and praising the parti-
cular article in another — dramatists who don't understand com-
mon grammar or spelling ! (I see every play that is produced in
manuscript, with stage criticisms, &c, while in rehearsal.)
These, however, are generally (always, indeed) minor house
scribblers — I mean the bad spellers. I found a gem from one
of them the other day — no, by the way, it was a Drury Lane
dramatist. A piece was produced a few weeks since at that
theatre, and subsequently published. A letter from him to the
publisher ran in this way : "Dear Sir, since I saw you I have
been thinking it would be better commence Scene n. , Act n. ,
thus : Instead'of 'Rooney discovered drinking,' — say, 'Eooney
discovered slightly intoxicated, gets up, and staggers forward. '
Yours very truly, &c." Honour bars the names. I am idle as
to dramatic affairs. Our best tragic actress here offered to
present my play, and do all in her power for it. I should not
have time for anything of that kind, even if I were not so
situated with Baniin as to put it out of the question. The pro-
posal was made without my seeing or even knowing the lady.
A friend of her's and mine met me after he had just escorted
her to rehearsal, told me what she had said, and asked me to
come and see her, or meet her at his house. I will go and see
her, I believe, when I have time, and perhaps read her some of
the piece, but no more at present. A curious thing to have
such an offer without seeking, and declined too !

I have undertaken to patronise the little Miss Fortescue in
the News; interesting little thing. I called at her friend's,
and her mother made her act the part before ns. I thought
she would have died with fear and shame, and after a Covent
Garden rehearsal too ! My Spanish friend's book is nearly, I
believe, going to a second edition — £100 in his pocket if it
does. I like him well enough ; he is a mild, unassuming sort
of body, and we are growing great friends. Here's the pub-
lisher of the Dublin Magazine sent me four numbers of it, and
begs contributions, which he promises good pay for. He has
been asking these four months or more, and I can't find time to
send him one.

Dear William, affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

144 LIFE OF GEnALT? GRIFFIN.

To his Sister.

London, June 21st, 1825.

My deakest Ellen, — I sit down at last to do what I assure
you the non-performance of has lain heavily upon my conscience
for a long time, and would have troubled it very much indeed,
if I did not feel that circumstances justified me— shortly — to
have a little conversation with you and Lucy. As I have much
to say, I shall forthwith begin to throw into my sheet all
manner of news in all manner of ways — and pray, beware of
charging my abruptness to the account of carelessness or haste,
for as far as regards this letter, I am resolved to take the world
easy, let business go as it may.

I sent you word, I believe, in my last, that the News was
rather a dull paper. Allow me with all expedition to retract
that hasty and most injudicious criticism : people's opinions
will undergo changes, and I confess to you that mine is consid-
erably altered since I have become one of the parties concerned
in the judgment. I think now there are some very fair things
indeed in the News. I assure you I'm quite serious. If you
mutter anything about inconsistency, I can only say, in the
words of Touchstone, (a gentleman with whom I wrould not be
thought to have too many ideas in common,) " Thus men will
grow wiser every day."

I have a great mind, for want of something better to say, and
having begun to egotise so much, to — but no ; some other op-
portunity— I must get a long sheet, for 1 must not forget Lucy
in this. They are queer people here as regards religion. I
went last Sunday to hear the anthem sung in Westminster
Abbey ; it had a most imposing effect. But I accompanied two
young ladies — don't start — 'twas by their mamma's sanction —
the pews were full, so I led them up to the reading-desk when
the sermon began. Here we stood, and I supposed I was in for
a dead bore of an hour at least. One of the damsels, however,
turned round, and with the greatest nonchalance in the world
— not taking much pains to lower her voice neither — said to
me, " Come, we'll go see the monuments now." You must
consider that we were so situated, that our moving would, in a
Catholic Irish chapel, be considered (to talk moderately) highly
scandalous. But the exordium was scarcely commenced, when
we three got on — brushed by the clergyman — and turned out of

the choir. I, recollecting Father F and the like, expected

to hear a reproof thundered after us from the pulpit ; but no
such thing — 'twas just like a drawing-room— ladies and gentle-

PROSPECT OF REUNION. 145

men made way, bo-wed and curtsied, and off we went to Willy
Skakspeare and Ben Joknson ; and that, to my knowledge,
was all the ladies thought or knew about church that day —
pleasant party, that waa all.

Well, what more have I to tell you about myself ? Nothing,
so let us change the subject. I heard from William that you
had lately been rather worse than otherwise. This fine wea-
ther must, however, have had its usual effect on you, and I do
hope that you have been able to enjoy it. I would give a great
deal, Ellen, if I could give you the power of mastering sickness,
which I feel in myself — or that, in addition to the cheerfulness
of spirit, (which I believe you would suffer no circumstances
that merely affected your own happiness to remove at least the
appearance of,) you had some object in view, sufficiently excit-
ing and alluring to induce anything like a forge tfulness of pre-
sent suffering. Look forward, dear Ellen, don't shake your
head and sigh, but entertain the conviction that I do — that?
happy days on earth are in store for us all. In all the depres-
sions and disappointments to which I have been subjected since
I came here — this hope, this conviction, has never forsaken me.
We all love one another too well to be contented asunder, and
there is a just Providence above us. IsTot a day passes that L
do not see in prospect the reimion, scattered as we are over the i
world, which I more than trust will one day take place. Per-
haps it is a merciful dispensation of Heaven that I should be
dosed so strongly with this stimulating hope, depending so
much on my own exertions, and all alone as I am here. But
the presentiment is, I am sure, too forcible to be deceitful, and
I only wish I could make you join me in it. You have suffered,
and are suffering a great deal, dear, dear Ellen, and depend
upon it you must be repaid in some measure. There is more
evenhanded justice — temporal justice — in the world than a first;
glance would make us suppose, and I am one of those who-
believe, that no person ever left the world — taking the mind, of
course, as a passive object — who had suffered more or less on the
whole than his fellow. I don't know if I make myself under-
stood, but, at all events, I wish you would endeavour to admit
this fervency of hope to as great a degree as I do. Above all
things, Ellen, let me warn you of those false scruples which,
would lead you to refrain from any means of raising your spirits,
which may present themselves. That is not religion, it is crime,
and serious guilt. It is a cold, suicidal proceeding, which has
not the least excuse to palliate it either on the score of mental
sickness or the pressure of circumstances, and, as I am a Ca-
tholic, and believe in death, and judgment, must, I think, be.

K

146 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

answered as the most wanton infliction imaginable. But there
is enough of this matter. Dearest Ellen, take my counsel ;
answer this, and believe me, most affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

The incident about the two ladies in church, in this letter,
-eniinds me of another which Gerald once mentioned, and
at which he was considerably amused. It related to the
subject of what are called " voluntaries," in church music.
One Sunday while at luncheon at the house in which he
lived, two ladies who had just returned from church were
discussing the propriety of a 'certain air which had been
played there that day, one of them affirming that airs of
that class were perfectly allowable, the other, that they were
shockingly profane. After listening with much interest to
an argument which was carried on pretty learnedly on both
sides for some time, Gerald asked the name of the air, and
was told it was, " Here's a health to all good lasses." *

To his Sister.

London, June 21st, 1825.

My dearest Ltjct, — Kow what must I say ? I only assure
you that I took up this sheet in the resolution of devoting half
of it to you, and here I am with scarce room for a word. I
think it probable I may some of these days become acquainted
with the young sister of poor Keats the poet, as she is coming
to spend some time with a friend of mine. If I do, I will send
you an account of her. My Spanish friend, Valentine Llanos,
was intimate with him, and spoke with him three days before

* On mentioning this anecdote one morning at a friend's house at
breakfast, a Protestant clergyman vho was present said, that his
gravity was once in danger of being very seriously disturbed by an
incident somewhat similar. He had been requested to preach in one
of the churches of some town in Germany, I do not remember where.
While walking through the centre of the church towards the pulpit,
arrayed in his vestments, and with all the solemnity proper to such
an occasion, the choir suddenly struck up, " See, the conquering
hero comes I"

MR. KEATS. 147

he died. I am greatly interested about that family. Keats
you must know was in love, and the lady whom he was to have
married, had he survived Gifford's (the butcher) review, at-
tended him to the last. She is a beautiful young creature, but
now wasted away to a skeleton, and will follow him shortly I
believe. She and his sister say they have oft found him, on
suddenly entering the room, with that review in his hand,
reading as if he would devour it — completely absorbed — absent,
and drinking it in like mortal poison. The instant he observed
anybody near him, however, he would throw it by, and begin
to talk of some indifferent matter. The book displays great
genius, but, unfortunately, it afforded one or two passages
capable of being twisted to the purpose of a malignant wretch
of a reviewer, such as Gifford is, with much effect. Dearest
Lucy, affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

The strong expressions he makes use of in this letter
with regard to the reviewer, is but one of the many signs
of the deep sympathy he felt for those who struggled in the
painful path he had himself chosen. Notwithstanding his
admiration of Mr. Keats' genius, I have, however, afterwards
heard him say, that there were very many passages in his
book fairly open to severe criticism, and that he did not
think the review altogether so unjust as he had at first
imagined it.

To his Brother.

London, December, 1825.

My dear William, — I have just got a paper from you,
which finds me with more to do this day than I can well ac-
complish, but you wish for a line by return of post, and I will
rather write a brief letter than put it off. Nothing particular
has happened, except that I did not get a fraction of money
for five weeks, which, coupled with the failure of our printer,
gave me some uneasiness. The paper, however, has changed
to another establishment, and all goes on well. Most of what
was due to me I have been paid, with proper apologies for the
delay, occasioned by the printer's break.

Well, an' hoo do ye get on wi' the Sawneys ? Hoo do ye like
auld Reekie ? I was perfectly electrified, then overpowered,
then transported, when I heard of your being in Edinburgh.

148 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

It came upon me all in a heap. Is the confounded rheumatism,
then, gone for ever and ever ? As for my own affairs, I have
little more news to tell you than what you have got above. I
have had so much to do lately for this paper, that my anecdotes
hang fire most confoundedly. I dined with Banim last week,
and found him far gone in a new novel, now just finished,
'• The Boyne Water," (good name ?) which is far superior, in my
humble judgment, to the O'Hara Family.

This is one of my buoyant days, but do you know that I am
generally most miserable ? The tormenting anxiety of a literary
life — such a one as I lead — is beyond all endurance. When
I send off my bundle of papers for the evening, I sit down here
sometimes to think on my future prospects, and go to bed at
last actually feverish with apprehension. There is nothing
but doubt and uncertainty about it. 2so profession, no hold
on society, no stanrp, no mark, and time rolling on, and the
world growing old about one. However, we must only work
on as we can.

You mention Banim's brother having been among you.
Banim himself has been all over the north of Ireland since his
return from France, and brought over the world and all of
materials for his new novel. He has spent an immense deal
of labour and study in acquiring a perfect knowledge of all the
historical records of the period, and procured a great deal of
original information, and other matter, during his rambles.
I am exceedingly glad to see him prospering so well, because
I conceive him to be an excellent and a worthy man, putting
out of the case my own obligations to him.

As for the Catholic meeting, I liked O'Connell's uncompro-
mising spirit, and wondered at the exemplary patience with
which John Bull sat to hear himself charged with perfidy, &c. ,
so roundly. All these parts of his speech were received in
dead silence. You ask me about Lawless. My opinion is, that
he is a very well meaning, very mischievous fellow, not very
far from blockhead. As to the general opinion here, the whole
affair is very little talked about at all, and it is a doubt to me
if one man out of ten (take Englishmen as they are) ever
heard of Lawless. You have a queer notion on the other side
•of the water, that your concerns are greatly thought about
here. It is a doubt to me if the "dear little island" were
swallowed by a whale, or put in a bag and sent off to the moon,
if the circumstance would occasion any further observation
than a "dear me," at one end of the town, and a "my eyes !" at
the other, unless, indeed, among the Irish mining speculators,
or some gentlemen equally interested. In all than does not

CRITICISMS. 149

concern their interest or feelings, these are the most apathetic
people breathing. Yet all wish well to the measures when
spoken of. I did not like the display in the Freemason's HaD.
O'Connell was too familiar— offensively so — and as for Shiel,
if you take Blair's position for granted, that nothing deserves
the name of eloquence which is not suited to the audience, and
to the circumstances under which one speaks, he was certainly,
at least on this occasion, no orator.* People have long since
found out that wordiness to be nothing more than dull humbug.
Besides, his exordium (to speak in his own way) was most
ineffably silly. I sent you a paper last week — a new one —
rather stupid I think, though some of our first rate men write
for it. My dear "William, yours affectionately,

Gerald Griffin.

To his Sister.

London, July 17th, 1826.

My pearest Ellen, — I wonder how you had the hardihood
to find the plot of Banim's bock so bad. I and the Edinburgh
Review (mark the distinction) find it very interesting. He was
most anxious when I last saw him to know what I thought of
the Boyne Water, which I had not then entirely read, and I
have just been writing to him the comfortable advice to stick
to the tales. What a passion he will be in ! at least if I judge
by myself. It is superior to the tales in many respects, but
not so calculated for general popularity. I spent a very pleasant
evening the other day with the sister of John Keats, his in-
tended bride, (as beautiful, elegant, and accomplished a girl as
any, or more so, than any I have seen here,) and the husband
Of the former, who is an old friend of mine.

A play I have not read nor seen for some months. Der
Frieschutz I saw last summer twelvemonth. It is wretched
trash — but such music ! I never was so terrified in my life.
You would suppose the devil himself was the composer. You
can have no conception of it without hearing it in a full orches-
tre, and well played, nor indeed can you know anything of the
power of music until you have heard it.

Situated as I am at present, with only a couple of friends,
whose society I can enjoy very seldom, almost without opening

* By a subsequent letter to Mr. Banim it will be seen that he bad
not on this occasion an opportunity of fully estimating Mr. ShieTs
powers.

150 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

my lips sometimes for a whole day, I am completely on thorns
until (I will again repeat it) I have got something better in
the shape of acquaintance than I can at present see about me.
This is not self-conceit. It is a plain and true speech. I fear
very much, by the way, that you are over charitable in suppos-
ling that where there is stupidity and vulgarity there can be
virtue or active moral worth. A stupid and vulgar man (the
meaning of the words properly considered) may be innocuous,
but he cannot be a really estimable character — for he is incapa-
ble of a motive, even when he happens to act well. The words
were strong ones, however, and I should not have used them,
but that I must at the time have been thinking of some book-
seller. There never was a poor devil who so thirsted for society,
so utterly barred out from it as I am at present. I can't know
such people as I want to know, and as I have been accustomed to
converse with ; and those that would know me, I don't want
to know.

I received some time since a letter from containing

a most original illustration, in a notice which he gave me ox
Campbell's Theodric. He would be a far, far cleverer and
more original writer than I am, (free and easy on my part you
mil say,) if he were in my place. After all, London is the
only fair field for any fight with fortune, and I can perfectly
enter into the feeling of the man in the play, who says he had
•rather be hanged in London than die a natural death in the
country. It requires, however, a little immediate certainty to
"brush through at first. Why does he content himself with
vegetating in an obscure country village ? Why is he not all
afire, as I — contemptible I — am, until something important —
something lasting is achieved ? I am now near two years in
London, and I assure you I have not a moment's peace day or
night. I am actually miserable — miserable. I could not pos-
sibly endure this life much longer — this eternal restlessness —
burning to do something— just to raise myself if it were only
by the neck and chin— to take breath— to be so far elevated
above the mass of the stupid and the vulgar, with whom
I am surrounded, and confounded ; but time — time and pa-
tience— I must do what many a better man has done before
me — be patient and persevering. I find in myself considerable
energy of character, but not sufficiently self-sustained and in-
dependent of circumstances. These have much less effect on
me than they had, however, and I may at last be able to do my
work without them. I live in a state of eternal change, some-
times in the utmost buoyancy, during which I work like mad,
and at others, I sit down in an evening, and can't put a

SUCCESSFUL AUTHORS. 151

sentence together, nor by any force fix my attention on what
I am about. On these occasions I take up a book to review,
and God help the poor author if he gives me "a vacancy at
him." But that's a joke. If you knew what a mercy writing
to me is at those times, you would do it oftener. William's

friend F has been tickling my fancy about the highlands,

but if I can go anywhere it must be home. What are high
mountains but high mountains after all ; and unless I had
some greater object than pleasure in visiting them, I should
find none in doing so. My dear Ellen, ever affectionately
yours,

Gerald Griffin.

Notwithstanding this last remark there were few that
felt the beauties of mountain scenery more intensely than
he did, and this faint attempt to depreciate them looks as
if he felt the temptation a strong one, and feared it might
draw him from his determination to return home, if that
were possible.

To his Brother.

London, July 31st, 1826.

My dear William, — I have just got your letter, and write
to say that there is at present no chance of my being out of
town any time before winter. I have been as hard at work,
and to as little purpose as usual, since I wrote last. The News
of Literature is dead and buried, leaving me unpaid to some
amount — enough to be disagreeable. I am sorry to perceive
you write in unpleasant spirits — these things I have forgot a
long time now, for I have been so seasoned by partial success
and great disappointment, that I am become quite indifferent
about either, though I am still pulling on from habit.

My friend Llanos goes to France next week, which I regret
as deeply as it is possible for me to say. As to success, or dis-
appointment, or uncertainty, or apprehension, they are all
nonsense. The only plan is to persuade yourself that you will
get on gloriously, and that's the best success going. I have,
within the last year, seen and talked with some of the most
successful geniuses of the day, and I perceive those who enjoy
brilliant reputation to be conceited, impertinent, affected fools,
"out of their inspiration," and all others are just about as
happy and as miserable as the rest of the world whom nobody
knows nor cares about. I don't know whether you are aware

152 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

of the low ebb at which literature is at present. That accounts
for my obscurity of course. I write this at such a ZSew-
market rate to overtake the post, that I scarcely know what
I have said ; but it is not of much consequence, as we shall
have the happiness of meeting so soon. I stick by honest
Cab's motto, "Hang sorrow — care '11 kill a cat — up tails all
— and a rouse for the hangman." Dear William, yours af-
fectionately,

Gerald Griffin.

In a letter which I received from him the following
month, he says :

" I am sick and tired of this gloomy, stupid, lonely, wasting,
dispiriting, caterpillar kind of existence, which I endure, how-
ever, in hope of a speedy metamorphosis. It would amaze you
to know all I have done, and done to no purpose, within the
last twelve months ; but I am still adhering to my plan of
working my way unassisted ; not that I have any objection to
get a lirt when circumstances make the obligation tolerable to
me. My numerous disappointments here have not at all dis-
pirited me. They have deadened my anxieties a little, and so
I work with more vigour, and less fear and trembling (a curious
consequence of failure). I"m beaten about here, and there,
and everywhere, and fairly don't know what will become of
me, but I must only try and make the best of it."

The following, which is one of those sonnets I have
before alluded to, appears to have been written on one of
those occasions.

FAME.
Why hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to quit

The path of plain dull worldly sense, and be

A wanderer through the realms of thought with thee ?
While hearts that never knew thy visitings sweet,

Cold souls that mock thy gentle melancholy,
Win their bright way up Fortune's glittering wheel,
And we sit lingering here in darkness still,

Scorned by the bustling sons of wealth and folly.
Yet still thouwhisperest in mine ear, "The day,

The daj- may be at hand when thou and I

(This reason of expectant pain gone by)
Shall tread to Joy's bright porch a smiling way,
And rising, not as once, with hurried wing,
To purer sides aspire, and hail a lovelier spring. "

NOVEL WRITING. 153

The engagement on the News of Literature it was which
gave him the opportunities he mentions, of " seeing every
play in manuscript while in rehearsal." It was, however,
one about which he seldom felt any security, and the paper,
as we have seen, eventually dropped while still somewhat
in his debt. The uncertainty of these employments made
him naturally anxious to achieve something that would give
him a lasting hold on the public mind, and it was plain
that this could only be accomplished by some regular work
of some importance, either in the shape of a drama, or a
novel. With writings of the latter class there was still
considerable difficulty. The reader will remember what he
says in one of his former letters about the heart-breaking life
of a young writer in London ; going about from bookseller
to bookseller, and only to find his manuscript rejected every-
where. It is a fact well known to all who have made any
attempts in literature, that the circumstance of a writer being
known or unknown to the public, makes immensely more
difference as to his chance of acceptance with a publisher
than the amount of talent he possesses. If he is utterly
unknown, let his ability be what it may, he will find it
extremely difficult to get it even looked at, while if he
has ever been before the public, even in a position only
moderately favourable, this circumstance will be sufficient
to procure it the requisite attention. 1 do not speak this
absolutely as to every case, but it is well known, neverthe-
less, to be the usual course. This, therefore, was the
principal advantage he seems to have derived from his
connection with the News of Literature, that it gave him
opportunities of making an acquaintance with the public,
which he found useful afterwards in his dealings with the
publishers, when he turned his attention to writings in
prose. To these he now devoted himself with the same
ardour and eagerness, yet with rather less of the high
enthusiasm, that characterised his efforts in the drama.
Independent of any coldness or indifference on the part of

154 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

the publishers, it was a difficult time for a new author to
make an essay in novel writing. Though the taste for
compositions of that class was decided and strong, no one
but an original and powerful writer could have succeeded.
Sir Walter Scott had utterly swept away all the sentimen-
tal stuff with which that species of literature had been so
long deluged, substituting for it a train of feeling and of
action more suited to common sense and nature, and the
public would thenceforth endure nothing but reality. His
fictions, too, were so splendid, and the tide of his stories
was poured forth with such a homely and unconscious
strength, that no one who did not feel confident of consider-
able power could hope to approach such a model. Gerald,
besides, was an Irish writer, and his friend Mr. Banim
had already pre-occupied the field of Irish fiction with a
series of tales of such deep interest, and vigour, and truth
of colouring, that they deserved the name of dramas
rather than stories, and had become universally popular.
Whether it was that his sense of these difficulties con-
vinced him that any effort in that direction should possess
extraordinary merit to be at all successful, and that this
conviction made him wish to delay them until he could
enter upon the subject fairly, and with all the consideration
it deserved, does not appear, but I perceive in his letters
from this time forward, various signs of preparation for
devoting himself to this walk almost exclusively. "At
present," he says, " I am working up my recollections to
furnish a book which I shall call ' Munster Anecdotes,'
a good title, with illustrations, &c. I have even had it
announced in the Literary Gazette — rather too soon, for
I can do nothing with it just now. My anecdotes are all
short stories, illustrative of manners and scenery precisely
as they, stand in the south of Ireland, never daring to
travel out of perfect and easy probability. Could you not
send me materials for a few short tales, laying the scene
about the sea-coast — Kilkee ? novelty at least. Reality yoa

ILLNESS. 155

know is all the rage now." The time he was able to
devote to these new pursuits was, however, as yet but
small, his engagement with the News of Literature, while
it lasted, keeping him so constantly occupied, that he
found it impossible to accomplish all the editor required
of him, while his employment as parliamentary reporter
during the session, frequently kept him up until four or
five o'clock every morning. " Eveiy moment," he says,
" brings something with it of the most pressing necessity.
Besides my poor neglected anecdotes, which cry out unto
me from the depths of a large table drawer, I have a three
volume novel to correct in manuscript, concerning which I
am sorely plagued — the author, who by the way gets
£300 for it, is constantly worrying me to have it done.

Then, jogging about to the newspapers, and then W ,

from whom I have just now got a parcel of books to review;

so that, as L would phrase it, I can scarcely allow my

ogles a blink at snooze time." In these engagements,
which were occasionally diversified by the production of a
piece at the English Opera-house, (of which more here-
after,) he seems to have passed over the remainder of the
season without accomplishing anything of much importance
until the publication of " Hollandtide," which took place,
as I have said, in the latter part of the following year.

The constant pressure of this anxiety and incessant
application seems to have gradually preyed upon his
strength, and produced an effect which exhibited itself in
a very sudden and startling manner. He had been, before
this, subject to attacks of rheumatism, of one of which he
says : " I brazened it out for some time, but it fairly
knocked me down at last, and I was for a few days
scarcely able to crawl about with fever and headache."
Previous to the sudden seizure mentioned in the extracts
which follow, he had, however, been in pretty good health.

" Since my last, I have had some bad and some good fortune,
and let me tell the bad first. It was a return of one of those

156 LIFE OF GERALD GEIFFEN-.

palpitations, which fairly shook me to pieces almost, for about
ten minutes. I never had it to anything like the extent
before or since, and, leading so very regular and orderly a life
as I do, it surprised me a little. To be sure, I exercised a

great deal, and to that Mr. W attributed it ; but though

that is now more than a fortnight since, I have not yet reco-
vered the shock it gave me. 'Tisn't a little thing, by the waj^,
of this kind that can frighten me seriously. I had been in
excellent health for a long time before. However, be that (I
say in my very heart of hearts) as God pleases."

" The news which I have called good, Lord knows whether
wisely or no, is, that I have had a play accepted, with much
compliment thereon, at the English Opera-house. I began it last
Tuesday week, sent it to Banim (at whose pressing suggestion
I set about it) on the Tuesday following, and this day received
word from the latter that it was accepted, and that Arnold,
the proprietor, (who has also himself been a wholesale
dramatist, ) expressed ' a very high opinion of your humble
servant's dramatic promise, and that' — pish! what signifies
what he said ? 1 will write again after I have been introduced
to him. Banim concludes that it will be played this season,
though I confess I hardly expect it. Much as I had known of
Banjul's kindness, I hardly looked for this great promptitude.
This little bit of success (so far) would have been very delight-
ful about a year ago, and even now I own I am not indifferent
to it, though a great deal, if not all, of the delicious illusion
with which I used to envelop it is lost to me ; but a better
feeling I believe has come in its place, the hope that, through
ite means, I may be enabled to do some little good before more
time goes by, and that I may not have been a useless cipher
my whole life through, a consciousness which has embittered
the last few years very considerably. It would be better
to say nothing of this until it has arrived at a conclusion ;
although, if ^liss Kelly (on whose shoulders the whole weight
of the plays mut rest) deceive me not, I have nothing to fear ;
and that is nothing, for she is a wonderful actress — I mean the
Kelly. I have said a great deal more than such a trifle merits,
but 1 speak only because, if successful, it will not be trifling in
its consequences."

"I have heard from Banim. Arnold agrees to buy the
piece beforehand for £50."

There is something affecting in the calmness with which
he received Qua piece of good news, which would have

his brother's arrival. 157

once been, as he says, so highly prized by him, and in his
sudden fear, so naturally expressed, of being again misled
by the hope awakened by Mr. Arnold's favourable opinion.
The reader cannot mistake the painful feeling which sug-
gested the expression alluded to. A week or two after this
was written, or early in the month of September, 1826, his
brother, Dr. William Griffin, who is now no more, and who
had not seen him since his departure from home in the
latter part of 1823, arrived in London from Edinburgh. —
I obtained from him the following interesting account
of what he observed during the few months that he re-
mained with him in town.

CHAPTER VII.

1826.

author's occupation as a reviewer— his state of health
on his brother's arrival — proposal for a genuine english

opera correspondence with mr. arnold on the subject

correspondence with mr. banlm— gerald's distaste for

patronage — instances of it — his love of originality

new comedy written and subsequently destroyed—
frequency of coincidences in literature, and strong
natural probability of them— completion of " holland-

TXDE."

" On my arrival in London from Edinburgh, in the month
of September, 1826, 1 found him occupying neatly furnished
apartments in Northumberland-street, Kegent's-park, of
which he gives a description in one of his minor tales. I
had not seen him since he left Adare, and was struck with
the change in his appearance. All colour had left his
cheek, he had groAvn very thin, and there was a sedate
expression of countenance, unusual in one so young, and
which, in after years, became habitual to him. It was far

15 S LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

from being so, however, at the time I speak of, and readily
gave place to that light and lively glance of his dark eye,
that cheerfulness of manner and observant humour, which
from his very infancy had enlivened our fireside circle at
home. Although so pale and thin as I have described him,
his tall figure, expressive features, and his profusion of dark
hair, thrown back from a fine forehead, gave an impression
of a person remarkably handsome and interesting. On in-
quiring about his health, he told me he had never perfectly
recovered from the severe attack of rheumatism about
which he had written to me, that he was not so strong as
formerly, passed uncomfortable nights, and was subject to
distressing palpitations.

" On giving me an account of his literary pursuits in the
course of the day, he pointed with a smile to the locality
of the workhouse, which was nearly opposite to him, and
said, ' You see how provident I have been in the selection
of a residence — if all fails me I have a refuge at hand.'
He was at the time regularly engaged in writing articles
for some of the periodicals, and devoted his spare hours
either to the tales afterwards published, under the title of
Holland-tide, or to the composition of an opera for Mr. Ar-
nold's theatre. Occasionally some newly published works
were sent to him for review, or some manuscript ones for
his opinion as to the probability of their success if published.
This occupation of reviewing, and of passing judgment on
unpublished manuscripts, gave him little trouble, and the
remuneration was liberal. He was often highly amused at re-
ceiving from the editor of some periodical, three volumes of a
newly published novel, accompanied by a request that he
would not cut the leaves. This, which he at first conceived
so very ridiculous, and so apparently impossible with any
justice to the author, he eventually found was almost a
matter of necessity with many of the publications sent to
him. They were of so trashy a description, that no one of
ordinary taste could possibly get through even, the first few

NATURE OF HIS ILLNESS. 159

chapters. His usual plan was to glance through the early
part of a work, so as to obtain some notion of the plot ; a
peep here and there iu the second volume gave him an idea
of the skill with which it was developed ; and a slight con-
sideration of the latter end of the third, or slaughter-house,
as he used to call the concluding part of a disastrous story,
or fifth act of a tragedy, satisfied him both as to the genius
of the author and the merits of the performance. He no
doubt made a more intimate acquaintance with his subject,
when his first hasty supervision gave him reason to believe
it was written by a person of more than ordinary talent, and
did not appear to feel conscious of having done any injus-
tice during the short period he was engaged as a profes-
sional critic. I remember his adverting more than once,
as if amused at the recollection, to a letter of remonstrance
he received from a well known authoress, whose poems he
appears to have dealt rather severely with, in a notice pub-
lished in the News ofL iterature and Fashion. I do not know
whether he made any amends in this matter, but, though not
sensible of having committed a wrong, I am sure, from his
manner of speaking of her letter, he regretted that any-
thing he had written should have given pain to the amiable
writer.

61 He was indefatigable at his work, arose and breakfasted
early, sat to his desk at once, and continued writing till two
or three o'clock in the afternoon — took a turn around the
park, which was close to his residence, returned and dined —
usually took another walk after dinner, and returning to
tea wrote for the remainder of the evening, often remaining
up to a very late hour. I afterwards discovered his keeping
these late hours (often extending to two or three o'clock in
the morning) was rather a matter of necessity than choice.
Whenever he retired to rest early, he was liable to be
seized by the palpitation of which he had been complaining,
and the distressing nature of which I had no conception of
until I witnessed an attack. It usually came on during

160 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

sleep, out of which he started, frightened and pale, with an
apprehension of sudden death. I slept in the same room
with him, and, as he always kept a light burning at night,
I could easily, while he was suffering in the paroxysm, count
the throb of his heart by the motion of his night dress, or
by the sound of the stroke, as it beat against his chest.
After some time the symptoms gradually declined, when he
again laid down and usually obtained some refreshing sleep
before the hour of rising in the rnorning. As the fit for
the most part came on at an early hour of the night, he
learned by experience that he could generally escape it al-
together by remaining up until the time of its usual visita-
tion was past. He subsequently ascertained that the warmth
of the feather bed tended to bring it on, and substituted
a thin mattress. Sometimes he preferred lying on the sofa
or on the chairs without any bed, and with merely a coun-
terpane or cloak thrown over him. Although, in the inter-
vals of relief, he seldom expressed any alarm about the na-
ture of these attacks, I discovered, in occasional conversation
with him on the subject subsequently, that he had been
studying the articles on palpitation and affections of the
circulating system in Rees' Cyclopedia, and became impressed
with the feeling that he was suffering with organic disease
of the heart, which would terminate in sudden death. This
impression lowered his spirits very much at times, and, in a
mind always deeply influenced by religious feeling, perhaps
first led to that habitual seriousness of thought, and grave
consideration, which ended in his retirement from the world.
His natural cheerfulness of manner and elasticity of mind
were, however, seldom long subdued, even by the depressing
influence of a complaint which he believed to be incurable.
He hardly ever seemed to think about it, except when
suffering with some uneasiness about the heart, or immedi-
ately after a violent fit of palpitation ; and I have often
seen him, on awaking in the morning from a short sleep, into
which he had fallen at the close of a severe attack, fling

NATURE OF HIS ILLNESS. 161

himself out of bed, and commence singing some popular
song from the fashionable opera of the day. Singing wa3
a constant habit with him on getting out of bed in the
inorning and while making his toilet, and the same song
generally lasted him for several days. He called this being
haunted by a tune, and I can very well remember how often
I have been startled from sleep in the morning by ' Old
King Cole,' the jolly air with which he happened to be
taken when I first arrived in London.

" * Old King Cole

Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he ;

He called for his pipe,

And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.'

" As I have touched on the subject of his illness, I may,
perhaps, be excused, as a matter of medical interest, for
pursuing it a little further. After some length of time, a
singular change took place in the symptoms. The fits of
palpitation became less frequent and distressing, but he was
occasionally affected with sudden weaknesses 01 faintings,
which he had not previously experienced. In walking
along the streets he was apt to be seized with a kind of
swooning fit, which obliged him to catch the nearest bars or
railings for support. He described the sensation as rather
pleasing or agreeable than otherwise, and I believe would
have made no effort to resist it, if it did not occur in tho
street, or make him apprehensive of falling. In Ireland,
afterwards, the palpitations again became very distressing,
and the symptoms in a greater or lesser degree, and with
very variable intervals of relief, continued for several years.
During three or four years he scarcely ever slept without a
light burning in his room. When it is recollected that this
complaint originated in acute rheumatism, occasioned such
very distressing symptoms, and continued for so long a time,
few medical men could entertain any doubt of his being

162 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

afflicted with organic disease of the heart or pericardium,
jet he finally effected his own cure by a resolute persever-
ance in a particular diet and regimen, which, after the
failure of all medical treatment, he planned for himself.
His meals were rather spare, but nutritious ; he took few
vegetables, and no stimulants, and he made long pedestrian
excursions daily through the country, when the business of
the morning, which included his writing a certain prescribed
number of pages of whatever work he was engaged in, was
over. He slept on chairs, or on a hard sofa at night ; un-
dressed at two or three in the morning, and got to bed ; and
at five arose again, took a cold shower bath, dressed, and
commenced the engagements of another day. He was so
resolute in following out this system, that I have seen him,
when he has happened to sleep longer than usual on the
sofa, arise at half-past four, undress, and in a few minutes,
on hearing the clock strike five, get up again, take his bath,
and dress for the day. In less than six months his health
was wonderfully restored, and at a somewhat later period,
when visiting Killarney, he was able to ascend to the top
of Mangerton, and even Carman Tual, the loftiest mountain
in the Reeks, without difficulty.

" I mentioned that he was at this time engaged in writ-
ing for the English Opera-house. His first communication
with Mr. Arnold was occasioned by an effort he made some
months before, to induce that gentleman to bring out an
English opera which should be wholly recitative. I had
received a letter from him early in the previous year, in
which he gives the following account of the manner in which
his proposal originated : ' I wrote some time since a lead-
ing article in the News, proposing a new plan for an
English Opera, with directions for recitative — everything.
This attracted some attention from the other periodicai
less, as being novel, so I followed it up, and' gave a
regular essay on Italian and English Opera, lightly done,
nnd merely resulting from my own impressions of the effect

ENGLISH OPERA. 163

of both ; wanting to have the English Opera really operatic —
sung through from first to last, and hinting the species
of recitative that would be suitable. I then proposed it to
Arnold, at the same time sending him a little opera of the
usual kind. He wrote to me to say he should feel very
great pleasure in paying attention to any operatic piece I
should send him, and has since brought out a piece called
" Tarrare," on a partial exercise of my principle, but in very
bad taste. Instead of making it recitative, as I recom-
mended, his stupid musician adapted the Italian, which,
though cleverly done, has no effect ; it is not understood, in
fact, with English words. Arnold has kept my little opera
still, and I hope will play it.' The following reply is Mr.
Arnold's. The correspondence will be interesting, as, if
there has not been as great an advance made in that direc-
tion since as might have been expected, it will be seen that
it was not for want of the subject being proposed and duly
considered.

" Theatre Royal, English Opera House,
"January 12th, 1S25.
" Sir, — As the opera you did me the favour to send in August
last, arrived too late in the season for any chance of represen-
tation, I detained it, with others, for the purpose of consider-
ation at a period of better leisure, and am sorry to say, that,
after mature deliberation, I am much afraid you will not mid
the drama answer your expectations in performance, an opinion
I the more regret, as the poetry in general appears to be much
above the ordinary rank, and as I see by your letter which
accompanied it, that you have given much attention to the sub-
ject of operatic writing. I am unfortunately compelled to differ
with you also in your ideas of the nature of the genuine English
Opera. You are, of course, aware, that such recitative operas have
been frequently tried, though 'Artaxerxes' is the solitary instance
of any one keeping possesion of the stage. And in that opera,
the beauty of the drama, and the fortunate coincidence of its
exquisitely beautiful music, have certainly held out an alluring
temptation to future experimentalists ; but I am so absolutely
certain that the taste of the English public is yet so decidedly
opposed to recitative, that, with all my admiration for the higher

164 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

order of the musical drama, I must be strongly tempted indeed
by the poem, and the composition, before I would venture on
bo hazardous and losing a speculation. You may have noticed
last season in the introduction of ' Tarrare,' that I introduced a
much larger proportion of recitative than has ever before been
tolerated since the time 1 of ' Artaxerxes,' and I am convinced
it is by gradual and judicious advances alone that the town
will be ever brought to sanction it.

"I beg you to receive my acknowledgments of the trouble you
have taken in writing your former letter to me on this subject,
and remain, sir, your very obedient servant,

" G. Joseph, Esq. " J. Arnold.

" Gerald makes the following remarks on this letter in
one which I received from him a few days after he got it :
* I received the other day a long letter from Arnold, who
is dramatist to his own theatre, about my proposition for
a new species of English Opera. He enters with some
talent into the subject, and gives me an account of the steps
he has been taking to bring " the town," as he phrases it,
into a relish for the higher order of the musical drama, but
he fears they are still too unmusical for my plan. The fact

is, I believe what "W said to me on the same subject

is true, that I could not find a composer in England of
genius enough to accomplish the idea.' In a letter to his
sister of a later date, he says, l You seem horrified at the
idea of my endeavouring to introduce recitative operas alto-
gether on the English stage. You mistake my meaning.
There is one opera of that description on the boards already
(Artaxerxes), but I want to have purely English music,
and cJiaracteristically English recitative, instead of an
adapted Italian one, which does not express the same sen-
sations in the same way as an English one would. As to
singing all through, "why should feeling ever speak ?" Eh ?
Arnold has entered into the subject at great length with
me. I have a full sheet from him, in which he says, u The
town is" (like you, my dear lady.) "not yet impressed with
a sufficient veneration for so high an order of the musical

THE N0YADES. 165

drama as that I mentioned, and runs into a long sermon
on the matter.

" It will be observed that this letter of Mr. Arnold is
directed ' G. Joseph, Esq.' Joseph was one of the many
assumed names under which he transmitted his contributions
to the periodicals or theatres. He afterwards, however,
obtained an introduction to Mr. Arnold through his friend
Mr. Banim, and an opera, ■ The Noyades,' which was pre-
sented at the theatre by the latter, met with a ready ac-
ceptance. He was paid £50 for it, and encouraged to write
on. As he took no more than a fortnight to write one of
these operas, and the payment was so liberal, one would
have imagined, when his other literary labours paid him so
badly in comparison, that he would have devoted his whole
time to them, as long as the encouragement continued. But,,
far from evincing any disposition to take advantage of Mr.
Arnold's favourable opinion of his abilities, there appeared
an evident reluctance about him to send in a new one,
which he finished soon after my arrival in London.
After much hesitation, and without giving any satisfactory
reason for what appeared to me a most extraordinary pro-
ceeding, he sent the piece to the English Opera-house
anonymously. At the end of a fortnight or three weeks
he sent another, without awaiting the issue of the first. An
answer at length arrived by the post, not directed to the
initials and address sent with the pieces, but to ' Gerald
Griffin, Esq., 24, Northumberland-street, New Road.' It
was simply an acknowledgment from Mr. Arnold of the
receipt of the new operas, and an assurance that he would!
take the earliest opportunity of giving them the fullest con-
sideration. Looking upon the reply as gratifying, I was
not a little surprised to observe that Gerald was extremely-
disconcerted at having been discovered as the author, and
showed no feeling of satisfaction in anticipation of the pro-
bable acceptance and success of these new pieces. It was
a considerable time before I learned any explanation. It

166 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

appeared that the coolness which took place between him
and his friend Baniin on a former occasion, although of a
very passing nature, left a sensitiveness on both sides, very
unfavourable to that perfect confidence which is so essen-
tial to the continuance of a good understanding between
intimate friends. Gerald, though fully sensible of Mr.
Banim's kindness and friendly solicitude about him, could
not by any effort wholly divest himself of the instinctive re-
luctance he felt to place himself under deep obligations to
one upon whose good nature he had no other claim than
his own difficulties ; and his friend, conscious of this feeling,
was perhaps too observant of the least expression which be-
trayed it. The consequence was — as soon as an oppor-
tunity of rendering Gerald a service occurred — some un-
happy misconception on both sides. After the former
misunderstanding, Mr. Banim, far from losing interest in
Gerald's welfare, sought anxiously to render him services
in the only manner he saw they would be accepted, by pro-
curing him a market for his labours. Aware of his dra-
matic talent, he was continually urging him to write for
the theatres, and especially for the English Opera-house,
where, from his own intimacy with Mr. Arnold, he was sure
any recommendation of his would meet with attention.
He at last obtained a piece from Gerald, to be presented
at the English Opera-house, out of which, sometime after,
arose the following correspondence :

"John Banim to Gerald Griffin.

" Thursday, August ISth, 1826.

" My dear Sir, — Yesterday, I handed your piece to Mr. Ar-
nold. He read it instantly, and agreed with me in thinking it
one of a high order. Here and there, however, I suspect you
will have to cut and alter ; and perhaps your songs must be re-
written, and appear with less poetry, and more se&bleness
about them. I conclude that your little drama will be produced
this season, and some day soon I'm to have the pleasure of in*

CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. BANTM. 1G7

troducing you to Mr. Arnold, who thinks very highly of your
dramatic power I assure you, and whom you will find possessed
of all the technical acquirements calculated to mature it.
M My dear sir, faithfully yours,

" John Banim.

" Gtrald Griffin to John Banim.

" Thursday Evening, August, 1826.
" My dear Sir,— I shall be obliged to go into the city to-mor-
row, so that I must take this opportunity of mentioning that I
have just seen Mr. Arnold. I gave him the piece, with the
alterations of which you spoke to me, and he said he would
read it again, and supposed he should have the pleasure of see-
ing you in a day or two. Talking of money matters — for he
spoke of the mode of payment, though he said nothing decisive —
I'm such a stupid, awkward fool, that I could scarcely under-
stand the business properly ; but I thought there appeared to
be some feeling on his part of unwillingness to incur risk, or
some such thing. If this was at all the case, I certainly should
not take any remuneration previous to its being produced. My
feeling on the subject is a great deal that of indifference, but
if the piece were found profitable to the theatre I should by no
means be content that it should be otherwise to me, and that
is all I feel about it. I should be perfectly satisfied to let the
piece be played, and let Mr. Arnold calculate its worth by its
success. I trouble you with this, my dear sir, in the hope that
you may make use of it, as far as you think proper, in case Mr.
Arnold should speak to you on the matter, as he said he would.
A far greater object than any payment in specie to me would
be the being enabled to take my trial soon. How can I apolo-
gise to you for all this ? I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

"Gerald Grdjfin.

" It is evident that the feeling of ' indifference' which
Gerald expresses in this letter, related entirely to the mode
of payment, as to whether it should be absolute and un-
conditional or dependent upon the success of the piece.
Mr. Banim, however, seems unfortunately to have formed
some misconception of the expression, as appears by the
following letter ;

168 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

"John Banim to Gerald Griffin*

••Tuesday Morning, August 23rd, 1825.

"My dear Seei, — Yesterday, after calling another day with*
Out seeing him, Mr. Arnold spoke to me finally about your
piece. He is well disposed towards it, and if you permit will
act it. I could see none of the indecisiveness you mentioned
in your last, nor did he say a word that could make me believe
he thought he ran any risk in the matter. Perhaps you mis-
took him in your interview. He now desires me to inform you
that you may get paid in proportion to its success and the
established terms of his theatre, or sell your drama at once
for fifty pounds, including the publishing copyright. Should
you prefer the former mode of remuneration it will be neces-
sary for you to ascertain, by calling on him, what are the usual
terms of paying authorship in his theatre by nights. I know
nothing of it. I invariably preferred a certainty beforehand ;
indeed, he got a piece of mine for less than he offers for yours,
and I believe I have not been a loser. Mr. Howard Payne
did not, I am informed, receive more from Covent Garden,
either for his Clare or Charles H.

Miss Kelly has been ill, and perhaps but for that your piece
would now be in progress. Mr. Arnold still thinks he will pro-
duce it this season. You inform me that your feeling on that
subject is one of a great deal of indifference. This I must regret,
particularly as I have been the cause of giving you trouble in a
matter which does not interest you. I assure you, at the time
I first wrote for the English Opera-house, and waited month
after month even for an answer, I would not have been
indifferent to whatever chance might have got my piece read
and answered two hours after it had been handed in, and the
transaction finally brought to a close in a few days. I am, my
dear sir, truly yours,

•* John Bandc.

"However you may decide, Mr. Arnold hopes to close with
yourself.

w Gerald Griffin to John Banim,

" Tuesday Evening, August 23rd, 1826.
My dear Sir,— I have just received your letter, which I
hasten to answer. I am exceedingly obliged to you for ail
the trouble you have taken with the play, and am most gratified

CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. BANIM. 169

with the conclusion. I feel the entire extent of the obligation
which you have conferred upon me ; I always felt it, and I
thought I said so in my first letter, but a mistake you have
fallen into with respect to my last, renders it necessary for mo
to explain.

"The indifference of which I spoke (as probably you will find
by referring to the letter) related entirely tojMr. Arnold's
mode of payment, or indeed payment at all in the first
instance, as, from the conversation I had with you on the
subject, and subsequent interview with Mr. Arnold, I con-
cluded that nothing worth being very anxious about was to be
done in the way of money, at a summer theatre. It was far
from an object of indifference to me, however, that a play of
mine should be produced. When you thought I meant to say
this, you gave me credit for a greater piece of coxcombry than*
I was conscious of. It has been the object of my life for maDy
years ; I could not profess to be indifferent about it, still less
could I be indifferent to the nature or extent of the obligation
when conferred. Let me beg of you to take this general
assurance in preference to any construction which possibly
may be put on casual words or sentences. I am, my dear sir,
very truly yours,

" Gerald Griffin-.

" To this letter, which certainly seems sufficiently ex-
planatory, Mr. Banim unfortunately returned no answer,
believing, as he afterwards mentions, that both parties were
content and all cause of misunderstanding removed. Gerald,
however, very naturally expected some acknowledgment of
the fact, and not receiving it, ceased to urge any renewal
of an iutimacy, the interruption of which he felt did not
rest with him. It would seem extraordinary that Mr. Banim,
after having always evinced such a kind interest in Gerald's
affairs, and received so ample an explanation of the slight
misconception which occurred, did not evince some sign of
returning confidence ; but I believe the fact to be, that be-
fore an opportunity occurred for declaring it, a new and
more annoying cause of jealousy arose. At the time that
Mr. Banim's works were in the very highest estimation, and
when indeed the assistance of no new author could have

170 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

added to their repntation, he offered Gerald a place in the
O'Hara Family, and nrged him to contribute a tale. To a
person wholly unknown, and whose most successful work
could not have procured for him a third of the price from
the booksellers which could be obtained for it as one of the
O'Hara tales, this was a very generous proposal. It was,
however, declined by Gerald on the plea that he was un-
equal to the task. Holland-tide appeared some months
subsequent to this, and almost immediately after the con-
clusion of the correspondence respecting the drama accepted
by Mr. Arnold. It was hardly surprising that, under such
circumstances, Mr. Banim should feel he was treated dis-
ingenuously, especially as he was convinced Gerald had Hol-
fend-tide written at the time he declared his inability to
write a tale for the O'Hara collection. This, however, was
really not the case. Most of the tales in Holland- tide were
written in an inconceivably short space of time (not more
than two or three months) before their publication, and en-
tirely at my constant urging, and I can testify, from the
difficulty I had in inducing him to make the effort at all,
how very diffident and doubtful he was of success. I do
not mean that he exactly underrated his own powers, but
I believe he did not think that his engagements with the
periodicals, which he could not give up, would allow him
sufficient time and consideration to attain the success he was
ambitious of, in a regular work of fiction. In any event,
indeed, I do not believe he would have joined an author of
^established fame in his labours, however advantageous it
might be in a pecuniary point of view. If there was any
one object dearer to hhn than another in his literary career,
it was the ambition of attaining rank and fame by his own
unaided efforts, or at least without placing himself under
obligations to those on whom he felt he had no claim ; but,
independent of this, and highly as he must have appreciated
the kindness of Mr. Banim's proposal, he might not unna-
turally conclude that the public would consider his own early

DISLIKE OF PATRONAGE. 171

efforts as indebted for success, more to the assistance of his
eminent friend than to any original or independent merit
they possessed. He had, besides, on all occasions, an almost
morbid horror of patronage, arising partly from a natural
independence of mind, but yet more from the depressing
disappointments of his early literary life. When first he
came to London, he sought, by a few introductions and the
friendly exertions of literary acquaintances, to bring his
productions favourably before the public, but without the
slightest success^ His powers seemed to be undervalued
precisely in proportion as he made interest to procure them
consideration, until at length, disgusted by repeated failure,
he resolved in future to trust wholly to his own unfriended
exertions, and if they should not sustain him to abandon
the struggle* It was soon after forming this resolution that
success first dawned upon his efforts, and that he was anx-
iously sought for as an anonymous contributor by the editors
of periodicals, who when he was previously introduced to
them would give him nothing to do. In proportion as his
success increased, the remembrance of the many mortifying
disappointments he had formerly experienced seemed to
sink more deeply into his mind, and he gradually acquired
a degree of sensitiveness with respect to patronage, that
made him recoil from even the ordinary and necessary
means of obtaining attention for his pieces. This may have
influenced him much less with respect to Mr. Banim than
others, but it was probably the chief reason after he had
finished Gisippus why he did not succeed in getting it
played. He at one time sent the first and second acts to
Miss Kelly, who was struck with the genius they displayed,
and said if the remainder of the piece was equal to whafe
she had read, she would present it at Drury Lane for him,
and that she had little doubt of being able to get it brought
out. Much gratified with this unexpected kindness, Gerald
sent her successively the third and fourth acts. With these
she professed herself equally well pleased, and awaited some

172 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

time for the fifth, but she never received it. When he had
attained what he so anxiously sought for — the approval and
interest of one of the most popular actresses of the day, who
had full interest to get his drain a attentively considered-
he showed an unaccountable reluctance to avail himself
of the kindness, and in fact finally left London without
doing so.

11 To return to the subject of the operas. The misunder-
standing to which I have adverted made him at first re-
luctant to send them at all to Mr. Arnold, and finally
induced him to send them anonymously. He felt no doubt
that if he transmitted them with his real name, he would
be indebted for their acceptance to the introduction
he had had from Mr. Banim in presenting a former one.
Mr. Arnold, however, recognised the writing, and it is amus-
ing to reflect on the perfect perplexity into which he must
hare been thrown by such a proceeding. That an author,
and above all a dramatic author, who had a piece already
accepted, should in sending a new one fling aside the name
by which he was known and estimated, and enter the lists
among a host of anonymous writers, seemed altogether pre-
posterous. Mr. Banim, to whose judgment all new pieces
presented at the English Opera-house at the time were
submitted, happening to call, Mr. Arnold pointed to the
plays, and, mentioning the circumstance, made some good-
natured inquiries, which seemed seriously to call in question
the soundness of Gerald's faculties ; asking him, at the same
time, what could possess him to send his dramas under an
assumed name ? Mr. Banim at once saw through the mys-
tery, and this new sign of Gerald's resolution not to he
under any possible obligation to him, tended to widen the
breach which the letter already given must otherwise have
so happily closed.

" During the time I remained in town (I believe about
three months), Gerald, though constantly engaged for the
periodicals, accomplished a great deal of work of a most

NEW COMEDY. 173

important character. Besides Holland-tide, he wrote two
or three operas, and completed about as many acts of a new
comedy. It was a delightful piece, written in easy blank
verse, and reminded me more of the comedies of the olden
time, than any drama written since the days of Beaumont
and Fletcher. The plot alone would have almost ensured
its success. It was suggested by the general rain which
was overwhelming the most opulent houses in the city at
that time, by speculations in the mining and other bubble
companies to an extent little short of frenzy. An old
merchant, finding himself on the brink of ruin by these rash
speculations, endeavours to prevail on his daughter to sa-
crifice her affections for a young and amiable man, to whom
she is attached, and marry a rich suitor whose wealth might
redeem his credit. Although in a great measure committed
to the former by the long encouragement she had given to
him, her father, by artful appeals to her filial affection, and
representations as to his decaying health and the certain
ruin that must otherwise await him, at length obtains her
consent to become the rich man's wife. The scene in which
this consent was obtained was intensely powerful, and al-
though he never completed beyond the third act, one can
readily conceive the deep interest the succeeding events
might have commanded. There was a veiy amusing under
plot. The completion of this play was prevented by an
ainfortunate observation of mine. On reading the parts
which he had finished, I was struck with the similitude of the
scene between the father and daughter, and that between
Mr. Vere and his daughter in the Black Dwarf. The con-
trivance, situation, and interest of both were indeed so like,
that I thoughtfully said, " Why, Gerald, this scene is in the
Black Drawf." He seemed incredulous, and said it was
impossible, but on my persevering in my assertion, he sent
out for the book (which I believe he had never read) to
the nearest circulating library. When on perusal he came
to the scene to which I referred, he laid down the tale in

174: LIFE OF GEEaLD GRIFFIN.

perfect dismay, acknowledging it was the very same scene,
and that all his labonr was gone for nothing. As it is so
usual for dramatists to take their plots from the prose tales
of other authors, I had not the remotest idea at the time
that this discovery would influence the progress of the play,
but all my entreaties could not afterwards induce him to
add another syllable to it, and I presume he finally destroyed
what he had written, as it was not found among his
posthumous papers. A similar incident, though not of the
same consequence, occurred some nights afterwards, when
I returned from a walk, with Peter of the Castle, a new
tale by the O'Hara Family. Gerald was engaged in writing
one of the tales of Holland-tide, and had at the moment
just concluded an amusing description of Shrove-tide.
Anxious to see his friend's new work, he laid down his pen,
and glancing at the commencement, found the very first
chapter contained a description of Shrove-tide much more
ample than his own. He at once tore out the latter from
his tale, and I am not certain that he ever completed it.
There appeared to be almost a fatality in the many instances
in which he had been thus anticipated by contemporary
writers. We have already seen that on his first arrival in
London, and after he had sent his tragedy of ' Aguire' to
the theatre, he found that another play of the same name,
and founded on the same story, had already been presented ;
that Mr. Banini had anticipated him in the play of the
Prodigal Son ; and that in another piece of his, which he
afterwards showed him, he discovered the counterpart of
Canabe, a character in an unfinished play of his own.

"These coincidences he came at 3e-:gth to look upon
as occurrences rather to be anticipated than wondered at.
There is, after all, in the human mind very little individuality
in the power of originating what is new. However
singularly, and as it were by its own special selection from
the thousands of incidents passing before it in the world,
or by its own secre* power of invention, it may endeavour

KETURN TO IRELAKD. 175

to construct some new tale or drama, it will be found that
its selections or inventions have been unconsciously sug-
gested by some relations they bear to the acquirements,
or literature, or fashion of the day, which are equally at
the same time influencing other minds. So far, therefore,
from its being improbable, in the selection or construction
of new stories, that other writers should at the same
moment hit upon the same choice or invention, the pro-
bability really is always in favour of their doing so. This
fact was so strongly impressed on Gerald's own miad, that
I never knew him plan any piece suggested by the circum-
stances or events of the times, that he was not most
anxious to bring it out speedily, lest he should be fore-
stalled by some other writer.

" On tho completion of Holland-tide, Gerald took the
manuscript to Messrs. Simpkin and Marshall, who returned
him a favourable opinion in a few days, and on a second
interview purchased the copyright for £70. As his
constitution seemed much shaken by his prolonged and
exhausting labours, and he looked upon this connection as
giving him an opportunity of making a character with the
public, the effect of which he had much reliance on, I was
able to persuade him to accompany me to Ireland towards
the close of the year."

CHAPTER VIII.

CONTINUATION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE WITH MB. BANEtf —
EXPLANATIONS — RECONCILIATION — ALLUSION TO RELIGIOUS
OPINIONS— CLARE ELECTION OF 1828-^CONCLUSION OF COR-
RESPONDENCE.

As the correspondence with Mr. Banim, which has been
just entered upon in the preceding account, gives a very
clear perception of Gerald's real character and disposition,

176 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

it will be better to proceed with it in this place. It will be
found to exhibit both in a point of view highly favourable,
and I feel the more bound, therefore, to go on with it now,
as I have already brought before the reader, in a very
pointed manner, some circumstances which may have given
a contrary impression, and some acts of his which seemed
to do violence to their friendship.

The last letter which he wrote, though sufficiently expla-
natory, had, as we have seen, been followed by no reply.
Though he foimd it impossible, from this circumstance, to
take any further steps towards renewing their former
intimacy, the cessation of their usual intercourse was deeply
distressing to him. He could never look upon the loss of
Mr. Banim's friendship as any other than a deep misfortune,
and above all, feeling keenly as he did the many valuable
obligations he owed him, it was peculiarly painful to him
to have it thought, as it perhaps might be, that he lay
open to the imputation of being ungrateful to so excellent
a friend. The letters we have seen do not give any ade-
quate conception of the depth of this feeling, for whenever
any painful emotion affected him strongly, it was in general
very much controlled in its expression. It is only the
length to which he pushed his efforts to procure a reconci-
liation, and the overflowing and undisguised delight which
he manifested on being restored at last to his friend's full
confidence, that can show us how severely he felt the priva-
tion of it. The last letter was written, as we have seen,
in August, 1826. In the month of January following,
being about to leave town, and not having received any
reply to it, he wrote the following :

Gerald Griffin to John Bardm.

January 19th, 1827.
Dear Sir, — My brother, who is leaving London with me in
a few days, has asked me for a manuscript, which you may
remember having had the kindness to read at my request a

CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. BANIM. 177

long time since. If you will leave it out for bis messenger on
Saturday, and excuse this trouble, you will oblige,

Yours, &c, Gerald Gunny.

I have got a book of yours, which I will return on Saturday.
I don't know what has made you forget me so completely, but
if it was anything in my last letter, I am catholic enough to
be sorry for it. I thought you did not treat me fairly.

To this letter no reply was received. He therefore, on
the twenty-ninth of the same month, wrote as follows :

Gerald Griffin to John Banim.

January 29th, 1827.
My dear Sir, — I went to Mount-street yesterday and to-
day, in the hope of seeing you, but in the first instance I had
taken a wrong number, and in the second did not find you at
home. I leave London early to-morrow morning, and wish
to say a few words on your last letter before I go. After
thinking a good deal on the subject, I am very willing to admit
the truth of what you say, and to acknowledge that some
unfortunate circumstance in my temper or disposition has
prevented my meeting your kind exertions to serve me as they
deserved. Requesting you to accept my thanks now from my
heart for all you have done for me, and hoping that I may return
in a better spirit, I remain, my dear sir, yours very truly,

Gerajld Griffin.

I saw Mr. Arnold for the first time last week since I had
the happiness to see you. He is very kind and cordial, and
requested that I would present you his remembrances.

Having sent this letter to the post-office, Gerald left
town. It appears by the post-mark to have been received
by Mr. Banim on the day it was written, yet, notwithstand-
ing the nature of its contents, the greater part of the year
was allowed to pass away without any acknowledgment of
its receipt, or anything being sent in the shape of a reply
to it. In the mean time, Gerald having again spent some
time in town, and being again about to leave it, wrote in
the month of October as follows :

M

173 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Gerald Griffin to John Banim.

24. Xorthuniberland-street, Regent's Park,
October 19th, 1S27.

My dear Sir,— I have been endeavouring to find you, in
vain, since my return to London. I inquired at Mount-street,
it! Mr. Colburn's. and from 2\Ir. Arnold, but could only learn
that you were then at Hasting.?. In case I should not be
able to see you before I leave London. I -wish to communicate in
writing what could be done with more satisfaction in person.

Had I the pleasure of seeing you before I left England
this letter might be unnecessary, and I am very sorry now that
I did not. I wish to explain to you more fully the cause of
the long silence which we both seemed to expect should be
first broken by the other, and the fault of which, I am ready to
acknowledge, rested with myself. The fact was, I felt hurt
by your letter, in which you charged me with wanting a sense
of the advantage I had derived from your kindness, (which
. recollecting the temper of my previous letter, I fear
you were not without grounds for.) and acting on that feeling
I wrote again, what I at the time thought ought to be a satisfac-
tory answer. I expected a few words to say whether it had been
so or not, but they never came, and thence that absence which
you say astonished you. It was an error, I acknowledge, but
yet not wholly without excuse. I never entered your house
without reluctance, even when you were most warm and kind ;
excuse me if I could not do so when you seemed to wear an
altered face. That, and that alone, was the cause of my absence.

For the rest I have only to say, I owe you much, and I thank
you. If it has seemed otherwise to you, believe my present
assurance. It must have seemed otherwise, or you would not
have left my letter unanswered. Be a good Christian — forget
and forgive.

1 hope to leave a parcel directed for you at !Mr. Colburn's, of
Which I request your acceptance, begging at the same time that
you will keep my secret, as it is not my concern alone. I take
also this opportunity of assuring you of the sincere delight with
which I heard of an event in your family, which must have
been a source of much happiness to you.

I have another favour to beg of you, which I am sure you
will not hesitate to grant me. It is, that you will expunge
from the play which you presented for me, the passage in the
tcene between the Irishman and the hero, comprising the few
sentences just before " she talks philosophy." You may laugh

RECONCILIATION. 179

at my introducing this matter, but I am unwilling to trouble
Mr. Arnold myself, and the passage may be objectionable.
Once more wishing you all the health, happiness, and peace
which you can desire or deserve, I am, with sincere esteem and
gratitude, Yours,

Gerald Griffin.

My words have so often failed to convey what I intended,
that I am not without apprehension lest by any possibility I
should again be misconceived. I wish, therefore, to say once
more distinctly — and to entreat you to understand and believe
it — that the only feeling at present on my mind is that of
sincere regret for what has passed, and anxiety that you should
be satisfied of it. Either in vanity or in folly, or in whatever
you please, I thought I filled too humble a part in the whole
transaction, and this made me fretted with myself, and for-
ward to anticipate a slight, where I am certain, on proper
reflection, none was intended. It was not what you deserved,
but it was my mistake ; your not answering my letter confirmed
me in this bad feeling, which, as I have learned to correct, I
hope you will no more remember. G. G.

To this letter Mr. Banim at last seat the following
reply, which led to the subjoined correspondence, ending
in a perfect renewal of their former intimacy and good
understanding :

John Banim to Gerald Griffin.

Bath Hotel, Piccadilly, Nov. 1827.
My dear Sir, — You mistake in thinking that I have ever had
the most remote notion of a misunderstanding with you. The
last letter we interchanged on the subject of your drama, a
year and a half ago, seemed to me quite satisfactory. When
4 you were leaving town about six months after, your note suggest-
ing that some peculiarity (or a word to that effect, or perhaps
stronger) of your own mind must have caused your previous
doubts, I recognised as a most ample though unnecessary expla-
nation. I became assured you were content, as I was, with
our renewed good understanding, and sincerely in this feeling
I desired in a letter I wrote to Limerick to your cousin last
April to be kindly remembered to you. I do not know how
[ shall make further answer to your letter of the 19th October,
received by me only two days since ; one sentence alone — viz.,

180 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

4 ' I never entered your house without reluctance, even when
you were most warm and kind," — sounds somewhat strangely
to my ear, because, during our years of close intimacy, when
your visits were always welcome to me, I had never supposed
such to be the case. I have written to Mr. Arnold to the
effect you wished.

The parcel you do me the favour to procure me has not
appeared at Mr. Colburn's.

I am, my dear sir, yours very truly,

John Banim.

Gerald Griffin to John Banim.

No date.

My dear Sir, — "When I received your last letter (late on
November 6th) I hurried off to the Bath Hotel, in the hope of
being able to see you, but was much disappointed at finding
you had left it that morning. I am pleased to learn my mis-
take, but I was led into it by your letter of last January, and
— allow me to say — your long silence after my former note on
leaving London. Your remembrance I never received.

You will oblige me by accepting these volumes, which,
though faulty enough, may yet answer the purpose for which I
send them. I leave London to-morrow inoming, and regret
much that all my efforts should have failed in endeavouring to
see you, the more especially as I do not purpose returning for
some considerable time.

The feeling which renders one reluctant in trespassing on
the kindness of a good friend, I can scarcely think so new or
strange as you seem to imagine. I should be very sorry it was
so ; but I ought to remember a conversation on this subject
which showed me that your opinions on this matter were
different from those of,

My dear sir, yours sincerely,

Gerald Griffin.

For "reluctance" read "diffidence," and perhaps we ma^
agree.

John Banim to Gerald Griffin.

Seven Oaks. Kent,

April 17th, 1828.
My dear Slr, — Not till the other day, when I ran up to
town, did I receive at Mr. Colburn's the " Tales of the Munster

RECONCILIATION. 181

Festivals, " with the accompanying note. How long they had
previously lain there I cannot tell, nor has a reference to your
note enabled me to decide, as it is without date ; but I feel
very uneasy under the apprehension that you may have sent
them about the time of publication, because if you reckoned
on their speedy transmission to me, your not hearing from me
in the mean time must have seemed to place me before your
eyes in a light very different indeed from that in which I sin«
cerely wish, as 1 ever have done, to be regarded by you.

My best thanks for the volumes. I have read them with,
the highest gratification, and warmly congratulate you on the
talents they display, as well as the success they have met with.
That you thus at last triumph in a great degree, as I hope,
over the neglects and annoyances of your first residence in
London, is to me a matter of some triumph also, to say nothing
of the pleasure it affords me, because, in common with all who
were known to you, I claim the foresight of having long
destined you to no common fortune in the battle for Literary
fame. Accept my very best wishes for your continued and
augmented success.

I am very sorry you did not see me at the Bath Hotel last
autumn, or that I did not soon after get something like the
note that accompanied your tales. The simple explanation of
one simple word given in the postscript of that note, would
have saved me ever since the exceedingly painful feeling of
thinking you unkind ; but I now heartily rejoice at being
undeceived, and the hand that you hold out I take, ay, and
shake, exploded as is the custom, not only with an unalloyed
feeling of, believe me, warm esteem and friendship, but with
a Lightened bosom, and a mind more at rest, than the idea of
our estrangement would allow me to experience.

I hope you will drop me a line very soon. I shall be very un-
easy till I know you have got this. Accept my most grateful
thanks for the handsome terms in which my tales are men-
tioned in certain printed pages. Mrs. Banim joins me in
kindest remembrances and good wishes, while I remain,
My dear sir, yours truly and affectionately,

John Bantm.

However peculiar the frame of mind may be thought
which influenced Gerald to decline the good offices of those
who were sometimes disposed to forward his views, these
letters certainly contain ample evidence of a warm and
generous heart, and a most amiable and affectionate dispo-

182 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

sition. They are, indeed, equally creditable to both the
friends, and exhibit very distinctly the difference of their
characters ; for thongh Mr. Banim may, perhaps, be blamed
for keeping his friend so long under a painful anxiety, yet,
when he does write, his manner is open-hearted, straight-
forward, and clear ; while Gerald, with an affection evi-
dently quite as fervent, seems — until the mists which had
clouded their friendship were dispelled — much more guarded
in its utterance. As some of those which follow touch
upon a subject of a very serious character, I feel that I can-
not introduce them without some remark. The reader will
remember in the " Lines to a Departed Friend," quoted in
the early part of this memoir, a few expressions in which
Gerald seems with a deep and painful sensitiveness to accuse
himself of a temporary loss of religious feeling. He alludes
more distinctly to this in a note which will be found in the
preface to " The Christian Physiologist,"* a very beautiful

* " We would pray the reader not to consider these few lines as
an intrusion on his time, but to pardon them, as originating in a
sense of duty, which the writer owes to his Creator, to some dear
friends, and to himself. It has happened that in younger days,
when his character was yet unformed — unsettled — his mind but in-
differently developed — his heart filled with ambitious and distract-
ing passions, which rendered self-knowledge and clearness of judg-
ment not merely difficult but impossible, the opinions (if they then
deserved the name) of the writer of this book were different frofci
those which may in a slight degree be found scattered over its pages,
and more particularly in the portrait above alluded too. It is a
satisfaction to him, therefore, to leave a record of the real, solid,
and deeply pondered opinions of his manhood, in the hands of those
whom the example or conversation of his youth (for a certain period)
might have had the slightest influence in misleading. He does
not deem it incumbent on him here to furnish, even to those persons,
the foundations and support of his present opinions, for the same
arguments, and still more sacred modes of conviction, which were
successful with him are open to all. He only wishes that all those
in whose presence his lips may have ever rashly dropped a sentiment
of error, may now clearly understand that the opinions here put
forward, as they were those which education instilled into his mind,
are also those in which it is his fondest hope to die. The conviction

RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 183

work — the first of a series designed for the amusement and
instruction of the young. These letters seem to give some
insight into its real nature, yet, from the note to which 1
allude, it would seem, even on his own showing, that what
he felt so painfully scarcely, deserved the name of opinion,
and my belief is, that neither with Mr. Banim nor him
(though both in a certain degree confess it) did it ever
amount to more than that partial forgetfulness of religious
duty, which should not, under any circumstances, be spoken
lightly of, but which is, perhaps, not unfrequent with those
who are left early to their own guardianship. He speaks
of these opinions as taken up in his younger days, " when
his character was yet unformed, his mind but indifferently
developed, and his heart filled with ambitious and distract-
ing passions, which rendered self-knowledge and clearness
of judgment," as he says, " not merely difficult, but im-
possible." Under these circumstances, remembering hiss
early struggles, and the kind of spirit, as regards religion,
that prevails in intellectual circles in London — remembering,
too, the entire absence of all his early associations, it is not

of their truth, as it is by far the most intimate impression which has
ever been made upon his soul, is also doubly dear to his heart, from
his slight and brief experience of the hollowness and insufficiency cf
others. But this is not the place for him to say all he feels upon
this subject — all his sorrow for the wanderings of his own mind, and
all his anxiety fur the safe conduct of those who have the same in-
experience, and all the same dangers to contend with. Some future
work, perhaps, may afford him an opportunity of speaking more
fully upon it, than it would be proper to do even in a note to a book
intended, in a great measure, for amusing purposes. For what has
here been said, he entreats the reader's indulgence, for he is sensible
that there is often an obtrusion in self-blame, as well as in self-
praise, between which it is difficult to follow the path of discretion
and simple duty. Nothing, indeed, but duty can render entirely
blameless the obtrusion of feelings so sacred and intimate upon the at-
tention of others, but he calculates with confidence on the reader's just
construction of his words, which leave him at liberty to return with
a lighter heart and soul to the vigorous employment of time.'' — Preface
to the Christian Physiologist, pagi xi note.

184 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

wonderful that the errors he accuses himself of should hare
arisen. It is, indeed, all things considered, rather to be
wondered at that they were not more deep and irretriev-
able. Whatever they amounted to — whether to mere care-
lessness in religious practice, or to serious questionings of
important religious truths, its not uncommon consequence,
or even to an actual loss of faith in some of them for a time
— it is certain from these letters, as well as other passages
in his writings, that in calmer moments they brought him
intense pain, took a deep and enduring hold on his mind,
and prompted him afterwards to every kind of reparation,
which his keen sense of their mischievous influence de-
manded. I have reason to believe, that communications
were made, and letters written with the same view, to others
also as well as to Mr. Banim, and I shall give, further on,
a few addressed to one dear and valued friend of his, now
no more, which throw additional light on this subject, and
in which, in an earnest, yet gentle and unobtrusive manner,
and with the most tender and affectionate solicitude, he en-
deavours to remove from his mind the evil which he supposes
liis conversations, and the apparent worldliness even of his
later religious practice, had occasioned. Those letters came
into my possession since the former edition of this memoir was
published, and exhibit in a remarkable degree the depth to
which the feeling I speak of penetrated. One would have
thought, that, as the number of persons who were exposed
to tide influence could not have been large, it would have
satisfied his ideas of what was necessary, to make his retrac
tation with each of them privately, as he did with Mr. Banim,
and not to reveal openly to the whole world what it never
had the least suspicion of, and otherwise never could have
known ; that, in fact, as those matters were of a private
nature, and had given no public scandal or disedification,
it would be mischievous rather than serviceable to religion,
voluntarily and without any apparent necessity to make
such disclosures. But, besides the certainty that no cause

RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 185

whatever is bettered by concealment, it must be remem-
bered that the course I have spoken of was not in every
instance possible ; and even if it were, he had no means of
knowing to what extent the evil might have passed beyond
those to whom it was originally communicated. He pro-
bably thought, therefore, that his only remaining alterna-
tive was, by an open unreserved declaration, to meet it in
every possible channel into which it might have flowed ;
to render misconception in future impossible ; and thus,
in an humble spirit, once for all to unburden his heart, and
discharge the duty which, as he says, " he owed to his
Creator, to some dear friends, and to himself." Many will
think his sensibility on these . points exaggerated, and his
efforts pushed to an extreme altogether unnecessary ; others,
on the contrary, will be of opinion, that much too worldly a
view is often taken of these matters, and that their real in-
trinsic evil is, for the most part, entirely unappreciated. VvTith-
out entering into any discussion of this question, it is clear, at
least, that Gerald took by far the safer side, and the fervent
and charitable endeavours to which his conscientious feeling
stimulated him, and the gentle mode in which they were
carried into execution, will, I think, tend greatly to exalt
his character.

Gerald Grijjin to John Banim.

P; lias Kenry, Ireland,

April 22nd, 1827.
My dear Sir, — I had the happiness to receive late last
night your most acceptable and friendly letter, for which I
return you my warmest thanks. It was a pleasure indeed
which I had almost despaired of enjoying, but it was not on
that account the less delightful. It made amends, and ample
amends to me, for a great deal of bitter reflection— such as I
shall be careful never to give occasion for while I live ; and it
afforded me likewise the satisfaction of feeling that I had not
overrated the generosity of your character. Whatever faults
had been committed — whatever misconceptions had arisen, I
was confident that when I had endeavoured to explain the

186 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

one, and freely acknowledged the other, you would not con-
tinue to "withhold from me that friendship which was one of
the most valued consolations of my life, and the loss of which
I could never have considered in any other light than as a deep
misfortune.

The books I sent to Mr. Colburn's when I was leaving
England, a few days after their publication. Knowing, how-
ever, that you were not then residing in London, I could not
be sure that you had received them before I got your letter.
I do not know whether I mentioned to you in the note that
accompanied the volumes, that I had immediately on receiving
your letter (about ten at night) ran down to Piccadilly in the
hope of seeing you, but, to my great disappointment, I found
that you had that day left the hotel. I regretted the circum-
stance extremely, as I was assured that a personal interview
would have done more to accomplish a clear understanding
"between us than any written explanation.

And now, my dear friend, that we do fully understand one
another — now that you do so kindly and unreservedly admit
me into your friendship — a happiness of which I am prouder
than I can easily express — will you permit me to offer one
suggestion that may prevent a recurrence of those unhappy
mistakes from which I have suffered so keenly? I am often, I see,
unfortunate in the choice of my expressions. I seem frequently
to mean that which is farthest from my intention, and to convey
subject for offence, in terms that are only designed to express
esteem and attachment. Let us not therefore, in a world where
we can hardly afford to throw away any rational enjoyment,
suffer the sentiments which we may entertain for one another
to be disturbed by any misconceptions to which a letter may
give occasion. If a sentence should occur to furnish a subject
for doubt, let us meet and speak clearly ; and then, if either
should be found unworthy of the other's confidence, let him be
punished by losing it.

I have seen, during the last few weeks, an announcement of a
new work from the author of. the O'Hara Tales — " The
Croppy," the action of which is fixed at a period of strong in-
terest— a period worthy of being celebrated by a waiter who
is not afraid to encounter a stern and tumultuous subject. I
am not familiar with the history of these times, but I remem-
ber hearing (indeed it must be known to you) of the burning
of a barn — in Wexford I think — which would have supplied
the subject of a forcible episode. But you felt no want of ma-
terials for such a work, neither did this circumstance, now I
remember, reflect much honour on the insurgents.

RELIGIOUS OPINIONS. 187

I have to return you my sincere thanks for the kind manner
in which you speak of my hasty volumes. I have been long
since made aware of their numerous faults, and am endeavour-
ing, as all well disposed people ought, to profit by experience.
But though I am sensible that I should have acted more wisely
by delaymg their publication and devoting more time to their
improvement, yet t do not regret having put them forward,
even if they should procure me no other advantage than that of
recovering an old and valued friend. I remember your speak-
ing to me, on one occasion, of a work which is greatly wanted
at the present moment — a History of Ireland. I should be
sorry to think that you had wholly relinquished the idea. It
is a subject, however, which affords a fairer field for the pursuit
of fame than that of fortune, and on that account is little
likely to be popular with writers who are able to accomplish
both. 1 have seen one lately announced — from the pen of
some Colonel I believe.

Were we now to meet, you would I dare say find a consider-
able alteration in many of my opinions. One I do not think
it right to withhold from you. You may remember some con-
versations we had at a time when you lent me a little edition
of " Paley's Evidences ?" The sentiments which you then ex-
pressed surprised me a little, when I remembered some former
remarks of yours with which they contrasted very strongly.
This circumstance, joined with others, led me to a course of
study and reflection, which, with (I hope) the divine assistance,
ended in the complete re-establishment of my early convictions.
The works which I read were (after Paley's) Milner's " End of
Controversy," and Massillon's Sermons, both very able works.
I mention my change of opinion on this great subject, because
it is a slight part of the great reparation that is due from me,
and I mention the occasion of that change, to show how much
good or how much evil a person may do by the expression ol
his opinions in the presence of others, and how very careful he
ought to be in assuring himself that his opinions are correct,
before he ventures to communicate them to those with whom
his talents and his reputation may give him an influence. An
author, my dear friend, has a fearful card to play in domestic
society as well as before the public. But why should I take
the liberty of pursuing such a theme as this so far ? Forgive
me for it this single time, as I was tempted only by a deep
anxiety for your happiness. I thought, too, that the circum-
stance above mentioned would give you a pleasure.

If your brother should not be at present in England with
you, will you do me the kindness to present him my best re-

188 LIFE OF GERALD GEIFFIN.

membrances when next you write ? One of those " fair occa-
sions gone for ever by," — yet no, not for ever, I hope — which I
regret to have lost during my residence in London, is the op-
portunity I had of becoming better acquainted with him. I
had something more to say, but my paper fails me. Is our
correspondence to terminate here ? I anticipate a speedy and
generous " No," — for though your time be precious, yet you
would not hesitate to devote a few moments to one secluded
as I am here, if you knew the happiness that it would afford
me. Present my best remembrances to Mrs. Banim, whose
health I hope most sincerely is improved, and, with the warm-
est esteem and affection, believe me to be,

My dear sir, yours faithfully,

Gerald Griffin.

John Banim to Gerald Griffin.

Seven Oaks, May 27th, 1828.

My dear GErFFTN", — You see I lead the way. Be assured
that your last, of April 22nd, gives me heart-felt pleasure. My
old harp of a heart has a string restored to it. I accept your
invitation not to allow anything that may occur in letters be-
tween us to start a doubt in future of your friendship or cha-
racter. Let me add my own covenant. When we meet, treat
me more bluntly, off-handedly, and talkatively than you have
done. I now am sure that an unlucky diffidence hitherto re-
gulated (or rather disarranged) your social manner. However,
I shall be happier with you, if, amongst your other recent
changes, you have acquired the knack of treating a friend differ-
ently, and I close this topic by protesting against your supposing
that I here mean an iota which does not broadly meet your
eyes.

Your religious revolutions in opinion I shall not merely con-
gratulate you upon ; I do more, by sympathising with them.
Yes, I fear when we first met, and for some time after, that my
own religious creed was vague and profane, and I sincerely ask
your pardon for any word of mine which may have tended to
set you astray. But it is so remarkable that Paley should have
been the first to call us back to the right path. And perhaps
more remarkable still, that, although mixing up abuse of Popery
with proofs of Christianity, he should have helped to make us
Catholics, as well as believers in revelation.

I envy you your life in poor Ireland. My health has been

CLARE ELECTION. 189

bad since I saw you. I nearly lost the use of my limbs, but
can now limp about on a stick.

I write you a short and hasty letter. Till this day, since I
had the great pleasure of receiving your last, I have been very
busy, and ill enough into the bargain, and this morning I start
with Mrs. Banim to make a long-promised visit to the Rev.
James Dunn (a man I wish you knew, the same whom Shiel
some time ago speeched praises of) and his lady to Tunbridge
Wells, but will not go till I answer your letter, and this ac-
counts, I hope, for the kind of one it is, Pray write soon, and
believe me your affectionate friend,

John Banim.

Gerald Griffin to John Banim.

Pallas Kenry, Ireland,

July 4th, 1828.

My dear Banim. — Just returned from a visit to our glorious
lakes, and just on the wing for another excursion, I take a few
moments to thank you for your warm-hearted letter. I ac-
quiesce in your covenant in all its conditions, and sincerely
trust that from this time forward there may be an end of all
explanations or occasion for explanations between us. I was
glad to hear from the "John Murray" of our city, that " The
Croppy" was very successful. I have not, however, yet had the
pleasure of reading it, having been scarcely stationary for a sin-
gle day since its publication.*

I returned from Killarney by the county of Clare, which is
at present the scene of a contest in which you cannot but take
a strong interest. The people have certainly proved them-
selves to be a most resolute set of fellows — no drunkenness —
no riot — patience and coolness beyond anything that could
have been looked for. They fill the streets more like a set of
Pythagorean philosophers than a mob of Munstermen. I heard
your friend Mr. Shiel address them with great effect the other
day, and think him incomparably the foremost orator among the
liberators — quite another person from the gentleman whom I
once heard in the Freemason's hall in London. I should like
much to know what people say of the struggle in your part of the
world. I was longing for the honour of an introduction to Mr.
Shiel, and went once to his lodgings with a friend in hopes to
see him, but was not fortunate enough to find the great little
man at home. I consider myself very lucky, nevertheless,

190 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

in having seen and heard nearly the whole of our agitators un-
der circumstances so well calculated to call forth the nature of
the animals, as I once heard you say of the beasts you saw at
feeding time in Exeter 'Change. The transition, too, was deli-
cious, from the calm and Eden-like serenity of the lakes to the
turbulence and uproar of such a scene as this election. There
is, I believe, little doubt that before now Daniel 0*Connell is
an M.P. I am most delighted at the idea, although some peo-
ple think the interests of the country might be placed in the
hands of a better politician than he is reputed to be.

As you seem to have fixed your residence in the ruling island,
some occasion may arise in the course of your literary occupa-
tions, to make you desire a minute acquaintance with forgotten
. 3enes in your native country. If so, I am on the spot, and I
wi]] consider it as an obligation if you will command my oppor-
tunities, as far as you may find necessary, in bringing them to
your recollection. I hope you will not hesitate to call on me
for anything I can do in this way, and I hope, too, that I need
not tell you what pleasure I shall feel in obeying your sum-
mons. I had enough to encounter in the way of ill health since
I saw you, to feel a ready sympathy in your sufferings, though
I was far from imagining that they were of so serious a nature
as you describe. I trust that you may before now have got rid
altogether of the attack, and that you will not provoke a return
of it by too laborious application. Give your leisure to Eng-
land, but reserve your health and strength for your country
and your friends. I am, my dear Banim, yours sincerely
and affectionately, Gerald Gelffis".

The reader will not forget the celebrated Clare election
of 1828, alluded to in this letter. The speech of Mr. Shiel,
which Gerald congratulates himself on having heard, was
one of the most brilliant essays in public speaking I ever
witnessed. I had reason to know that it was quite extem-
pore, for some friends of ours, who had never seen him
before, and were anxious to hear him speak, went to some
of his acquaintances, and requested them to bring him for-
ward on the plea that the multitude, with whom the streets
were thronged, might become impatient unless they had
some subject before them. He presently appeared in the
balcony. c,nd, notwithstanding some disadvantages in voice

CLARE ELECTION. 191

and manner, delivered a speech of greater effect and power
than any I ever remember. The streets -were thronged to
suffocation — the occasion was a great one — he seemed to
feel fully its importance, and his language ascended with it.
What he said on this occasion was never reported, nor do
I think that any report could do it complete justice. I
uever saw anything like Gerald's rapture about it. He
seemed to listen all through with such an eager attention,
as if he feared lest a single word or sentiment should escape
liim. The moment Mr. Shiel had retired from the window,
he turned to a friend, with his eyes sparkling, and his whole
countenance kindled with the utmost enthusiasm, and said,
'•TVell, did vou ever in your life hear anything to equal
that ?" I subjoin the reply of Mr. Banim to this letter, and an
additional letter of Gerald's, which brings to a close the only
portion of their correspondence that has fallen into my hands.

John Banim to Gerata irnjfiu.

Seven Oaks, Kent,

September 22nd, 1828.

My dear Griffin, — I much envy you your little trip to our
lakes, and hope I am not going to die before I see them again.
Thanks for your kind offer of (as I read it) making some
sketches in your road for me, but after your most liberal ex-
emptions in favour of the O'Hara Family, ho w can I expect, or
ask, or receive anything of the kind at your hands ?

You had a treat indeed in seeing the Clare heroes. They
have wonderfully raised us in the moral scale, and, as far as my
feelings go, inspired me with admiration. Indeed the whole
attitude of our dear country is just now gratifying in the high-
est degree. I have lately been writing to it " Songs for Irish
Catholics,'5 (not yet done,) which I hope may serve to connect
my name with the present glorious struggle, and (humbly in-
deed be it spoken) perhaps do some little good to our cause.
When you see them (if that is ever to be) pray tell me how
you like them.

All the Englishmen I know here think well of your goings
on in Ireland, and wish success. U you proceed as you have

192 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

begun, you must succeed, bod if one drop of blood ia shed, you
will be trampled down. Yours, dear Griffin, ever sincerely,

John Basim.

Gerald Griffin to John Banim.

London, January 17th, 1829.

My Dear BA>~ni, — I am ashamed to offer you the only apo-
logy I have to make, for so long delaying to thank you for your
kind visit and note, the latter of -which I received in half an
hour after you left my lodgings. The card left at old Slaughter's
was my brother's — he regrets much that he was not at home.
Sickness both of mind and frame, enough of writing to make
one hate the pen, and much engrossing occupation, prolonged
to a more considerable period than I had anticipated, constitute
the poor apology of which I have spoken, and which I hope
you will accept.

Your letter sent by Mr. Shiel found me not at home in Ire-
land, and has reached me here. It was not idleness or indif-
ference (that fatal word !) which has prevented my sending
you the little drama before now. The fact was, I happened
to overtake it in London, where it was still in my brother's
hands, and found on a glance or two that it wanted more alter-
ation and improvement than my time would allow me to
bestow on it at present, so that I must let it he in my desk for
a moment of greater leisure. I hope to be done with this
clumsy, inhospitable, selfish, sensual, and unsocial metropolis
in a week or two.

As I draw towards the close of my labours here, I am casting
an eye about to know where I shall bestow myself during the
Spring, Summer, and Autumn. I thought of Ireland — but that
is so old. Of France, but I have no curiosity about their litera-
ture, and their language is too cheap a thing to induce me to
go and live among them for that alone. Vienna — I waver be«
tween that and the sweet south, and am inclined to thinfe
that I shall fold my wings in Florence for a time. Vienna,
I understand, is desirable in many respects besides that for
which I should like it (the opportunity of reading its books and
learning its language) — it is cheap (a great point for a poor
fellow like me) — and society is open and un-Londonish — a
great point also for me since I have begun to find it morally
impossible to live without it. But I have a leaning towards
Italy — my brain is sick of horrors, and I should, I think,
find it fatten and grow merry over the melting prose and

LETTER TO JOHN BANM. 193

poetry of the south. Besides, as a Florentine physician here
informs me, I can live as I should wish to do in London —
learn to speak the purest Tuscan — and go to the theatre
three times a week for fifty pounds a year. They seem to
look on the theatre as a part of their diet.

Who is the last Irish novelist — the author of the Anglo Irish ?
He has baffled all inquiry at all events. I have not read it,
but the greatest number of voices give it to you, and some
(whom I know to have the highest opinion of the O'Hara Family)
refuse you that honour, or rather that honour to the Anglo>
Irish. I must get it, if only to see whether there is a single Hash
from Shawn-a-Gow's forge to be found in the whole of it to give
rise to such a rumour. Have you finished the work of which
you spoke some time since — Songs for Irish Catholics ? Most
warmly shall I congratulate you if you indeed succeed in giving:
us a book of real national songs ; you will do what has not yet
been done for Ireland in the poetical way, as you have done
already in the prose.

I am looking anxiously forward to a release from my task
here, in the hope of being able to see you at Seven Oaks. "Will
you present my best remembrances to Mrs. Banim, and very
best wishes for her health as well as for your own ? Believe me,
dear Banim, yours very sincerely,

Gerald Griffin.

CHAPTER IX.

1827—1828.

gerald's return to pallas kenry — death of his sister — son-
net to her memory tales of the munster festivals

life at pallas kenry — his great power of abstraction

optnions on literary people campbell — byron — moof.b

and burns — fondness for nature and reality — the un-
intelligible school of poetry — coleridge's table talk
—gerald's love of music and fine taste in it.

The pleasure which Gerald would have felt on his resto-
ration to home after such trials as we have been speaking

N

U 4 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN

of, may be easily conceived. It was, however, overclouded
in the very moment of its enjoyment by an event he was
little prepared for, — the death of that sister whose sufferings
he seems to have felt so keenly, which occurred almost at
the moment of their reunion, with a painful suddenness, and
under circumstances that rendered the affliction doubly dis-
tressing to him.

Her health had been declining for a considerable time,
but the changes were so gradual that they were scarcely
perceived by those about her. She was, however, sensible
of them herself, and this made her look with an anxious
and almost painful solicitude to his long promised visit.

" Dear Gerald," she says in a letter a short time previously,
" a visit from you was a thing that had sometimes occurred in
my day-dreams, and I now dwell on it with the more pleasure,
from the idea that you must be pretty certain of it, or you would
not run the risk of disappointing me. You will find me, I think,
much changed when you come. Will you tell me why is Spring
always represented so beautiful, and smiling, and amiable, and
all that ? If you should ever paint her, pray give her an ugly,
a very ugly face, or if she must smile, let it be with a counte-
nance like that of puss, when she plays with her victim before
giving it the coup de grace : and if they ask you the cause of
ail this malice, say, that ' she shows no mercy to invalids.' "

There seemed a kind of presentiment in these expressions.
Gerald arrived in Limerick early in February, 1827. His
brother, who accompanied him, proceeded immediately to
Pallas Kenry, while he remained in town, and this circum-
stance deprived him of the happiness of ever again seeing
his sister alive.

I started for Limerick at a very eariy hour to meet him,
and I cannot forget how much I was struck by the change
his London life had made in his appearance. His features
looked so thin and pale, and his cheeks so flattened, and as
it were bloodless, that the contrast with what I remem-
bered was horrid, while his voice was feeble, and slightly
raised in its pitch, like that of one recovering from a linger-

DEATH OF HIS SISTER. 195

tug illness. It was affecting, in these circumstances, to ob-
serve the sudden and brilliant light that kindled in his eyes
on first seeing me, and the smile of welcome that played
over his features and showed the spirit within unchanged.
About the middle of the day, while crossing tlie street, we
were met by some friends who had been seeking us, and
who informed Gerald, with as much gentleness as the cir-
cumstances would admit of, that shortly after I had left
home, his sister had been seized with a sudden oppression,
and, after a few minutes' suffering, had expired in the arms
of her brother. Whether the sudden excitement of having
seen that brother the evening before, or the pleasure with
which she anticipated Gerald's return, had hastened an
event that was not in any case far distant, could not be
told. The shock to Gerald was dreadful. He reeled,
staggered, and wonld, I believe, have fallen, but for those
who were standing by. His features were violently agi-
tated, and showed signs of a most painful agony, the expres-
sion of which he made powerful efforts to control. He
turned very pale, and drew his breath deeply four or five
times, but spoke not a word. After some time he became
calm enough to make some inquiry into the circumstances,
and we proceeded on our melancholy journey. The even-
ing which he spent was, as may be judged, very different
from any he had anticipated. He had not seen his sister
now for some years. He had always been sincerely and
deeply attached to her, and one of the brightest pleasures
he had looked forward to on his return was the renewal
of that cheerful intercourse, which he had often during his
absence remembered as a blessing that could not be too
highly prized. Had he even completed his journey the
previous evening, as his brother had done, he might have
enjoyed that blessing once again, but now all was at an end,
and she who would have welcomed him to his old fireside
Avith more than a sister's fondness, was insensible to his
Diesence. and lav before him, pale, mute, and motionless i

196 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

From what I have said above of the state of his health
at this time, it would be no wonder if this sudden blow
affected him with a dangerous degree of force. Indeed it
was sufficient to have shaken nerves of a much stronger
character than his, and he did feel it for some time with a
most painful intensity; but I never knew any one who
possessed so deep a sensibility as he did, that showed at
the same time so much energy in overmastering the feeling?
to which it subjected him. Time, too, that never fails to
wear down the edge of the acutest suffering, lent its aid,
and he gradually resumed his usual cheerfulness. The me-
mory of his sister, however, if it became less painful, became
also only the more hallowed as time passed on. Associated
as it was with her virtues, her calmness of mind, and her
unswerving piety, it seemed as if his contemplations re-
garding her referred to some being of a superior order.
Those qualities which gave rise to affection during her life-
time, produced a species of veneration now that she was
gone, and, some months after her death, he at last gave
utterance to his feelings in the following exquisite lines :

Oh ! not for ever lost, though on our ear
Those uncomplaining accents fall no more>
And Earth has won, and never can restore

That form that well-worn grief made doubly dear.

Oh ! not for ever lost, though hope may rear
No more sweet visions in the future now,
And even the memory of that pallid brow

Grows unfamiliar with each passing year.

Though lowly be thy place on earth, and few
The tongues that name thee on thy native plains,

Where sorrow first thy gentle presence cross'd,

And dreary tints o'er all the future threw,

While life's young zeal yet triumphed in thy veins,

Oh ! early fall'n thou art — but not for ever lost

If in that land where hope can cheat no more,
Lavish in promise — laggard in fulfilling ;
Where fearless love on'every bosom stealing,

And boundless knowledge, br.^hten all the shore ;

TALES OF HOLLAND-TIDE. 197

If in that land, when life's cold toils are done,
And my heart lies as motionless as thine,
I still might hope to press that hand in mine,

My unoffending — my offended one !

I would not mourn the health that flies my cheek,
I would not mourn my disappointed years,

My, vain heart mock'd, and worldly hopes o'erthrown,

But long to meet thee in that land of rest,
Nor deem it joy to breathe in careless ears

A tale of blighted hopes as mournful as thine own.

The volume of tales called Holland-tide had been pub-
lished immediately on his leaving London, and having now
determined to turn his attention to this kind of writing, he
watched with considerable anxiety the manner of its recep-
tion by the public. It was hailed with a universal welcome
by the periodicals and daily press, and spoken of as the
work of a writer not inferior in originality and power to
the best of those who had heretofore laboured on the same
soil. He had put forward this first essay with a good deal
of diffidence, representing it in the preface as the work of an
almost untried hand, but this was scarcely admitted by the
reviewers, one of whom says, "From the very unpretend-
ing preface to these spirited sketches, it would appear that
the author is quite a new hand ; but judging from internal
evidence we should say that this cannot be the case. The
style has all the force and perspicuity of an experienced
writer." It is probable indeed that his practice in writing
for the periodicals, during his severe probation in London,
had imperceptibly given him a facility in the formation of
his style, which he was not himself quite aware of, and
perhaps the difficulty he experienced in drawing attention
to his literary sketches made him unconsciously bestow a
degree of care upon them that gradually led to improvement.

The Aylmers of Bally-Aylmer was almost the only tale in
this series that had any pretensions to a deep-wrought
interest, and even upon this he did not appear to have spent
any extraordinary pains. It proved him. however, as J

198 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

have said, to be a writer of no common order. The bright
and cheerfnl colouring of every picture in it. the faithfulness
to nature in delineating the manners of the peasantry, and
the close adherence to ordinary life in its incidents — never
daring, as he says himself, " to travel out of perfect and
easy probability" — rendered it extremely popular. It was
certainly, however, regarded by himself as a mere initiatory
step, and an incident occurred about this period that showed
me what a deep and intimate sense he had of his own
powers. His great aim in all his efforts was to obtain a
character for originality. Besides the natural vigour and
truth of his writings, he wished that they should be distin-
guished as new. He could not bear to be blended with
other writers as merely one of a class, still less could he
tolerate the thought of being considered a copyist of any,
even the greatest of them. These circumstances made him
look forward with much anxiety to the remarks of the
critics on this, the first regular subject of comment with
which he had supplied them. Two or three of the shorter
tales in Holland-tide were contributed by a friend, whom he
had repeatedly urged to assist him in making up the volume.
This friend, in complying with his desire, had presented him
with some, which he rejected on the grouud that they
would be thought to resemble in their manner the writings
of Mir. Crofton Croker. I brought him a number of the
Literary Gazette one day, which contained a review of the
work, that I thought would give him very high satisfaction,
as its praise was almost unbounded. I was surprised, how-
ever, to find that it produced quite the contrary effect, and
threw him into a state of agitation that I little anticipated,
one expression in it appearing to neutralise all its approba-
tion. Indeed I had no conception before of the degree to
which an author could be affected by so simple a thing as a
review of his work in a periodical, and that review a favour-
able one. He seemed to read it with much gratification, until
he came to a part where the reviewer spoke of the shorter

REVIEW OF HOLLAND-TIDE. 199

tales, and, giving them also a considerable degree of praise,
said, that " Little Jack Edy was almost Crofton Crokerish."
The moment Gerald came to this passage, I never saw any-
thing like the state it pnt him into. It was not rage so
much his countenance expressed, as an appearance of the
most violent agony. He crumpled the paper in his hand,
raised it high above his head, stamped violently, and almost
dashed it to the earth in the excess of his feeling. " Oh !"
he said — "oh!" with a prolonged, and deep, and painful
emphasis on the word — " this was just what I feared. I

told these tales were like Crofton Croker's." I was

perfectly astonished, and said, " Why, what signifies it ?"
" Oh !" said he again, " you don't know the effect of these
things. Only think" he repeated, with the utmost vehe-
mence, " only think of being compared with Crofton
Croker."

This feeling, however, soon subsided, and the review, being
a favourable one, was considered on the whole satisfactory.
He instantly set about a series of regular tales of the same
character, and in a very few months completed the three
volumes which were published under the title of "Tales of
the Munster Festivals," consisting of " Suil Dhuv the
Coiner," " Card Drawing," and " the Half Sir." It was
singular to witness the effect which the publication of this
single volume of Holland-tide had on his whole fortune and
circumstances, and the extraordinary contrast which at once
appeared between his present position and that which he
occupied in London. While there, he for the most part
found it difficult to get the publishers even to look at his
inanuscripts, and the few who took that trouble were un-
willing to run the hazard of their publication. After his
return home, the single circumstance of a few favourable
reviews of a one volume work brought him numberless
communications from several parties, who sought on various
subjects the assistance of his pen. He obtained from thn
time forward a ready sale for any work he had completed,

200 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

and though the novel trade had already passed its zenith,
and showed signs of that downward tendency which has
since become so rapid, he received prices for his works
which, if they did not promise a rapid fortune, at least took
away from his mind all anxiety as to the future. He gave
me more than once the most amusing accounts possible of
his occasional interviews with booksellers upon the subject
of his manuscripts. He had a happy method, when per-
fectly at his ease, of placing before one all the particulars
of any scene that interested him, and contained anything
characteristic ; yet it was not so much by any skill in
mimicry, or attempts at an imitation of the parties engaged
in it, as by his accurate remembrance of those little natural
circumstances of manner which are personal and peculiar,
as well as those other little speaking evidences (not less
interesting to one holding as it were the place of a petitioner)
which indicate the course of thought in a mind which it is
his aim to influence. These descriptions — which are some
of those things I regret not having noted — reminded me
in many particulars of scenes somewhat similar in Mr.
Washington Irving's Tales of a Traveller, but they con-
tained more variety of incident, and more character, and
(without in the least wishing to detract) they were blended
with so many little touches of nature, as supplied the
strongest internal evidence of their reality.

The series upon which he was engaged after his return
home was, as I have said, called " Tales of the Munster
Festivals." The name was thought a good one, and had
its origin in the design to include, in every tale, a descrip-
tion of some one of those festivals which are celebrated
each by some traditional ceremony in the south of Ireland.
Though the fever of his ambition had frequently sunk under
the pressure of his difficulties in London, and though that
more important end with which it was usually associated —
I mean the effort to give a high place to religion and morals
in literary works — may have been from the same cause

LIFE AT PALLAS KENEY. 201

occasionally lost sight of, yet, whenever this pressure was at
all lightened, this last aim took hold of his mind with re-
doubled strength, and he now at length found himself in
circumstances to give full scope to his wishes. He had no
longer the fear that after having spent months iu the
completion of his manuscript, he would have for months
again to plead for its place in the public thought. At this
time he looked upon works of fiction as a most powerful
engine for giving a healthy tone to public morals, and he
spoke with deep sensitiveness of the multitudes of young
creatures who are daily sent to ruin in London, by the
impassioned feeling and sickly and sentimental garbage
placed before them in the shape of novels by a certain
class of publishers. If it was possible to replace these by
writings of a healthy tone, he thought it would eflFect an
enormous amount of good, and he seemed to hope that
those he was now engaged in might be found capable, to
some small extent, of accomplishing this object.

I can never turn to that portion of Gerald's life which
was spent in our quiet home at Pallas Kenry, without a
deep degree of feeling. After the melancholy event I have
above alluded to had passed away, there was nothing to
throw a damp on the enjoyment which we all felt in the
reunion of our little circle. Most of the members of our
family who had remained at this side of the Atlantic were
now again assembled, and there was for many years more pure
and unmixed happiness within the four small walls of that
little mansion, than could be found in places where it would
be looked for with more confidence. The neighbourhood
we lived in, though thickly inhabited, was not very social.
The heads of some of the most respectable families residing
in it had been recently Carried off by illness, and this cir-
cumstance cast a gloom over its intercourse, and lessened
that sociability for which it had once been rather remark-
able. If it had been otherwise, however, neither Gerald's
occupations nor his tastes would have permitted him to

202 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

enjoy society to any extent. Though he was paid much
attention, from time to time, by some of the principal
families in our district, and though there was no one who
enjoyed more keenly the pleasures of intercourse than he
Sid, more especially with those whose tastes resembled his
own, he had a most unconquerable aversion to go into
general society, partly from the apprehension of being
made a " lion" of, an event which his natural timidity
would have rendered intolerable to him, and partly from
the circumstance that, never having taken the pains to cul-
tivate that talent for light and cheerful conversation upon
pleasant trifles which some people seem to have a natural
aptitude for, and which is really so essential in mixed com-
pany, he was obliged, in order to avoid the appearance of
too much reserve, to take a part in the discussion of sub-
jects not always of his own choosing, and upon which he
could hardly speak before strangers without a certain degree
of constraint. This, however, was only the case with those
who were entire strangers ; a little acquaintance soon broke
the ice, and took away all that feeling of formality which
was so unpleasant to him. For the penance he was com-
pelled to perform on some of these occasions, he fully in-
demnified himself when at home. Home was, beyond all
other places, the one single spot of unchanging enjoyment
to him. Here he delivered himself up freely and entirely
to that happy intercourse with his family and near friends,
for which his disposition seemed to have so fitted him. He
threw off all restraint in their society, and the wildest
schoolboy could not be more uncontrolled, or more full of
unbridled mirth in his recreations, than he was. The fol-
lowing extract is taken from a letter from his youngest
sister to some of her friends in America :

"Would you wish to view at a distance our domestic circle ?
William and I are generally first at the breakfast table, when

after a little time walks in Miss H , next Mr. Gerald, and

last of all Monsieur D . After breakfast our two doctors go

LIFE AT PALLAS KENRY. 203

to their patients ; Gerald takes his desk by the fire-place and
•writes away, except when he chooses to throw a pinch, or a pull
at the ringlets, cape, or frill of the first lady next him, or gives
ns a stave of some old ballad. Our doctors then generally come
in at irregular hours, when the first question, if it is early, is,
' Lucy, when shall we have dinner ? — I'm dying,' — and if late,
' Why did you wait; so long V After dinner, books, tea, and
sometimes a game at cards, — formerly chess, but it is too studious
for Gerald as a recreation."

The little passage which follows is written to one of his
sisters, and gives some further illustration of this playfulness
of manner, not always over pleasant to his friends.

" I take up my pen rather to anticipate the letter I intend
writing, than to make you imagine I look upon this as a proper
corner to put you into, the more especially as I have not a little
to say in answer to your last. What ? my smart little lady ! A
wit indeed ! Wait awhile — if I don't dress you up for it.
Why, you little forward, presuming — I wish I was near you, I
would soon let you know, perhaps make you feel, what it i3 to
humbug a gentleman that writes tragedies — whether bad or
good, rejected or accepted, is no affair of yours, you know. I
would not mind all you say if you had not the assurance to make
me laugh till my sides shook. How dare you make me laugh?
Wait till I catch you! I fancy I see you now reading this
with a mischievous smile, just turning up the right corner of your
mouth ; and I long with my heart and soul to pay you for it by
one of those electrical applications of the finger and thumb to
the round and most sensitive part of the arm, which you recol-
lect was a favourite mode with me, in our school hours, of con-
veying my sentiments when they happened not to be in perfect
accordance with those of my fair friends. But now, alas ! I pinch
an empty vision, and the real delinquent remains far, far away,
to laugh and jeer as she pleases, beyond the reach of reproof or
punishment. For once I am induced to relinquish my beautiful
theory of an ideal correspondence, to have recourse, in the full-
ness of my wrath, to that ' vulgar and commonly practised ex-
pedient' of expressing our thoughts by sound or sight. Scolding,
you say, is abhorrent to your nature. So much the better for
me. But it is quite congenial to mine. I had rather be scold-
ing than eating my breakfast ; so I'd advise you to look to it,
and take care how you give me cause. You will find, that

204 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

however I may luxuriate in the contemplation of a perfect and
immediate mode of communicating our ideas, yet, in the absence
of that great desideratum, I perfectly understand the use of its
substitute, and if you do not go down on your knees in the shape
of a long and most penitent letter, you shall find that I have not
learned to speak and call names for nothing."

At breakfast or dinner, or such times as he was not
engaged in writing or reading, he was full of chat, aud
generally delivered himself over, without the least conceiv-
able restraint, to every kind of conceit his fancy suggested.
He applied himself with assiduity to his daily task at such
hours as were allotted to it, but whenever this was over
he was delighted to get out of harness, and his imagination
seemed to cut all kinds of capers in its first enjoyment of
liberty. In these sallies, the nature of which it is not easy
to give an idea of, and which were the result of pure spor-
tiveness of mind, he sought merely the pastime of the mo-
ment ; aiming neither at wit nor wisdom, both of which he
seemed just then to hold in very light regard, and paying
so little respect to appearances, that it was an enjoyment
he could scarcely have allowed himself anywhere but at
home. I remember his teazing a young lady, a cousin of
his, for a dozen mornings in succession, with a close and
circumstantial detail of the traditionary anecdote of Colum-
bus and the egg, the latter part of which he illustrated
practically at the breakfast table, by giving his egg a smart
stroke on the table, and making it stand. All this was
very well for a morning or two or three, but when repeated
day after day, for six or eight turns, it became intolerable.
When his fan- auditor showed a tendency to rebel, it was
amusing to observe the sly way in which he introduced his
story under cover of another subject, something in the man-
ner of those stealthy puffing paragraphs about Rowland's
Kalydor. When these contrivances (in which he showed
ingenuity enough) where exhausted, he was obliged again
to approach the subject more directly : " Mary Anne, are

LIFE AT PALLAS KENIiY. 205

you quite sure you are perfectly aware of all the circum-
stances relating to the discovery of America?" " Oh, Gerald,
for mercy's sake !" — " But surely, Mary Anne, geography
is a very useful study." " Oh, I'm sure I wish there never
was such a thing as geography." I have thought it worth
while to notice these little incidents, though they are in
themselves trifling, as they serve to indicate a great deal of
innocent playfulness in a mind which was otherwise endowed
with many gifts of a choice and rare character.

It was singular to observe the extraordinary power he
had of observing all that was going forward around him,
while he was seated at his writing. Immediately after
breakfast he generally planted himself in a comfortable
corner near the fire, and though he usually seemed deeply
absorbed in his work, yet nothiDg of any interest arose,
either in reading or conversation, (not to speak of the freaks
alluded to in the extract given above,) that he did not
turn round and take a part in with as much seeming ease
as if he had nothing else to attend to. In the latter part of
the day, when all the family were assembled, and for the
most part engaged in some recreation, this power of ab-
straction was the more remarkable, as he continually joined
in the conversation, and appeared fully to participate in
whatever amusement was going forward.

When engaged in composition, he made use of a mani-
fold writer, with a style and carbonic paper, which gave
him two and sometimes three copies of his work. One of
these he sent to the publisher, the others he kept by him
in case the first should be lost. He had his sheets so cut
out and arranged, that they were not greater in size than
the leaf of a moderate sized octavo, and he wrote so minute
a hand that each page of the manuscript contained enough
of matter for a page of print. This enabled him very easily
to tell how much manuscript was necessary to fill three
volumes. His usual quantity of writing was about ten of
these pages in the day. It was seldom less than this, and

206 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFLN.

I have known it repeatedly as high as fifteen or twenty,
without interfering with those hours which he chose to de-
vote to recreation. He never re-wrote his manuscript, and
one of the most remarkable things I noticed in the progress
of his work was the extremely small number of erasures
or interlineations in it, several pages being completed with-
out the occurrence of a single one. His practice in writing
in London, no doubt, gave him much facility in this respect.
His manuscript being of a very convenient size, he gener-
ally put it in his pocket, and during his rambles took it
out on the hill-side, or whenever he had a moment's leisure,
and wrote on. It was a singular proof of the great power
I have noticed above, to witness the nature of the occupa-
tions amid which he was sometimes accustomed to follow
his favourite pursuit. His reputation as a parliamentary re-
porter during the time he was engaged with the daily press
in London, induced some parties who were implicated in a
heavy lawsuit in Limerick to engage his services at a very
liberal remuneration during a trial which took place there.
The record was a very important one, and it was thought
necessary to have such an accurate report of it as would
admit of its being referred to as evidence, in case of appeal or
further litigation. Gerald on this occasion furnished a re-
port so complete and satisfactory, that it must have been
sufficient for any purpose it could have been intended to
meet ; yet I watched him repeatedly during its progress — he
had his manuscript by him, and whenever a break occurred
in the evidence, or there was otherwise a moment's leisure,
the manifold writer was sure to be uppermost, his stories
made headway for the time, and there seemed a constant
race between fact and fiction. He was much amused by
an incident which occurred in the course of it. Mr. O'Con-
nell, who had been specially engaged as counsel for one of the
parties, happened to take his place in the reporter's box,
and Gerald was close beside him. They were unacquainted,
and Mr. O'Connell looked on him merely, I believe, as one

LIFE AT PALLAS KENRT. 207

of the young men attending for the press. Seeing, however,
that what flowed from his pen was more systematic and
regular than the scratchy and illegible characters of a re-
porter, his curiosity seemed excited by the circumstance.
I forget whether the manuscript was that of the Collegians
or the series which immediately preceded it, but Gerald
was infinitely diverted at the direct and unceremonious
manner in which, before any precautionary measures could
be adopted, the learned gentleman suddenly stooped down ,
read a few lines of the story, and seeing it bore no relation
to the matter in hand, turned without remark or question
to the business which interested him more nearly. A miser
caught in the act of counting his gold could not have
shrunk with more instinctive horror than Gerald did at the
moment, from the sudden exposure of these new-born sen-
tences, but it was too late. It often amused him afterwards,
however, to think what sort of an impression they could
have made, even for the moment, on the learned gentleman's
mind.

If it was delightful to witness the unrestrained gambols
of his spirit in recreation, it was no less so to listen to his
conversation when it turned upon literary topics, upon public
taste, the partialities and prejudices of critics, or the varieties
of talent, in degree and kind, of the several authors of the
day. These conversations he was accustomed to indulge in
freely when the day's work was over. They were of fre-
quent occurrence, and as they were usually entered upon
with the easy familiarity of a fireside story, so they con-
sisted rather of remarks which flowed from him spon-
taneously as the subjects passed before his mind, than any
sententious expression of opinion, which he was too cordial
a hater of affectation ever to be guilty of. He was an in-
tense admirer of the genius of Campbell, Scott, and Byron.
I never heard any one speak in such rapture as he used to
do of the most celebrated odes and pieces of the first named
of these poets. " The Pleasures of Hope," " Hohenlinden."

208 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

and the " Battle of die Baltic," being frequently on his lips ;
though I have heard hiin say, he thought the last mentioned
would have been better if it had ended with the second last
verse :

*' Let us think of those who sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore."

I remember his once having an argument with some friends
of his who were decrying Campbell's genius. Their preju-
dices must have run to a pretty height, for when the dispute
had proceeded some way, they called on him to point out a
single verse or line of Campbell's that deserved the name of
poetiy. Gerald said there were many of the very highest
order, but continued : " If you are satisfied for the present
with descriptive poetry, a couplet occurs to me that I think
cannot be surpassed :

" ' Iberian seemed his boot, his cloak the same,

And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.'

;i Condensation," said he, "is one of the principal elements
of poetry. If Scott had this picture to paint in one of his
novels, he would take a page to describe all that is in
these two lines. He would have told you of the timid girl
with her downward glance, standing abashed in the presence
of one of the other sex, a stranger to her ; how her eye
first rested on his boot, which she recognised as of a par-
ticular country — next on his cloak, which seemed the same —
and finally how, when a little more assured, she ventured
to raise her eyes to his countenance — and then, how her
feeling of timidity at once gave way to intense admiration
at the manly dignity of the figure that stood before her !

" ■ And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became,' "

ADMIRATION FOR BYRON. 209

Byron, I have said, he had a great admiration for, though
I am uncertain which of his poems, on the whole, made tha
greatest impression on him. One of them, not very gene-
rally readable, he thought contained as powerful marks of
the force and compass of his mind as some of the most cele-
brated among the rest. He was inere indulgent to his
follies and his vices than people generally are, considering
them in a great measure the consequences of his education ;
and I have heard him on more than one occasion repeat, with
an almost affectionate interest, and with the expression of a
most charitable hope, the sentence he uttered in his last ill-
ness, I believe to Fletcher, his servant : " Perhaps I am not
so unfit to die as people think." I have no idea what the
nature of the jest was, to which we are indebted for the
following lines, but they show equally his estimation of Lord
Byron's genius, and the depth of the feeling I speak of :

ON REMEMBERING AN INADVERTENT JEST ON LOED
BYRON'S POETRY.

Forgive me, Thou who formed that wondrous mind

Where shone thy works with fairly mirrored gleam,
If thoughtlessly my lips, with jest unkind,

Have dared to slight thy handy work in him ;

For what of pure delight the quickening beam
Of genius from his potent numbers cast,

Our grateful praise we owe ; and if its dim
And wavering Same not heavenward burned at last,
In truth, we should not judge, but wait in silence fast.

Oh, blessed Charity ! Religion mild !

Thy gentle smiles are never meant to wound,
No jest hast thou for error's hapless child,

But holy tears, and love without a bound —

Thy constant votaries ! they are seldom found
With barbed censure on their lips, but these

Who newly enter on thy sacred ground,
With little heed the thoughts of blame unclose,
And deem they love thee, when they only wound thy foea.

•£. i 0 , LIFE OF GERALD GKIFFIX.

Moore was an old favourite of his. He was fond of com-
paring hiin as a lyrical writer with Burns, and, notwith-
standing the exquisite tenderness and beauty of the Melodies,
thought the Scotch bard iu some things greatly his superior.
Though veiy few productions could be said to approach the
Melodies in their harmony — in the musical motion of their
numbers — in the affecting themes with which they were
often interwoven — and in the happy expression of touching
sentiments, they were, he thought, as national songs, want-
ing in two qualities — the complete absence of all appearance
of art in their construction, and that extreme simplicity of
thought and diction, which makes the sentiments of Bums'
songs equally appropriate upon the lips of all ; neither too
lofty for the peasant, nor too low for the prince. Indeed
he said he heard that the illustrious author of the Melodies
himself had acknowledged this superiority in the productions
of his great predecessor. In discussing Mr. Moore's claim
to the title of a great poet I have heard him say, he thought
that if many even of the most remarkable passages in his
writings were analysed, they would obtain for him rather
the character of a great wit than a great poet. He
meant this, however, considering the matter critically, not
that he had the slightest wish to disparage them, for he
shared fully in the universal admiration of his genius.
Indeed he thought that, in one respect, his countrymen
were not fully sensible of all the obligations they owed
him, for it was his settled conviction, that to the spirit of
earnest patriotism which was fostered in all his poems,
and to the deep and ardent manner in which national themes
were treated in them, O'Connell was indebted in no incon-
siderable degree for his eventual success. I remember his
comparing two passages somewhat analagous in the writings
of Moore and Burns — the one remarkable for the tenderness
and simplicity I have alluded to, the other for its depth, force,
and elegance :

MOORE AND BURNS. 211

" Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted."

The second is as follows :

" Oh had we never, never met,
Or could this heart even now forget,
How linked, how blest we might have been,
Had fate not frowned so dark between."

He seemed to give a preference to the former. There was
a similar passage of Lord Byron's also, which he quoted at
the same time, and which I quite forget. If I remember
right, the sentiment in it was more condensed, but had less
tenderness.

He more than once spoke of the absence of any such
writings as those of Burns among the peasantry, and the
extreme desireableness of replacing those songs which
they are accustomed to sing by some of a better order.
He appeared to attribute the fact of the Melodies never
having descended to them, to their being of too refined a>
character, and to the want of that extreme artlessness for
which the writings of that poet were remarkable. He
looked upon the task, however, as an extremely difficult
one — indeed, quite impossible to any writer of the present
day, and thought it not likely to be executed, until some
writer arose, who, like the bard of Ayr, had a special gift-
There are a few pieces of his, among the rest a little song
in the Rivals, or Tracy's Ambition, beginning, " Once I had
a truelove," which were written about the time he ex-
pressed these opinions, and in which he made an attempt
to reach the simplicity I speak of, but I believe he did not
consider himself to have succeeded.

He had a most passionate fondness for nature in every-
thing, and whether traces of it were seen in the writings
of the poet or the novelist, or flowed from the pencil of the

212 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

painter, or were heard in the voice of music, his sensibility
was awakened as keenly as by the charms of natural
scenery, which were always highly delightful to him. In
works of imagination, no beauty escaped him. He had
fhe faculty of catching up the sweetest passages in them,
and though he seemed to glance over them cursorily enough,
they were frequently on his lips, and never afterwards forgot-
ten. He was a profound admirer of Johanna Baillie, and
often spoke of her plays of the passions as a series full of
extraordinary beauties. I have frequently heard him repeat
the following couplet, and remark that nothing could be
more beautifully still than the summer picture it presented :

** The aged crone
Keeps house alone,
The reapers to the field are gone."

" Have you ever," he said once to me, " read Coleridge's
Christabel ?" On my answering in the negative, he said,
" It is the most extraordinary — one of the wildest and most
fantastic productions that ever came from any man's pen !
Yet, in the midst of a kind of matter that surprises by its
strangeness, one is now and then charmed by an exquisite
touch of natural painting like the following :

" ' The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers, but not hides the sky.' "

u Let me warn you," he says to a young writer who had
placed some of his productions before him, "let me warn
you of one carelessness. You jump over a description by
saying such a thing was very picturesque. You should not
say that at all. Describe the picture, landscape, or what-
ever it is ; tell how it was, and combine the parts, so as
to leave it to your reader to say, ' That must have been
very picturesque.' " " You can always," he once said to me,
" make a tolerable guess at a writer's powers ; yon can

CHARACTER OF HIS WRITINGS. 213

easily ' take his measure,' as I may say, by just turning to
the dialogues in his book. If his characters do not speak
exactly as people speak in the world — precisely as those
you know and see around you would speak in like circum-
stances, you may give him up. If he is not true to nature
in his dialogues, depend upon it the rest is all stuff." As
to his own writings, there was an unexaggerated tone of
colouring in all his sketches, whether of place or character,
that made them come home to the reader's mind with the
full authority of truth ; and his thorough mastery of all the
keys of human nature, in a more obscure and secluded walk
— that of the affections, and emotions of the heart and spirit
— has rarely I think been surpassed. A remarkable in-
stance of this is given in the Collegians, where he is de-
scribing the effect upon Hardress Cregan's mind of the first
ball he has ever been at, and mentions a number of little
circumstances which had a tendency to exalt and strengthen
every impression upon it : " The perfumed air of the room,
the loftiness of the ceiling, the festooning of the drapery
above the windows, the occasional pauses and changes in the
music, all contributed to raise his mind into a condition of
peculiar and exquisite enthusiasm, which made it suscep-
tible of deep, dangerous, and indelible impressions." A
passage of a remarkably similar character occurs in Dante,
where he is first ascending the mountain :

M so that with joyous hope

All things conspired to fill me, the gay skin
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn,
And the sweet season."

As I have been led to speak on this subject, I may
mention another remarkable instance of his close adherence
to nature, which occurs in Gisippus. Gisippus is a beau-
tiful example of a fine mind acting in every respect under
the guidance of the philosophy he had been trained in, and
incident after incident serves to point out its weakness and
insufficiency. On every occasion of great distress and sof-

214 LIFE OF GERALD GPJFFIX.

fering it entirely fails. While to Christianity all things,
whether in adversity or prosperity, are intelligible, the
system of the Grecian schools, though it still inculcates
submission, can give no satisfactory reason for such a
course, and Gisippus is continually enveloped in difficulties
and enigmas, which his early principles give him no rational
account of. The author is sensible of this, and does not
fail to put it prominently forward. He never forgets the
school Gisippus was reared in, and where religion would
have smoothed the ills of adversity, he shows that philo-
sophy has no comfort to offer ; in fact, that even with the
fullest acknowledgment of a ruling Providence — the high-
est truth to which unassisted reason can reach — it is still
mere pride to its very foundation, and anything which this
does not explain is necessarily left a helpless mystery :

"Let it be ever thus !
The generous still be poor — the niggard thrive —
Fortune still pave the ingrate's path with gold —
Death dog the innocent still — and surely those
Who now uplift their streaming eyes, and murmur
Against oppressive fate, will own its justice.
Invisible Ruler ! should man meet thy trials
With silent and lethargic sufferance,
Or lift his hands, and ask Heaven for a reason ?
Our hearts must speak— the sting, the whip is on them ;
We rush in madness forth, to tear away
The veil that blinds us to the cause. In vain !
The hand of that Eternal Providence
Still holds it there, unmoved, impenetrable 5
We can but pause, and turn away again
To mourn — to wonder — and endure."

This is equally evident from an after passage, in which
he upbraids himself with having allowed his passion to
get the better of his reason, in a scene with Fulvius :

"Osin!
0 shame ! 0 world ! I'm now a weak poor wretch,
Smote down to very manhood. Judgment lost,

THE UNINTELLIGIBLE SCHOOL. 215

Fve flung the reins loose to my human spirit,
And that's a wild one ! Rouse it and ye pluck
The beard of the lion. Gisippus, that was
The lord of his most fiery impulses,
Is now a child to trial. High philosophy,
With its fine influences, has fled his nature,
And all the mastery of mind is lost !"

And more distinctly still in a previous one, in which
Gisippus himself acknowledges the sustaining motive and
its feebleness :

" Alas ! you know not, friend, how very quietly,
And silently, that same tall fabric, pride,
Is sapped and scattered by adversity,
Even while we deem it still unmoved, unshaken !"

This extreme fondness for all that was natural made any
affectation in others intolerable to him. He often spoke
of the sickly sensibility of a certain class of writers who
were given to it, and who were designated in London by
the term of " The Lakers." ; Even with Coleridge, Words-
worth, and others of high reputation, whose productions he
admired, he could not endure the repeated recurrence of a
certain studied obscurity, adopted, as he believed, through
a mere affectation of profoundness. These writers belonged
to what he called, by way of ridicule, the " unintelligible
school." The first named of them he considered much in-
jured in his literary reputation by the publication of his
" Table Talk," a book which he thought showed clearly
the full amount of his pretensions, and proved him to be
overflowing with conceit and vanity, miserably shallow in
his philosophy, and full of incurable bigotry. On one oc-
casion he was reading a passage in some work of his, which
he found it almost impossible thoroughly to comprehend, but
which he denounced as the " purest trash possible — mere
unintelligible jargon." I asked him, " How do you know
that, if you cannot thoroughly comprehend it ?" " Oh,"

216 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

said he, " the easiest thing in the world ; because there are
several other passages of a like character, which, with a
little consideration, I can fully comprehend, and I find
them to be the most silly drivelling imaginable." The fol-
lowing lines, which have been found among his papers in a
rather incomplete form, will give some idea of his notions
on these subjects :

:i Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Landor, and Southey,
Are stupid, and prosy, and frothy, and mouthy,

Like a and a they sit side by side,

True brotherly emblems of dullness and pride ;
From morning till night they sit staring and blinking-
And striving to make people tliink they are thinking-
Like four Irish parsons oppressed with the dumps,
Or like my poor grandmother's pig in the mumps ;
Compared with such garbage the trash of A. Tennyson
To me is a haunch of poetical venison ;
Or Bidwer — as deep as the sky in a lake,
Till the mud at six inches reveals your mistake."

The subjoined extract is one of the same character.
It has been taken from the manuscript of an unfinished
little tale found in similar circumstances :

"It was this very letter he had open in his hand, with just
such a countenance as might be occasioned by its contents,
when Miss O'Kelly entered the room holding a volume of her
favourite Mr. Tennyson's poems in her fair hand, out of which
she read some lines, which seemed to have especially caught
her fancy :

" • When will the stream be a-weary of flowing
Under my eye ?'

when the figure of the Captain, with his mortified look, came
' under her eye' at the instant.

" 'Papa,' she said, closing the book, yet leaving one slender
finger between the leaves, that she might not altogether lose
a passage that she so much admired, ' what can be the reason
Mr. Fitzallen does not come near us this time past ?'

11 ' Hold your tongue, Miss,' said the Captain; ' what affair is
that of yours V

THE UNINTELLIGIBLE SCHOOL. 217

" She held her tongue accordingly, like an obedient daughter,
and went on with the poem :

" « When will the wind be a-weary of blowing,
Over the sky ?'

" ■ Over the fiddlestick,' said the Captain ; « what trash is
that you're reading, Miss f

" ' Trash, papa ! 'tis a book of fashionable poetry. Nobody
reads Scott or Byron now, nor any poet of the intelligible school.
As to Moore and Campbell, noboby sees anything in them.
Shelley, and Keats, and Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and
Tennyson, have beat them clean out of the field. There is
something so charming, so irresistible in originality !'

"'So women think. I suppose it is on this principle ye 1st
the poets disfigure your minds just as you allow your dress-
makers to deform your persons. Novelty — and wit, if it may
be — at all e\ ents, novelty. The fellow who has the hardihood
to publish the sheerest nonsense, is certain to have the most
votes amongst readers as empty-pated as himself. The less ye
comprehend, the better ye are pleased.'

" 'Ah, papa, how can you say so ? Did you ever read the ode
to a skylark V

" ■ Never — nor don't intend it.'

" ' And like a cloud of fire P

What do you think of that simile ? Who but a writer of the
most original genius would dare to compare a poor harmless
skylark to a cloud of fire ?'

" • One other sort of person.'

"'Who?'

" ' A blockhead.'

" ' Ah — did you read the sonnet to an owl, No. n. 2

" ' Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,

Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
With a lengthen'd loud halloo,
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo — o — o !'

*' ' I have not had the pleasure of seeing it.'

" ' Or the charming little pastoral, commencing ?

" ' Be silent, I say ! I have not time to talk about such things
now. Put by your poetry, and get ready to receive my friend
Mr. Tightfit, whom I expect to-day or to morrow from London.
I intend you shall marry him.*

218 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

'"Me, Sir!'

" ' You, Miss ! what do you stare at f

" Even the favourite poet was forgotten in the young lady's
surprise at this intelligence, and the volume fell on the carpet,
as unregarded as if it had belonged to the out-going school of
the Scott and Campbell dynasty."

" When I read these things," he used to say, " I feel a
kind of weakness coming over me — a kind of faintishness
and creeping — to think that any man pretending to be en-
dowed with reason could bring himself to indite such
nonsense." Notwithstanding these strictures, which applied
rather to the extravagancies of those poets than to their
genius, he had, as I have said, the highest admiration of some
of their works, especially of Soothe/a; "Roderick, the last
of the Goths," and the " Curse of Kehama," being in his
mind the most delightful productions imaginable.

He was extremely fond of music, and, as I have already
said, deeply affected by it. The reader will not forget a
passage in one of his letters, in which he speaks of its power,
and says of the music of Der Friechutz, " I never was so
terrified in my life." He had an exceedingly sweet voice,
very rich in its tone, and tolerably powerful, and his fine
imagination and correct taste made him throw in ornaments
rarely, and with a grace and simplicity that never went
beyond the sentiment. Those who have heard him sing
"Blue bonnets over the border," or "Bonnie Prince Charlie,"
will not readily forget the effect. He preferred, however,
power in singing, to sweetness — the might of Braham, to
the melody of Broadhurst. He admired Mrs. Hemans' song
of " The Captive Knight" very much, and thought the air
of it — said to be composed by her sister — showed even more
genius than the words. Indeed he was so charmed with this
last, that he took the pains to leam it on the piano, and
practised it with perseverance for two or three months until
he could accompany himself satisfactorily. He was so fond
of this song, that frequently after awaking from his first

TALES OF THE MUNSTER FESTIVALS. 219

sleep on the sofa, about two or three o'clock in the morning.
he would go to the piano and sing it two or three times
before retiring to his room. Many a time have the inmates
of our house been roused from their slumber by the plain-
tive tones of the despairing captive, which were sweetened
and rendered more touching by the silence of the night
and the distance.

CHAPTER X.

1828—1829.

PUBLICATION OF TALES OF THE 3IUNSTER FESTIVALS— GERALD 'a
RETURN TO LONDON — THE COLLEGIANS — CIRCUMSTANCES IN
WHICH IT WAS WRITTEN — HIS REMARKS ON THE MORAL OF

THE WORK GEORGE COLMAN AS A DEPUTY LICENSER — GERALD

ENTERS AS A LAW STCDENT AT THE LONDON UBTVKBSITT — HIS
MODE OF LIFE IN LONDON — HIS STUDY OF IRISH HISTORY —
THE INVASION — LETTERS — ANECDOTE.

The first series of Tales of the Munster Festivals consisted,
as I have said, of three volumes, containing Card Draw-
ing, the Half Sir, and Suil Dhuv. These were written in
the short space of four months, and Gerald proceeded to
London in August, 1827, to make arrangements for their
publication. On this occasion he seems to have felt most
forcibly the contrast between the joyous and unclouded
life he had been leading at Pallas Kenry, and the dreary
scene of his former labours. " If I can," he writes, "dis-
pose of these tales to advantage, I never again, without
some very urgent motive indeed, will enter London. It is
grown to me, and I never imagined it till my return, a
place of the most dismal associations." Though the tales
were very highly praised, and said by those to whose
judgment the publishers had submitted them, "to be
equalled only by the author of Waverley in their national

220 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

portraitures and sketches of manners," the novel trade had
declined so much, that he did not receive on the whole
I believe (for the arrangement was in some degree con-
ditional) more than £250 for them. Publishers have
much in their power with regard to the character of litera-
ture. The decline I speak of was partly owing to the course
pursued by some of them, who, when the taste for that
species of writing became decided and strong, with a reck
less and grasping spirit flung a quantity of mere rubbish
into the market, in the shape of novels. The consequence
was, the appetite of the public became palled and dead-
ened ; they could not easily be brought to seek for delicacies
amid the mountains of garbage thus presented to them,
but turned away in disgust. No work, however good,
would sell to the same extent as formerly, and as far
as regarded the profit accruing from their labours, good
authors and bad were placed nearly upon the same level.
The books were not published until the close of the year —
until, as the bookseller phrased it, "town began to fill" —
and Gerald returned to Ireland about the end of October in
improved health and spirits.

He looked forward with no small degree of anxiety to
the feeling of the public with regard to this performance.
Being a regular work in three volumes, it could not be
regarded either by them or the author as a trivial effort or
mere essay, and he naturally considered its fate as settling
his future destiny. It was therefore with some degree
of perplexity and annoyance he perceived that the re-
viewers, while they gave the tales a very high degree of
praise, noticed several faults, which they ascribed to over
eagerness and precipitancy, and of which he could not but
acknowledge the justice. His conviction of their reason-
ableness was confirmed by a letter he received about the
same time from one of whose ability and talent he had the
highest opinion, and who mingled the candour of a just
critic with the keen interest of a kind friend. These

SCOTT — SHAKSPEARE. 221

circumstances made it very difficult for him to satisfy him-
self in his next story, and, after repeated attempts on
different subjects, it happened that the work which even-
tually came before the public was not commenced until the
close of the summer of 1828. Notwithstanding the remarks
of the reviewers, the tales were on the whole very success-
ful. Though his turning himself to this species of writing
was, as we have seen, in a great degree compulsory and the
effect of circumstances, he devoted himself to it with an
ardour that fell little short of his passion for the drama,
and this feeling grew upon him the more, when he observed
it attended with a success which all his efforts in the other
walk could not command. I have heard him say he thought
the talent required for both kinds of writing was very
similiar ; that is to say, that to be very successful as a
novel writer one should have a good deal of dramatic
talent. He used to point out the best novels as containing
a large proportion of dialogue, and requiring very little aid
from narrative, and the most impressive scenes in them as
highly dramatic in then' character. He spoke this more
particularly, however, of Sir Walter Scott's novels. He
thought Scott's talent and that of Shakspeare very similar,
and he was accustomed to push this idea about the force of
circumstances so far as to say, he thought Shakspeare
would have written novels if he had fallen upon a novel
reading time. A doubt which he expresses in one of his
letters as to the capabilities " of the great unknown for
actual dramatic, at least tragic writing," seems inconsistent
with this idea, but I believe all he meant by these remarks
regarding Shakspeare was, that a person who really had
the power to produce good tragedies possessed all the
requisites for novel writing, though the best novel writer
might possibly entirely fail in the higher orders of the
drama. The history of his own efforts may have tended
in some degree to lead him to this opinion. His enjoyment
of home this year, with its many welcome associations,

222 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

■was rendered doubly refreshing to him by his late visit to
the metropolis. Notwithstanding, however, the great dislike
he had to London, from all its painful remembrances, he
found himself obliged to return to it, not only on the publica-
tion of his works, but often some time before that period,
in order to make himself familiar with the public feeling
about literature, and to watch the tendencies of a taste that
seemed occasionally so capricious and fluctuating. I had
occasion to go there in the month of October, 1828, and
he promised to join me early in the month following. I
went down to Piccadilly the evening I expected him, and
I never shall forget the scene that presented itself on the
arrival of the coaches. It was the 12th of November, a
night of the most intense frost, and the densest fog that
was remembered for many years, and I find it set down as
such in the table of remarkable events for that year. The
entire road was a perfect sheet of ice — the people as they
passed seemed incased in frost — no one could see a yard
before him, and I never witnessed such confusion. The
shouting of linkboys, guards, and coachmen — the screams
and groans of those who fell on the ice — the angry recri-
mination of many voices when horses and coaches got
entangled — the railing and swearing at each other of those
who ran together awkwardly and fell, made the whole place
a perfect Babel. While waiting for a peep at the way-bill
— the only true index of arrivals on such a night as this —
my attention was directed to a tall, slender looking figure,
with a Russia leather writing-case at his side, which was
suspended by a silk handkerchief from the opposite shoulder.
He was buttoned to the throat, and seemed to address him-
self to some one who stood before him, but was almost
invisible in the fog. Like all others, he was perfectly
white from head to foot with hoar frost and icicles, and it
required a very close scrutiny, and some boldness, to venture
to recognise him as an acquaintance. It was, however.
Gerald, and he seemed astonished at mv having succeeded

THE C0LLEGIAN3. 223

in finding him in such a blinding fog. The writing-case
contained a volume and a half of the manuscript of the
Collegians. We started for our lodgings immediately, but
notwithstanding the assistance of a linkboy, were nearly
two hours in finding them, though the distance was not more
than twenty minutes' walk by day.

Having made arrangements with his publishers in a day
or two, the tale, so far as it had gone, was sent to the
printers, and he set to work vigorously to complete it.
He had intended to bestow more pains upon this series,
and to render it if possible more deserving of public favour
than the last, but circumstances happened to make very
much against this determination.

" The critics," he says, in a letter to his father, " frightened
me so much when I published my first series of the Festivals,
that I foimd it very hard to please myself in the second. I
wrote half a volume of one thing and threw it by, and a volume
and a half of another and threw it by also ; but the third time
(as they say in the Arabian Nights) I was more successful in
satisfying myself. Nevertheless, the delay threw me back
several months, as it was settled that my second series should
appear about November, and that month found me with only
half the work written. Thus, instead of being done with greater
deliberation than before, as the Aristarchuses advised, my pre-
sent unfortunate tale has been actually written/or the press, and
sent sheet after sheet to the printer according as it was done.
However, I am in nc great uneasiness about it, as I feel that it
is a great improvement on the former at any rate."

If he was limited as to time in the previous part of his
story, he was much more so during the latter portion.
The printers overtook him about the middle of the third
volume, and from this time forward it was a constant race
between him and them. The Collegians has been very
highly praised in all its parts, but few, perhaps, of those
who admire it as a work of imagination, will believe that
some of the finest scenes in it were poured forth with a
tide as direct and rapid as the commonest essay on the
most familiar subject. Any one who glances over the

224 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

last half volume especially, and observes its truth to na-
ture, its wonderful depth and power, and its extraordinary
consistency in character and incident with the previous
part of the work, will be astonished at what I state.
Every morning almost, just as we were done breakfast, a
knock came to the door, and a messenger was shown in,
saying, " Printers want more copy, sir." The manuscript
of the previous day was handed forth, without revision,
correction, or farther ceremony, and he went to work
again to produce a further supply. The most singular
part of the business was, that he very seldom broke in
upon his usual rule of not writing after dinner ; but every
moment of next morning, up to breakfast horn', was occu-
pied in preparing as much matter as possible before the
dreaded printer's knock.

Notwithstanding this headlong speed, he was fall of en-
thusiasm during the progress of the story. His mind was
overflowing with its subject, and scattered gems on every
side as it passed onward. His imagination was so deeply
impressed with the interest of every scene, that it gave to
the whole theme the harmony and unity of a recollected
truth rather than a creation, and the different characters
were made to act and speak with a consistency and elo-
quence that showed how intimately he felt the situations
they were placed in. On these occasions his old passion
for the drama seemed again to take the lead, and he
framed every passage that was at all of a dramatic char-
acter with a view to the effect it would have in perfor-
mance. "What a great deal I would give," he said to
me one evening, while his eyes kindled with the thought,
" to see Edmund Kean in that scene of Hardress Cregan
at the party, just before his arrest, where he is endea-
vouring to do politeness to the ladies while the horrid warning
voice is in his ear. The very movements of Kean's counte-
nance in such a scene as that would make one's nerves
creep ; every motion and attitude of his, his ghastly efforts

AUTHOR'S REMARKS 05T THE COLLEGIANS. 225

at complaisance, and his subdued sense of impending ruin,
■would all be sufficient to keep an audience in a thrill of
horror, and, without almost a word spoken, would indicate
the whole agony of his mind." As the story drew to a
close, he said, u I am exceedingly puzzled to think what I
shall do with Hardress Gregan. If I hang him, the
public will never forgive me ; and yet," he added, playfully,
in the Irish phrase, " he deserves hanging as richly as any
young gentleman from this to himself : then, if I save his
life by some device, or trick, or mercy of the law, any other
punishment will seem too light for crimes like his !" He
eventually compromised the matter by making him die on
his way into perpetual exile, which seems to have satisfied
all parties. He took up the subject again in a day or two,
and said, " Isn't it extraordinary how impossible it seem3
to write a perfect novel ; one which shall be read with deep
interest, and yet be perfect as a moral work. One would
wish to draw a good moral from this tale, yet it seems im-
possible to keep people's feelings in the line they ought to
go in. Look at these two characters of Kyrle Daly and
Hardress Gregan, for example : Kyrle Daly, full of high
principle, prudent, amiable, and affectionate ; not wanting
in spirit, nor free from passion ; but keeping his passions
under control ; thoughtful, kind-hearted, and charitable ; a
character in every way deserving our esteem. Hardress Cre-
gan,his mother's spoiled pet, nursed in the very lap of passion,
and ruined by indulgence — not without good feelings, but
for ever abusing them, having a full sense of justice and
honour, but shrinking like a craven from their dictates ;
following pleasure headlong, and eventually led into crimes
of the blackest dye, by the total absence of all self-control.
Take Kyrla Daly's character in what way you will, it is
infinitely preferable ; yet I will venture to say, nine out of
ten of those who read the book would prefer Hardress
Gregan, just because he is a fellow of high mettle, with a
dash of talent about him." " Isaid, there seems a sympathy

p

226 ■ LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

for that kind of character when it is accompanied with
£Ood and generous feelings, like what people show for the
recklessness and inexperience of childhood, as if it was
incapable of its own guidance, and deserving of compassion
rather than blame." "Perhaps so," he said, "but what
is the reason that integrity, generosity, honour, and even
virtue, when free from these defects, is so little appreciated ?
Kyrle Daly's would be considered a mere milk-and-water
character compared to Hardress Cregan's." The following
extract from one of his letters will show the attention he
always paid to the morality of his pieces, though he was
sometimes amused by a collision with severer moralists
than himseli :

' • My little play at the English Opera-house is in preparation
against the ensuing season. I saw the manager the other day
— he had George Coleman's license for its performance. But it
would, I am sure, make you laugh, to see the passages to which
the gentleman (in his office of deputy licenser) objected as im-
moral and improper. For instance, he will have no expressions
of piety — no appeal to Providence in situations of distress.
allowed upon the stage ; a hymn that I introduced was ordered
to the right about — a little prayer put into the mouth of my
heroine — the word paradise, as applied to a beautiful country,
and other matters of that kind. So scrupulous a man as that,
what will you say to ? He thinks he is right, no doubt, and at
nts errs on the safe side ; but I think he has sometimes
mistaken good for evil — quere ? whether that is not better thar
taking evil for good ? The manager, however, took it all for
evil, and was in a passion ; but we cannot help ourselves —
Georgy's power is arbitrary— so I told the man to cut out all the
tmderscored, and perform as much of the piece as was lawful.
It really, after all, is, I am sure, a moral little piece ; but the
excisions are trifling. The story was taken from a tale that
was published here some time since."

The Collegians was, beyond all others, the most success-
ful and popular of his works. One of the incidents in it,
which is very powerfully described — the death of old
-Dclton. the huntsman. — with the circumstance which led to

HIS STUDY OF THE LAW, 227

it, was an event which is said really to have taken place in
the county of Limerick several years back, with this singular
difference, that the inhuman message delivered to the dying
man was sent by the guests, not to an old worn-out hunts-
man, but to a respectable old gentleman, their host and
entertainer, who had been in his time an eager follower of
the chase, and though now on his death-bed, with the true
ancient sense of Irish hospitality, had no notion of allowing
his own condition to interfere with the convivialities below
stairs. Though this tale placed him in the first rank of
Irish novelists, and though its success was so unequivocal,
he had seen from time to time such distinct signs of tic
fickleness of the public taste as tended seriously to shake
that security he had begun to feel with regard to literature
as a profession. " I should like, if possible," he says, in a
letter about this time, " to commence the study of some
profession that might at one time or another render me
independent of this scribbling. The uncertainty of the life
it has been my fortune to adopt is horrible." With this
feeling he entered as a law student under Professor Amos,
at the London university, which was then opened with
great eclat. The first lectures he attended were of a very
elementary character, treating chiefly of the fundamental
principles of the law ; and the numerous familiar illustra-
tions with which the learned professor interspersed the
subject, for the purpose of explaining what appeared rather
anomalous and paradoxical and quite wide of equity,
seemed to excite Gerald's interest in the highest degree.
He was struck, too, with the manner of the students, which
was singularly different from anything he had ever before
observed of pupils under instruction. They were many of
them grown up young men, some of them already at the
bar, and, as if they were professors themselves, made no
more ado about stopping the lecturer to ask him any ques-
tion that arose to their minds, than if they were at a tea
ptfi'tv. These questions, however, being generally veiy

?28 LIFE 0? GERALD GRIPFIN.

pertinent, the professor seemed rather pleased at tfie atten-
tion they indicated ; and they often gave rise to conversa-
tions on the point in debate, which were listened to with
the utmost interest, and looked upon as no departure from
the object with which they were assembled.

Notwithstanding his great desire to bring this tale to a
speedy close, Gerald endeavoured, as I have said, to
adhere as much as possible to those rales which he had
latterly found so useful to his health. He seldom allowed
anything to break in upon those little recreations to which
certain hours of the day were devoted, and the kind of life
he led was very much the same as that he followed at
Pallas Kenry. There were many things, indeed, connected
with his Irish home for which London could find no substi-
tute ; still he was pleasant and cheerful ; our evenings were
happy enough, and time flew as it always does when it is
fully occupied, and no moment is left a blank. He pre-
served for the most part the same retired habits as at home,
and seldom went out to dinner, but was now and then
gratified by a sight of some of his old friends, who some-
times dropped in, and who seemed to have an admiration
and attachment for him beyond what was ordinary. Our
evenings were enlivened a good deal, too, by the occasional
visits of a friend of ours named Zanobi de Pecchioli, whose
acquaintance we had made a short time previously. He was
a young Italian of Florence, who having completed his
medical education, in which he had been somewhat distin-
guished, and being about to be appointed to one of the
hospitals in that city, was, with a liberality worthy of imi-
tation, placed upon pay by the Grand Duke, and directed
to visit the different medical institutions throughout Europe
for a year or two, in order to avail himself of any improve-
ments they might offer previous to entering upon his duties.
He was of a lively disposition and most cheerful mind, with
a temperament peculiarly ardent, and abounding in all
those quick, indescribable little movements of countenance,

ZANGBI DE PECCHIOLI. 229

attitude, and limb, which have been called " natural lan-
guage," and which the continental people seem to have cul-
tivated or preserved so much more perfectly than the
inhabitants of these islands. Though pretty intimate with
us, he knew nothing of Gerald, except that fan was attend-
ing lectures on law at the London university, from which
he always addressed and spoke of him as " Monsieur
L'Avoeat." He did not show the same deep application in
his study of the English language which foreigners usually
do, but he made up for this deficiency in other ways. He
had somehow got the notion into his head, that the true
method of learning any language was to attempt to speak
it on every occasion that offered, whether one knew it or
not. Having once got hold of this idea he started from the
very post, and it would be impossible to conceive anything
so ridiculous as the astonishing terminations of English
words, and the strange combinations of English, French,
and Italian phrases which this practice gave rise to. He
seemed to possess tolerable fluency in his own language,
and his efforts to be fluent in the English rendered these
attempts still more extraordinary. Neither Gerald nor I
were able to exhibit those miracles of forbearance which
the people of the continent — especially the French — display
in these circumstances, and we laughed immoderately and
without bounds. He was not in the least offended, how-
ever, politely excusing us on the ground that our national
temperament was excitable, that it was the custom of our
country, and that this made it natural to us, and only re-
questing we would correct him whenever he went wrong.
This we took the pains to do from time to time, though it
was impossible to do so without smiling. He was a great
lover of society, and I never saw anything like the vehe-
mence of his gesticulations, or the manner in which his
dark eyes flashed and kindled as he repeated passages from
Alfieri, the poet of all others whom he seemed most to
admire. Gerald was amused once at the answer he received

230 LIFE OF GERALD GRLTIN.

on asking him what he thought of Dante. " Oh," said he,
" Dante has been great poet long ago, but now he is obso-
lete— no one look at him." This led him to talk of the
various poets he was familiar with — to descant upon their
different qualities and compare their writings. He seemed
jealous at our considering Shakspeare the greatest poet the
world had ever produced, and said " we could not know that
— that the question was a good deal a matter of taste," and
he added, reasonably enough, " that at all events we were
not sufficient linguists to determine such a point." He
supported this position also by an illustration which seemed
very much to the purpose ; I mean the instance in which
Voltaire, I think, is said to have turned an expression in
Shakspeare, " The cloud capped towers," which, according
to our associations, contains nothing but grandeur, into the
utmost ridicule by a perfectly literal translation into French.
His conversational powers seemed never to tire ; and whe-
ther he spoke good Tuscan, or indifferent French, or abo-
minable English, still he would go on. In the midst of aD
this he sometimes started up suddenly, bid us good-bye,
and as I saw him to the door, said, with apparent satisfac-
tion : " Ha ! good night ! I have made Monsieur L'Avocat
laugh verra mush to-night."

The blunt and uncourteous spirit of some English modes
of address must certainly sound very strange in the ears of
foreigners. Pecchioli came in to us one day requesting to
know the meaning of the words, * I say." The qnestion
was so simple that we did not at first understand him. He
then said, " There has been person in street going away,
and when a gentleman near me call out, '/say,' he turn hack
and speak with him.'" " Oh," said we, laughing, " it means
' Je dis — Je dis.' " " Oh," said he, " it cannot be — the
gentleman would not say that." We assured him it was
a familiar expression in very common use in England to
attract people's attention. Nothing could exceed his sur-
prise at the intelligence. " Jp dis !" said he, u Je dis," in

NOVEL OF TOE IXV.-\SK>N. £ai

the utmost astonishment — " Oh ! Monsieur L'Avocat," he
added in adeprecating manner, and with the strongest em-
pliasis upon the words, " if you were prince — if you were
emperor — it is too mush." He frequently amused Gerald
afterwards by his ridicule of the phrase, throwing himself
into a pompous attitude whenever he wanted us to attend
to him, clearing his voice with a "hern," and calling out
"7 say" with the air and manner of a Sir Oracle.

Gerald had no sooner completed the Collegians than he
began to turn his attention to the study of ancient Irish.
history, believing that there were many pecnliarities in the
usages of early times which would admit of being blended
with a story, and would keep up that interest in the public
mind, about the decline of which he was always apprehen-
sive. He was deeply taken with this study, and says, in
a letter to his brother, " I am full of my next tale — quite
enthusiastic — in love with my subject, and up to my ears
in antiquities at the London Institution. A novel full of
curious and characteristic traits of ancient Irish life is my
object, and it is new — it may do something for me at least.
]t these, my dear William, are delusions, they are pleasing
ones." The novel called the Invasion, the result of these
researches, is really a very beautiful one, and the earnest-
ness with which he pleads in the preface for a just consider-
ation of its pretensions and design, in which nothing more
was aimed at than to give as correct a picture as possible
of the manners and usages of the period, sho-n s what a deep,
interest he took in it. This is further indicated by hia
having delayed the publication of the work until the winter
of 1832, for the purpose of rendering his information on
the subject as complete as possible, thus allowing another
series of the Munster Festivals to take precedence of it,
though the historical researches on which it was founded
were commenced early in 1829. The absence of all inter-
est, however, on the part of the public with regard to an-
cient Irish history, owing, perhaps, to a feeling—not..

232 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

always well founded— of the over credulous enthusiasm oi
those who had devoted themselves to its pursuit, made the
work less popular than it deserved to be, and it was re-
ceived but coldly, a consequence attributable also to th€
fact, that Gerald had introduced into it many ancient Irish
terms, familiar enough to his own mind, but to the ears of
the uninitiated uncouth and unintelligible. To the forbid-
ding aspect which this gave the work was added a more
substantial obstacle, arising from the fact, that the pub-
lishers, to enable them to increase the price, threw what
was intended for three volumes into four, a circumstance
■which, in these days of cheap literature, was sure to be
followed by its proper penalty.

I subjoin some letters written about this period, con-
taining several allusions to his works, which will be found
interesting. The remarks in the first relate to something
in the conversation of Hardress Cregan's intended bride at
the race-course, which was said to be rather unfeminine.

To his Sister.

London, January 27th, 1829.
My dearest Lucy, — I have scarcely time to take advantage of
this crossed sheet to answer your letter. The criticism on the
lady's conduct at the course I am inclined to think very just,
though, as you conjecture, it came too late for revision. I did
not think the conduct out of nature with such a character as I
wished to make her, but it required more ample explanation,
and I am afraid the greater number of readers will be of your
opinion. Not so, I am grieved to think, about the poetry.
Most of the unmusical rogues, I fear, will think it all the better
that I have not interspersed the narrative with many interrup-
tions of that kind. However, in deference to my dear Lucy's
judgment, and as an especial favour which you must take to
yourself, and gratitude for your praise of my poetry, in which
not one of the critics as yet has joined you, I have thrown two
or three songs into the other volume. Would you believe it,
I my publishers have had the ill taste to hint that the book
would be just as well without certain lucubrations of this kind,

LETTERS. 233

I suppose because they are unfashionable at present ? Is not
that enough to make all the swan within me die away in me-
lancholy prose ?

Since you sent me Banim's letter I had a visit from him, for
which, unfortunately, I was not at home. He was in town only
for a day, and accordingly I have not seen him yet. He left a
note, however — very cordial — asking me down to Seven Oaks,
where he resides. I think of taking a trip before I return.
Dining the other day at my friend Llanos's, I met that Miss

B of whom I spoke to you some time since — sadly changed

and worn, I thought, but still most animated — lively and even
witty in conversation. She quite dazzled me in spite of her
pale looks. Her sister was there, younger and prettier, but
not so clever. If I were certain that the whole article were
equal to the specimen given, how I should wish that my dear
Lucy had such a friend and companion in her sohtude ! and
how I should pity poor Keats ! I have also seen Mr. Alarie
Watts, reposing amid all the glorious litter of a literary lion-
monger — sofas — silk cushions — paintings — portfolios, &c. He
is a little fellow, very smart and bustling, with about as much
of sentiment as you have of bravery — I mean bloody, field of
battle bravery — for there is another order of this quality in
which 1 would not have you imagine I think you deficient.
Believe me, my dearest Lucy, yours affectionately,

Gerald Griffin.

The remainder of these letters were written from Dublin,
for which we set out on the latter part of February ; our
cheerful dark-eyed friend PecchioU accompanied us and
made the way pleasant. It was singular to observe how
little his imperfect knowledge of the English language in-
terfered with his sprightly observations whenever an occa-
sion arose for them. Gerald took him to a flower show at
the Rotundo, at which he was in great delight. As they
moved among the crowds, a lady said to him, " Dr. Pec-
chioli, how do you like the flowers ?" " Verra nice indeed,"
he said, " verra pretty ; but," he continued, with a gallant
bow, and waving his hand towards a group of young ladies
who were near, " better for me are those flowers, has been
walking round the room." I started for home in a day or
two, leaving him and Gerald together, and I cannot forget

5*^4 LIFE OF GFFr.SLB-Gr.IFFre.

the warm earnestness of his manner, ^hen w# parted io-*-
tbe last time.

To his Sister.

Dublin, Mirck 3rd, 1629.
My deap. Mxry Amra, — Ha ! presto — begone ! Here I am,
at the other side of my sheet and at the other side of the Chan-
nel, and here I remain to study for some time at the Dublin
Library, and also for the purpose of making an excursion north-
wards. I cannot tell you with what gratification I contem-
plate my return to Pallas Kenry after the toils and bustle of the
last winter — the trepidation about criticism — bargaining with
booksellers^avoiding and making acquaintances, &c. I feel
kke a man about to lie down and enjoy a delicious sleep after a
troubled and laborious day. Were I to choose wisely, I think
my line of life should be this : to write in the country ; to read
a good deal ; to avoid London, and all literary acquaintanceship,
for the purpose of keeping clear of literary parties ; to remain
wholly unknown in person, and let my books alone be before
the public. This I feel to be my best, my safest course — but I
must become. an humble-minded man before 1 can pursue it, and .
I am all the contrary. I wish I were a few years younger, that
I might tell you in language not unbecoming the wisdom of
manhood, what I feeL whenever, after a long absence, I return
to that dear corner of Ireland where we all received life, and
first learned to enjoy it. When I think of our evening walks
— our rhyme plays — our boating, gardening, and rambles to
Glin and Shanagolden ; when I remember, too, my own early
childish dreams of literary ambition, and glance onward from
my first thoughts of poetry through all the struggles, disap-
pointments, and partial successes of the interval which has since
gone by ; when I contemplate the magnitude of my boyish
dreams, with their limited fulfilment, and the serenity of those
days of hope, with the feverish agitation of the last six years ;
these thoughts take such hold of my mind, that I should become
effeminate if I did not banish them at once, and turn my eyes
forward. " Be content here, and happy hereafter," is, after all,
the only reasonable rule of human conduct. And yet, I think,
my dear Mary Anne, that I should be somewhat more than
content— that I should be really happy for the time at least, if
my present hope of seeing you all in Susquehanna, or anywhere,
could be fulfilled. . But I will not dwell on that subject longer
at present, lest that* too, might be classed amongst my disap-

LETTERS. 235

pomtments. Since my arrival in Dublin I hare seen a first re-
view of my second series in the Literary Gazette. It is highly
praised, and the censure very trifling But the Ides of March
are not over. My dearest Mary Anne's affectionate brother,

Gekald Griffin.

To his Brother.

Monday, March 16th, 1829.

My dear William, — I have done a great deal here at the
Dublin Library, which is a tolerable collection, and I am pro-
mised an introduction to the Dublin Institution — also rather
extensive. I do not wish to leave Dublin until I have smelted
all the antiquarian ore in those two mines, which, by the way,
is much more abundant than I expected. I have already learned
to think enough for my first purpose, but as in architecture M a
little stronger than strong enough" is the great maxim, so a
little more learned than learned enough is a grand requisite for
a historical work. I want to make an excursion on foot through
the county of Meath and Westmeath, which will take a few
days, and then I think the mere drudgery of my work will be
over.

One thing that makes me look rather cheerfully towards my
approaching task is, that my health is much better than it was,
and I feel a great improvement in that nervous temperament, or
whatever I am to call it, which formerly interfered so much
with my pursuits and occupations. I am cautious, nevertheless,
about letting my naturally sanguine temper lead me astray in
this particular. How I wish that I had enough of constancy
and of generous resignation, as well as of innocence, to cherish
a perfectly quiet mind on this subject — to say, " This project
that I am forming is at least a harmless one, and may oe a use-
ful one, if the Almighty suffer me to complete it ; it will add
to my own enjoyment, and perhaps be of service to many around
me ; and if, on the contrary, I should be interrupted in the
course of it, why, it is still well that I should be called away
while I am harmlessly, and perhaps usefully occupied — as much
so at least as circumstances will enable me to be." This is a
state of mind which I often contemplate with a longing eye, but
my nature is far from being equal to it. I have far too worldly
a heart to observe the proper distinction, to keep a just equi-
librium, between a too keen interest in my occupations, and an
equally mischievous despondency and gloom. What terrifies
Big often, when I am inclined to let my heart expand a little

21 F>6 XIFE OF GERALD -GRIFFIX

on prospects of fortune, reputation, &c., &c., is the remembrance
of the manner in which my last illness first came on. It was
at the time when something like success — like hope, at least,
began to dawn upon me, and when I first began to convince
myself that there was something like reason in my ambition.
It then came all on a sudden, and like the shock of an earth-
quake ; it was, in fact, death in everything but the one circum-
stance— that I did not die. Now, as my health improves, and
the world begins to wind itself about my heart again, I am
sometimes startled by the reflection, that as that sickness came
then, death will come hereafter just as suddenly and unexpect-
edly. "When I think of this at intervals, I shake my head, and
wish I was a better Catholic.

This letter, I must confess, has too much the air of a religious
discourse, but you will excuse it in compliment to the season,
and as I heard no sermon this evening, (although the famous
Father Maguire preaches near me,) I feel the more disposed to
become a little evangelical in my own person. However, as it
might be much more agreeable to me to hear myself preach than
it would be to you, I shall give you my blessing at once and
have done. Dear William, affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

The following, written on the same sheet, gives a speci-
men of some of our friend Zanobi's phraseology after he
had become a little more advanced in his studies. It
contains also some remarks of his on what he had observed
of Dublin since his arrival.

"Your friend Pecchioli has been constantly assailing me
Irith a toss of the head, and ' Ha ! your brother write you f
'No, indeed, not yet,' is my answer, ' but I intend writing to
him to-day.' We part, and the next day, or soon after, the
stout little medico operator knocks at the door — ' Aha ! your
brother write you?' 'Xo.' — 'Have you write him?' 'Not
yet, indeed, but I intend to do so to-day.' And the same
scene is enacted I don't know how often, until this very even-
ing, when he found me with pen in hand filling the first side
of this sheet — ' You write your brother !' * Yes.' — 'But you
did not do before ?' ' No, indeed — the fact is. I'm the worst
letter writer in the world.' He laughed and shook his head—
1 .Is me, for example, To-morrow — to-morrow, always.'

LETTERS,- 237

" He was in very bad' joints for about a areek after you left
this. He was not at home in Dublin, and did not Like his
lodgings. The people of the house, he said, were ' Bronswig
people,' (Brunswickers*) — they did not like to converse, to
speak, 'nor nothing.' The woman of the house 'greater
Bronswig woman also,' treated him with ' greater diffidence,'
till he came to the resolution of going elsewhere — a boarding
house 'for example' — a resolution, however, which he has
not kept, and he now says he likes Dublin very much —
' better than London also. ' He has remarked since his
arrival that there are many poor, and that the poor children
are strong and healthy ; that the middle classes of society are
very highly educated ; that the medical and surgical profes-
sors are very learned — more so than in London ; thatjthe ladies
have fine figures, but bad feet, and that the young ladies are
more reserved than in England.

" Write to me immediately, and do not be ' as mc, for exam-
ple— to-morrow, to-morrow, always,' but write as soon as you can.
I had fifty things to say to you, but it is now between two and
three o'clock in the morning, and my memory becomes a little
clouded. I have heard Father Maguire deliver some of his con-
troversional discourses here, and certainly he is a powerful, a
convincing, and (to me at least, who am but an ignorant auditor)
a learned orator. He is manly, uncompromising, and frank in
his reasoning, and it is delightful to see the confidence with
which he takes his stand on the principle of plain sense, and
his contempt for merely logical, or what has been termed
(whether justly or otherwise, Heaven knows, not I) Jesuitical
reasoning. You would be astonished at the brevity and
clearness with which he demonstrated the necessity of believing
the Catholic faith. Some of his arguments or illustrations, it is
true, are not original, but the greater part was new to me at
least."

The most delightful of Gerald'3 letters are those which
were written when he was under the excitement of some
joyous feeling, and when he entirely abandoned himself to it.
Here, as in those of a more serious cast, he lays bare his
heart fully, and appeal's as he appeared by his fireside at
home when enjoying the converse of his nearest and m-jafc
intimate friends.

* i. e. Members of the Brunswick Clubs, then' formed in opposition
to the movement for Catholic emancipation.

238 LUX OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

To his Brother.

Dublin, April 11th, 1829.

My dear "William, — I thought to have been down with yos
to-iaorrow, and had begun to pack up, but an accident pre
vented me. I drank tea tkis evening at Mr. Crampton's the
iSargeon-General, and a party has been made for an excursion
to the county of Wicklow, where he has a cottage. The party
consists of his two sons. Pecchioli. and your servant. "We return
on Saturday, and dine here at Mr. Crampton's, which will pre-
vent my seeing you before next week. He is really a splendid
fellow, and ought to have been bora a prince. He likes my
works so much that I dote upon him already, as I do upon
everybody that is not ashamed to praise me. And what affords
me still greater, more heartfelt, and I hope not unworthy pride
is, that Maria Edgeworth, who is intimate with the family,
reads them with pleasure, and speaks of them with approba-
tion. For the first time in my life I really felt a lofty — a
sublime sensation of pleasure when the Misses Crampton told
me this. Crampton promised to introduce me to Miss Edge-
worth, and read me some letters of hers, one containing a
criticism on Ban i in, for the warmheartedness of which I love
her. Just think of the staid and demure authoress of Patron-
age, writing like a romance-reading girl of sixteen.

If I were to remain another month in Dublin, I could, without
any difficulty, on the contrary with a course ready cleared
before me, spend that month in the first society ; but, ah !
money, money, money ! A good friend to whom I lent seventy
pounds, has delayed payment a little, so down I go. It would,
after all, be a great advantage that people of rank and influence
should know and be interested about one, and it is worth
something to know what fashionable society is. They are the
people whom one writes to please, and it is well to know what
pleases amongst them.

This is my Bober, business-like reason for wishing to know
them ; but take the honest truth — the pleasure is more than
half the motive. This, after all, is really the only rank in which
I could ever feel at home — in which I could fling off the
s t / onte — talk — laugh — and be happy. But once again —
that pang ! I must work hard and get the antidote.

"Why was I not born to a fortune ?

If you were, says a little voice, you would never have known
the Irich peasantry — you would never have written the Col-
legians- -nobody would know, nobody v> ould care a fig for you,

.ditix;

239

Thank heaven, then, that I was born poor— but, oh ! heaven,
'do not keep me so !

Mr. Crampton asked me if I had not a medical brother, and
where he was, &c. I had very little expectation of meeting a
professional man interested in, and familiar with my dear books
The Collegians, I already perceive, are doing a great deal for
me in Dublin. But enough— as Matthews' invalid says, " This
fellow will be impertinent by and by."

Dr. Pecchioli, I believe, was a little surprised to find me well
known at Crampton's, for the manner of the whole family
was of the same frank, laughing, friendly stamp. A few days
before he told me, "I have compliments to present you of
the secretary of your English Ambassador in Italy" \ Cramp-
ton*? eldest son). "I told him I was travelling to Wicklow
with Mr. Griffin. He asked me. ' Is it Mr. Griffin, author of the
romances ?' I said, ' Yes,'" (for Pecchioli had heard it at another
house in Dublin,) " and he gave his compliments."

" My dear Griffin," says John Banim to me once in his own
energetic waj , " ride rough-shod through society." I believe
he is right. 1 will take the world as it comes from henceforth,
and crush cer ;mony to pieces. I long to meet Lady Morgan
and to know Miss Edgeworth. Miss Crampton tells me the
former will certainly seek me out if I stay another fortnight in
town, and she was astonished when I told her I had not
already seen the lady. But it is growing late, and I must be
up early. One parting word. I shall succeed — I must ! Dear
William, affectionately yours,

Gerald Griffin.

He spoke much on his return of the pleasure he enjoyed
in Dublin. " The Surgeon-General," said he, " is so fond
of literature, and makes good remarks about it ! He gave
one of the best critiques I ever heard, on the fidelity to
nature of some of the characters in Banim's tales. Speak-
ing of that of Paddy Flyn in John Doe : ' That Paddy
Flyn,' said he, ' is hanged twice a-year regularly in the
south of Ireland.' "

Though he seems to have appreciated and enjoyed Sir

Philip Crampton's kindness so much, it was so totally

against his nature to press himself upon society, that his

iuction to him on this occasion was a matter of the

t accident. There was something amusing in the

240 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

manner of it. Pecchioli and he had been walking toother,.
and the former wishing to pay a visit at the Surgeon- Gene-
ral's, asked Gerald to wait for him. The family wanting
him to prolong his visit, he excused himself, saying a friend
of his was outside expecting him, and on his mentioning the
name of u Mr. Griffin," they immediately asked, " Was
that the author of the Collegians?" Pecchioli said, "Yes,"
and they kindly requested he would introduce him. Gerald,
despairing by this time of his friend's return, had marched
off, and was already a considerable distance, when he heard
Pecchioli shouting after him. On turning round he saw
him without his hat, running, and Gerald could not help
laughing as he said, when they met, " You must come back,

the Miss C 's want you — they want you verra mush"

They returned together, and he was received in the same
frank and cordial manner he describes. This was the se-
cond time Pecchioli had heard cf Gerald as an author, and
the latter was much diverted at his immediately upbraiding
him with his reserve on the subject. " Why, you no tell
me you write Collegians ?" said he reproachfully. Gerald
smiled and made some excuse. " Ah ! Monsieur L'Avocat,"
he added, " it is too mush mystery." To make amends,
Gerald presented him with a copy of the work, at which
he seemed greatly gratified.

Sir Philip Crampton once told me an anecdote of Gerald
which occurred about this time, and may give an idea of
his feelings on some points. Gerald happened to dine at
his house one day in company with a party, among whom,
was Mr. Shiel and two Englishmen. After dinner, as they
sat at their wine, Mr. Shiel, who was in high spirits,
indulged in several innocent pleasantries on various sub-
jects. Among the rest he spoke of his studies at, I think,
one of the English Catholic Colleges, the societies formed
for debate among the students, and the questions given
them for discussion by the professors. The subject of some
of these debates he represented, ia a half serious manneiy

DUBLIN. 241

as consisting often of a number of metaphysical subtleties
and petty conceits, the nature of which I have no distinct
recollection of, but which were about as tangible as the pro-
blem: "How many thousand angels would dance on the
point of a fine cambric needle ?" and he seemed to insinuate,
or at least to speak somewhat ambiguously, as to whether
such questions arose among the students themselves, or
were given them for exercise by the professors. " I could
easily perceive," said Sir Philip Crampton, "that your
brother was on thorns all the while Shiel was going on, at
the idea that the Englishmen might possibly imagine such
subjects wort seriously encouraged in a Catholic College
by the professors." At length Gerald said gravely, "Do
you mean to say, Mr. Shiel, that such questions as these
were proposed to the students by the professors themselves ?"
Mr. Shiel gave an equivocal answer, and still endeavoured
to carry on the jest, until, after renewed attempts to get
at the facts, Gerald in the end was obliged to repeat ;as
inquiry formally and seriously, when Mr. Shiel said some-
thing to quiet him, and so the matter ended. Mr. Shiel
must have been somewhat amused at Gerald's sensitiveness
on the subject, while the latter, who appeared satisfied at
having at length got at the facts, was, I dare say, far irom
being pleased at the utterance of sentiments that tended to
leave on the minds of strangers an unfavourable impression
of institutions in which he had long learned to take a
very deep interest.

I shall close this account of the time he spent in Dublin
with the following letter, which is of the same character as
the last, and was written somewhat about the same time:

To his /Sister.

Dublin, April 13th, 1829.
My dear Lucy, — I am most ready to admit your last letter
as an acquittance for all old debts, and likewise to subscribe,
with the greatest humility, to the justice of your criticism.

Q

242 LIFE OF GERALD GEIFFIN.

How happy it would be for the world, if all the reviewers had
your taste and discernment ! they would know what was good
when they got it, and they would buy the Collegians in cart-
loads. If you are not content with your way of spending the
Lent, I don't know what you would say to my dancing quad-
rilles on Monday evening, at a party in Baggot-street. The
family is a most agreeable one — living in very elegant style,
and the most friendly and unaffected that yo.i can imagine.

I met there iliss , the sister of the hero you might have

heard me speak of, whom I knew in London. She is a most
charming girl indeed. I'll tell you how I might give you some
idea of her : if Eily O'Connor had been a gentlewoman, she

would have been just such a one, I think, as Miss . The

same good nature, simplicity, and playfulness of character —
the same delicious nationality of manner. Isn't this very
modest talking of my heroine. I have a great mind to put her
into my next book, and if I do I'll kill her as sure as a gun, for
it would be such a delightful pity. I exult in the destruction
of amiable people, particularly in the slaughter of handsome
young ladies, for it makes one's third volume so interesting.
I have even had a hankering wish to make a random blow at
yourself, and I think I'll do it too some day or other ; so look
to yourself, and insure your life I advise you, for I think, if well
managed, you'd make a very pretty catastrophe. But until
1 find occasion for killing you let my dear Lucy continue to
love her affectionate brother,

Gerald Griffin.

CHAPTER XI.
182&— 1830.

BET 89 TO PALLAS KENRY — CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. AND

UB& . — RENEWED VISIT TO LONDON — LETTERS FROM

THENCE — A DINNER PARTY OF METAPHYSICIANS — BETCR* TO
IRELAND LETTERS FROM THE SEA-SIDE.

Thet.e is a portion of Gerald's correspondence which was
so intimately interwoven with the keenest social pleasures
he ever experienced, that I am tempted to it lay before the

PARTIALITY FOR THE QUAKERS. 2-1 3'

just in the manner in which it originated. It in,

rer, of so domestic and unreserved a character in

many respects, that a proper regard to the feelings of the-

parties concerned makes me wish to decline giving the

names.

For some considerable time before the publication of the
Collegians, he had been favourably known by his writings,
though not by name, to some families in his native city
who belonged to the Society of Friends. It had been ob-
served that the sketches in the London periodicals, which
first attracted their notice, were evideutly written by some
person well acquainted with the localities of Limerick,
Some sweet and fanciful little tales published in the Newb
of Literature were clearly founded upon traditions well
known there, and they had therefore evinced a good deal
of curiosity about the writer. Gerald, on his part, seems
from an early period to have had a considerable partiality
for the members of that body. " For my own part," he
says, in a letter to his mother of 1822, w hich now lies before
me, " for my own part I am so weaiy of the dull, unpro-
fitable, good-for-nothing sort of life I have been leading
for some time back, that I should feel great pleasure were
I at this veiy instant scrambling out of one of the small
boats upon Market*street wharf, in the city of Quakers.
How I love those people for their amiable simplicity of life,
and the good sense and humility with which they perform
their duties, and, without blushing, discharge offices, which,
in these enlightened and more polished countries, would be
considered degrading. May America never become more
nearly acquainted than she is with the usages of a refined
society, if she should adopt them to the exclusion of those
simple primitive habits which form one of the most beautiful
features of a republican government." I remember his re-
marking to me once, that their peculiar principles were
favourable to the cultivation of letters, and that the circum-
stance of their recreations being ia some degree restricted^

214 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN'.

from their abjuring the ruder sports of the field, as well as
the amiable feeling -with which this was associated, tended!
strongly to lead the mind to pursuits of a refined and intel-
lectual character. Hence their love of nature and of
natural scenery, their fondness for botany, floriculture, and
the fine arts, and their general and often extensive infor-
mation upon every subject. Holland-tide and the fir^t
series of the Tales of the Minister Festivals had strengthened
the favourable impression produced by his earlier writings,
but the appearance of the Collegians was his crowning
glory with these kind friends. Immediately after his arri-
val in 1829, he was invited to the house of one of them,
then li\ ing near Limerick, and having spent an evening
there, he returned to Pallas Kenry, delighted beyond ex-
pression with his new acquaintances. He found the family
friendly, kind, and hospitable, in the highest degree, with
a warmth and simplicity of manner that seemed to fling
ceremony to the winds, and was quite refreshing to him ;
with tastes highly cultivated, and a familiarity with the
best writings of the day, that to one living, as he had
hitherto been when at home, as it were in a desert as re-
garded literature, was a social gain beyond ail others to be
prized. He was no less delighted at the discovery that

Mrs. was the daughter of a lady already well known

and highly esteemed in the literary world, though now no
more, and that she possessed (though with an unaccount-
able timidity as to their exercise) the rich inheritance of
the mental endowments of that amiable and gifted person.
The result of a few meetings more was a friendship as pure
and elevated as it is possible to conceive, yet as ardent and
enduring as if it had sprung up in infancy and been only con-
firmed by time. Mrs. was henceforward the secret pa-
tron of bis minstrelsy — the indulgent judge to whom he sub-
mitted everything — the favouring spirit, whose keen percep-
tion of the beautiful no grace could escape — yet the friendly
critic, who pronounced upoa deflects with a boldness and can-

BETTERS. . 215

four that an interest less intense than hers conld never have
exhibited. Gerald seems to have delivered himself over to
the pleasure of this new acquaintance with the keen enthu-
siasm which he felt in everything that deeply interested
nim. A sort of picnie- excursion was planned to Killarney,
in which he became a sharer, and of which he often spoke
in terms of the highest rapture. The following letters to

Mr. and Mrs. breathe so much of his heart and mind,

and exhibit him so entirely as he was seen by his most
familiar acquaintances, that they cannot fail to be interest-
ing. I will venture to mingle with them, now and then,
a few written about the same time to other persons upon
subjects somewhat similar, or displaying similar feelings,
together with such occasional observations as may be neces
&qjj to makfi them intelligible. -

To Mr. »

Pallas Kenry, June 27th, 1829.

My pear- J., — Wherever I may turn my steps from this hour
I am fully determined never to travel without you : whether
into France, Switzerland, or Italy, you must positively be of
my party. You; are the prince — the emperor of fellow-travel-
lers. Two pounds ten shillings for a fortnight at the Irish
lakes — for ascending mountains---diving into vallies — for ponies,
guides, boats, dinners, breakfasts, beds, servants, Kenmare,

Bantry, Glengariff, echoes and all ! J , you are an immortal

man. What would you think of accompanying me over the
Simplon ? I had made a calculation last winter in London,
when I thought of visiting the Eternal City, and found that I
could go by Paris, Lyons, Turin, Florence, &c, and return foi
something about forty pounds. But do you come with me, I
will put my purse in your hands, and I hope to get off under
five or six. In the mean time, my dear fellow, look over your
Killarney accounts again, and oblige me, for I am sure you
have made a mistake greatly in my favour. I am looking with
impatience to the day of your promised visit. Come early, and

join your instances to L- in prevailing on your sister to h<

nne of the party. I was very glad (thank me for this candour)
that you did not accept n\y invitation to Pallas on Sunday last —

•24 (^ LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

tnat is to say, I was glad of it when I came home and fomvd
the house completely deserted — presenting much such a picture
as we had been painting just before we parted. Imagine, if you
can, (but you can't, you happy man you !) the feelings of a
young fellow returning from a pleasure tour to Killarney with
such companions, and -then entering a house where every foot-
step sounded as if he were walking in a barrel. Remember
me to all your amiable family, and believe me. dear J. , youra
sincerely, Gerald Griffin.

' To Mrs. .

Pallas Kenry, June 27th, 1S29.

My dear L., — How can I thank you for your sweet, dear
letter ? I had only one fault to find with it, and that was, that
it was written upon half a sheet instead ot a whole one, and
that I discovered the unsisterly omission of a little particle
somewhere about the commencement, which made it look a
little bare. Look at mine now, and see how much better it
looks and sounds. If you were to see the face I made when it
began to rain soon after I left you, you would never again speak
of the possibility of my forgetting you. If a look could knock
the sky down, down it would have come that day. How sony
I was that I coidd not be present when you and my "graceful'5
sister Lucy first met, in order that 1 might have made you love
one another ail at once !— but come out — come out, and if I
am not able to dove-tail your hearts together in a manner equal
to any joiner's work in the world, why, then, all I can say
is, that neither the one nor the other of you is of my
mind. I send you the Le Diable Boiteux — a ragged old copy,
and I fear having some pages out, but I promise you that you
will find as much delight in it as if it -were hot-pressed and in
Russia. All that is necessary is, to forget when you take up
the book that it is by the Author of Gil Bias, for otherwise you
will feel there is a fall, and even the wit will make you melan-
choly. -Hudibras I will give J ' when he comes out, tor it

i3 a queer sort of a funny book, and he must read it to you —
for — for^-I wouldn't be encouraging you, ma'am, in those — those

studies, ma'am. L , write me longer lettei's when you write

again, and don't write about Cuming or going anywhere, but

put the. whole of L 's mind and a pi see of L 's heart

upon the paper, and it wall be tome as weieonieasthe summer ;
and don't talk about forgetting, for if that begin on either side
I promise you it will be on yours. To me such a friendship &a

LETTERS. 247

I promise myself yours will be, is a rare blessing, «uch as a poor
author wante to console him for a great deal of chagrin and
disappointment ; to keep his heart sweet amid its struggles with
an ugly world. But what's the use of my saying ali this, for
you understand it all perfectly well already, and I only spoil
the matter by expressing it a great deal more weakly than you
can feel it. I would send you a manuscript drama now for
your criticism, but my parcel is large enough already for my
brother's pocket. And now, madam, what have you to say
after these three close pages filled up with nothing at all ? I
think I have started pretty well in the commencement of our

correspondence. The course is clear before us — ah ! L ,

don't bolt ! I am your affectionate friend,

Gerald Griffin.

A few days afterwards, while driving his youngest sister
to the house of a friend, he let the wheel of the gig go over
a great rock that lay in the way, by which 6he was thrown
out and had her elbow dislocated. The following letters
were written a few days subsequently, when all anxiety
about the effects of the fall was at an end :

To the same.

Pallas Kenry, Friday.
My dear L., — My brother handed me your letter to-day
when I was about to return here after an absence of several
days, which, on leaving home I thought would not exceed the
same number of hours. He tells me he has made you aware of
the circumstance of our downfall, so that I need not go over

that ugly ground again. I thank my dear L for her letter,

for her promised visit, and for her affectionate inquiries for Lucy,
who is now so well as to be able to go about and run the risk ,
of a repetition of her adventure. I have just turned round in
my chair to ask her what I should say to you in return for your
atiectionate message to her, and her answer is, that I should tell
you she is very, very much obliged for all your inquiries — that
she is able to see anybody, and will be delighted to see you — (ah,
never speak of visiting again with an if possible at the end of
it) — that she would say a great deal more if she were writing
herself— that she sends her best love, and will have a great
deal to say when she sees you.

248 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

And now see the evil of all this ! See tfie consequences oi
having a bare mare badly mouthed on the left side. A dear
sister sadly maimed — an appointment broken with a dear
friend, and what should have been a welcome invitation, look-
ing blank and idle in my sight with its own " No !" stamped

upon its face ! For indeed it is a mournful truth, L , that

I can neither dine with you on Sunday, nor see you before
then. It almost gave me pain to find myself included in the
note of invitation, it is so impossible for me to accept it. But
I must cure Lucy first, and stay with a cousin whom we have on
a visit, and I have only to devise what entertainment I can for

the day, and to think of B d, and hope that I am thought of

at B d.

And now, when are we to see you ? or am I to sit down
and be content with that little note of yours until I am able
to go look for you myself ? Well, even though I should, thank
you. I ought perhaps to be ashamed of wishing to occupy so
much of your time, but you spoil people and make them un-
reasonable, you are so good and kind.

Thank a certain sweet poetess in your neighbourhood for the
allusion contained in a certain sweet poem, if my vanity has
not misapplied the meaning of the stanza. Ah, you are dear
people all of you — a literary oasis in what I thought a desert
of utter and 'irreclaimable dullness ! So much for my native
city. For yourself/ dear friend, what shall I say ? That deli-
cious as are your assurances of sympathy you are indeed right in
supposing that to me they are utterly unnecessary. I could
not meet you with the same pleasure, nor leave with the same
regret, if' it were otherwise. I am my dear L 's affec-
tionately,

Gerald Griffin.

To Mr. .

My dear J., — I am very sorry I cannot oe with you on San-
day, but the fates have so ordered it. I could say something
very edifying about the uncertainty of human affairs, but 1
never preach except in print, and even then (Heaven forgive
me!) only when I think I am going to die> so that, after all, I
shall add nothing to what has been so magnificently said by
Seged, emperor of Ethiopia, on this subject — vide Rambler,

page so-and-so. I am, dear J , yours ever,

Gerald Griffin.

LETTERS.. 2-J9

To Mrs „

My 1>karL., — My worthy brother is setting off to Limerick,
and I take the opportunity of writing a line to ask if you are
all well, and resolved to fulfil your promise of coming out to
see us on Sunday next. "We have some fair cousins here, upon
whom I wish that you should sit in judgment a la Paris, and
as the scene is to be Pallas Kenry, and not Mount Ida, you shall
have a fine mealy potato to hand over to the fairest.

I send you, in the hope that it may afford you some enter-
tainment, a fresh manuscript— the concluding story of my
volume on the Senses. As you liked the style of the deaf
Filea you may like this also. If you ask me why I send you
so many one after the other, 1 will refer you to the speech of
what's-his-name in the play :

44 In my school days, when I had lost one's shaft,
I shot his fellow off the self-same flight,
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth," &c.

Congratulate me, or shall I congratulate you, on a piece cf
good news 1 heard yesterday ? The poor forgotten Aylmers
has been dramatised, and was brought out last week with
great success at the English Opera. And see my luck ! The
drama I told you I. lost by the coach office was precisely
founded on the same story, and here another fellow runs away
with my poor bantling, dresses him up in his own swaddling
clouts, and plunders me.

Adieu ! This is a stupid, rainy, blowing, cloudy morning, and
I am here endeavouring to outface it by making as much noise
and doing as much mischief as I can. Ever your affectionate,

Gerale Griffin.

To the same.

If you were to see what a letter I had written to you on Sun-
day night in answer to your last, I don't know what you would
say to me. It was furious enough I can tell you. I sat up on pur-
pose to write it, never recollecting that I should not have an op-
portunity to send it until Thursday (to-morrow) ^though even
if I had recollected it I do not think it would have stopped my
pen, it was so full of indignation. I am looking over the epis-
tle now, and I find it (be grateful to my mild and affectionate
huart. for such a judgment) too angry by some degrees for the

?250 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

latitude of beloved R d. I find it a most entrancing burst

of indignation and astonishment at the doubt which was so
forcibly insinuated in the very first sentence of your note. It
goes on sometimes making a face of this kind,

and sometimes melting into this cast of countenance —

sometimes as long as a walking cane, and sometimes as sharp as
a bodkin — sometimes as biting as Butler, ai id sometimes as ten-
der as Petrarch. There was a burst of smothered fury about your
query as to the sincerity of my verses, and a hint about the
pain a poet feels in singing to a doubting ear ; and there was
some dramatic harping upon the word ridiculous, which oc-
curred somewhere in your note ; -and, I think, I said some-
thing— ay, I find I did say something most loftily grateful
about your writing, when it seemed to require some exertion,
•&c, and so I folded the letter, and laid it by for Thursday,
when Dan might take it in (poor innocent fellow, little con«
scious what a combustible epistle I was about to put in his
pocket, where it is odds that, like Bob Acre's note of defiance,
it might have gone off).

But yesterday I took it out and read it. My indignation
had all been expended on the paper, and I had had leisure in
the mean time to repose upon the recollections of our friendship
with somewhat of a quieter heart, and I read, and read on, with
surprise ; and the first question I asked myself was : To whoni
is all this addressed ? * Is it to my friend — to my own kind
L. ? — my generous, my best beloved friend and sister ? — and

where u> the provocation ? and then, L , I went hunting

over your note for the cause of my indignation, and I don't
know how it was, but it had got into some corner, or the colour
«cf a in juaand delicious, recollections was about it like a veil, or

LETTERS. '251

t she forgiving pulses in my bosom were awakened — or however
it was, I could not find it.

And now, my sweet and bright-eyed lady, why did yon speak
to me of doubt ? Oh, fie ! fie ! fie ! must 1 say to you, like my
poor neglected Gisippus :

" — faith stands
On unsure ground, where confidence is wanted.
And her's I lack — "

Did you thank me for my lines ? Ah, L , L , did you

not thank me for them ? did not the simple act of your receiv-

. ing them with the smile, and thinking them worth preserving,
far overpay their value. Believe me, I never thought other-

- wise. What could I do that would be worth the least of your
attention ? — that could repay the joy I feel continually, in the
simple consciousness that I possess the interest of a friend in
your affections ? — that would compensate for the gift of your
society and friendship ? Would I not sing (if the spirit were
in me) until the swan feathers sprouted from my fingers' ends,
for a single hour of such a day as the Sunday you speak of.

I never doubt ; but when I think of the delightful summer
which has just flown by ; when I think of Adare, of Killarney,

of Glengariff, of Tralee, of Tarbert, of Askeaton, of E d, and

of the happiness which I felt in the growth of our friendship
amid those scenes, I often ask myself : Is it possible the time
should ever arrive when a friendship like ours — warm — noble
— elevated — a3 I often thought it, should fade away in cold

•suspicion and unworthy ^negligence ? On my part I answer,
never ; on yours — why — a — never — I believe also ; but then to
talk of you having "the appearance of my friendship !"

Psha, psha, psha ! here have I been running into a strain of
sentimentalising, when I should have been telling you some
news ; but you must bear with your pet. And first, my sum-
mons has come, and my booksellers want to see my human face
divine in London. in the course of the next month. Oh,

L ! oh, my divine, and super-divine, and hyper-super- divine

friend, what shall I do without you there at all, at all ? Oh,
the next hotel that I have to sleep in ! Imagine with what
sensations I shall take my tea and breakfast while I think oi
our hotels on the Killarney road, and listen for your laugh and

for J 's jest, and for all the sounds of those enchanting

days. I have a mind to burn this last note of yours before I
set out upon that journey. But I hope you will answer my
letter, and do write affectionately. Did you not call yourseti

MS LIFE OF GERALD SRI FPUT..

my sisteT once — and did not I take you at your word, and
you as near my heart as ever brother did before ? Ah, fie V.
that naughty note ! see how my pen runs back to it in spite of
me.

Well, whatever you think or do, here is a hand and a warm
smile, and a heart full of thanks for all the love you showed me,
and for all the kind interest you have taken in my literary en-
deavours. Indeed I never was so arrogant as to look for
thanks for anything — pish, it is ridiculous to speak of it.

Here is a pretty long letter, is it not? Rather " ridiculous'*
you may think it, but I do not — not for its length at least. I:
forgive you ail the disappointment of Wednesday, if you pro-
mise to show yourself a ready penitent and come out to see us

with J on Sunday. And tell J , for his encouragement,

that he shall be king — crowned king in Pallas that day, and
that his will shall be law for everything — for going or coming
— for everything short of strangulation.

I hope your father and sister are returned in good health,

and that J 's cold is improved. Having no time to read

the Journal before I start from London, I will send it

by the next opportunity. J *icy allows me no peace wanting tc
know when you will come out next. Do come out, and let next
Sunday be gilded with your presence. I am, ever, L— — s.
fervent and faithful friend,

Gerald Griffin.

To the same.

My dear L,, — Here comes my answer to your note after a
week's silence. The cause of that silence I must tell you when
we meet, for I have other things to speak of here.

I forgive you for disappointing us on Sunday. I wish I had
something else to forgive you for ; I.should wish to show that
I can be as generous as yourself, but I have not ; no, nothing,
nothing, though I look back in vain to find it. I wish there
were more people like you in the world ; but there are very
few, I fear.

And since I forgive you for our disappointment, do you like-
wise me for my silence, though I cannot crowd my defence into
this note. I did not write on Sunday, because I went into

Limerick and intended to visits at. R d, but I was obliged

to leave it sooner than I intended. I don't know what the
cause may be ; whether it be the dreariness of the night, the
lonely appearance of our little room (for our cousins are gone
home), the howling of the wind, or *jie beating of the rain, 01

LETTEttS. 25&

•the influence of a little cold which has been haunting me this
week back ; but I feci in a humour to-night for being at peace
with the whole world. Therefore, if you, in looking back tc
•our brief but happy acquaintance, see anything that needs to
be forgiven, bestow a free and full forgiveness on it, and believe
it deeply repented of. The pictures which it leaves upon my me-
mory are so delightful, that I would not have them continue
disfigured by any traits which the India rubber of human kind'
ness and friendship may remove.

Well, how do you like my pious story ? Can't I write very
piously when the fit is on me ? I hope it will make you a
Koman Catholic, that I may have the benefit of your prayers,
for I am sure they will be pure and sincere ones. I am too
great a sinner ever to have wished for a window over my heart,
as Nebuchadnezzar, or King Pepin, or one of those great philo-
sophers said formerly, and yet (must you not think this
strange?) I could agree to have a pane or two inserted in that
little edifice in which you are lodged, for there you are, un-
changing and immovable, somewhere, I think, about the left
auricle, in which they say the blood flows calmest and purest.

I send you a long string of rhymes on that story of Cathleen,
which I took up again and finished this week, because I recol-
lected that you praised the opening stanzas. I send it with a
pleasure only short of that which I should feel in going myself,
for I am pleased to think that it is possible I may afford some
entertainment to so esteemed a friend, even while I am toiling
away all alone here by the fireside. I wish I had something
wurth sending you — something that might set my conscience at
ease about ail the generous praise you lavish on those things.
Believe me, your true and affectionate friend,

Gerald Griffin.

To (he same.

My two worthy brothers served me prettily to-day. After 1
had read your note, and while in despite of impossibility itself,
I began to hanker after the second seat in the gig, although
every moment from this until I leave Ireland should unflinch-
ingly be devoted to business (for, alas, my muse visits me some-
times, not in robes of silk, but with a work-day apron). But
Master William decided the question, for he stole off in the gig at
six this morning, without once apprising one of his intention, and
now Master Dan comes up stairs and tells me * ' he i3 going to
Limerick, and have I any commands, for he can't wait ?" So
what am I to do ? and yet, how can I stay ! Truth is, my

231: LTFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

dear L , I hardly like at present to go everywhere I tt

wish, for sometimes the uncertain future, the thought of.
scoundrel critics and reptiles of that description, comes black
upon my mind, and makes me on a sudden feel dull and spirit-
less, when I ought to be most happy : and then I feel as if I
was a bore, and I am vexed with myself and look sullen, and —
but next summer I shall be as gay as a skylark.

But I had an adventure yesterday. I was walking on the
shore, with the tide beautifully and brimmingly in, and the
water as smooth as peace itself, when on a sudden, ma'am, what
should I hear but an Aycho ! Oh ! it went through and through
me like a spear. I thought of the eagle's nest, and kept think-
ing and thinking of you and Killamey until my thoughts slipped
out in the shape of a little song to your dear self, which you
may set to music as soon as you quit the society to which you
have been so long an ornament and an edification :

i.
Hark ! hark ! the soft bugle sounds over the wood,

And thrills in the silence of even,
Till faint and more faint, in the far solitude,

It dies on the portals of heaven.
But Echo springs up from her home in the rock.

And seizes the perishing strain,
And sends the gay challenge, with shadowy mock,

From mountain to mountain again,
And again,

From mountain to mountain again!

Oh. thus let my love, like a sound of delight,

Be around thee while shines the glad day,
And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of nightr

And die like sweet music away.
While Hope with her calm light that glancing eye fillsr

Oh say, " Like that echoing strain,
" Though the sound of his love has fled o'er the hills,

u It will waken in heaven again,

" And again,

" It will waken in heaven again P

Adieu., my dear friend ; it is not you that should tk\ of lons>
liness to me. A thousand, thousand thanks for your dear,
though brief note. Your affectionate,

L2TTERS. 250>

To the same.

Friday Night.

Mr DBAR L , my brother tells me he intends visiting

J to-morrow, (I having read to him that part of your charm-
ing letter which speaks of J 's having called on him,) and I

am unwilling to let bim go without a word or two, although
it is now past midnight, and I am come home only this evening,
wearied from steering, the Hip Hall boat from Loughill to
Pallas right before the wind. I, too, hoped to have had the
happiness of seeing you in Limerick before now, but I had some
visits to make in my ancient neighbourhood, which, would not
bear being put off much longer.

And so, L , after bundling off my poor play, blank verse

and all, I am not to get the verses ? I am not to get the sweet
(for I know they are sweet, or physiognomy is a jest) poetry of

the gentle S , nor the humorous (for I am sure they are

humorous, or physiognomy is out again) prose of your cousin

E ? the continuation of the Tale of a Tub, and the Lower

Order ? Here have I been flinging open my desk, and scattering
my papers about as freely (to you) as the sybil's leaves, and now
I am told, with a grave face and a toss of the head, that I am to
get nothing in return — that I am too exalted to be dealt with
honestly and fairly ! "Well, well, I am all gentleness and
patience until Sunday is over ; but if matters be not otherwise
arranged next week, expect to find me a terrible man.

And talking of next week puts me in mind of your promised
criticism. Ah, the days have fled when every nerve in my
frame would have thrilled, and every pulse bounded at the
word. I am growing quite callous, and the sight of it no longer
makes a coward of me. My delicious tremours are all over,
and I don't think that I would ever take up a printed review,
but that I have a hungry vanity, and want a little praise to
eat when I am in low spirits ; but for liking yours, dear good

L , I shall have a better motive. Write freely then, even

though the kindness of the sister should neutralise the acuteness
of the critic ; and (whisper!) the deepest tinge of rose colour
which your glasses can give it, will not render it less welcom(
to the poor vain heart of your true friend,

Gerald Grlfftn.

To the same.

Many thanks for my dear L 's note and her invitation,

which I wish it was in my power to accept ; bat I am Umost

556 LIFE €F GERALD GRIFFIN.

npon the road to Pallas, -where I must be dull and sensible now
for some days at least.

Many warm thanks for the song. I intend to keep croaking
it every evening over the old piano until 1 come into town again.
That's what I call romance. It is exquisitely beautiful, and a
tune in itself to repeat.

It is S 's own gentleness and diffidence that could make

her like my poem after one so full of thought and feeling as her

own. As for you, L , I believe if I copied out the Groves

of Blarney, and sent it you as my own, you would call it good.

I dote on your little song. And so, 'twas written so long
♦go ? What a charming little Ariel you must have been ! I do

not wonder at J 's fate —

u Xon invidio, miror miPMS."
And so with my scrap of Latin there I leave you. I'm sorry I
have no Greek, but that

"Has all deserted my poor John-trot head,
And left plain native English in its stead.''

Your true, Gerald Griffin.

To the same.

London, November, 1829.
My dear L. , — Although you have not yet recived my an ■
8wer to your last most welcome letter ; and although I am en-
deavouring to do more than I could if I were " like Cerberus —
three gentlemen" at once ; and although I was vexed at not re-
ceiving even three lines to say, " How art thou, my dear Gerald ?
art thou dead or alive ?" in the parcel which brought four pages

closely written to T (your other brother, who I know did

not write to you) — I cannot resist your kind and friendly mes-
sage, or refrain from thanking you for your good wishes towards
me. It is true, my trip to France will remove me still further
from all I hold dear in Ireland — a consideration somewhat more
painful, when I remember the newties of friendship which sprung
up there within the course of the past year — it throws another
Pea between me and my home (which is not now less dear to

me because R d is always associated with it) — it multiplies

^ some slight degree the chances of my not returning ; but think
not for that, that I go without often looking back and longing
for the end of my travelling. I feel., indeed, that it is necessary
for me to conquer my love of idle enjoyment, and to labour
vigorously to become useful as well as amusing, (for I take it

LFTTEKS. 257

for granted I can be the latter,) and produce a book -which shall
not only give true pictures of results, but true investigations of
causes ; never toss your head about it ; it will not be such a
stupid book as you suppose. I see you again twist your face,
and gather up your eyes and cry, " agh !" in your own inimi-
table way ; but I'll do all that.

How differently am 1 spending this winter from the summer

just gone by 1 L- , if my book this winter fails to please the

public the sin lies at your door, and I'll say so much in the pre-
face to Whiskey Hall, or the Duellists, whichever it is to be
called. Then, I used in the interval of our correspondence, or
our writing, sit in my chair and call up with effort those visions
that came so readily before, but a mischievous enemy had got
within my magic circle, and my spirits came reluctantly, and

made themselves but faintly visible. A letter from R d,

perhaps a visit — then two or three scenes of a tale in which
poor imagination, absorbed in the contemplation of real en-
chantments, too often let her pencil fall, and turned in weari-
ness from the cold and lifeless shadows which she drew ; a walk
along the river side to breathe the fresh Shannon air, and to
see the sights that were always familiar and dear to me ; an
hour spent under the trees, listening to the delicious river
sounds, and spinning out a song or poem, for I found that Ima-
gination, child of folly as she is, would often come near and
obey me when 1 rung the bells of rhyme in her ear, while, if I
wished to make her sit down to simple prose, she would skip
off and away over Carrig-o'guniel, heaven knows where. But
it was a vain — a foolish — too foolish a life to lead. When I
think of it, I stand up and shake my hands — and say that I
must be more active for the future.

Now I think I am doing better ; I rise tolerably early, walk
out, come home, practise with dumb bells for a while (for I
intend to become a prodigy of muscular strength, &c. ) — then
breakfast, read some proofs, and shake my head when I meet
anything stupid — then I go to the British Museum, where I re-
main studying until four — then return and take another ' ' drass"
of the dumb bells — then dine — then read and talk French for
two hours with M. Sueur — then'write Whiskey Hall — then take
tea — and then write Whiskey Hall again until bed-time. All
I should require now to make this mode of life perfectly agree-
able is a fair companion, and I think I have a chance of getting
one to my taste. She is a decent woman, not above forty,
rather cleanly than otherwise, and not squinting very much,
and at any rate, if she should not please me, there is a Jew's
meeting in the city, at which T and I sometimes attend

258 LIFE OF GEEALD GRIFFIN.

on Saturday nights — I, of course, as you -will suppose, in the

hope of "bettering myself," and T , as he would have a

person believe, with the new of hearing a theological discus-
sion ; but don't suppose I mean to insinuate anything to the
contrary.

Yesterday I had three mad people here to dine with me, and
5 charitably came, as it seemed, in quality of their physi-
cian. They were metaphysicians, and that is what I mean by

mad people. One of them was Doctor B , a sane and clever

man on other subjects, and a great friend of T 's, who, if

lie has not bitten him already, will bite him before long, and
who thinks "Wordsworth a greater poet than Shakspeare. This

would be enough for me, even if T had not told me that he

Js so very clever a fellow that he says all sects in the world are
in the wrong, and that he is the only man that ever was right.
He is of the German school, the maddest of all, in my opinion —
the greatest camel-swallowers of the whole. A second was a

Mr. IS (who, by the way, as I discovered, knew something

of B e and of its stars), a follower, I believe, of the Scotch

Ronool (rather than any other), and who despises from the bot-
tom of his heart the Germans, and is as mad in admitting no-
thing as they are in swallowing everything. A third was a
comical lad, who held that there was not a man in France — not
one man ! — meaning by a man, as I could gather out of him,
what I mean by a madman, that is, a metaphysician, who spends
his life in diving after principles. He maintained (more modest
than B ) that Wordsworth in his way was equal to Shak-
speare. " Thankye, sir," thought I to myself. Well, between
all three arguing on points which not one of the three could
tmderstand no more than any living mortal, you may imagine
what high fun we had the whole night. A set-to between
Butch Sam and Bill Ne&L was nothing to it As for myself, I
Was in a fever the whole of the following day from laughter. I
must reserve to my next an account of an interview I had with
the manager of the English Opera-house, whom I had not seen
since the production of my poor Noyades — my first and last
theatrical attempt— and who made me some paternal reproaches
for my neglect of the stage.

In the midst of all these things, think not that I ever can be
untrue to a friendship which I hope will yet be productive of
much happiness to us both, or that I can fail often to think of
you with the affection of a brother. Think of me in the same
manner, my dear sister • and to prove that you do so, answer
this letter upon the instant^ tuxG. write often to me upon any-
thing that concerns you. New, never, indeed can there be

LETTEfiS. 259

any loss of confidence between us ; for when one's intentions are
blameless, where is the occasion for reserve ? Farewell. Your
friend and brother,

Gerald Griffin.

He gives seme further account of these gentlemen, with
whose enthusiasm he seems so much amused, in a letter to
his mother, from which I take the following extract :

" It amuses me sometimes to compare the set of people whom
I get amongst in London with those whom I have left at home.
There all is quiet and easy, everybody minding his business
without any great fever of mind ; watching the weather, and
talking politics rather as an amusement than from any strong
personal interest ; letting the world roll by peaceably, and not
giving themselves much trouble about the moral condition of
its inhabitants. Here, on the contrary, all is turmoil, all bus-
tle, all fury. One man with his head full of prophecy and
Antichrist ; another rushing about and thinking to reform,
everything by a new system of education ; another laying his
fingers across, and proving to us that political economy will set
all to rights, and that he is the man to do it ; another curling
up his lip in contempt, and tossing out a new system of meta-
physics, which is to solve all the enigmas in creation ; everbody,
in short, burning with a desire of accomplisning nothing less
arduous than a modification of the universe. I asked two or
three of these heroes to dine with me the other day — a Dr.
B— — , very well known in Germany and England both by his

acqairements and his talents ; a Mr. N , one of the writers

in the New Cabinet Cyclopaedia; a Dr. F , and a Mr. M ,

late editor of the Athenanim. Wishing to have a metaphysical
set-to, I opened the campaign in the course of the evening by
an allusion to a letter in some Derbyshire paper on Jacotot's
new system of education, when one of them called Jacotot a
quack, and — slap ! they were into the thick of the fight in an.
instant. Such argumentation, such logic and learning, such
eloquence, such zeal, such gentle sneers and laughter at each*
other, and all with the most perfect good humour, everybody*
paying the most polite attention to what the other said, and at
the same time privately writing him down an ass in his own
mind ; each marvelling at the excessive obstinacy and stupidity
of the rest ; and all, I suppose, pitying me for being absolutely
a Roman Catholic ' at this time of day,' while I walked up and
down the room, holding my sides, and giving vent occasionally,
to ruars of laughter at the whole scene."

260 LIFE OF GERALD GEIFFIN.

The next letter, which exhibits so many touching evi-
dences of earnest sympathy, was written upon the death of

a sister of his friend, Mrs. , to whom the latter was

much attached :

To Mrs. k

London, Dec. 15th, 1829.

My dear L., — It is but a short time, scarcely more than a
week, since I wrote you a letter of congratulation, and I had
little expectation then that it should so soon be followed by one
of condolence. I felt, after hearing of the loss of your dear and
gifted relative, almost as if I had personally known her ; for,

short as the date of our acquaintance is, it has made B- e

and all your friends there as interesting and familiar to my
heart and mind as if they had been known to me in childhood.
I felt deeply and sincerely, too, my dear friend, for your own af-
fliction; for my knowledge of the rare amiability of your family,
and of the keenness of your own affections, convinced me that
this would not be received by you as a common grief. I wished
to write to you immediately, and would have done so, (for what
is friendship if its consolations are all reserved for the holiday
hours of life, when we stand little in need of additional modes

of enjoyment ?) but I doubted whether my dear L had yet

been made aware of her misfortune, and I waited until T

should hear from home, before I would address you at all upon
a subject of so painful an interest. I have been calling at Gor-
don-place for several days, and this morning learned that he
had received a letter from you, containing a message for me,
affectionate and kind, like all my friend's remembrances, even
in the midst of her sorrow. But what can I say to you, my
clear L , in the way of consolation ? I know nothing per-
sonally of your dear relative — our acquaintance has been very
brief, and I am ignorant of all those early recollections which
older friends might use to soften your affliction. 1 have little
to offer you, my dear sister, in the way of condolence. For thi*
you must turn to friends who axe longer, at least, if not better
known ; who were familiar with all the virtues of your sister,
and know how to confirm your own assurance of her happiness.
But I am sure it will be something to you to remember that
there is none who more perfectly sympathises in your suffering
than I do. I know, by the great relief which I have always felt
in receiving your remembrances in moments of depression, that
mine will not be unwelcome to you ; and when I tell you that

LETTERS. 261

the thought of your suffering brings the tears into my eyes
while I write to you, I feel that your own heart and its know-
ledge of mine will teach you to believe it. If I were, indeed,
your brother ; if Nature had really, as once you wished, united
us in that tie which we have adopted, which has been so dear
and so consoling to both, and which will, I trust, be lasting as
it is sweet, I might then, in sharing your affliction, have a
satisfaction in the power of mitigating it more easily than I can
do now. But all that I have I give you — the entire sympathy
of a heart to which, from this time forward, your joys or sor-
rows must be like its own.

I remember your showing me at one time some little pieces
of your sister's poetry, which I thought sweet and beautiful in
style and sentiment. I have not got them among the manu-
scripts which I brought from R d, and I long to read them

again. Little do I wonder that B e should be dear to you,

and every friend that formed a part of its amiable and talented
circle. The picture of the village and its inhabitants, such as
I have heard it described by you, aud found it in the writings
of your most amiable and benevolent mother, is one of the
brightest aud the sweetest that arises to my mind among the
recollections of our unfortunate country. I think, I am sure,

that if I were to visit B e, as I hope yet to do on my return

to Ireland, I should do so with the same feelings that 1 have
jntertained on revisiting my own home, and that the scene of

L 's childhood would awaken associations no less distinct

and intimate than those which are connected with my own.
Trust, therefore, with the securest confidence, that though my
friendship and sympathy come not recommended by the recol-
lections of childhood and long habits of early confidence, they
are fervent, sincere, unchangeable ; that my enjoyment can
never be complete while you feel any sorrow, and that your
happiness must always make a part of mine. Be assured that
you have found a brother who will always be ready with his
sympathy in whatever way you may require it ; who is proud
of his sister and devoted to her wishes ; and whose pride and
happiness it will be to supply, by a pure and earnest devotion
of spirit, the void which may be left in her affections by the
severing of earlier and dearer ties, though this should be even
in the least degree. Why, then, did I, at the commencement
of this letter, regret the shortness of our acquaintance ? Why
did I say that I had little consolation to offer you, because I
was ignorant of those recollections from which you might draw
the most perfect motives of tranquillity ? Why did I doubt my

262 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

own claim to intrude npon your grief, as if my sympathy would
not be welcome because it could avail but little ? I felt dissa-

tisned, dear L , in the want of that accustomed influence

which might enable me to comfort you effectively, and to bring
a somewhat more acceptable relief to your affliction, than
merely to say that I shared in it. It is the first grief that
has befallen you since we became acquainted, and I sin-
cerely hope and fervently pray that it may be long before
you know another. I hope and trust that your innocenca
of mind and goodness of heart will continue to make your
life peaceful and happy ; and you may be assured, that the
little that a heart anxious for your welfare can do to increase
it, shall always be at your command.

It will be a delight to me, when your mind is more at rest,
to hear from you. and to know that you are well. Lucy called
to see you ; I thank her for it ; and I wish that you knew
each other as well as I know you both. I am not yet gone, as
you see, nor yet going to France, after all my boasting. Would
you call me a complete and presumptuous fool, after all, if you

should see my "long, lanky figure" once more at B, d,

without having set my eyes on a single wtownaear, or learned
any better pronunciation than porta vows and sil vows plate?
I am afraid I must run across, if only for the purpose of ena-
bling me to appear before you with decency. Eemember me to

J , and believe me, my dear L , your unchanged and

affectionate friend,

Gerald Griffes-.

The following was written from the sea-side at Miltown,
where Gerald was spending a few weeks in the autumn of

1S30, with Mr. 's family. I subjoin another, addressed

on a different occasion to Mrs. — — , in which his little
playmates mentioned in this are again spoken of.

To Mr. .

O'Connor's Lodge, Miltown Malbay, Oct. 1S30.
My deaf. J., — I take the opportunity of your uncle's return
to town, to return you thanks for the many kind remembrances

you have sent me in your letters to L , and to express to

you the sincere satisfaction which I feel in the continuance of
the friendly sentiments which I have always experienced from
you. I wish, my dear friend, that at a time of so much trying

LETTERS, 263

suspense and agitation to you, I had the sympathy of an early
friend to offer you, but mine is not less sincere, because I
believe you have others whose older and more familiar initmacy
must make their friendship more efficacious and their sym-
pathy go nearer to your ha-jt. Indeed, if I had no more
generous motive to make mo feel with you, my own recollec-
tions would prevent my remaining unmoved at the idea of

your losing 11 d. I assure you, dear, J , I have felt,

and feel, both in the contemplation of this sad parting and
after it was decided on, as if I were myself about to lose a
dear and long-loved home, for I can hardly say that I can look
back to the hours of my childhood with greater fondness than
I do to the happy days which I have spent in that sweet
and friendly spot. You were to me, during the time of our
acquaintance there, the only society in which my habits and
dispositions allowed me to feel a thorough sympathy and plea-
sure— generously, and at once, you entered with the affec-
tionate interests for which one only looks from relatives, and
them the nearest, into all my pursuits ; and there is scarcely a
part of that abode on which my eye could rest, which is not
Blended in my recollection with some friendly sentiment, some
word or act of kindness. If such are the thoughts which are

mingled in my mind with the memory of K d, it is not

hard for me to imagine that yours must be a great deal keener;
— with the happiest, the most intimate of all earthly associa-
tions to make it doubly dear to you. But those are feelings
which it is better to govern than indulge, and though it is not
easy always to prevent their visits, it would indeed be weak-
ness to invite or prolong them.

You thank me, as if I had conferred a favour upon you,
because I have made myself almost too happy by remaining
here with your family ; I am glad I did so, nevertheless, for
every day has justified my first hopes in their acquaintance,
although I am sensible it has strengthened ties which already
promised too much pain in the dividing. The mention of your
possible removal to Wexford startled me, selfish as I was, as*
if it were to you a prospect of evil and not of advantage.
Sincerely, most sincerely, do I hope that this and every other
accident may end in real good to you ; but I cannot help adding •
a wish that this last may be accomplished without so large a*
diminution of my own happiness as I feel and know so wide a
separation would occasion. One effect at least it will have, in
case you should not leave Limerick, that, instead of contem-
plating as I have done my return to Pallas Kenry with lone-

264 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

some feelings, I shall then feel, when there, in the thought
that you are within ten miles of me, as if I were still in the
midst of you. Nothing tends, so much to make us value our
real blessings as a little occasional alarm of this kind, which
reminds us whst a slippery hold we have of those we deemed
the surest to continue. Do not think because in this I talk so
much of my own feelings, that I am not truly desirous of
your advantage ; for, though my heart says nothing but "No !"
to your going, my will and my reason desire nothing but your
good.

I believe I have become a personage of greater importance
among your children here than I was at Limerick. They
have found out that I can carry double after dinner, draw
pencil sketches (of a very fanciful description indeed), make
cocks with pockets, and build boats. Nannyo, in particular,
honours me with her favours, allows me to sit next her at
dinner, to cut her meat, &c, and said to me the other morn-
ing, in a whisper, " GellancL I'm fond of oo at dinner." I
apprehend the distinction meets with a proper return, for, a
few days ago, Mary found it necessary to tell me more than
once, with a reproachful smile and glance, that " her name
was Mary, and not Nan," for which I could not help taking
her in my aims, and kissing her. Meantime my own drudgery
has not lain idle, and I have made considerable progress in a
map of ancient Ireland, for the boundaries and localities ot
which I think my authorities are pretty correct as far as I
have gone ; but they are deplorably scanty, and I have so
much history to wade through to get at the old name of one
little town or harbour, that I am reminded of Gratiano's two
grains of wheat in ts bushel of chaff. I shrink from bathing
in this cold month, though I believe I did take one October
dip. Once more, dear J , yours,

GlEALD GrIFIIN.

To Mrs. .

My dear L., — Many thanks for your sweet letter, which

J handed me on F* 'day morning, just as I awoke, and saw

him standing, a welcome but most unexpected apparition, at
my bed-side. An apparition*! may truly call him, for he
vanished upon the instant, nor have I laid eyes upon him
since. It is so long since I have written to you, that I would
not make this letter a letter of complaint ; but I warn you not
to imagine that jTour pranks are unnoticed, or that because I am
silent since I cams from London and before, my lady, I am

LETTERS. 2G5

nnobservant too ; I am laying up your cats and your humoura—
your sly hits, your messages and no messages, and all your
other peccadilloes, for a fitting opportunity to pay off the whole
score at once. Why didn't I write to you ten times, truly ?
Ten times, quotha? Why, then, because you didn't write to
me once. Because I, in return for your numberless sweet re-
membrances and letters since my return from London, was
not sneaking enough actually to sit down and write a third
time to you without getting an answer. You tell me, "Such
is the perverse way of your sex. " The fact is, there is no ho at all
with you, and I might as well let the matter rest for any chance
I have of receiving satisfaction about it. The sober assurance of
your charges beats the world. As to that contained in your
former letter to Lucy, upon that I will be altogether silent
• •••••••••••• you may see by what I have scratched

out, how nearly I had broken my word.

Gehaid Geiffin.

To the same.

My dear L., — I thank you for your invitation, though I
cannot accept of it. My dancing days are over for the present ;
and yet I ought not to say so neither, for Nan and I have an
odd dance on an evening to the piano. She has learned her
first, second, and third positions (I was afraid she'd break her
little neck if I taught her any more) ; but she says she'd
rather be dancing (the rogue) than learning the positions, in
which nobody doubts her ; so we go capering away in a kind
of voluntary. Will is very fat and strong, and as cheerful as a
cricket. Nan desired me to tell you that she is ' ' getting good, and,
after that, Nan's love. " Don't make any remarks upon the length
of Nan's partner, or I'll return the compliment upon the short-
ness of Nan's mamma. We expect J on Thursday. I wish we

had something besides a welcome to induce him to stay at Pallas.
I saw the Rock of Dunamase from the top of the Dublin coach
several times, and I saw it again in Captain Grose's Irish Anti-
quities, I believe, and faithfully described, of course, ("for
Matthew was a rare man,") which must answer me for the
present. When I was last in Dublin, I laid several plans for

going to B e, but one thing or another always prevented or

disappointed me. I hope to see it some future time, however,
although a lonely visit there would give me more of pain than
pleasure. Adieu, dear It— — : write, if you can and will ; if
not, at least remember me affectionate^. There may always

266 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

be an apology for silence, never for unkindness. It is long
since I have had anj*thing to charge myself "with on that score
towards you, and yet *******. There's more scratching for
you. I don't know how you manage to keep what you don't
like to say (for you have a great deal of that kind, you know,
you told me yourself) from slipping out upon your paper
unawares. It is only when I have got a terrible thing half
written that it hits me in the face. Once more adieu. Your
affectionate

Gerald Griffin'.

These children, to Gerald's infinite delight, were frequently
left on a visit with us at Pallas Kenry, together with a brother
of theirs, now no more, a talented child about six years of
age, of a fine natural capacity, with the most gentle dis-
position imaginable, and a keen and penetrating mind of
the highest promise. Gerald undertook the instruction of
the latter, with the consent of his parents, and continued it
for some months with a zeal and solicitude as engrossing as
that of the nearest relative ; but some difficulties arising as
he grew, on the subject of his religious instruction, he was
obliged to relinquish his trust, which he did with the utmost
reluctance, and a degree of pain and anxiety proportioned
to the gratification it had given him. His affection for this
child partook of the warmth and intensity Of all his other
feelings, and I had various opportunities of witnessing the
depth of it. The acuteness of his little pupil's remarks on
various subjects while he was with us interested him ex-
ceedingly, and whether at his lessons, his recreations, or in
his nightly rest, he seemed never out of his thoughts. " If

Josey were awake," he says, in a short note to Mrs. ,

" I would send you his love ; but not even the loud singing
of the thrush has made him stir." After the separation to
which I have alluded, his interest in his little amusements
and his progress continued unabated, even up to the time
or his death, which he felt most keenly. The following to

Mr. , was written some time after he had relinquished

the pleasing duties I have mentioned :

OPINIONS REGARDING LITERATURE. 267

To Mr. .

My dear J., — I Lave a favour to ask of ycu, and I hope you
will not refuse me. After sundry delays and disappointments,
I have succeeded in completing a little vessel, staunch and

food, and a capital sailer. She rests now upon the stocks in
'alias, with canvass spread and keel eager for the deep. A3
it is a long promised gift for Josey, will you gratify me by let-
ting him come to Pallas on the car with Lucy, for the purpose
of seeing her launched upon our lake, and I will bring him in
myself as soon as you like — the day after if you so desire it.
You may depend on my taking as much care of him as you
would yourself, and that, I know, is a bold promise. I am, my

dear J , your sincere friend,

Gerald Griffin.

CHAPTER XII.
1830—1832.

ALTERATION IN GER.VLD's OPINIONS REGARDING LITERATURE —
CIRCUMSTANCES WHICH TENDED TO PRODUCE IT — EARNESTNF?S
AND DEPTH OF HIS RELIGIOUS FEELINGS — EFFECT OF THIS
CHANGE UPON HIS PURSUITS, AND THE CHARACTER OF HIS WRI-
TINGS LETTERS — POEMS OF A RELIGIOUS CHARACTER CON-
TINUATION OF HIS CORRESPONDENCE.

The correspondence with Mrs. , though snbject to

occasional interruptions, lasted a considerable time, and I am
sure it will not be considered tedious, if I still venture to
extract pretty freely from it. I must, however, break in
upon it in this place, for the purpose of noticing a change
which had been gradually coming over his mind, to whicfc
I have already more than once alluded, and which it is
necessary to make a few remarks upon. I mean that silent
and unwavering tendency to religious habits of thought and
feeling, which took away by degrees the keen relish he had

268 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

long felt in his literary speculations, and ended in his em-
bracing a monastic life. A cousin of ours, who had very
early observed this tendency, and who had a pretty deep
and accurate knowledge of his character, said once to me,
at a time when Gerald had some idea of travelling on the
continent : " Gerald is now going abroad ; he will, of course,
visit the monastery of La Trappe ; he will approach it some
lovely evening, when the air is serene, and the sky a deep
blue, and a single crimson cloud floats calmly above it in
the sunset ; and then he will think it a paradise upon earth,
and come to the conclusion that there could not be a more
glorious place to end one's days in." It has been also said,
as I see by various notices of him since his death, that he
was a poor friendless boy, who having come to London with
some plays, which, in spite of various efforts to get them
represented, were treated with the utmost coldness and
neglect, became disgusted with life, and, returning to Ireland,
took refuge in a monasteiy, " where he found that peace and
contentment which was denied him in the world." Neither
of these solutions is the true one. However unchangingly
bright and beautiful religion may look to the piously dis-
posed, it was not its mere poetry, if I may so call it, that
attracted him. Neither did he fly to it in disgust, as a sort
of last resource. This, as it is the commonest of all sup-
positions with superficial observers in such cases, is also
the most erroneous ; yet it is repeated every day, upon the
most ordinary occasions of retirement into religion, with the
utmost confidence ; as if the world was in every respect,
and at all times, so faithful and true to its votaries ; or as
if religion could have no possible charms, except to those
melancholy souls whose worldly speculations have been un-
successful. To spirits of a worldly mould, the most intole-
rable of all satires is personal example, and where a man
of undoubted intellect and genius withdraws himself from
the giddy whirlpool of human affairs, and puts himself in a
position to observe calmly the greatness of the danger ho

RELIGION. 269

hns passed, if they cannot explain the act upon any prin-
ciple which flatters their own pursuits, they represent it as
indicating a weakness of mind, as in the case of Pascal ;
jet at the same time perhaps wonder how it was that such
a work as the " Provincial Letters" could have been pro-
duced after this lamentable setting of so brilliant a star :
or they dismiss it with a sneer, like Horace Walpole, who,
with a feeble prostitution of wit, speaks of Charles the Fifth
as having " gone to doze in a convent." Perhaps it is
wiser of the silent multitude, who wish well to religion, and
whose bosoms are teeming with internal testimony against
such slanders, to let them pass as they do calumnies of a
darker character ; and perhaps there could not be adduced
a stronger proof of the insincerity and self-love upon which
such allegations are founded, than the confidence with which
their authors rely upon the sympathy of the world in putting
them forward, and the slighting and contemptuous spirit —
so seldom an ally to truth — with which they are often
associated.

The reader may have observed that after Gerald's first
return from London, his life was an extremely happy one.
Indeed, with all his apparent nervousness, there were few
who enjoyed social pleasures so keenly. The impressions,
therefore, made upon him by his early literary disappoint-
ments were not indelible. It is true, his efforts in the drama
did not reach his first expectatious, and the success of his
prose writings in general fell short of the lofty line he had
once marked out for himself. It is true, that besides the
design of a moral end and tendency in his works, which
was ever a motive sustaining and animating his zeal, there
were few persons who felt so acutely, even for its own sake,
the thrist for literary fame, or to whom its gratification or
disappointment brought so delicious a pleasure or so deep
a pang. Still there was not enough in these circumstances
to make one, then enjoying himself in the bosom of his
family, amidst every social blessing, grow weary of the

270 LTFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

vorld ; nor indeed were they caenlated to bring much more
to the mind than that gradually increasing conviction as to
the vanity of all earthly projects — those gracious visitings
of religious truth, sent into the highways of the world in
mercy, and forming the first incentives to serious reflection
in the hearts of all who have placed too much faith in things
temporal. Besides, one of his works, the Collegians, was
received by the public about this very time with a degree
of favour, not to say enthusiasm, which gave assurance
that if he chose to persevere in the same course he had
nothing to fear. Several circumstances appeared to me to
have slowly concurred in producing, or rather re-awakening,
the habits of religious feeling I speak of. The reader will
remember a remarkable expression he makes nse of in one
of his early letters, as to his being occasionally haunted by
'•the terrible idea, that it might possibly be he was mis-
spending time." I have heard him say, too, that he would
fed but little pleasure in the greatest triumphs of literary
ambition, if they were only achieved when all his dearest
friends and the members of his own immediate family had
passed away, and when no one lived to witness them but
strangers. Besides the difficulties I have before spoken of,
winch he seems to have felt as to the production of what
he would consider a perfectly moral tale, he appeared to
lose faith altogether in the possibility of procuring for really
good works anything like a general circulation; and he
remarked, as an instance in point, that notwithstanding the
exultation with which Sir Walter Scott's novels were re-
ceived by all classes, when the novelty of them began to
wear away, "the town" became flooded with a profusion of
works of the sentimental and love-sick school, which he
had long looked on as a kind of poison to the youthful
mind. The occasional visitation of reflections such as
these, led him, perhaps, to feel very sensibly the wasting of
that passion which had so long animated him. The hollow-
ness of the feeling he was allured by presented itself in

RELIGIOUS IMPRESSIONS. 271

various aspects before him, and the conviction frequently
flashed across his mind, that the gratification it aimed at,
■however keen in its enjoyment, was selfish and nnworthy.
It had long been, as I have already said, his object, whether
in the drama or his other writings, to give a healthy tone
to literature, and it was sometimes his fear, that the undistin-
guishiug passion that urged him onward, made him, in its
absorbing interest, too much overlook the moral end he
aimed at. He had as yet accomplished nothing that at all
satisfied him, and visions of the future came before him,
now and then, representing the natural changes of time,
and the probable loss of those friends to whom he was so
much attached, and whose disinterested delight would be
far more cheering to him than the highest reward success
could otherwise bestow.

It was amid these transitory gleams of saddening light
that his mind began to be directed more strongly to the
ultimate tendency of his labours, and eventually raised up
a feeling, which awakened, with "she freshness of a second
spring, all the religious impressions of his childhood, and
settled his future destiny. To the circumstances above
mentioned might be added a frequent feeling of insecurity
about his health, and a certain constitutional nervousness
arising perhaps from it, which, whenever he turned his mind
to religious reflections, tended to place the truths of futurity
before him with a peculiar vividness and force ; but by far
the most powerful of all of them was certainly the gradually
growing sense of the inutility, or even the mischievous ten-
dency as regarded the public, of all such works of ima-
gination as were founded upon deep and absorbing passion.
This placed such an impediment in his way, that even when
he had formed the plot of some story of this kind, he found
it at certain points absolutely impossible to proceed with it.
At such times he used frequently complain of the irksome,
nature of his task : " I see you, and William, and every
one around me, constantly engaged in some useful occupa-

272 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

tion, and here am I spending my whole life in the compo-
sition of these trashy tales and novels, that do no good either
to myself or anybody else." I endeavoured to represent to
him that an attempt to add to the standard literature of
the country was surely a useful occupation. " Oh, yes," he
said, " if one could produce works of a good moral char-
acter." " But surely," said I, " you do not call the Col-
legians an immoral work ?" " Why, no," said he, " not per-
haps exactly an immoral work, but it is very far from
being perfect as a moral one ;" and he again referred to his
former observations on the characters of Eyrie Daly and
Hardress Cregan, and the strong sympathy that nine
out of ten people, as they are in the world, would feel for
the latter, notwithstanding Ins guilt. " But," I said, " that
proves only the corruption of mankind, not the badness of
the book. If the best teacher the world ever produced were
to take a hundred boys to instruct, and bestow upon them
all the pains possible, they would not all turn out well.
He would possibly have ninety good characters, and nine or
ten indifferent or wicked, out of whom perhaps one or two
would be hanged ; should one say, therefore, that he ought
to give up teaching the moment such a result presented
itself? Surely not? The wurld will continue to read
works of imagination, whether men of talent cater for them
or not, and if all those who have the ability to execute them
well, and the love of religion and morality that would ren-
der them harmless, desert entirely such a walk, leaving
it to the talentless, perhaps the impious, such an event
would seem an evil and not ft good." I mentioned to him
also what I was informed a certain clergyman, a man of
genius and information, and highly esteemed in his diocese,
had said on the subject: "That he conceited it one of
the greatest misfortunes to society, that, by a sort of gene-
ral consent, an engine like the drama, capable of influencing
so many millions to good or evil, should be left in the hands
of the vicious and corrupt. That, as it has existed, and

OPINIONS REGARDING LITERATURE. 273

will exist to the end of time in all civilised countries, tho
common sense and benevolence of the thing was to make
it as available to the purposes of virtue as it is now to vice.
As to its being at best imperfect, and not without danger
to some, that was the fate of all human exertions at good.
Our instruments are always imperfect, let our aims or ob-
jects be what they may. In the matter of education, for
instance, you can never select perfect schoolmasters. Yof,
will have many, that with the best intentions will sow th(
seeds of great vices, and with mistaken notions will excite
and cherish passions in children that in time to come must
prove the bane of their happiness. One can effect no good
without the possibility of some evil, for which, when one
does his utmost to avoid it, he cannot be responsible."
Gerald, though he would not admit the applicability of such
reasoning, replied to it so slightly as showed what little-
interest he took in the subject, often dismissing the argu-
ment with some little pleasantry and a smile, which made
it clear that the time when it could have affected him was
gone by. The scruples which had been gradually growing
in his mind seemed to assail him only the more acutely as
time advanced, and were felt with peculiar force while he
was writing the Duke of Monmouth. He complained on
one occasion of his inability to manage some particular
scene. I recommended him to pay no attention to those
scruples, but to follow the bent of his natural feeling, and
fling himself fully into the subject. " Oh, but," he said,
" that is the difficulty : I don't think one is justified in
putting himself into the condition that it requires." I could
hardly understand his meaning for some time, and began to
make very light of such a notion, until he lost all patience,
and said with vehemence, " Oh, but you do not know, you
cannot know, the state an author puts himself into in work-
ing out such scenes : how can it be right of him to put him-
self in the position of each particular character, and endea-
vour to kindle in his own breast all the passions of that

274 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

character even for the moment ?" This reminded me of 3
saying of, I believe, Johnson's, on the occasion of a question
as to whether theatrical performers ever laboured under an
illusion as to the reality of their parts : " That if Garrick
did really believe himself to be Richard the Third during the
progress of the piece, he -would deserve to be hanged every
time he performed it." Sometimes, when I contrasted these
difficulties with the wonderful ease with which he produced
the Collegians, and the almost magical facility with which
every scene flowed from his pen, he would say, in a fair and
easy manner, "Oh, the Collegians was a story that used to
itself." This expression I heard him make use of
more than once, but it was one which only proved how light
a labour to his imagination was any work upon which he
had entered with the quickening impulse of an earnest
heart.

A very singular circumstance, and one which may be
dismissed in this place, as it seems to have had some rela-
tion to, perhaps some influence upon, Ins religious feelings,
was. a kind of presentiment he often had of an early death ;
sometimes, too, associated with dark and strange forebodings
that were quite unaccountable. These fancies seem to have
been^connected with the constitutional nervousness already
referred to. He never gave expression to them openly
nor does it appear that he attached much weight to them.
Such feelings, however, when they depend on constitutional
- will sometimes affect one with a great degree of
force, and the manner in which they are alluded to in pieces
of poetry, such as the following, is very singular :

SONJTET.

Here, by the shores of my own sunny bay —
Here, in the shadow of my native bowers.
Let me wear out, in sweet content, those hours
Tint bear nae gently toward my dying day,
Warring with earth's affections, till the gray

LINES TO HIS SISTER. 275

Of age hath touched my hair, and, passion fled,

Leaves hope and stingless memory by my bed,
And thoughts of danger quelled and pas3'd away.
But there's a whispering fear within my breast,

That fills my mind with many a sad presage,
That breaks Hope's morning beam of peace and rest ;
That tells me I must never reach that time

Of reverend virtue, of victorious age,
But early die in youth, and stained by sudden crime.

In speaking of the circumstances that had led to the
changes I have mentioned, I ought, perhaps, to have no-
ticed the occasional repititiou of his visits to London, and
the contrast between the quiet and seculded life he led at Pal-
las Kenry, and the eternal roar and bustle of the great city.
" Isn't it curious ? (or is it ?)" he writes to his youngest
sister on one of those occasions, " that the last was the
first time I ever cried on leaving home, and I did then
plentifully, as the paving stones of Pallas Kenry could
attest. "Write to me soon. I took it as a sign of the
decline of ambition in my heart, and rejoiced at it. I wish
it were altogether dead, for it is a passion that has eaten
up my happiness (and I fear something more too) for many
years ; and yet, last year made me think I had the elements
of contentment about me, or at least that my desires in
life were sufficiently moderate for my prospects." We have
seen how pointedly he speaks of this contrast in the ex-
tract already given from a letter to his mother. The
following verses, addressed to the same sister, will give
some idea of the manner in which it affected him :

Seven dreary winters gone and spent,
Seven blooming summers vanish' d too,

Since, on an eager mission bent,
I left my Irish home and you.

How passed those years I will not say ;

They cannot be by words renewed —
God wash their sinful parts away !

And blest be he, for all their good !

2 76 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

With even mind, and tranquil breast*

1 left my youthful sister then,
And now in sweet religious rest

I see my sister there again.

Returning from that stormy world,
How pleasing is a sight like this !

To see that bark, with canvass fuii;d,
Still riding in that port of peace.

Oh, darling of a heart that still,

By earthly joys so deeply trod,
At moments bids its owner feel

The warmth of nature and of God.

Still be his care, in future years,
To learn of thee truth's simple way,

And, free from foundless hopes or fears,
Serenely live, securely pray.

And when our Christmas days are past,
And life's fair shadows faint and dim,

Oh, be my sister heard at last,
When her pure hands are raised for him !

Christmas, 1830.

Such arguments as I have above spoke of were neitho
frequent nor on all occasions soaght by him. It was evk
dent, however, that the feelings they indicated were slowly
gaining additional influence over his mind. He became
more systematic than ever in the disposal of his time;
punctual as the striking of the clock in his hours of rising
and retiring to rest ; and, singular to say, though his interest
in his literary labours had nearly lost all its freshness and
force, he went through them each day with a most exact
and scrupulous industry, looking on them as his only occu-
pation, and therefore feeling that, as a matter of duty, they
ought to be done well. These circumstances were accom-
panied by a more rigid compliaBGe than ever with all his

THE CHRISTIAN PHYSIOLOGIST. 277

religious duties. The occupations of the day were conducted
with more thoughtfulness than before, and were less inter-
rupted by amusement, but certain hours were as usual
devoted to recreation, during which he was as lively and
as full of frolic as ever. It was about this time that he
undertook the execution of a very beautiful little work,,
entitled " The Christian Physiologist ; or, Tales of the Fiv®
Senses," intended to describe in a popular manner the me-
chanism and use of each sense, and to illustrate every one
by the introduction ot some appropriate moral tale. The
portions of this work which related to the structure and
functions of the organs of sense, showed such an intimate
knowledge of anatomy and physiology, that many persons
imagined the} jould not have been written without the
assistarce of some medical man, and therefore that Dr.
Griffin or I must have had some hand in them ; but this
was so far from being the case, that though we could not
help wondering what it was that made him every day pull
down our medical books, and give himself so deeply to the
study of anatomy, neither of us had the slightest conception
tvhat he was at until the work was completed. It was
published in the year 1830.

The observations I have made on the change of his feel-
ings with regard to the works of imagination, will explain
the almost complete absence of any of the darker traits of
passion in his later writings, and the effort there visible
to preserve the reader's attention by scenes of a more quiet
and gentle bearing, and by various little incidents of alight
and lively character. The tranquil and apparently happy
kind of life he was now leading made me imagine he was
satisfied, and that the scruples he had felt with regard to
the employment of his time on works of fiction would
gradually wear away, as the utility of his labours began to
be more fully appreciated ; but to minds such as his, pure,
earnest, and sensitive, there is in religion no " via media."
Speaking of matters of faith he often said to me, " There is

27S LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

no medium between the Catholic religion and mndelity."
In the same way it might he said, that for a disposition
like his there was no medium between worldliness and the'
highest flights of grace. The first additional circumstance
that struck me as indicating the progress of his religious
Jeelings was, his bringing together, every Sunday, the pooi
children of the village, collecting them in a house in our
garden, teaching them their catechism, and giving them
instructions in religion. In this he spent several hours,
and at dinner-time entertained us with may anecdotes that
showed their intelligence and acuteness. This charitable
employment he continued without interruption during the
remainder of our residence at Pallas Kenry. At length he
surprised me one morning by asking me, seriously, if I
thought his health was likely to be so restored as to enable
him at some future time to embrace the life of a clergyman
I ought to be ashamed to confess that my first unworthy
thought was, not the gain to religion, but the loss to liter-
ature. I gave him, however, a sincere opinion, saying,
that if it continued to improve as it had done for some
years, I saw nothing under present appearances to render
it impossible. Yet I was startled at the idea of a person
of so extremely sensitive and scrupulous a turn of mind
subjecting himself, without any apparent necessity, to the
awful responsibility attached to the duties of such an office,
and I represented this strongly to him. The reasons I
offered did not appear to have much weight with him at
the time, and he immediately entered upon, and pursued
with an industrious zeal, the preparatory course which is
necessary before admission to the College of Maynooth, a
very extensive one.

As the reader, however, may feel interested in hearing
his own sentiments on this momentous subject, I give the
following extract from one of his letters to his father,
written from Taunton in the year 1833 :

VOCATION TO THE CHUF.CH. 279

41 1 owe many letters to America, which I wish I had leisure to
write, but at present I have more to do than my health will suf-
fer me to discharge with the necessary expedition. There is one
subject, however, my dear father, which I wish no longer to defer
speaking of. I mean the desire which I Lave fur a long time en-
tertained of taking orders in the church. God only knows
whether I may ever live to carry the wish into execution. I
have good reason to judge, however, that at least I do not act
rashly in entering on the preparatory studies. They must take
some time, and, under the uncertainty in which one must
always continue of this being truly a merciful vocation from
God, I have the satisfaction of knowing that at all events there
is nothing lost by my acting as if it were. My time is divided
between my college course of study and my usual pursuits, and
I have no doubt that the Almighty, who sees with a thousand
faults that I have a sincere desire to execute his will, in his
own time will not fail to make it known to me. To say nothing
of the arguments of faith, I do not know any station in life in
which a man can do so much good, both to others and himself,
as in that of a Catholic priest, and it gave me great satisfaction
to find that my dear friends in America were of the same mind
with me on this point. Mary Anne says, truly, that there
need be no reserve upon such subjects ; yet, for a long time, the
idea gave me so much to think of and debate about in my own
mind, that I felt iinwilling to say anything about it. It could
not have found a being more unwilling than myself, nor one
more entirely reluctant to make the trifling sacrifices it re-
quired ; but, thank God ! I can shake my head at them all now,
and look upon them as literally nothing. But enough, dear
father, on that very serious subject, only let all my dear friends
pray for me that I may not be deceived. I feel a great security
in the approval of so many friends, and how much indeed in
the words of my poor mother, (so like herself in their discretion

and humility,) which E W mentioned to me in his last

letter. I dread myself so much, that I am unwilling to say all
that I could wish, while I have yet advanced so short a way
towards this great object, but I hope, before many months
have gone by, to be able to talk as freely as dear Mary Anne
can wish. How well our Saviour knew us, when he advised
those who were about building a tower to calculate before-
hand whether they should be able to finish it ! -Such flashes
of thought as this are enough to startle one, and make him,
work a little harder than he might be inclined to do, if left to
himself. My dear father, pray for me that I may not miscal-

280 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFilT.

culate — that I may be able to finish the tower which I have
begun.

"March 17th, 1S33. — The above was written, my deal
father, as you perceive, nearly three months ago, and on look-
ing it over now, it seems to me so lukewarm, so wavering,
and unworthy of one who had any reason to believe himself
called to the service of God, that I am ashamed to send it. I
have, however, no longer any doubt that it is my duty to devote
myself to religion — to the saving my own soul, and the souls of
others. This letter alone, my dear father, may show you, ia
some degree, that this is not a conviction hastily adopted, nor
can I suppose it necessary to enter into any full explanation
of all that has passed in my own mind on the subject, in order
to save myself from any imputation of rashness, for giving up
the affairs of time and embracing those of eternity. To com-
pare the two for an instant is enough. To say that Gerald, the
novel-writer, is, by the grace of God, really satisfied to lay aside
for ever all hope of that fame for which he was once sacrifi-
cing health, repose, and pleasure, and to offer himself as a:
labourer in the vineyard of Jesus Christ ; that literary reputa-
tion has become a worthless trifle to him, to whom it once was
almost all ; and that he feels a happiness in the thought of giv-
ing all to God — is such a merciful favour, that all the fame and
riches in the world dwindle into nothing at the thought of it.
But this is talking of myself and my own happiness alone. I
am not to forget that there were other duties connected with
my hopes in literature, which cannot equally be answered in
this new vocation. It is true, my dear father, scarcely any
circumstance connected with my success in those pursuits could
have given me greater satisfaction than the reflection that I
was, at the same time, an instrument in the hands of God of
adding anything to the temporal happiness of even a few, but,
generally speaking, I fear the world is at the bottom of too
great precaution on this point. If I serve God well, have I not
his own promise that he will not forsake my friends nor me.
I feel great pain in speaking on this subject, for I fear it may
look as if I wanted sympathy for friends whom God is pleased
to by with worldly visitations. God knows such is not my
feeling, and I trust I shall always be ready to do my duty when
it is made clear to me ; but I would wrong their affection, and
their faith, if I supposed they did not well know how far the
claim of God was before all others, and that it would be to
wrong his goodness and mercy to delay entering on his service
through an apprehension of worldly evils which he may never

THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 281

mean to send, and which he has it in his power to send in spite
of all our worldly precautions. But, surely, all this is obvious,
aud it is trifling to dwell upon it. My dear sisters will forgive
me for concluding this spiritless letter without writing to
them. When I get home, I hope to say something more than
asking them to pray for me ; and that, I hope, will be within
the next fortnight, for the book, though ready for press, is not
to be published till next season.

Ever my dear father's affectionate,

Gerald Griffd*.

I have thrown together, for the purpose of completing
this part of the subject, changes which were effected step
by step, and took some time in their accomplishment.
Among the little pieces of poetry which from time to time
indicated the prevailing turn of his mind, were the follow-
ing. The first of them was, I believe, written about the
close of the year 1830, and appears to have been suggested
by the circumstance of a near relative of his, an accom-
plished young person of the most sparkling and playful
disposition, having retired to a convent.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

She once was a lady of honour and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold.
Joy revelled around her — love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile a3 the glance of a bride,
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de PauL

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace
That called her to live for her suffering race,
And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Ptose quickly, like Mary, and answered "I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Lost ever to fashion— to vanity lost
That beauty that once was the song and the toast.
Iso more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet that to music could gracefully move,

Now bear her alone on her mission of love ;

Those hands that once dangled the perfume and geca

Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ;

That voice that once echoed the song of the vain

Kow whispers relief to the bosom of pain ;

And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl

Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed a pallet — her trinkets a bead,
Her lustre — one taper, that serves her to read,
Her sculpture — the crucifix nailed by her bed,
Her painting — one print of the thorn-crowned head,
Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees,
Her music — the psalm or the sigh of disease.
The delicate lady lives mortified there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind

Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined;

Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief.

She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief;

She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak,

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ;

Where want and affliction on mortals attend

The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking, where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves 'midst the vapours of death ;
Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face,
With looks that are lighted with holiest -grace !
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of him i

o'brazil. 283

Behold her, ye worldly !— behold her, ye vain !
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain,
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service — forgetful of praise.
Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men —
Ye fire -side philanthropists, great at the pen —
How stands in the balance, your eloquence, weighed
With title life and the deeds of that high-born maid !

to our friends in miltown, august 11, 1s30.

o'brazil,

A spectre island saia to be sometimes visible on the verge of the
western horizon, from the Isles of Arran.

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it 0 'Brazil, the isle of the blest.
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre show'd lovely and dim,
The golden clouds curtain'd the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away.

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail,
From Ara the holy, he turn'd to the west,
For though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the shore,
He heard not the rising winds' menacing roar,
Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day,
And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away !

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle
On the faint rim of distance reflected its smile ;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant and faint as before ;
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he look'd timidly back,
Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away.

234 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Hash dreamer, return ! 0, ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again ;
Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in vain,
He never revisited Ara again ;
Night fell on the deep amid tempest and spray,
And he died in the waters, away, far away !

To yon, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal
The lesson of prudence my verses conceal ?
How the phantom of pleasure, seen distant in youth,
Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of truth.
All lovely it seems, like that shadowy isle,
And the eye of the wisest is caught by its smile ;
But ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray
From the sweet home of duty, away, far away !

Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he
Look back to green Ara along the wild sea ;
But the wandering heart has a guardian above,
Who, though erring, remembers the child of his love.
Oh ! who at the proffer of safety would spurn,
When all that he asks is the will to return,
To follow a phantom from day unto day,
And die in the tempest, away, far away !

' But it was not in compositions such as these, the great
revolution that had taken place was perceptible. From
the moment it became at all decisive, he showed the
greatest anxiety to make amends for anything in the least
degree disedifying that could have occurred duriDg his
previous intercourse with his friends. The reader will
remember the admission, made in the note to the preface
of the Christian Physiologist already given, as well as in
one of his letters to Mr. Banim. I have already alluded
to others, which I now subjoin, which are of the same
character, and, with the exception of the first, have not
been published before. These interesting letters were
kindly placed in my hands, since the publication of the
first edition of this memoir, by a sister of the friend to

LETTERS. 285

whom they were addressed, a lady whom Gerald once had
had the pleasure of meeting in society in Dublin, and
of whom he gives such a lively and animated description
in a letter to his sister Lucy, to be found in a previous
part of this volume. There is something highly charac-
teristic and touching in these letters. The affectionate
attachment that moved him to hold so strongly in view
his friend's eternal interests beyond all others — the duty of
reparation he felt he owed him — his exaggerated expres-
sions regarding his own share in the errors he condemns —
the tenderness with which he enters on the subject, un-
certain how his approaches would be received — and his un-
bounded transport and happiness on finding he had given no
offence — all indicate a friendship as pure and unstained by
earthly feeling as it is rare. It would appear by the date
of the first of them, as well as by that of the one to Mr.
Banim, that they were written long before the publication
of the Collegians, another proof, if any such were want-
ing, that his renewed devotion to religion was not the
result of disappointment, but had gained considerable
strength while his reputation as a writer of fiction was
still rapidly on the increase.

Pallas Kenry, February, IS 28.

My dear , — I have to thank you for your friendly letter,

which I received on Friday. From the intention which I knew
you entertained of coming to Ireland, I supposed that you
were amongst us (though I saw you not) in the interval
between it and my last. You do not mention all that 1 should
wish to hear of your present occupation. Are you still in the
house ? and do you yet represent the Ledger in that awful
assembly? In all the wonderful changes which have lately
agitated the public mind, I have heard nothing of the ins and
outs in the gallery. Let an old reporter, who has his agree-
able as well as troublesome recollections associated with that
Bpot, know something of its revolutions.

Your letter found me much improved in health, and looking
forward to a pleasant summer. I am taking matters easy —
that is to say, I curb my inclination to work, and restrict

286 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

myself to a certain space of time in the day. never taking a
pen in hand after dinner, though that was formerly the time
when I wrote with most pleasure to myself. Never did mortal,
I think, profit so much by the scourge of criticism. For some
time it would have amused you to see the difficulty which I
felt in putting a sentence together. I trembled at the idea of
stretching a period beyond the compass even of abruptness,
and became as lucid and as short-spoken as an auctioneer ; so
that my story promised to resemble a string of beads, given
in clear separate small bits, with the coarse thread of a narra-
tion running through the middle. But, as I proceed, this feel-
ing wears away, and a more moderate caution remains. One
thing, however, is wholly departed from my soul, and never
may it return — my hurry — my disposition to jump to a con-
clusion— I am well cured of that — so I ought.

I forgot to mention to you that I had seen a Life of Raleigh
here some years since in a very old edition. I don't know the
name of the biographer, but I suppose you must be acquainted
with the author who treated the subject. There is a history
which the world wants — a history winch would do service to a
people, and confer immortality on a historian (if properly exe-
cuted). If I had even a moderate degree of taleut — and with
the talent the opportunity, the industry, [that I should com-
mand, however, I think,) the wisdom requisite for a good his-
torian, I would undertake it in preference to any work what-
soever— I mean, as you may conjecture, a history of Ireland.
I grant you that there is nothing, at first sight, alluring in the
subject. The poor wretched country has but a miserable and
shocking succession of follies, excesses, and tyrannies to offer.
There is no brilliant drama in her history — no gradual progres-
sion from obscurity to an extensive influence among the nations
of the world — dazzling the mind by the contemplation of pro-
digious power, and saddening it by the solemn grandeur and
magnificence of her decay. But is there not something to excite
the interest and arouse the energy of an historian in the detail
of centuries consumed in suffering, in vain remonstrance, and
jdle though desperate struggles for a change ? Are there not
men who would feel a pleasure in painting the convulsions of
a powerful people, labouring under a nightmare for ten cen-
turies ? I have not space to say half what I would argue upon
the subject, that I should like to see the task performed — per-
formed faithfully and truly — to hear the truth told — the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth.

I agree with you entirely in your opinion of the Boswellian
mode of biography — it is very dishonest —very base, and full of

LETTERS. 287

evil consequences. But I am a believer, my dear , and I

confess to you, I cannot avoid seeing the hand of a Providence
in the circumstances which have thus enabled the world (which
might have been deluded by the fineness of his genius, and the
external attractions of his character) to contemplate with open
eyes that most edifying spectacle, a philosopher unveiled.
Look into (an author you cannot but admire) Massillon'3
Bennons on infidelity, and you will find there a portrait (by
anticipation) of Leigh Hunt's Lord Byron — at least some of
those apparently irreconcileable features which I have seen ; for
I have, not had an opportunity of reading more than a few lines
from Hunt's book — such, for instance, as the strange mixture
of superstition and infidelity. Byron, then, it appears (I hope
I may canvass freely that character, which is now become
public) — Byron, the grand and daring soul (I speak it not in
mockery, for you know I admire his genius) — Byron, who cou-
rageously broke asunder the bonds, the unworthy restrictions
that religion imposed upon the human mind, and went in quest
of knowledge for himself — whose speculations, borrowed specu-
lations too, dazzled one part of his countrymen and shocked
and disgusted the other — that Byron, that lofty towering
spirit, whose "pride not a world coidd bow," into what a figure
have the confessions and revealments of later days occasioned
him to shrink ! A timid, cowardly, selfish, vain, and — what
else ? You have seen the picture — I speak not of the man,
but of the picture, which is placed before us by his friend ? I
believe Byron's opinion changed — I hope so ; and his last words
Jiave a meaning : " Perhaps I am not as unfit to die as people
think."

At all events, my dear , (forgive the freedom of an old

friend, whose confidence you have drawn upon yourself,) let
not you or I encourage ourselves in any peculiarities of opinion
by the example of a person who is said to be capable of follies
that we would more naturally look for in an old woman. Sup-
posing Byron's opinions were wrong, is it not an unfortunate
circumstance that he should at once give up any portion of his
belief on the authority of another person, who told him (if he
did tell him, very erroneously) that there was nothing said of a
future state In the Old Testament ? He takes the assertion for
granted — never refers to the book in question, but makes that
an argument for his infidelity — re-asserts and exaggerates what
he had heard. On so momentous a point, to use your own ex-
pression, did not this show at least some indolence ? One word
more on this expose. Is this, then, that constellation ox geniuses

28S LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

who seemed to be bound by so amicable a league for the im-
provement and edification of mankind ? Is that brilliant circle
indeed fallen so low, and dispersed so widely in affection ? Is
it they, indeed, whom we thus hear reviling each other living,
and spitting on each other's graves when dead ? Look on the
tide of religion, and say whether such blasting exposure takes
place among her votaries — whether her friendships are as false
and hollow, and her judgments so unsparing and so unchari-
table ? I know you to be capable of appreciating the contrast.
On the question of Warburton — (since we have fallen into the
disquisition, by whatever accident, we may as well pursue it a
moment) — I do not mean to say (for I am not informed on the
subject) that there could have been no doubt among the Jews
of the resurrection, for one sect, the Sadducees, disbelieved it
(against the sense of their brethren), and our Saviour found it
necessary, with that sect only, to combat the doctrine of non-
existence after death, by that which He has said, that "God is
the God of Abraham, of Isaac," &c, and that he was not "the
God of the dead, but of the living." I know that our Saviour
was the first who preached the doctrine of the spirit in prefer*
ence to the law ; but, even with my limited knowledge of the
Scriptures, I can point out many instances in the Old Testa-
ment where the doctrine of a future state is distinctly asserted ;
and in the Pentateuch (the principal subject, I suspect, of
"Warburtons book) there are plain indications, at least, of the
same belief ; for instance, in addition to that which you ques-
tion, in the canticle of Moses — Deuteronomy, chap, zxxii., 2S,
29 — this passage occurs : " They are a nation without counsel,
and without wisdom. Oh, that they would be wise and would
understand, and v:ould provide for their last end /" Why for
their last end ? Is not this an indication at least ! I have not
read the books, and light on these passages by accident. Before
I disbelieved, I would think it my duty to read the whole
with attention, after solemn preparation, fervent prayer, an
humble resignation of my own worldly interest and my own
unassisted judgment into the hands of the Divine Author of the
book, and a determination to give up all for the truth, when I
would have found it- I'm so strongly reminded here of a pas-
sage in ^lassillon on the certainty of a future state, that I hope
you will forgive my quoting it. Far be it from me, my

Sear , to obtrude any ostentatious sermonising upon you ;

but, as you admit me to your friendship, and as I have given
you the benefit of sentiments, and an example, the memory of
•which has since filled me with sorrow, I trust you will now

letters: 289

Rear vitn your old friend, and hear nis altered opinions, even
although thuy should i>e wearisome to you. The passage is
this — it is an answer to the preacher's own question, "How
has the uncertainty of a future state been formed in the mind
of the unbeliever?" "At his birth," he says, "the impious
man bore the principles of natural religion, common to all men.
He found written on his heart a law, which forbade violence,
injustice, treachery, and every action to another which he would
not have done to himself. Education fortified these sentiments
of nature, which taught to know a God, to love and to fear
him — virtue was shown to him in the rules, it was rendered
amiable to him in the example ; and, though within himself he
felt inclinations in opposition to duty, yet, when he yielded to
their seductions, his heart secretly espoused the cause of virtue
against his own weakness. Thus did the impious man first live
on earth ; with the rest of mankind, he adored a Supreme
Being, respected his laws, dreaded his chastisements, and ex-
pected his promises. Whence comes it then that he no longer
acknowledges a God ? that crimes appear to him as human poli-
cies— hell a vulgar prejudice — a future state, a chimera — and
the soul, a spark, which is extinguished with the body ? By
what exertion has- he attained to the knowledge of things so
new and so surprising ? By what means has he succeeded in
ridding himself of those ancient prejudices, so rooted amongst
men — so consistent with the feelings of his heart and the lights
of reason ? Has he searched into, and maturely examined
them ? Has he adopted every solid precaution which an affair,
the most important of life, requires 1 Has he withdrawn him-
self from the commerce of men, in solitude, to allow time for
reflection and duty ? Has he purified his heart, lest the pas-
sions may have misled him ? What anxious attention and soli-
citude to investigate the truth are required to reject the first
feelings which the soul has imbibed ! Listen, my brethren, and
adore the justice of God on these corrupted hearts whom ne
delivered up to the vanity of their own judgment. In prop r-
•sion as his manners became dissolute, the rides have appeared
auspicious ; in proportion as he became debased, he has endea-
voured to persuade himself that man is as the beast. He is be-
come impious only by shutting up every aver.ua that might
lead him to the truth, by no longer regarding religion as an
important concern, by searching into it only for the purpose of
dishonouring it by blasphemous and sacrilegious witticisms. It
is by that path he has attained to the wonderful and sublime
science of unbelief ; it is to those grand, efforts- thai he owes the
sLLScovery of a truth, of winch, thciest of men before Idm had

T

290 LIFE OF GERALD GRirFIN.

either been ignorant, or had detested." Yon need go to to
s.rrmon next Sunday, after reading this letter. Forgive me.

ar , I have not talents for argument, but I wisi;

5 u well.

Gerald Gf.iffin.

7, Glouce.-ter-place, Camden Town,
January 13th, 1S30.

My dear , — I went to the Museum on Monday, expecting

to find you there, but was disappointed. I wished to have
seen you for more than one reason, but, so far as I am myself
concerned, it is perhaps better I did not, as I can better say
what I wished in the form of a letter. It is only for once I
wish ever again to mention the subject, and for once therefore I
request you to hear me.

You may remember a long letter which I wrote you two
years since. Since our acquaintance has re- commenced this
winter, I have observed, -with frequent pain, that not much (if
the slightest) change has taken place in your opinions on the
only important subject on earth. Within the last few weeks
I have been thinking a great deal upon this subject, and my
conscience reproaches me, that you may have found in the
world lin ess of my own conduct and conversation, reason to
suppose that my religious convictions had not taken that deep
hold of my heart and mind which they really have. I will
tell you what convinced me of this. I have compared our
interviews this winter with the conversations we used to hold
together when my opinions were unsettled, and my principles
■ (if they deserved the name) detestable, and though there may
be somewhat more decency at present, I am uneasy at the
thought, that the whole tenor of my conduct, such as it has
appeared to you, was far from that of one who lived purely
^fcd truly for Heaven and for religion. The fact was this :
Last summer I took up an idea, acquired in moments of negli-
gence, that I should act wisely by indulging somewhat more
freely in the spirit of society, by assumingthe gaiety of innocence,
enjoying to a considerable extent the pleasure which nature
and society afford me, and substituting a religious practice of
greater external cheerfulness for the laborious and penitential
one which my conscience told me I ought to pursue. Expe-
rience has shown me that I was wholly in error, that I was
Jbrmir.g to myself a false conscience, which was rapidly and
.secretly conducting me back to all the horrors of my fonne/

LETTSBS. 291

life, and that whatever may be true of those who have always
lived in the practice of the true faith, nothing remains for me
but labour, penitence, and retirement. In this conviction, and
the resolutions which it suggests, I find peace and hope, and
only in them. Do not suppose that it is solitude or lonely
habits of thinking which bring these serious thoughts into my
mind. The more I see of society and of life, the more they
become stamped upon my reason. Whether the Almighty will
enable me to act up to them or no, I am most grateful to Him
for having opened my eyes to my danger, and it is my grati-
tude to Him, as well as my friendship, my real, sincere,
unalterable goodwill towards you, that urges me to this perfect
unbosoming of my thoughts ; for the thoughts of eternity,
in the greater number of instances, ought not to be made the
iubject of any light correspondence or discourse. How can I,
m common reason, judge otherwise than I do of my myself?
When I look back to our conversations, what do I find
them but a tissue of self-conceited and self-complacent senti-
ments— of mutual self-deceptions — of sneers at our fellow-
creatures — of everything that is the reverse of humility and
religious charity ? while the very best part of our discourse
consists of disquisitions on a subject on which I have learned
to consider wilful doubt a crime. All these things together
convince me that I can hardly live in the world with safety,
and I am endeavouring, with an aching heart, to make up my
mind to resign every object here, except that of pursuing my

literary habits in the bosom of my family. Believe me, ,

that my personal regard for you is in no degree lessened by
these thoughts, and you shall always find me ready to do for
you the duty of a friend. I do not ask you, nor even wish
you, to answer this, because I fear you could not now retimi
any answer that woidd give me real satisfaction. I only wish
that you should fully understand my feelings on the subject, as
it is probable that in our future correspondence or conversation
you will hear little or nothing of it. I entreat you to pardon
the length of this letter, and to reflect upon these subjects,
after the necessary preparation of thought, and feeling, and
Intention. I return you the Camera Lucida which you lent
me, with many thanks, and am your sincere friend,

Gerald Griffin.

I intended to send the Camera with this, but am obliged
to send it off by post, so that I will give you the former when
we meet.

If there be anything in the above which strikes you as

29*2 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

showing too free an interference in a question which concerns
you in so intimate a manner, let me request your forgiveness,

my dear , and believe that it is a real interest in youi

welfare — an esteem for many feood qualities which you possess,
and not any presumptuous desire of intruding on the secrets of
your heart, that dictates it. Believe me, there is no one at this
moment that wishes you better, or that is more ready to show
his friendship for you in any way whatever that his duty will
allow ham. Your friend,

Gerald Griffin.

Pallas Kenry, August 17th, 1S30.

My dear , — Now on the very day that you have named

for your departure from Kells, I have received your kind and
friendly invitation to meet you for the first time upon Irish soil.
I wish, sincerely wish, that it were in my power to see you be-
fore your return to London, even though it were but for the
hour's conversation, but were you not faithless in not letting
me know your intention of coming to Ireland ? in not finding
some way of securing to me what would be a pleasure to enjoy
and to remember until my next trip to London at least ? I
wrote to you about a week since, but I suppose you had left
London before my letter reached it.

To account for my not receiving yours earber than to-day, I
must tell you that I only returned to Limerick yesterday even-
ing after an absence of some days. I will not spend any time
in asking myself or you why it was that your letter gave me so
much pleasure; I will not "do a bit of Werter," as you ex-
press it, neither ; I will only tell you plainly, my dear friend,
that your letter gave me great, great pleasure. It was a happy
letter, and I felt more gratified than I can easily express to you

at your renienibering me at such a time. Ah, , I do not

want to prose nor to sentimentalise any more than you do your-
self ; but you must not prevent me from telling you that the
sentiments, the feeling, of that letter were delicious. It was
like a burst of sunshine upon our friendship, and I took it with
something of the feeling with which one might receive a gift
from Heaven. I wish you were not to return to London— not
again to lead the life of uncertain labour, which for so long a
time was injurious to us both ; and I feel at hearing you say
you are to start again on Tuesday, after the delightful account
you give of your week at ho ne, almost as I would if I saw a
raluc*! friend returning to a pi 'gue city, after hav.ng escaped

LBTXESB. 2J3

£cr a time into a pure and healthy air. But though we cannot
meet, can you not write your thoughts ? can you not write
freely to me ? and can I not answer you as freely ? I have
often wished for some such intercourse, but was unwilling to
propose it first, lest you might have thought, from the inequality
of our education, and our attainments in useful knowledge, that
I was at all presumptuous ; but, after all, the sincere feelings of
every mind, except ill-intentioned ones, are worth communi-
cating.

"What am I doing?" I am studying Irish history very
closely, and hope to have it in my power to turn it to somt
useful account. My brother desires to be remembered to you.
Your letter brought to my recollection a little rhyme of his,
which, as you liked the last so much, 1 will send you in my
next letter, if you do not forbid me in the mean time.

Ever, my dear ,

Your friend,

Gerald Griffin.

Dear , — I am sorry I was not at home to your call on

Sunday. I must apologise to Mr. W when I see him for

not visiting him sooner. I was about to do so, when I was
prevented by a letter from home bearing unpleasant intelli-
gence. It informed me oi the death of my mother, whose
affection, unwearying in absence, whose high principle and
strength of mind, remain (although I have not seen her for near
twelve years) as fresh in my recollection as if it were only
yesterday I beheld her sailing for America. It well might,
for, far as we were asunder, I was never without the proofs cf
it. Never, never indeed, will her loss be replaced tome, nor to
any friend in whom she ever took an interest.

I perceive by the papers that your friend C is no more.

You see, my dear , we must take care of ourselves.

Ever, your friend,

Gerald Griffin.

There is something affecting and beautiful in the tender-
ness of Ills retrospections about this period. " Nothing is
more commonplace, either in prose or poetry," he says in a
letter to his mother, " than for those who live in the bustle
of the world to wisli for some quiet little retreat in a lonely
wild, where, free from cares, &c. — at the same time that.

294 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

if the truth was known, they had rather die than give np
their darling turmoil, so that I shall not burden my mother
with this sentiment at present ; but I will tell her, that I
often long to see her, that I often think of her with grati-
tude and affection, and that the longer I live the deeper do
I value her early love and care. How can I live so near
Fairy Lawn without thinking of those evenings in whicii I
sat reading to her a chapter in a useful book, while she
went on with her knitting by the fireside ? Indeed I hope,
whether those scenes are to be repeated or not, that I may
never think of them with coldness."

The following extract is from one written to a nephew of
his, who lived in New York :

" My year's work is done, my third series ready for the press,
and I start this week or next for London. I detest the voyage
heartily, and would subscribe a tale with great pleasure to a
presentment for building a bridge across to Bristol ; for, with-
out any figure of speech at all, I am always sick of the steam-
boat. I like those pieces which were transcribed in some of
your letters very much ; but I have got such a cobbling feeling
about literature since I began to make my regular winter bar-
gains, that I am hardly a fit jndge of such things, and do not
enjoy them half so much as those who do not make a trade of
it. Anything but literature for me in the way of amusement.
Ah, my dear fellow ! times were different when I used to pull
out my pocket full of manuscripts with you on a sunshiny day,
on the banks of the Adare river, and read through a tragedy
or farce, with the parts ready cast for Kean or Liston, and no
delay but to get them acted and printed as fast as possible.
Tlien I would have thought it profanation to talk of Mammon
and Melpomone together, and I sauntered by the silent river —
my bosom tilled with a gentle enthusiasm, and my imagination
giddy with the prospect of future triumphs in the career of
dramatic renown. There they all he now — the productions of
those lofty hours, a heap of tragedies, comedies, and farces, all
innocent of the sight of a stranger's eye, a monument of the
egregious folly of young men who start off for London in the
hope of accomplishing, by the mere force of natural ability,
what neither acquirement, nor genius, nor learning itself can
effect, without the aid of time and experience, and what, in the
greatest number of instances, all these united cannot bring to

9 *"

LZTTLP.5. 295

lv another tetter, addressed to the ^ame refative in the

wring year, he says :

" As for the laborious part of the profession you are adopt-
ing," (the law,) "there is none that has not its drudgery, and,
perhaps, it is as well they should. Rien sans peine is as senoui
a maxim as if it was not a French one, and I doubt whether
much less of mere labour went to the composition of Lallab.
Rookh than to the compiling of Phillips's book on evidence.

Yes, my dear J , the dust of the reading-desk and the gloom

of the library corner are necessary to a poet, ay, and even to
a novel writer, no less than to a lawyer ; and I know somebody
whose burnt fingers could bear witness to this, if he did not
think it better to hold his tongue and try to improve. Not-
that I think the gentleman would admit that this, or any other
circumstance of the kind, would occasion him much uneasiness ;
but there is an old English maxim, not a whit less true than tiiu
French one, that if a thing be worth doing at all it is worth
doing well. I am working away like a hero at a new book, an<i
in better spirits than I have been in for years, because I have
at last discovered a clue to contentment, which I sadly wanted
before, — that a man need not fear disappointment in this world,
provided he does not care too much whether he is disappointed
or not."

I proceed with the correspondence which has been inter-
rupted by these observations. Though his subsequent let-
ters occasionally indicate a greater seriousness than former
ones, as well as habits of life still more retired, it will be per-
ceived that there was no diminution of the warmth of that
affection which he always felt for his friends, nor of that
lively, playful, abandon manner, which makes some of them
so interesting. Most of these letters are without a date,
but I give them, I believe, pretty much in the order in
which they were written.

To Mr. .

My dear J. , — I am obliged to you for your kind and friendly
letter, and for the high value which you set upon a very slight
mark of my remembrance of the many kindnesses which I hav a
seceived from you and from your family.

203 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

The last part oi your letter gave me pain, for yon h
tirely misapprehended what I wrote. Be assured, my dear
friend, that I did not intend you should infer that because I
hoped to see you often when you were alone I should not be
glad to see your family also, or that my friendship for them was

less than for yourself. I am aware that both to you and L

my conduct for some time past has appeared wrong, and, per-
ingrateful. Although I do not think it my duty to speak
freely with you (without your express desire) of the principles
or. which I have acted, yet the intimacy which subsisted be-
tween us last year, and the sincere friendship which I retain for
.1 for every member of your family, render it, I believe,
n oessary that I should offer some explanation. Above all. you
v, .11 not consider what I say obtrusive, when you remember that
it was your own misapprehension that drew it from me. It
is true that my time is not, nor cannot be, allotted as formerly,
but it is equally true, that, whatever may appear, there is no
k ss of friendship nor of gratitude on my part towards you all.
and that nothing in this world would give me greater happiness
tr an the having it in my power to spend as much time in your
society as formerly ; but I felt, strongly felt, that I could not
d- so consistently with my other obligations ; and have I not
before told you, that they and you are not the only friends from
whom I felt myself obliged to withdraw a large portion of my

time ? Did I not tell you that I visited at R d oftener than

amongst my near relations ? I do not wonder you should think
me cold; but. believe me. that you deeply err in thinking so.
I know well that I must appear so ; but I know well also, that
it was my duty to act as I have done ; and I hope the time may
cc me when you will all see this as plainly as it appears to my
own mind. No. my dear friend, there has not been the slightest
diminution of the regard which I felt for you and for all -who
are dear to you ; but my education and my reason both teach
me, that, in living as I have done in retirement, I have acted on
the wisest principles for the regulation of my own mind ; and,
h< wever we may differ on other points, I am sure you will allow
that to be our first duty here. I have nothing more to say in
explanation; that I have acted right I feel. I feel also, that
tl ere is not a member of your family whom I do not love with
the affection of a relative ; and all I ask on your part is, how-
ever you may think my conduct excessive or censurable, th; .
you will feel confidence in my having a right intention. I
me that confidence without any reserve, and you will secure i
Bincere and most grateful friend. Yours aft

Gerald G&lkfin.

■LETTERS. 297

To Mrs.

My beajr L., — T have written so long a letter to J , that

I cannot detain the car to write a long one to you. I return
your " Remains" with many and kind thanks. I have not read
it, however, nor have I time to do so. Ah ! how I wish you
were living here near us ; here — where, with all our marsh and
rubl >ish of falling walls and dirty streets, we have peace and
uietness, at any rate ; where you will find no well-read gen-
ieman defending the morality of Don Juan ; nor any married
a ties blue enough to be suprised when they hear Milton
censured for coarseness, when they hear an admirer of hif
^/mvtts lament that he should ever, in his detail of the Eden lift*
of Adam and Eve, have lost sight of that

'• Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure,"

with which, as with a. -celestial glory, he surrounds him in hi
first description of their appearance in the garden. I am sure,

L , if ever you take the trouble to read "Paradise Lost"

again, you will, you cannot but agree with me in feeling, that
there are pa -sages in it which had better, much better, not have
been writte , and that his pictures of terrestrial happiness are
often as reprehensible as his images 01 celestial intercourse are
flat and shocking and familiar.

As for the poem on the Siamese Twins, though you or I might
read it perhaps without injury, yet I decidedly and severely
condemn it, as, in parts at least, calculated in the highest
degree to fan and excite a passion which needs no stimulus
whatever amongst the mass of mankind — a passion which, in my
poor thought, has done more to sow misery on earth than tbe
scourge of war has ever done to amend it. Don't, my friend, don't
give the meed of your applause (and you know your praise or cen-
Biire has extensive influence in your circle) tot those love poems,
love stories, and love plays ; and make it a point to condemn
any book which tends to inflame what is already but too ready
to tike fire.

Do not be hurt at any time by my telling you the truth. It
•is the part of a friend to do so, and the friendship which the
touch of truth dissolves can only have been linked by false-
hood. Such is not ours, I hope. I feel that we both have some
love of virtue ; and it is on that, and that alone, I ever desire
any attachment of mine should be founded.

Well, and now moralising apart, was I not very good while

I was at C ? Did I not eat anything and everything I was

offered, gooseberries and all, except on the fast-day ? and then
you know I couldn't do it. Mrs. Primrose, L , made the

22 3 LIFE .

>?eberry fool, or wine, I believe, in the world. "P
I hear you say, "Mrs. Primrose !" Dou't be so mighty grand —
because you have a bit of an imagination, and write (I do con-
fess) delicious poetry — don't sneer at Mrs. Primrose. I assura

you, L , I prefer Mrs. Primrose, any day, to old Aunt

Western, though it must be allowed Aunt Western had a very
great taste for politics.

Josey and I made a great omission to-day. "We forgot his
"Animated Xature" and Spelling Book in the drawer of a
dressing-table, in what you were pleased to call my room. You
can send them by the messenger who is to bring his box.

Believe me, dear L , affectionately yours,

Geeald Geieeix.

The following accompanied a cup made out of a cocoa-
nat, neatly carved and bound in silver :

Tu the same.

Monday night.
My dear L., — I thank you for your handsome present ; but
you must not make me such handsome ones in future. It is
being too generous ; and surely I might remind you of your
own sentiment in saying that such tokens of friendship are not
necessary. I have given Little, and have some claim, then,
to request your acceptance of a cup, which you must not fail
to find some use for on every first of May at least. With th&
warmest wishes for the health and happiness of all to whom

you wish well, I am, my dear L , your affectionate friend,

Gerald Grifeik.

To the so. me.

DearL., — Did you ever, in all your born days, see such
a scrap of paper to write upon ? But there is no letter-paper
in the house, and this will do as well as any to say how is

L ? and I, great and mighty I, am well. Thanks, thanks,

for the sweet puein ; but why did you delay it ? and why,
when yuu sent it, did it come ■ ' curtailed of its fair proportions,

deformed, unfinished, sent before its ;" no, no, not sent

before its time, but still with several of the verses wanting ?
Did I not read many more in the little book ? Send me the
others with all the expedition hi life, or I'll fill you with lead.
*" " nasty, dirty, rainy morning, isn't it? Why didn"t y u

LETTERS, 299

write to me for a whole fortnight? Did yon read 8lanley'a
speech, eh ? There's what I call liberality : it's really very
fine. Erin go bragh — she's getting on gloriously. In three
years, Catholic Emancipation, Reform, and the Kildare-street
scpiad knocked on the head. Hoop-whishk ! that'll do. What
makes O'Connell say she's driving to sea like a vessel under
bare poles ? She isn't, but spanking along like a steamer.
Talking of bare poles, I see the Russians are almost beat. How
are all the little doves ? I'm glad poor Joe is getting on so
well. Here has Matt been launching out in elegant praise of
poetry and poets, till I have almost longed to be one myself.
Well, Sergeant Lefroy, if you don't beat cockfighting, it's no
matter. Only think of that hero to get up and declare, that
it was his sincere opinion the great body of the Irish people
approved of the Kildare squad. What won't a man say after

tiiat ? Did you hear from T lately ? What do you say

to the Whigs now? Shy enough, in truth, but surely that
speech is something. Did you read Shiel on Stanley ? I don't
like such talk. A boy hot from school would hardly talk such
vapid stuff. He shouldn't go on so like a play-actor showman.
The Catholic clergy are not heroes of romance ; Stanley is not
Barbarossa ; nor are the Whig Ministry a divan of playhouse
senators, wearing their " properties" for a pound a- week. But
let me do him justice. Where the subject suits his style, he
is a fine, rattling, tearing little fellow, full of fire and effect ;
and I have no doubt but some occasion will yet arise, even in
the house, in which he will distinguish himself. Wha,t folly
it is of those who oppose the yeomanry, to be urging their bar-
barity as a ground for disarming them ? Surely the ministry
like the bit of terror that's about them. They should stick to
the better argument, their inefficiency and cowardice, shouldn't

they 1 Dear L , farewell ; ever thy

Gerald Grlfpdt.

To the same.

Pallas Kenry, Wednesday.
My dear L., — I return your Examiner, with many thanks

How are you ? How is S ? How is J ? How is Joe

and all the little pets ? I think I could almost pet them myself
for the sake of having them again.

Dear Madam Fidelity — dear, dear Madam Fidelity, with the
running hound, what makes you so cross and silent ? Ah ! but
poor L is ill. Well, I'm too lonesome to scold you, and,

$00 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

besides, I'm determined not to scold a human being for two
months, until I have my three volumes complete ; and oh !

L , it requires a power of gaiety of heart to keep a story

arloat down three long volumes. Oh ! L , rejoice that your

stars have not made you a novel-writer. Whenever I feel my-
self getting cross, thinking 01 everything, instead of scolding
people, wouldn 't it be a good plan to keep a big stick near me,
and begin walloping the wall or something of the kind, till
I'm tired ? Talking of walls, we move to-day.

Limerick, 7 o'clock.

There's a jump ! The above was written in Pallas, when
William came into my room, and packed me off to town to take
care of Lucy. I wish to my heart you would make your friends
on the continent have done with their kick-ujis for one winter.
My publishers write me word that las* year was a very bad
season for novels, and that they are glad I put off my book till
autumn next. I have a mind to wait till this business is over
between the Poles and Russians. If the contest lasts anothei
year I'm done for. "Wasn't it the cranky Dean Swift said his
bookseller advised him to publish in case turnips shoidd be plen-
tiful ? If there's to be any more liberty next year, I might as
well throw my cap at it.

Adieu. When am I to get your long promised letter ? When

you like, dear L , only remember always your friend,

Gerald Griffey.

To the same.

Dear L.. — In the first place, how are yon to-d.°v ? The next
tjne you come to Pallas, I intend not only t g t "L but not to
r.sk you to see me before you go. However, 1 forgive you in
consideration of yesterday's visit.

Will you accept the enclosed pictures, some of which are a
long time threatened, and the others have been added to while
away the first lonesome days of Josey's absence ? All I stipulate
about them is, that since I have had the executing of them al-
ready, I have to have the hanging of them also in whatever
comer it may please your highness to dispose of them. I should
recommend a shady one, as it will harmonise better with the
colouring ; for you may see

**ily fields are very, very cr
My skies are very blue."

l*-^^. 301

I>":7 mo6?es£Ty gives it as his opinion, that "wlrrt they are
principally defective in is the colounnc. ' Detective! thicks
I in my own mind. "Will yon show me a place I could put
paint upon, that I didn't do it, and plenty too ? Lucy ;in bed)
"had the politeness to say, that it was very well I brought them
in by candlelight, and Will likes Pallas Kenry best. But what
proves the criticism unjust is, that it has been principally di-
rected against the colouring — the very thing, of all others, that
I was most liberal of, I assure you. Good-bye ; God bless
you ! Mind what I tell you : the next time you come to Pallas
I'll get sick, and I won't ask you to see me. Yours, dear L ,

Gerald Gbtoht.

I send seme Looks for the childher.

To the same.

London, November, 1831.

Mv DSAB L., — I intended to have denied myself the indul-
gence of writing to you until I had got rid of the hurry of re-
vising and correcting, which at present presses so much up< n.
my hands that double the time at my disposal would net be
sufficient to satisfy my worthy friends in Conduit-street. Some

days since, however, I had a visit from T , who gave me a

piece of intelligence that will not allow me to remain silent.
even though I were obliged to express in two lines the delight
which I received in hearing it. I congratulate you and J— — .
and all your family, most sincerely, my dear friend, on the
happy addition which it has pleased Providence to make to
your sweet circle ; and it is one of my warmest wishes, that
the addition of number may be followed by an addition of hap-
piness.

I received your two notes, for which, though I was obliged
by many reasons to defer answering them, I thank you mo^t
sincerely. You need not have told me, dear L , to be mind-
ful of you. I coukl not avoid obeying the injunction, even if I
were inclined to do so. I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I
ever forgot the long kindness of yourself and all your friends to
one who, first or last, had so little claim to it. I will not be
bo unreasonable as to prescribe to you any course of penance
with respect to the cup, since all my wishes were satisfied when
you accepted it.

I enjoyed exceedingly my journey both by land and water,
particularly the sail up the canal and up the river to Dublin,
and the moonlight journey from Liverpool to London. It was

3 '2 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

delightful to see tlie sun go down, and the full moon rise and
go through all her course, and set, and then to see the gloriou?
sim again assume her place. Not hashing seen it since childhood,
I had no idea how exquisite a picture is the first view of the Killalo >>
scenery, until it broke full upon me as I passed from under tho
bridge, and beheld on the left bank of the river the quays, the
boats, and figures — a beautiful demesne sloping to the water's
edge, and Bally Valley mountain rising rocky ata distance ; on the
right, a chain of wooded hills, and, stretching from the left into
the very centre of the stream, a lofty grass-green promontory,
with a dark fugrove oxfoH upon the summit, and all the asso-
ciations of Brian Borhoime to recommend it. London, too, I
enjoyed more than during either of my two last visits. My
long absence suffered me to enter it with something of the
freshness of a first visit, and without the anxiety, the turbu-
lence, the doubt, the solicitude of that little helpmate ambition,
whom you used once to recommend so warmly to my affections.
Yet you must not suppose that my patriotism cools for all this,
or that because London has improved, looks new, grows splen-
did, and because I condescend to be contented with it for the
present, I can ever make it my country.

I have met, since my arrival, two young fellow-countrymen,
who have interested me much. One, a Mr. Noblet, of Cork,
a landscape painter, whose water colours I admire very much
particularly one beautiful little picture which he calls the Hokj
WelL The other is a Mr. AlacDowal, a sculptor, who evinces,
I think, sterling genius in his art, not only in busts from Me,
which he makes roll of character, but in historical groups, par-
ticularly in subjects which require delicacy, tenderness, and
pathos of expression. Poor fellows ! both have every difficulty
to contend with that want of friends, want of money, want of
patronage, want of everything but merit in their art, can sub-
.em to. Both have their works accepted in the public
[mired by those who happen to see them, exhibited
for the season, praised and — unbought. And why ? For want,
;. :as ! of a name ; for Want of some critic honest and bold enough
to do them generous justice, or some patron munificent enough
te take their nameless muses by the hand, and introduce them
to the world of taste. MacDowal I bike very much ; indeed,
he is a really modest, unaffected, and most industrious little
fallow, with a delicate feeling of his art, and not the slightest
assumption. Noblet is a good musician as well as painter, sings
and plays agreeably, and has given me a charming little soni,
of Kennedy's, which I hope to have the pleasure of ainging to

LETTERS. 303

you at some future time. I have met, amongst others, a bro-
ther of Kennedy's, a surgeon, who has favoured the horror
struck English with the best book that has appeared on cholera,
a subject tit present far more interesting than the state of Ire-
land in the eighth century. I am, my dear L , with kind

remembrances to all your family, 3"our affectionate friend,

Gerald Griffin.

The date of the following shows the sportive mood in
which some of these letters were written:

To the same.

Thursday, July 5 or 6, or something of the kind.
My dear L. , — On Monday morning, early, we started from
Pallas, and, after a broiling drive, lunched at Corgrigg, where
we listened to some sweet piano music, plucked rosas, and eat
fruit in the garden, talked of the cholera, and started again to
the west ; arrived in Glin before dinner, again talked of the
cholera, walked out after dinner, slept ; had the horse to the
jaunting-car in the morning, picked up our cousins, and away
with us again tantivy for the west ; arrived in Listowel about
three, fed the horse, and away again like troopers, and arrived
in Castle Island to tea ; slept like convicts ; up again in the
morning, and away like so many heroes. About two, on a
beautiful day, the majestic Toomies, with the vast semicircular
range extending on either side, greeted for the first time the
eyes of Tote,* and of our two fair cousins ; drove into Kil-
larney about three, got our old lodgings at the post-office,

found Mrs. C fat and pleasant, and asking for you and

your Killarney companions ; walked after dinner through
Lord Kenmare's demesne; discovered a charming well, with
water invisibly pellucid, where we slaked our thirst, and sat
on the margin of the Lower Lake, to admire the blue and
solemn panorama by which we were half surrounded ; returned ;
up in the morning, and away for Ross Castle, charmingly
metamorphosed since our last visit, the barrack turned into an
old ruin, span-new, the barrack yard into a pleasure ground,
and the roof knocked off the house, to make it, as the guide
said, look handsomer ; recognised O'Sullivan, who gave a start
and a caper when he saw me, and out of his great delight

* His sister Lucy.

804 LIFE OF GERALD GRTFFTN.

wanted me to treat him to a shilling, as it was fair day in
Killarney (this I should have tola you before, as it took
in the streets); nodded to Begley, who " re-re-memb'd me
we- well, master," Fleming, the coxswain, 0 'Sullivan, junior,
and others ; embarked for Boss Island, woke the aychoes with
a bugle, and away for Innisfallen, where they are going to build
a sweet cottage for visitors ; stepped into St. Finian's oratory ;
showed the whole island to the girls, who were oh-ing and
ah-ing in the most gratifying manner at every step ; plucked
some sprigs of forget-me-not at the tomb of the last of the
Desmonds ; embarked again, and away for Glena — a new
cottage erected here for visitors, the whole place greatly im-
proved, a rustic table and seats erected on the summit of the
rock to which we walked three years ago, after dining at the
cottage, where we drank wine in our ale, and where you
wanted me to call you L , in taking it with you ; peram-
bulated the grounds, ascended part of a new walk which Lord
Kenmare has ordered to be continued to the summit (if possi-
ble) of Glena mountain, re-embarked, and away for the Upper
Lake, shook the mountains all round with our music and gun-
powder, entered the Upper Lake, landed at Eoman's Island,
rambled about, cut juniper and arbutus switches, admired the
stupendous rocks, Doyle's cottage and his ponies, and the
Purple Mountain, with his ever-moving veil of mist and
mizzle ; returned bugling, laughing, and talking ; dined at
Glena, al fresco ; wheeled into Turk Lake, at Brickeen-bridge,
and into Glena Bay. where we landed to see a haul of fish, and
found our old coxswain Cole pulling away the net ; bought a
salmon, and away for Boss Castle, where we arrived about
eight o'clock, and concluded our day's amusement by rummag-
ing arbutus toy baskets and taking a noisy cup of tea. I for-
got to mention to you that, while resting on our oars in the
Upper Lake, and gazing upward at the mountain peaks, we
saw three eagles soaring majestically in the air above us. and
hovering round and round, as if to watch our motions.

Friday. July 6. — Up again, and away for Mucruss — the
ibbey little altered, except that all the skulls and bones are
removed — walked all round the walls, away for Turk Cascade ;
iter than heretofore ; ascended the mountain ; magnifi-
cent view of the middle and lower lakes and distant country,
with the cascade foaming far beneath through the g'en upon
our left ; away for the Kenmare road ; dined on cold salmon
near that lovely lake on the road side where we three parted
from B and E : rain and mist, which filled the chasms

Li.TTLRS. 305

of the mountain scenery, and gave additional mystery and
magnitude to the whole ; back again to Killarney about seven.
Forgot to mention, as a set-off to the eagles on the Upper Lake,
that we saw a bat wheeling about amid the gloom of the lowei
dormitories at Mucruss. Tote's face as red as a raw beefsteak
and so stout as to talk of ascending a mountain before sh«
returns. But there's no use in talking ; we have no business
going back at all. Oh, 'we are playing away at a fine rate
keeping B 's horse beyond the time, and scratching his var-
nish and bran-new harness to tatters ! but we can nave oui
sport out of Killarney, at all events ; so away to-morrow for the

Gap. Adk-u, dear L . Kindest remembrances to all with

you, who, 1 hope, are well. Yours ever,

Gekall- G'uiffii*.

To the same.

Pallas Kenry, Sept. 14th, 1832.

My ^ear L.,— So you thought I sent you but a "skimpy*'
answer (to pick a word out of your own expressive vocabulary)
to your long and affectionate letter. Indeed it was so, and
unworthy of such a letter as yours* as the subject of that letter
was of the enthusiastic spirit which filled it. I do not know

how it is, my dear L , but I am no longer a match (as if

I ever were so) for a correspondent like L . My blood ia

drying up, or something is the matter with me which I cannot
fathom ; only there is one thing unchanged, and that is my
affection and gratitude towards you, which will never leave me,
whatever you may think is become of the disposition to express
them. I was delighted at the accident, if it were accident,
which prolonged your absence from home until the second out-
break of the cholera in Limerick had begun to abate. 1 hope
it is the parting stroke, and that friends may once again begin
to meet without the Bight of the gravestone for ever at their
feet. We had a letter the other day from America. Many
are dead and dying in Philadelphia, where our brothers are ;
but they and all our friends are well.

And so yon have been in Dublin, and had your picture
finished ? I shall be longing to see you on canvass. Bid he
make you impudent enough ? Was there " bouldness" enough

for a likeness ? But I suppose the shadow stays at S ; so

I must be content with the original until fortune leads me
nearer to the province of Shears. Poor Nan looks awful these

U

30f> LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFFN.

days, with the backboard, marching about with sober face,
Viid arms trussed up like wings of fowl.

I thank you and B, for your kind and pressing invita-
tion, which, however, it is not in my power to accept, although
few things would give me greater pleasure than a trip to a part
of the country of which I have heard you speak so often and
so warmly. I was delighted to hear that you were all so well

at S . I saw S to-day, and she looked, I thought,

better than usual. Poor Limerick, indeed, seems dreary
enough — the roads about it so lonesome, and the streets so
thin, even on market days. The disease, however, is better
to-day and yesterday. It has spared us here as yet, though we
have not been without our false alarms, and I am in hopes that
it may pass us by. Y\'e have a lad from Limerick here —
a hopeful cousin— fled, without being ashamed to own it, from
the cholera, who maintains that the doctors never committed a
greater blunder than in announcing fear as a predisposing
cause ; it has frightened more, he says, than any one attendant
on the complaint beside. They are now not only afraid of the
disease, but afraid of being afraid of it, so that, between the
two fears, a person is almost frightened to death, a catastrophe
as bad, says the proverb, as killing a man at once. I suppose

•J has told you of his valiant walks between Limerick and

Pallas Kenry ; and what said you thereupon ? A bachelor
might try such tricks, but I don't tbin^ a married man has a

right to be so venturesome. "What an alteration, dear L ,

is time making in our } respects within the last two years !
Two years ago, I thought no worldly change could produce such
nn effect on my own hopes and views as the removal of your
family from Limerick, and yet I feel it more and more as the
time approaches, and I know too that not until it has taken
place can I feel all the loneliness that it will cause me. It
would be ungrateful of me if I did not feel it ; if I could forget

re tenderness and affection that I met at Jl and at

Miltown. It is years after you are gone, if I should live so
l«ng, that the sight of either place will give me the heartache
that I have often begun to feel already since your departure was
decided on. But I will say no more of this at present ; it is
foolish and useless to talk of what cannot be helped, and I fear
lest what I write may have the appearance of such disgusting
maudlin as hypocrites vent about religion and brawlers about

honour. I am, my dear L , with love to all with you,

your affectionate friend,

Gerald Geiife?.

VISIT TO MK. Moor.E. 307

CHAPTER XIII.
1832—1835,.

VISIT TO VK. MOORK AT SLOPERTON ANECDOTES MR MOOP.E ASJ>

GRATTAN — LETTER TO MRS. DESCRIBING THIS VJ3IT — GKR-

AU>'8 REMARKS ON HIS ALTERATION OF FEELING — CONTINUA-
TION OF CORRESPONDENCE VERSES ADDRESSED TO MOS.

— SONNET.

In the latter part of the year 1832, Mr. Moore having been
invited by some of the most influential of the electors of
Limerick to stand for the representation of that city, an
address to him, embodying their wishes on the subject, was
numerously and respectably signed. As Gerald was then
; bout to depart for London, on one of his customary winter
visits, he was requested to be the bearer of it. He asked
me to accompany him, and, as such a trip promised too
much pleasure to be declined, I was very glad to do so.
The object of this visit failed, Mr. Mcore's engagements
not permitting him to take advantage of the kind offer made
to him ; but it gave us an opportunity of enjoying, in the
most favourable circumstances possible, the society of one
of whom his country has such just reason to be proud.

It was early in the month of November when we arrived
at Sloperton Cottage, Mr. Moore's residence.. We had the
good fortune to find him at home, and were immediately
shown up stairs, where we were received with such warm
cordiality, such earnest and unaffected kindness, such a
truly Irish welcome, as it would be impossible to forget.
The object of our visit being explained, he immediately
entered upon it ; said he feared he should be obliged to de-
cline, but would not give a positive answer until next day ;
requested us to remain to dinner, a proposition to which we
gladly assen ed, and beting to be excused for return; \g

308 LIFE OF GERALD GRTFFIN.

to «ome matters of importance which our entrance had in-
irrupted, left us Tor an hour or so to onr musings.

Mr. Moore has been often spoken of as one whose wit
an I liveliness in conversation shed a lustre on any society
he enters ; but he must be seen in his own house, and
among his own immediate friends, to have the charm of his
manner thoroughly felt and appreciated. The only person
we met at dinner besides Mr. and Mrs. Moore, was a Mr.

. who seemed very intimate with the family, and who,

■v\ e afterwards understood, was gay and sprightly beyond
all previous custom. Mr. Moore was fond of anecdote, and
full of it, especially of Irish anecdote. He seemed anxious
to make every one about him happy, and poured forth all
kinds of jests with inimitable point ; not apparently so much
for the sake of being agreeable, nor because he told his
stories with a natural raciness and humour that I have
seldom seer equalled, as because he seemed to take the
heartiest possible delight in them himself. He spoke with
the enthusiasm of a youth of nineteen of the ever-memo-
rable debates in the Irish parliament in the times of
(•attan. Corrie. and Flood; and. remarking upon the
number of men of extraordinary talent who flourished about
tkot period, and their extreme rarity since, seemed to be of
opinion that one of the most lamentable effects of the Union
was the manner in which it appeared to operate to the
destruction and annihilation of all Irish genius. He had
the most intense admiration of Grattan, and told seve-
ral amusing stories of him which I had not heard before.
One of them I cannot omit noticing, as it related to Mr.
Moore himself, and was one he took a very justifiable pride
in. In his younger days, though after he had been already
favourably known to the world, he happened one day to be
in Mr. Grattau's company at the house of a mutual friend.
QraAtan was holding forth, with some sharpness, on the
servility of literary men, and the manner in which thev
ateiost uniyersal'y prostituted their talents to the great and

powcrfvt He appeared at first to exclude no one fr< 111

l eepiug censure ; but, suddenly recollecting himself,
he continued : '* But I'm wrong ; there are some excep-
tions ;" and turning to Mr. Moore, who stood near him, and
patting him kindly on the shoulder, he said to those he had
been addressing, " I'm wrong ; my young friend here is one
who" — he paused a moment, and then added emphatically* *
M who wears his hat before the king"

He mentioned another incident which I may just speak
of, as it serves to show the feeling with which Irish inter-
ests are frequently regarded in England, even by those who
profess liberal opinions. At a reform diuner, given, I
believe, in Bath, to the Marquis of Lansdowne, Mr. Moore's
health having been drank, he rose to return thanks, and
was received with a good deal of enthusiasm. On such
occasions as these his country was never forgotten, and he
ventured in the progress of his speech, though cautiously,
to make some allusion to it. " England," said he, in one
of his happy illustrations, " will not permit so large a seg-
ment of her orb as Ireland to remain for ever shrouded in"
darkness." He expected this sentiment to awaken a i'aw
cheers of sympathy ; but there was immediately a dead
silence, as if he had said something very disagreeable. It
was evident he had entered upon forbidden ground, and that
he could not venture further in that direction with safety.
He therefore sounded a retreat as quickly as possible, and
slip] ting gently into some other subject, restored harmony :o
the hearts of his hearers. He could not, however, avoid feel-
ing some degree of surprise at such a result ; and after he
had sat down, he asked of some person who sat next him, a
stranger, what could be the reason that sentiment about
Ireland was rece ved with so much coldness ? " Ah, sir !"
said the other, '* Irishmen and pigs are very unpopular all
along this line."

It was singular, though I could perceive that Gerald en-
joyed himself very much during the evening, and though.

310 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

the gaiety and freedom of Mr. Moore's manner were calcu-
lated to put all kinds of formality to flight, he could not
shake off that constitutional timidity and reserve which was
so apt to assail him before strangers. He did. it is true,
take a part in what was going forward, yet he did not. as
he would have done on a little further acquaintance, fling
himself into it with all his heart. It is evident that nothing
could tend more effectually to less m the interest of his con-
versation than the existence of auysuch feeling, yet I think
Mr. Moore, though he could not, perhaps, distinguish all
the light th it was hidden, had too much penetration not to
see pretty fully into his character ; for. on our visit next
day. when we chatted over the proceedings of the evening.

and Mrs. Moore said, " But did you observe last

night, what wild spirits he was in, and how he did talk ?
Why, I thought he was mad ! I never saw anything like
him." ki Oh !" said Mr. Moore, " don't you know the
meaning of that ? That was," he continued, turning play-
fully to Gerald, and darting his finger towards him with a
good-natured smile, " that was in order to get you to talk."'
Gerald seemed rather taken aback by the suddenness of
this gentle little reproach, but made no reply.

We slept in a double-bedded room in the Castle Inn at
Devizes, and, before finally closing our eyes, spoke of the
adventures of the day. Gerald, as he laid Ids head upon
the pillow, said, M Well, nothing astonishes me more than
the grtatness of the change that has come over me. I re-
member the time when the bare idea — the very thought of
spending such a day as this with Moore would have thrown
m^ into such a fever, that there would not be the least
chance Oi my sleeping a wink all night; yet, now I have
s;^n him, and have spent an enchanting day with him, and
yet I can lie down, not only with the most perfect certainty
o; 1 -Vicious rest, but with a degree of calmness and qnfot
that I am myself astonished at." Notwithstanding this
declaration, it is curious to observe with what a glowing

VISIT TO MOORE. 3 1 1

and rapturous feeling he describes this visit to Mr. Moore,

in a letter written some time after to his friend Mrs. .

This I have too long kept out of the reader's view ; but it
contains such remarkable proofs of his keen enjoyment of
this day, that I dare say Mr. Moore himself, if these pages
should ever meet his eye, will be surprised at the contrast
between the appnrent coldness of his manner and the deep
enthusiasm it exhibits. The letter was written from Taun-
ton, where he spent some months after having left London.

To Mrs. .

Monday morning, March 31, 1833.
Pitman's, senior, Taunton.
My dear L., — Procrastination — it is all the fruit of procrasti-
nation. When Dan and I returned to the inn at Devizes, after
our first sight and speech of the Irish melodist, I opened my wri-
ting case to give L an account of our day's work ; then I

put it off, I believe, till morning ; then, as Dan was returning,
I put it off till some hour when I could tell you about it at foil
leisure ; then Saunders and Otley set me to work, and I put it
off until my authorship should be concluded for the season, at
least ; and now it is concluded, for I am not to publish this
year ; and here I come before you with my news, my golden

bit of news, stale, flat, and unprofitable. Oh, dear L , I

saw the poet ! and I spoke to him, and he spoke to me, and it
was not to bid me "get out of his way," as the King of France
did to the man who boasted that his majesty had spoken to
him ; but it was to shake hands with me, and to ask me " How
I did, Mr. Griffin," and to speak of "my fame." My fame !
Tom Moore talk of my fame ! Ah, the rogue ! he was hum-
bugging, L , I'm afraid. He knew the soft side of an

author's heart, and perhaps he had pity on my long, melancholy-
looking figure, and said to himself, " I will make this poor
fellow feel pleasant, if I can," for which, with all his roguery,
who could help liking him and being grateful to him ? But you
want to know all about it step by step, if not for the sake of
your poor, dreamy looking Beltard, at least for that of fancy,
wit, and patriotism I will tell you, then, although Dan has
told you before, for the subject cannot be tiresome to an Irish-
woman— I will tell you how we hired a great, grand cabriolet,

312 LlfE OF GERALD GMFFiN.

and set off— no, pull in a little. I should first tell you how
we arrived at tue mn at Devizes late in tne evening, 1 forget

»ue exact time, and ordered tea, (tor wnich, by the bye, w e
had a prodigious appetite, not having stopped to dine in B.;cu
or Bristol,) when the waiter (a most solid-looking fellow, wuo
won Dan's heart by his precision and the mathematical exact-
ness of all his movements) brought us up, amongst other good
things, fresh butter, prepared in a very curious way. 1 could
not for a long time imagine how they did it. It was in strin0s,
j ust like vermicelli, and as if tied in some way at the bottom.
King George, not poor real King George, but Peter Pindar's
King George, was never more puzzled to know how the apple
got into the dumpling ; but at last, an applying to the waiter,
he told us that it was done by squeezing it through a lmen clotu ,
an excellent plan, particularly in frosty weather, wnen it is
actually impossible to make the butter adhere to the bread on
account of its working up with a coat of crumbs on the under
side ; but that's true— Tom Moore — and besides, 'tis unfashion-
able now to spread the butter, isn't it ? I'm afraid I txpostd
myself, as they say. Well, wTe asked the waiter ; out came
the important question, ''How far is Sloperton Cottage
from Devizes?" "Sloperton. sir? that's Mr. Moore's piaee,
sir; he's a poet, sir. We do all Mr. Moore's work." What

ought I to have done, L ? To have hung my arms about

his neck for knowing so much about Moore, or to have knocked
him down for knowing so little ? Well, we learned all we
wanted to know ; and, after making our arrangements for the
following day, went to bed and slept soundly. And in the
morning it was that we hired the grand cabriolet, and set off
to Sloperton ; drizzling rain, but a delightful country ; such a
gentle shower as that through which Kk looked at Inmsfallen —
Ins farewell look. And we drove away untd we came to a
cottage, a cottage of gentility, with two gateways and pretty
^rounds about it, and we alighted and knocked at the hail
door ; and there was dead sdence, and we whispered cue
another; and my nerves thrilled as the wind rustled in rue

creeping shrubs that graced the retreat of — Moore. Oh ! L ,

there s no use in talking, but 1 must be hue. I wonder I ever
stood it at all, and 1 an Irishman, too, and singing his songs
since 1 was the height of my knee — The Veded Propnet ,
Azim ; She is far from, the Land ; Those Evening Bells. Bat
tae djor opened, and a young woman appeared. "Is Mr.
Moore at home ?" " I'll see, sir. What name shad I say, sir f
Well, not to be too particular, we were shown up stairs, where

"LETTERS. 3 1 "3

we found the nightingale ui his ca0e ; in honester Ian_u : e,
and more Ifi the purpose, we found our hero in his stauy, .t,
table before aim covered with books aud papers, a drawer half
open and stuffed with letters, ' piano also open at a little
distance ; and the thief himself a little man, but full of spirit,
with eyes, hands, feet, and frame for ever in motion, looking
as if it would be a feat for him to sit for three minutes quiet in
his chiir. I am no great observer of proportions ; but he
seemed to me to be a neat-made little fullow, tidily buttoned
up, young as lifteen at heart, though with hair that reminded
me of the " Alps in the sunset ;" not handsome, perhaps, but
something in the whole cut of him that pleased me ; finished
as an actor, but without an actor's affectation ; easy as a
gentleman, but without some gentlemen's formality ; in a word,
as people say when they find their brains begin to run aground
at the fag end of a magnificent period, we found him a hospi-
table, warm-hearted Irishman, as pleasant as could be himself,
and disposed to make others so. And is this is enough '( And
need I tell you that the day was spent delightfully, chiefly in
listening to his innumerable jests, and admirable stones, and
beautiful similes— beautiful and original as those he throws into
his songs and anecdotes, that would make the Danes laugh ?
and how we did all we could, I believe, to get him to stand
for Limerick ; and how we called again the day after, and
walked with him about his little garden; and how he told us
that he always wrote walking ; and how we came in again and
took luncheon ; and how I was near forgetting that it was
Friday (which you know I am rather apt to do in pleasant
company) ; and how he walked with us through the fields, and
wished us a " good-bye," and left us to do as well as we could
without him ?

And now, after sending this well-graced off the stage, am I
to keep up my tedious prattle to the end of the aneet 3 I
believe so. W ell, then, 1 parted from Dan shocking lonesome,
and came away to London, where Saunders and Otiey set me
to work for the whole winter, and after bringing three volumes
to something like a conclusion it has been agreed on all sides
to postpone its publication to another season. I am still here
at Taunton, where 1 have spent the greater part oi the tune
since before Christmas m tne midst of a delightful country.
Dan writes to me (but I am sorry and ashamed to say too late)
to hope that I called on Moore's son in London, as Mrs. Moore
was so good as to propose ; but, procrastination again — the same
enemy to performance in thk as in some affairs of far greater

S14 LIKE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

moment. Can yon draw any moral, dear L , from all this

proci-astination ?

And now, dear L , am I to conclude this letter, as I

began, with an excuse for long silence ? Surely not, until I
have more reason to be dissatisfied with its cause. It is
pleasanter to tell you how often during the winter my thoughts
travelled towards your dear circle, though not on paper — how
often, in recollection. I sat by your fireside, and exchanged my
own lonesome room for your noisy parlour and drawing-room.
I will say nothing of former accounts of the health of all
friends there, as the last are pleasanter. I am glad to hear

Josey is improving. I heard from T that J arrived in

London a week after 1 had left it for this place. I left T

well. He was kind enough to give me a letter of introduc-
tion to a Mr. Young here ; but I have not had time to
make use of it. I thought to have left England before now.
but shall not until after Easter. As to news from Taunton,
except to give you the dimensions of my room, and to tell j-ou
at what hours I rise, walk, study, dine, and go to bed, what
can I have to say in a place where I know nobody except
an old French priest, who I believe from pure compassion
sometimes pays me a visit as he takes his noonday walk ! Oh.

dear L , why didn't you make the Whitefeet behave

themselves? They have almost made me ashamed of my
country ; and. general as the outcry is through England at this
dreadful law* they are making, I am almost tempted to
wonder that we have any friends at all. when I hear of one
murder after another committed by these unhappy wretches.
But I must not touch on politics ; and don't you be offended
at my calling you to an account about the "Whitefeet. Re-
member me to S J , and all the young ones that know

anything ah: ait me. Farewell, and believe me your sincere
end affection

Gerald Griffin.

I proceed with the remainder of his letters to Mrs.

They are but few in number, and. with the exception of
one or two to be noticed afterwards, will bring this part
of his correrpouclence to a clo^e.

LETTERS. 31-5

To the samp.

Pailas Kemy, Saturday.
My dearest L., — Your last letter found me pleasantly oc-
cupied, chatting with J and T , and diving into the

•contents of an American parcel, which we had just received
from Cork, containing a mail-bag full of letters for Lucy ; out-
landish-looking capes, mocassins, arrowheads, &c, for her and
other friends ; and for Gerald — what ? — a pen- wiper ! so, what

with L 's pen-knife, needle-case, and seal, and the American

-wiper, I think I am well provided, either as bookmaker or cor-
respondent.

1 could not, of course, dear L , leave such a letter as your

last, l'»ng without an answer. The interest which it shows in
poor Gerald's fame and prospects is so warm and so generous
that it would be the height of ingratitude in me to receive it
silently, although it needed not this to let me know your heart
towards that luckless author. I would be ashamed, however,
geriously to set about disclaiming any title to the high place
which you give me, for I do not think, with all fervour and
willing blindness of affection, that you cculd long continue in
the same opinion of poor Gerald's pretensions as an author
which you express in that letter. I would be ashamed of

myself, dear L , if I could seriously set about disclaiming

the praise you give your poor friend ; but your friendship and
affection are not the less dear to me that they have led you
into an error of judgment in my favour. Some other time I
may be able to say more upon this subject ; but at present I
will only answer my dear friend by saying that, if there were
no other obstacles, my infirm health and scanty education are •
impediments that would be sufficient, I believe, to prevent my
ever reaching any considerable place in literature ; ndr should
I much regret this now, if heaven in its mercy would still open
to me some channel, however humble, in which 1 might yet
turn its gifts to lasting good. But of this enough for the
present ; nor must dear L— — be angry witn me for not being
able to say much in answer to her warm-nearted letter. And

now, why does clear L talk oi reluctance to send her free

thoughts to her affectionate friend, ana aouot of the spirit in

which her letter might be received ? How could L doubt

of the spirit in wnicn such affectionate and generous counsel
would betaken? rlow could it be taken, except with grati-
tude, warm gratitude, to the writer, and happiness in the
thought of possessing a tnend so kind and so interested ?
I do not agree with you, that no friendship is to be even

v.

31f> LITE OF GERALD GRIFF?"*.

compared to those which are associated with the days of infancy
and childhood. [t is true that such remembrances must;
strengthen even the strongest ; but there are occasions when
our strongest attachments (I retain the word attachments,
although we are not dogs) are formed late in life, and it some-
times happens that no previous friendships are comparable to
those. I believe ' ' even the mother that looked on his child-
hood" would n^t feel hurt with Campbell for calling the "bosom
friend dearer than all." Such friendships, it is true, are very,
very rare ; but they are precious in proportion to their rarity.
I once thought that I possessed such a treasure, and should be
sorry to think I had deservedly forfeited it ; I should grieve to
think I had lost it even undeservedly. Whether I was right
or wrong in imagining I ever possessed it, time only must de-
termine. At all events, my opinion of friendship itself shall
continue unchanged, whatever I may be forced to think of a

particular case. And now farewell, Madam L . Ever yours,

Gerald Grlfein.

It will be observed that several of the most interesting
and cheerful of these letters occasionally breathe a spirit
of seriousness quite in unison with the deep religious feeling
I have described. The lines at the conclusion of the fol-
lowing, were, I believe, suggested by the circumstance of

his friends having parted with their residence at Pw d,

to which they had become much attached.

To the same.

Pallas Kenry, August 3, 1S35.
My dear L., — Since they are all writing from Pallas, I will
throw in my share ; although, after so long a silence, you may
think a reason for writing as necessary as with more steady cor-
respondents a reason for not doing so. I might say a great deal
bjr way of accounting for that silence, but it is just as well perhaps
to let it alone ; for if it were excusable, your good nature will
help me to the apology without any assistance ; and if it be
entirely faulty, the less that is said in its defence the better.

I was glad to hear that your residence at S had agreed so

well with the dear children, and hope to have the happiness
of seeing their dear faces before winter as blooming as when
we were together in old times. I hope, too, that you, my dear
frieud, are amongst the number of those whose health has been

LETTERS. 317

improved by the Queen's County air, and that the fit of illness,

'which we heard if from J , was but of short continuance.

My own health, jiank God, is pretty good— as good as a poor
broken-down author of my kind has any right to expect.

I made two flights from home this summer, of which, for
want of something better worth your reading in this letter, I
may give you some account. The first was a delightful trip

to dear Killarney, in company with Anna, Lucy, M , and

A G . It is enough to say of this that we found those

delicious scenes as enchanting as ever. This time we walked
to the top of Mangerton (girls and all) ; the rest came down as,
they went up ; but I descended the Horse's Glen with one of
the guides, and was well repaid for my fatigue by the delightful
couple of hours I spent in threading my way among rocks and
heath, through that most wild and lonely of all the lonelj
glens about Killarney. The view from Mangerton was verj
fine, and the girls were as proud as need be of their feat. We
spent the twilight hours on our way home in Mucruss. On the
lakes, and in the gap, we had the advantage of Spillane's ex-
quisite bugle. In the gap particularly, on a calm and sun-
bright evening, his performance was beyond any thing I think I
ever heard in the way of music. He and the echoes seemed to
understand one another perfectly, and the reflection of his deli-
cious notes coming back from all the mountain peaks around
was beyond description beautiful. He played ever so many
Irish airs, such as the Meeting of the Waters, Last Hose of
Summer, &c, and did his part with first-rate feeling and
genius. This treat was doubly delightful to us, as it was quite
unexpected. Probably if we had taken him with us on set
purpose, like any other preconcerted pleasures of this fleeting
world, it might have ended in total disappointment. Mrs.

C was at her old station, and hearty and comfortable as

ever. She made many inquiries for you. I was glad to see
the smiling old lady alive and well, when I called to mind that
the cholera had broken out in Killarney the week after my
last visit. The only victim to it amongst our acquaintances
there was poor O'Sullivan, the boatman. We had delicious
weather the whole time.

After returning to Pallas, M and I got up on an old tax-
cart, and away with us for Galway. After stopping a night
or two in the town visiting the skull and cross-bones in Lom-
bard-street (Anna Blake to wit), and driving some fourteen or
fifteen mdes along the shores of Lough Corrib, we returned
through the wilds of Burren and along the northern coast of
Clare. We visited at evening the lonely abbey of Corcomroe,

318 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

ft magnificent ruin, gjanding in an almost deserted valley, and"
surrounded by lofty hills of old gray stone, with scarce even
a spot of heath or grass of any kind to be seen along their
barren sides. We came about sunset to a little lonely inlet,
which we took at first for a lake, until we perceived that it
was filled with sea water, and stood a long time watching the
herons and sea birds that were fishing on its banks. This sweet
spot they told us was the far-famed Pouldoody, " where they
get the oysthers." To add to the romance of our excursion,
the wheel of our tax-cart here broke down, and we had to
accompany it on foot as far as Ballyvaughan, a village on the
shores of Blackhead Bay, where we had to spend the night. Next
day we came through Kilfeuora to Enrdstymon, where we left
our cart to be repaired, and rode double to Miltown. It added

to my own enjoyment to know that it was the first time M

had seen the broad Atlantic, or indeed had, as he said him-
self, properly seen the sea at all. I had not seen Miltown for
five years before, and now got the first glimpse of the twink-
ling lights of the lodges on the shore after nightfall. I need
not tell you how I looked out for all the places which I re-
membered so well ; for the turn down to the puffing-hole, for
Glenville, for Pavingstone Bay ; for everything that reminded
me of friends who were to me as my own ; for scenes that
were as dear to me as those of my childhood, and for a home
which was as much my own as ever was parent's or brother's.
1 had a pang to meet since my return, in seeing in the papers

the death of my poor friend X , the companion of my early

literary struggles in London, and next to yourself, dear L ,

though at a long interval, one of those who took the warmest
interest in my career of authorship. My walk through the
sand hills reminded me of some lines I had written there when
we were all at Miltown (though I never gave them to you, for
some reason or other, perhaps because I did not like them),
and which I found some time since amongst my papers. I
send them now, because they were written then, though
never fmis\ed. I leave you to guess the occasion that sug-
gested them.

Because the veil for me is rentf
An 1 youth's illusive fervour .-,,eut,
And thoughts of deep ete aity
Have paled the glow of eirth for me,
Weaken'd the ties of time and place
\nd stolen from life its worldly grae

LITTERS. 310

Becanse my heart is lightly shaken,
By haunts of early joy forsake. i;
Because the sigh that Nature heaves
F r all that Nature loved and leaves,
Now to my ripening soul appears
All sweetly weak, like childhood's teara.
Is friendship, too, like fancy, vain ?
Can I not feel my sister's pain ?
Av, it is past ! where first we met,
Where Hope reviving thirsted yet,
Long draughts of blameless joy to drain,
We never now may meet again.
At Sabbath noon, or evening late,
I ne'er shall ope that latched gate.
And forward glancing catch the whilo

The ready door and L 's smile;

I ne'er shall mark that sunset now,

Gilding dark Cratloe's heathy brow,

Blushing in Shannon's distant bowers,

And lighting Carrig's broken towers ;

No more along that hedgy walk,

Our hours shall pass in lingering talk ;

For vanished is the poet-queen,

Who decked and graced that fairy scene.

And stranger hands shall tend her flowers,

And city faces own her bowers.

" How good Gerald was," I hear you say, "when he wrote

those lines." I believe I was better then, dear L , than

for a long time before, and you see I do not now consider my-
self (jood enough to add anything to them, unfinished as they
are. Adieu, my dear friend, and believe that your best happi-
ness and the happiness of all you love is amongst the warnust
wiaiies of your poor friend,

Geeald.

To the same.

I enclose a ballad* for your perusal and criticism (so get your
spectacles ready), which I hope may amuse you. Do not risk
extending my disgrace by showing it to any one else, always,

of course (in this as in everything beside), excepting J k

Since I had first the happiness of becoming acquainted with,
your circle, I uever wrote anything that the thought did not

* Matt Hyland.

i 2 ) LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

occur to me, "what you would think of it?' and far, far
oftener did I ask myself that question than " what would the
public think of it ?" which many sensible folks might say would
be a query somewhat more to the author's purpose. In these
days of what Washington Irving calls " hot hearts and burning
brains," a man who writes quiet' y is considered to write feebly.
Be it so. If fame cannot be acquired without putting one's self
in a passion to get at it, why then, without meaning any dis-
respect to you, ma'am, fame may go and be hanged ; ay, although
money were to go and swing along with her. You may per-
ceive that I have cut out a great deal, and you will say. perhaps,
that the scissors, after all, were used too sparingly by a fourth,
or it may be a third ; yet, if there be anything in what remains
to afford you entertainment, it will — this is growing so like the
concluding sentence of an old dedication, that I leave you to
fm.sh it yourself.

Besides the verses given above, there are one or two

other pieces of poetry, addressed to Mrs. at different

times, one of which I will insert here. It is particularly
interesting, as. besides the tender and earnest friendship to
which it gives such an eloquent expression, it exhibits
clrarly those changes of opinion I have been speaking of.
This is evident in the contrast between the sentiments dis-
played in the earlier part of the poem and those in the last
few verses, which were written at a much later period. In
the first ins.ance, the poem was brought to a conclusion,
after the fifth stanza, by the exquisite little one which now
Johns the tenth. I give it just as it appears with these
fcnaru 8.

Faded now, and slowly chilling,

Summer leaves the weeping dell,
"While, forlorn and all unwilling,

Here I come to say farewell.
Spring was green when first I met thee,

Autumn sees our parting pain ;
Ni -r, if my heart forget thee,

Summer shine for me aga n.

STANZAS.. 321

Fame invitG3 ! her summons only

Is a magic spell to me,
For, when I was sad and lonely,

Fame it was that gave me thee.
False she is, her slanderers sing me,

Wreathing flowers that soonest fade ;
But such gifts if Fame can bring me,

Who will call the nymph a shade ?

Hearts that feel not— hearts half broken,

Deem her reign no more divine ;
Vain to them are praises spoken,

Vain the light that fills her shrine.
But in mine those joys elysian

Deeply sink and warmly breathe ;
Fame to me has been no vision,

Friendship's smile embalms her wreath.

IV.

Sunny lakes and spired mountains,

Where that friendship sweetly grew—
Huins hoar, and glancing fountains,

Scenes of vanish' d joys, adieu !
Oh, where'er my steps may wander,

While my home-sick bosom heaves,
On those scenes my heart will ponder;.

Silent, oft, in summer eves.

v.

Still, when calm, the sun, down-shining

Turns to gold that winding tide,
Lonely on that couch reclining,

Bid those scenes before thee glide 5
Fair Killarney's sunset splendor,

Broken crag and mountain gray,
And GlengarifF's moonlight tender,.

Bosomed on the heaving bay..

VI.
3et, all pleasing rise the measura-
Stemory scon shall hymn- to tht&r

322 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

' Dull for me no coming pleasure,

"Waste no joy for thought of me.
Oh, I would not leave thee weeping,

But, when falls our parting day,
See thee hushed, on roses sleeping,
Sigh unheard, and steal away.

Additional stanzas, written some time later:

vn.
Oh, farewell ! those joys are ended —

Oh. farewell ! that day is done ;
Palled in clouds, and darkly blended*

Slowly sinks our wasted sun.
When shall we, with souls united,

See these rosy times return,
And, in blameless love united,

View the past, yet never mourn ?

vm.
Hues of darker fate assuming,

Faster change life's summer skiea^
In the future, dimly glooming,

Forms of deadly promise rise.
See a loved home forsaken,

Sundered ties and tears for thee.;
And, by thoughts of terror shaken^

See an altered soul in me.

Sung in pride and young illusion,

Then forgive the idle strain ;
Is ow my heart, in low confusion,

Owns its sanguine promise vain.
Fool of Fame ! that earthly vision

Charms no more thy cheated youth»
And those boasted dreams elysian

Fly the searching dawn of truth.

x.

!Never in those tended bowers —
Usirer by that reedy stream—

HIS LATEST PUBLICATIONS. 321

Lull'd on beds of tinted flowers,

Young Romance again shall dream.
Now his rainbow pinions shaking,

Oh ! he hates the lonesome shore,
Where a funeral voice awaking,

Bids us rest to joy no more !

XI.

Yet, all pleasing rise the measure

Memory soon shall hymn to thee,
Dull for me no coming pleasure,

Lose no joy for thought of me.
Oh, I would not leave thee weeping.

But, when falls our parting day,
See thee hush'd, on roses sleeping,

Sigh unheard, and steal away.

CHAPTER XIV.

1838.
gerald's latest publications— the barber of bantry —

THE DUXE OF MONMOUTH A TRIP TO SCOTLAND — LETTER TO

MRS. . — SHORTHAND NOTES OF OUR TOUR — SCENERY ON

THE CLYDE — HIS ENTHUSIASM ABOUT IT.

The works which Gerald had published up to this period,
besides those already mentioned, were the Rivals, th&
Duke of Monmouth, and Tales of my Neighbourhood.
The last appeared in 1835, and consisted, for the most part,
of short pieces, containing, however, one rather long story
of intense interest, the Barber of Bantry ; the individual
who thus gave a name to the tale being a somnambulist,
and a character of a very peculiar turn of mind and great
originality. There is a scene in this story, which, from its
nature as well as the mystery attending it, possesses an
absorbing interest, in which the character I speak of is
represented as Holding communion with an evil spiiit. In

324 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

the original manuscript, when he first showed it to me, the
dialogue between them was prolonged, and the suggestions
of the evil one pushed to a greater length than in the work
as it came before the public. Whether he thought the
parts he cut out were unnatural to the character, or that
there was something too shocking in the sentiments ex-
pressed by the demon, I do not know ; but it appeared to me
that to one like the barber, of a highly sensitive imagination,
feeding all his life upon metaphysical speculations, and
driven by the strange and unaccountable results of sleep-
walking into a superstitious belief in supernatural visita-
tions, such a vision was very much in character ; parti-
cularly when we reflect that in all probability those sug-
gestions, which became more tangible and vivid during his
sleeping hours, were but the consequences of similar prompt-
ings arising in his waking hours also from his destitute
condition. The whole scene has, therefore, been engrafted
into the present edition, as it stood in the original manu-
script, the latter having been lately found among the
author's papers. The Duke of Monmouth was almost the
only one of his later writings into the subject of which he
made some effort, as in the Collegians, though after much
persuasion, to fling himself with all the devotion of a deep
interest. A considerable degree of restraint was, however,
still manifest ; but, though his success was not so great as
in that work, the story abounds with scenes of a most
affecting description, and the characters are drawn with
great originality and force. He was a long time at a loss
how to manage the plot of this tale, the historical fact as
regarded the heroine, and the infamous cruelty of Colonel
Kirk in the most harrowing incident in it, being of too
revolting a nature to be made use of in a work of fiction ;
the difficulty being, that any alteration made to lessen the
horror of the transaction would, besides being historically
incorrect, tend to diminish the infamy of that fiendish
character^ and therefore weaken the interest of the whole

LATEST PUBLICATIONS. 325

scene by placing the heroine in a more honourable posi-
tion. He, however, eventually contrived to manage the
matter without lessening the reader's sympathy for the
sufferer, preserving her reputation by a marriage, which to
her persecutor was only one of convenience. The sceae of
the lady's madness is a thrilling and powerful one.

The last visit Gerald paid to London for the purpose of
arranging about his works was at this period. While
there, he lived with the family of a gentleman named

K , who speaks of him almost with the affection of a

relative.

On his return to Ireland, he was unremitting in his atten-
tion to those studies to which he had lately begun to apply
himself. In the latter part of the following year (1836)
he suddenly took a start which gave no small uneasiness
to his friends. He was missing one day when the family
were assembled at dinner; nobody could tell what had
become of him. At length it was discovered that he was
seen in the early part of the day with a travelling-bag in
his hand, going towards the rear of the house, where a
little boy (not one of the domestics) was in attendance,
apparently by his desire. This was all that was known of
him. As he had been frequently in the habit of making
short excursions from home without any previous notice,
nothing further was thought of it just then ; but when a fort-
night had passed away without anything being heard of
him, every one began to be very uneasy. A few days
more passed away, and their uneasiness was redoubled.
At length a letter was received from him, addressed to
Dr. Griffin, and bearing the Calais post-mark, but contain-
ing no clue by which to discover where he was, or where
one could address him in return. The letter related to
some arrangements about his works, which he was anxious
should not be interrupted by his absence from home ; and
from something in the manner of it, we were led to suspect
he was about to take some step which would prolong his

326 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN

stay for some considerable time. In fact, from the secrecy
with which he set out, and his incommunicativeness about it,
together with the locality from which his letter appeared
to have come, as well as his having once or twice let fall
some expressions on the subject, we thought it likely that
he had visited St. Omers, with some view of taking np his
residence and prosecuting his studies there. He returned,
however, in two or three weeks, having visited Paris in the
mean time. As it seemed his wish to keep the object of
this trip a secret, no one chose to trouble him further about
it, and he never alluded to it himself.

There was so little diversity in his life when at home
from what I have last described it, that it is not necessary
to carry the reader into any further detail on the subject.
There was the same regularity as to time, the same un-
swerving piety, the same exalted devotion, the same atten-
tion to what he now considered his literary duties, and the
same hours of charitable instruction to the poor. There
was also the same cheerful contentment, the same hours
given to recreation, and often the same boisterous gaiety
of heart that I have spoken of before ; such, indeed, as
would have convinced me, if I had not obtained some
knowledge of his real desires, that he was satisfied in his pre ■
sent condition, and wished for nothing beyond it.

In the year 1838 I persuaded him to accompany me to
Scotland. We made a trip to the lakes ; the weather was
beautiful, and he was in the greatest rapture during the
whole journey. The following letter, written to his friend

Mrs. , breathes such an enthusiastic love of poetry, in

the intense interest it displays for scenes that have now
long become classic ground, that I am sure it will be accept-
able.

To Mrs. .

Glasgow, May 6th, 1&3S.
Mr dear L.. — I had intended before leaving home not to
write to you until I got to the Trosachs, and, secondly to write

LETTERS. 327*

c*> you -when I had got there. Of these two praiseworthy inten-
tions of mine you perceive that the first only has been kept : as
to the second, when we reached the little inn at the Trosachs,
where we spent the night, we were so tired with walking, and
so merry and so talkative, and the sitting-room was so small,
and our party so numerous (having fallen in with three other
scenery hunters on our way), and it was so impossible to do
anything besides sitting by the fire, and talking and laughing,
and eating eggs and what they called scone, and drinking tea,
and thinking of where we were, that writing a line was a thing
out of the question, and not to be accomplished. And now, to
give some little snatches of our proceedings. We had a hor-
rible drive from Stirling (by the way, Stirling — oh ! if I could
but give you the remotest idea of the enchanting prospect from
the battlements of the old castle and the walk round the hill ;
- every peep from the embrazures where the artillery ought to
be, or was, but is not, — a perfect gem, an exquisitely finished
picture) ; but we had, as I say, a horrible drive from Stirling
(and what adds to the charm of the view I speak of is, that it
is not only an exquisite landscape, but it is Bannockburn be-
eides) ; we had, as I say, a horrible drive from Stirling (can I
ever tear myself away from the recollection of it ?) in an atro-
cious vehicle called a droshy, as far as the romantic, lonely,
mountain-girt village of Callander, where we got rid of our
abominable drosky, and had a most delightful evening walk of
About ten miles along the margin of Loch Venacher and Loch
.Achray, at the western extremity of which the far-famed pass
of the Trosachs commences. The sight of Loch Venacher was
most welcome, as the first though not the loveliest of these
lakes ; yet it has beautiful scenery ; but the mountains — the
first glimpse of them was delicious, they reminded one so of
other mountains nearer home, and dearer for many associa-
tions ; not that they at all equal the Killarney mountains,
either in elevation or in outline, but they were the same hind
of scenery, and something of the same feeling was awakened at
the sight of them. On the Brig of Turk —

(And when the Brig of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone) —

on the Brig of Turk I caught a water -lizard, which I have yet
living in a bottle ; but what is the use of following our route
step by step, when all this scenery must be known to you al-
ready, from a thousand descriptions ? On reaching the inn, I
.vas so impatient to see the Trosachs, that I proposed a walk to S»

^28 LIFE OF GERALD GRTFFHT.

■Loch Katrine while the room was being prepared for ua. The
evening was favourable, but I had not advanced far into the
pass when I could observe the immense difference which the
season must make to such scenery. It is so thickly furnished
with trees that (unlike the passage between the upper and lower
1 :kes of Killarney) more than half the charm is lost when these
•ire bare of foliage, and there 4s not boldness of outline any-
where sufficient to compensate for the absence of verdure.
However, it was the Trosachs, and we were happy to be there.
We did but wait to catch a glimpse of the little land-locked
basin which forms the eastern extremity of Loch Katrine, and
from which, enclosed as it seems on all sides by steep and al-
most overhanging heights, one could form no idea of the real
extent of the whole — a peculiarity which you may remember
is very beautifully and skilfully described in the Lady. We
returned" to our inn, -reserving the full feast of the eyes till the
following morning. And what a feast it was ! And what a
morning it wa3 ! And what a never-to-be-forgotten-but-always-
vath-eqiial-feelings-of-o.elight;to-be-remembered-day it was al-
together ! On Iboking out of our bedroom window, before six
o'clock in the morning, we were both astonished to see no
Loch Achray before us, on the margin of which our caravcmsera
stood, and of which, as we believed, the said window com-
manded an extensive view. After gazing long, and coming to
the conclusion that the lake was not there, we observed a bluish
tinge on what seemed the base of the opposite mountain, ex-
tending across the intervening valley towards where we were ;
and it was after much discussion we decided more correctly
than befure that this faint bluish haze was the lake itself, and
that nearly half the landscape we beheld was but a reflection
of the rest ! You may judge from this of the clearness of the
water, and the perfect stillness of the morning, and you may
then carry your imagination farther, and think what a morning
it was- to take boat upon Loch Katrine. What aided the illu-
sion above spoken of (and a perfect illusion it was) was, that
that the height of the mountain shut out every glimpse of the
sky, the slightest - gleam of which upon the water would, of
ci'urse, have betrayed the whole. JLoch Katrine was so calm,
a:id the reflection of the mountains in its waters so distinct and
motionless, that it was sometimes literally impossible for us on
looking at the shore to tell where the reality ended and the
reflection began. On running up the steps into Ellen's Island
(which, like the islands in the upper lake of Killarney, is rather
elevated), a cutluti arose from the spot on which an imitation of

•LETTERS. S29

'the "Lady's "bower (a3 described in the poem) had stood until
within a twelvemonth, when it was burnt down by the care-
lessness of some cigar-smoking visitor ; so that I was somewhat
in luck, and watched her with classical interest, as with clas-
sical taste she directed her flight to Ben Venue. Who will say,
" What's in a name ?" If it were not for the words cushat and
Ben Venue, what would there be worth telling in seeing a
wood-pigeon rise from a little islet and fly towards a barren
mountain ? — barren, thanks to the Duke of Montrose, who cut

down and -sold the trees — bad manners to , but I won'/

curse. There are some tolerable echoes here, but nothing to
the dear aychoes of Killarney ; but sorrow an aigle did we see
at all, except a lazy fellow who was eating carrion on the pier
of a gate at Callander, and one on a sign-post at Stirling. It is
plain by my waxing facetious that my romance is oozing away ;
eo I do not consider myself in a worthy humour to dweU on the
details of our walk from the head of Loch Katrine across the
mountains to Invernaid, where we breakfasted on tea, eggs,
and oaten cake, and from whence we embarked in the steamer
for Dumbarton. The day continued beautiful, and the lofty
mountain scenery about the head of Loch Lomond, and the
many wooded isles and cultivated points of land by which it
is diversified lower down, kept our interest alive throughout
'the day. It is, of course, from its great extent, of a very dif-
ferent character from those lakes which we had visited in the
morning, but has beauty and magnificence of its own, if it has
not the remote and lonely and romantic character of the fairy
land about Loch Katrine. What added to our amusement was
the disappointment of a little red-headed Edinburgh school-
master, who was going about the deck, and asking us from time
to time, " Well, arn't you tired of it ? I'm tired of it this long
time ;" and he proved his sincerity by taking coach and starting
away home to Auld Reekie, as soon as we reached the Paisley
railroad, pretesting that he would not go back the same way u
he were to be paid all the money it had cost him to come. And
he was a poet, too, and had written songs, which were set to
music, as he told us, by A. Lee, of London. I forgot to men*
tion that we were delighted with Edinburgh. I had no idea
what a place it is. It is far the most beautiful city I have ever
fieen. Love to all. Ever your affectionate

Gerald Griffin.

He had a little book during the journey, in which he
•made notes in the form of a diary. He had at this time

330' LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN

taken up the practice of shorthand writing, which he bad
never taken the trouble to learn before ; and it seemed
partly for the purpose of exercising himself in this art that
he adopted the idea of keeping a journal. With this view
he put down everything that came before him, a circum-
stance which makes his diary so ridiculously loquacious and
minute, that it is on this account alone veiy curious. When
translated into ordinary language, it covered a considerable
quantity of paper. It will not be possible, therefore, to
give more than a certain number of extracts from it. I
have selected such as I thought would give some idea of its
random and thoughtless character, together with some others
which seemed interesting.

Shorthand Notes of a Trip to ScMland.

Started for the canal-boat five minutes before six, and arrived
just in time to be late by about two minutes, which vras quite
enough. Started again by the car, and overtook her at Clon-
lara. Found on board a home -missionary man, with a hooked
nose and quaker-cut coat ; a pleasant looking fellow with spec-
tacles ; a widow lady, who spent most of her time reading
Thomas a Kempis and Challoner's Meditations ; a man with a
Kerry brogue, a mackintosh, and huge gloves, with one bag in
each to hold the whole four fingers, and another little one for
the thumb, and who I afterwards found was " governor" of a
Kerry gaol, and father of a young man who had also a Kerry
brogue and a mackintosh, but gloves of the ordinary kind.
They were going to Dublin in charge of convicts. There was
also a ycung lady, who seemed under the wing of the home-
missionary man, and a middle-aged one, who talked a great deal
to him, and, as I perceived, had a temperance paper in her work-
basket. Nothing worth noticing in the way of adventure till
we reached Killaloe, where we got on board the Lansdowne
steamer and breakfasted. Beautiful scenery about Killaloe —
delicious sweep of the shore — mountains which reminded one
of the upper lake of Killarney, though on a smaller scale in-
deed, particularly Ballyvalley — islands — ruins — round tower —
gentlemen's seats — all enchanting. The day continual sunshine
and calm since we left home.

TKIP TO SCOTLAND. Co i<

"Went into the engine-room, where the engineer-very civii y
|ave us a most interesting lecture on pistons and cylinders,
&c, &c. Went into the convicts' cabin — found eight of them
chained two and two by the legs, able-looking fellows ; soma
of them, as the pleasant -looking fellow with the spectacles told
63, for murder, others for robbery, sheep-stealing, &c. They
were comfortably dressed in the convicts' suit of gray frieze,
with good shoes and stockings Day freshening — no adven-
ture. Portumna : changed steamers. It is too soon to be cor-
recting eirata, but I find the huge gloves without fingers do
not belong to the "Kerry governor," but to an elderly man
with an old camlet cloak, whom I forgot to notice. Passing
Lough Derg, the helmsman pointed out Clown Tine (the hill of
the fire), on the top of which is a bog and lake, which the peo-
ple thought had no bottom, until one of the company's engineers
got a little boat made and carried it up to the top on purpose
to try it, taking with him five hundred fathoms of line, but

he found it only twenty feet at the deepest. Seats : Mr. P 's,

Captain H 's, Lord A — v — 's. The latter used to sail about

here (they say) in a pleasure-boat, while a servant followed in
another pleasure-boat behind him, tacking as his master tacked,
and keeping a proper distance. I must stop writing, the cabin
is so small in this little steamer, and the people are so silent. I
fear they are all watching me. The pleasant man in the spec-
tacles seems particularly to have an eye on me. The middle-
aged lady has ceased talking to the home -missionary man, and
is dozing asleep, and the widow lady and the true owner of the
gloves are following her example. I asked the engineer in the
Lansdowne whether he did not find the engine-room very
unwholesome? He said he did, but that a little whiskey or
porter now and then made it tolerable to him. This seemed
like, " Very hazy weather, Mr. Noah ;" but as I was not pay-
master, I pretended not to hear him. The squire of the con-
victs fears lest an attempt should be made to rescue them in
Eassing the bog of Allen. A young man in a brown coat with
gured brass buttons has just given us the pleasing intelligence
that this boat was attacked there once before. I think he is a
Tory, though, for he is reading very attentively an article in
Blackwood, headed " Canada and Ireland ;" and he seems very
unwilling to hear anything in favour of the convicts, so there
are hopes we may pass the bog, after all. He and the home-
missionary man are getting up a kind of side-wind against
Lord Mulgrave, and the man with the huge gloves is starting
another side-wind in his favour. The ladies have taken up
their work, the side- winds are dropned, politics won't take ;

332 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

the man with the huge gloves gave us an account of the con-
victs, and says some of them expect to have their sentencea
commuted. The young fellow with 4:he brass buttons says it
is a bad system, commuting punishment after sentence, to which
the man with the huge gloves replies, pertinently enough, that
they can't be commuted before it, a fact which there is no gain-
saying. The home -missionary man has got a fashion of laugh-
ing at almost every sentence he say3 himself, which is a great
deal oftener than others seem inclined to do. The man with
the huge gloves has just asked me to lend him the "Lord of the
Isles," but finding it to be poetry, he has already skipped it all,
and is trying to divert niniself as well as he can with the notes
at the end of the volume.

Tullamore canal-boat, morning. — Hard frost and plenty of
.'/litics all night. The " governor" seems most anxious to have
. da prisoners in Dublin without any marks of quarrelling on
the way, such as black eyes or bloody noses, or torn clothes,
&c, that he may be able to leave tnein " in proper condition."
He finds the best way to prevent their quarrelling is to speak
mildly to them and advise them.; promising to give tnem a
character, when they arrive, for good and peaceable conduct
on the way. He says he finds it very easy to persuade them
this way, when speaking roughly would not be of the least use.
One town fellow, he says, is harder to manage than a boat-load
of countrymen ; "one of them is enough to corrupt a whole gaol /"
His anxiety to have them free from blemish on getting to Dud-
lin is amusing enough. A dinner in Ireland generally reveals
people's religion. I perceive that they all eat meat (it was
Friday) except a lady near us. A disputation arose about wine
and whiskey, and a gentleman mentioned, that better wine is
to be got in Dubbin than is to be had anywhere in England. A
great debate on temperance societies last night, which did not
lead to much. The home-missionary man of course had lots to
■ay on the subject, but not much came oi it. What was most
curious was to hear them all choose the very moment when
they had ordered whiskey-punch to rail at the peasantry for
drinking it. There was one of the disputants, in particular, who

eeemed uncommonly well primed. 1 believe Mr. M (the

pleasant fellow with the spectacles) is an attorney. In tne
course of the political discussion, a gentleman near me, with a
blue top-coat buttoned up to the chm, ana who had not said
one word during the discussion, suddenly called out to nav«
politics discontinued, "as we ail had our opinions fixed, and
u might lead to unpleasant consequences" — "»me people felt

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 33$

strangely on these subject's" — and " it was rather hazardous."
Not one word more did my brave hero speak for the rest of the
night, so that politics were not the only subjects on which W9
were not to have the pleasure of hearing his sentiments. The

youth with the figured brass buttons is named B . He is

just whistling between his teeth to beguile the time. The

governor and his son are named M . I find the man who

is guarding the prisoners, with the blue ceat and red collar, is
the turnkey.

The breakfast reminds me of an accident which once happened
to me in the same boat. We were all at breakfast, when I,
finding the unevenness of the table inconvenient, endeavoured
to remedy it by fixing the crank under both leaves together, in
loing which 1 drew it from under one, upsetting all the teacups,
fcggs, and plates into the laps of the company. Such a scene of
confusion I never witnessed, and the best of it was no one could
tell who did it. * * * * A dissertation on the round towers, but

no new light thrown upon the subject. Mr. M- said what

I did not feel inclined to admit, that so early as the first century
they were mentioned as a matter of speculation in an old Irish
manuscript ; he is p ">t certain if it was the book of Cashel, but
I am pretty nearly ure that it was not. We had rather a dis-
tant view of Mayn >oth College ; wonderful to relate, we passed
it without a word «aid against the priests or the government j-
perhaps, because, for a wonder, nothing was said about either. I

In the night it became cold, and there was]a call for fire. One
gentleman had lain down upon the floor to sleep. The steward
entered with a fiery pan full of coals in the dark (for our canclle3
were put out). Not seeing this gentleman on the floor, he laid
the pan down, so near nis face, that he was awakened by tha
heat, and started up in horror and confusion at seing a huge fire
an inch or two above his head. He was furious enough when.
he found now it occurred.

Dublin, Saturday. — About eleven o'clock got a car and drove
directly to the steamer, the Arab, where we left our things,
and went out to ramble through the city till six, the hour when
she was to sail. We visited the Carmelite Friary, in Westland-
row, a very fine and spacious building in the form of a cross,
but yet unfinished , the Metropolitan, in Marlborough-street,
a building more in the style of the Parisian churches, with a
Handsome marble altar, which cost 1000 guineas. We next
visited the Jesuit's College, in Gardiner-street, a very pretty,
what is called, T chapel, with a splendid organ which cost £1300.

Came on board the Arab again. One of the first things which

$3 4 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

I heard, which reminded me where I was going, was hearing
some one ask where was Miss Brace's Lodge. The cabin is
beautifully fitted up with pictures and sculptures of Arabs and
their horses, in all directions, and lots of plate and gilding. We
tossed so much on passing Howth, that I calculated on passing
a very bad night with sea- sickness, and went at once to my
berth about seven o'clock, when I soon fell asleep, and, thank
God, was not sick at all, though the night .was very rough, as
I afterwards learned. I woke at four, and got up at six ; it was
rather rainy when I went on deck, but the fresh sea air was
delightful ; on my right and left a rather low coast, which I
was told was Ayrshire, and it was only after looking at it
fondly for some time, and thinking of poor Bums, with tears in
my eyes, that I found I had been spending my enthusiasm
upon the coast of Wigton. There is a young Dane on board,
who is going, as he told me, to travel in Scotland ; he says the
travelling is pretty good in Prussia ; he spoke a good deal of
the unfairness of England giving Norway away to Sweden.
The Norwegians, he says, are much discontented at the change;
they dislike the Swedes exceedingly. There is a part of Nor-
way bordering on Sweden, where the accent of the Norwegians
very nearly resembles that of the Swedes ; and in this district.
he says, you can hardly offer a greater injury to the feelings of
a Norwegian than to ask him if he is a Swede.

We passed Ailsa Crag, a huge conical rock, 1090 feet high,
with an old castle. On the eastern side there is a point of low-
land, formed by alluvial deposits from the beating of the sea to
the west. The north-west side of the crag is much more pre-
cipitous. There is good feeding for goats on the side. Left
Ailsa (famous for Burns' simile, u Meg was deaf as Ailsa Crag,")
behind us. We soon came in sight of the picturesque coasts of
Arran Island ; the part about Lanilash and Brodick Bay is par-
ticularly striking. Lamlash Island is a craggy hillock rising
abruptly out of the sea, like Ailsa, but nothing near so high.
More to the left lies Brodick Bay, from which Brace started to
the shore of Carrick on the opposite mainland, where the super-
natural beacon was lighted for the occasion, as described in the
" Lord of the Isles." I had been looking for some time at a
huge mountain to the north, the snowy peaks of which were
lighted by the sun, before I discovered that it was no other than
Benghoil, or Goat-field.

u The sun, ere yet he sunk behind
Benghoil, the mountain of the wind,
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind,
And bade Lough Ranza smile."

•TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 6jV

Jk-nd tbe pretty description of evening that follows. Lougn
Ranza we did not see, as it lies more to the north. I referred
to the poem for the passage to which I allude, and showed it to
the Dane, who made a note of it. I asked him if he was inter-
ested about Scotland. He said, yes ; he was acquainted " vifc.
Valtaire Scott's writings, and liked them vary mush." He said'
he had got an unfavourable idea of them at first, from having
begun with the " Monastery," in which he found too much)
about " dat vite gnost," (the white lady of Avenal,) but after-
wards he read Kenilworth and part of Waverley, which he ad«
mired very much indeed.

'• Valtaire Scotfs vork3" (he says) are translated in Denmark
and Norway. He was at a loss about the provincialisms, until
a young lady at Leeds, who was herself a "Scot," explained
the idioms to him, after which he began the volume again. He
learned the language with very much " pains," he said, in the
beginning, by translating Addison, and writing it again into
■English, so that he acquired a very tolerable knowledge of the
language in five months. I remarked his physiognomy as some-
what approaching the Laplander : eyes far apart and very taper-
ing chin, the colour of his eyes very light — " blue- eyed race."
I quite forgot to call him to account about the conduct of his
ancestors in Ireland. A young Irishman on board the steamer,
on hearing he was a Dane, asked him if he knew the Copen-
hagen waltz. He said yes, there were several ; and, upon my
whistling that which we knew by the name above mentioned,
he burst out laughing, and said, " Oh, yes ; he knew that very
well, and many others likewise ; they were fond of dancing in
Denmark." We now coasted along the Island of Bute, where
poor Kean had his cottage, and ran rapidly up the Clyde, the
scenery of which is far from uninteresting, particularly on the
northern side. The mountains and locks, or fiords, as they call
them in Norway, are highly picturesque.

The hasty notes which he made in passing through these
scenes, give no idea of the feeling with which he viewed
them. I never saw anything like his transport when the
scenery described in the " Lord of the Isles" first greeted
his eyes. He ran to me as I stood on the deck, tapped
me two or three times quickly on the shoulder, with that
subdued eagerness that only made his delight the more evi-
dent, and pointing to the moimtains, while a gentle enthu-

333 LIFE OF GEEALD GRIPFItf*-

siasm kindled in his eyes and lit up his whole countenance,
he repeated the lines above quoted.

April 2*2nd. — Greenock. — In this little outport of Glasgow
I set foot on Scottish soil, for the first time in my life, on Sun-
day, the above date. What struck me as most characteristic
were the crowds in the streets- returning from and going to
church, all of whom maintained such a degree of silence, that
though the streets were full of people, not a sound was to be
heard but the incessant march of feet, and the low voices of
the people, conversing as they passed. No equipages but one
little "noddy," or one-horse chaise, like the Bristol "fly."
They have a curious fashion of wearing their crape when in
mourning, with a great tail behind the hat, which looks
hideous in the extreme. It is always in bad taste to carry any
local peculiarity or custom to an extreme which could not be used
elsewhere. Now one of these heroes, with his long tail of
crape behind his hat, could no more make his appearance in
London than he could with a queue to his hair. There are
several kirks in Greenock, and we thought the people would
never have done going to or coming from them. We went
into one after the people had left. It was all divided off into
pews, with bibles lying in front, or prayer-books. At one end
was a pulpit and reading-desk, over which was a very beautiful
stained-glass window. We went up to the top of the hill
which was close behind Greenock, and I took out a lucifer.-
match and set fire to a little furze bush, which made a tolerable
61aze, but did not spread far, owing to the damp. The evening
was beautifully calm, and the view of the Clyde and the oppu-
site shore, with the Duke of Argyll's castle in the distance,
the boats and ships underneath on the quiet, glassy river, a
steamer now and tnen running down from Glasgow for passen-
gers, and Greenock close beneath us, with its spires ami
numerous chimneys of the cotton factories, formed a picture
well worth seeing and remembering. When we came down to
the steamer again, most of the passengers had gone up to
Glasgow in a small steamer. About half-a-dozen remained
like ourselves, who were not in a hurry, and preferred waiting.
Among those who remained was an old Scotch officer, who
had been out of his country, as he told us, for thirty-eight
years, most part of which he spent in Ireland. He kept st
perpetually praising Scotland, and boasting of their wealth
aid industry, and telling us how we woald admire them, that

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. Oo7

I felt a prejudice rising against everything Scotch before he
had done, which I have not yet got rid of, It seemed as if
he praised his country and his countrymen to gratify his own
feelings, without caring or seeing what effect he produced on
his hearers. I do abominate these long tails of crape which are
so fashionable among the crowds here ; it is a combination of
the lugubrious and ridiculous, which is anything but agreeable.
I wish I were a good draughtsman, that I might havp taken
views of Ailsa and Benghoil, as well as other scenery on the
Clyde, and, among the islands, Lamlash Islands The colour-
ing of Ailsa struck me as particularly well adapted for the
pencil. The stratification is perpendicular, chiefly, to all
appearance, composed of basalt and quprt?. In the morning
we started again, at half -past eight o'clock, for Grlasgw, where
we arrived about half-past ten, April 23rd. The scenery,
as wc came up the river, is still interesting, particularly about
Dumbarton. The rock and castle of that name, on the north
side of the stream, form a very picturesque and striking
object. A crag almost, or altogether, of equal height rose
within a short distance of the rock, further up the river. We
breakfasted on board, and had a rather vehement argmnem;
about the Irish peasantry ; the old Scotch officer and Captain

<) , of the Arab, running them down, and some Irish doing

the same ; others taking their part. It is surprising how much
prejudice prevails with respect to questions of Irish policy. In
the course of a few minutes, more untruths were uttered by
persons, apparently having no interest in falsifying the facts
of the case, than it would be easy to imagine. I observed the
Scotch steward and other attendants at table were much
diverted at the vehement manner of the old Scotch captain,
who let out more of the no-popery-mzxi and Conservative than he
thought proper to show during the course of the voyage before.
Our Dane left us at the Paisley railroad station. The number
of steamers we met going up the river spoke well for the trade
of Glasgow. During almost the whole way up, tne old captain,
unmercifully pointed out everything he thought commendable,
making no difficulty whatever of contrasting it with the state
of Ireland and Irishmen, in such a manner that it really was
a relief when he was good enough to hold his tongue.

This captain resembled the old Scotch officer in the ex-
cess of his partiality for everything Scotch. It was amus-
ing to see the degree to which he carried it. As we
approached Glasgow, Gerald was astonished at the sight

Y

5"3S LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

of the dense black cloud with which it is usually covered.
" Goodness me ! did any one ever see such a cloud ? what
blackness !" " Industry, sir," said the captain ; " industry
— all the effects of industry." He was once, however,
thrown into a little dilemma. Four or five people were at
work in a field, as we passed. " Now, look at those people,
sir, how they work! if Irishmen were in their places now,
they would rest on their spades, and keep gazing at us until
we were gone." " Which of the parties do you mean ?"
said Gerald, observing that four or five others, who had
escaped .the captain's notice, had left their spades, and
were seated in the sunshine, enjoying a pleasant conver-
sation ; " do you mean those I see chatting there with
their backs to the hedge ?" " Ah !" said the captain, look-
ing a little puzzled, " they're resting themselves, poor fel-
lows : they do work so hard here !"

CHAPTER XV.

1838.

•t

. -NTINUATION OF TOUR — GLASGOW — FALKIRK — LrXLTTHGOW —

EDINBURGH REMARKS OX BURNS ' MONUMENT — HOLYROOD

HOUSE APARTMENTS PORTRAIT OF DAVID RlZZrO MTXIATURB

OF QUEEN MARY — REMARKS OX READING CHARACTER — BOTANIC
GARDENS — SLIGHT ILLNESS — REFLECTIONS.

I proceed with the extracts from the little book of short-
hand notes, which now lead us to scenes of a somewhat
deeper interest.

The Clyde narrows very much as it approaches Glasgow ; in
feet, it is said to be completely artificial, and the improvement
of the banks is still going on. A large floating dock is a great
desideratum at Glasgow. It was cruel to see a couple of fine
l'arje steamers lying'aground near the quays. The atmospherr

I

rap to Scotland; 339

*wer Glasgow looks one dense mass of smoke. It seemed much
worse that way than even the neighbourhood of Wednesbury
and Wolverhampton, in England. We found the regulation of
porters very satisfactory in Glasgow ; they are all badged and
numbered, and are usually made accountable for any attempt at
imposition. We visited Hob Roy's Tower, at the head of High-
street, a curious old building, running to a great height, and
the Saut Market, famous for its association with the name of
Baillie Nicol Jarvie. Went to the Exchange, a fine building in
the Corinthian style, where, by a truly liberal arrangement,
strangers are entitled to all the privileges of subscribers for ons
month, by entering their names in a book kept at the bar ; an
arrangement worthy of imitation in other places where stran-
gers are little accommodated. Amongst other matters which
the little Dane spoke of before he left the ship, was the bank-
ruptcy of Walter Scott by building bis house. He thought it
very right of the nation to have purchased Abbotsford for his
children, and alluded to Eoscoe, of Liverpool, who was treated
so differently. He had seen, he said, a little poem of his to his
books, which " vas varry neat and melancholy. ?> Glasgow is a
complete city of business ; there are scarcely half-a-dozen pri-
vate carriages to be seen in the whole town, if so many ; a few
one-horse noddies are let out for hire. The hewn stone, of
which all the new houses are built, and which darkens in pro-
cess of time, and probably by smoke, gives them an appearance
of neatness and elegance. In the street one meets continually
the young students of the University, with their black caps and
loose red cloaks, which are of coarse red cloth, and not over
clean, so that they have anything rather than a graceful effect.
Barefoot children not rare in Glasgow, and fine grown young
women, well enough dressed otherwise, but without shoes or
stockings. In speaking about Sir Walter Scott's imprudence
about money matters, the Dane said it was always the case with
authors : they were always in debt ; that he had seen many
authors in Denmark also, very clever men, but always in debt.
We visited the University to-day : it is a venerable old house ;
the Hunterian Museum, a very interesting collection made by
Dr. William Hunter. By a curious oversight, or piece of neglect,
there is a very large collection of anatomical r reparations,- of
which nothing can be made, as they were left without a list or
labels, . There were several exceUent pictures of English and
Italian masters in the upper rooms, and autograph letters of
Benjamin Franklin and Washington, as well as -the original
document by which Fothergill and others boumi themselves to

j40 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

pay £10 and £5 a-year, to enable Priestley to make his experi-
ments on air, by -which he was to make his celebrated dis-
coveries.

Went to the University to-day, Thursday, April 24th, to see
the medical students " capped," that is to say, gifted with
medical degrees. The yard of the University was filled with
red-cloaked and black-dressed medical students. At twelve
o'clock all were summoned to a great room of the building up one
flight of stairs, where, at a table, were seated Dr. M'Farland,
Principal of the College, Drs. Badham, Cumming, Cooper, &c.
The beadle of the University, with a written list in his hand,
called over the names of those who were candidates for medical
degrees, when each, answering to his name, came forward, and
they ranged themselves in a circle round the room. Then the
candidates for masters in surgery ranged themselves in a smaller
circle round the table. Then the Principal read the oath in
Latin, in which they bound themselves " not to poison anyone,
but, on the contrary, to give them good and wholesome medi-
cine : also to keep what secrets should be intrusted to them, in
confidence and strict silence.*' During the reading of this oath,
all held up their bar? as, and repeated it sentence for sentence
after him. All then knelt and offered a short prayer also in
Latin ; he then went down, and laid a cap on the head of each
in succession, during which ceremony there was much titter-
ing amongst the ill-behaved spectators ; but nothing could for
one moment shake the imperturbable gravity of the Principal.
After the word? c< et dexteras conjungere," he went round and
shook hands with them all, one after another, with a somewhat
more smiling countenance than he had on "capping" them.
There were eighty-eight doctors and about twenty surgeons
received degrees that da}''. After the ceremony, all approached
the table, and entered their names in a book kept for that pur-
pose. There is a good picture of the martyrdom of Stephen in
the room, and also a very good entombment of our Saviour.
Portraits of distinguished people are hung round the room, and
five or six tolerable busts of distinguished men are placed on a
table a« the end next the door where the strangers entered.
i he " capping" was over, we went to see the Botanical
A, said to contain the finest collection of plants in Europe,
i this way passed two or three hours most delightfully.
There is a mosc interesting collection of ferns, of heath, of cacti,
&c Camelias were in beautiful blow in several places, the
it's foot from the Cape of Good Hope, &c. On the way
to the gardens are some handsome streets and rows of new

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 341

houses in a crescent, which might be compared with that at
Bath, all built of that freestone which is so abundant here. I
observe, however, that walls built of freestone are apt to crack,
but whether this be a serious disadvantage or not I know not.
In the Hunterian Museum at the University we saw a banner
of the Covenanters, which was displayed at the battle of Both-
well Brig, and a hat found the day after the battle, a shining
oil-cloth affair.

On the morning of the 26th, we left Glasgow by the canal
boat. We left Port Dundee at nine o'clock in the mornirg.
The cabin and steerage were both full. In the latter was a
fiddler, who kept us alive, and sung a Scotch song to a very
beautiful air, which I was wishing very much to pick up. He
came on board on speculation, to see what he could pick up
amongst the passengers. There were some very pretty girls,
with Scotch features, blue-eyed and fair. We have seen a great
many people in mourning since we came. The hideous tails
do not appear to be so much worn at Glasgow as at Greenock.
The judges came into town while we were there. I admired
very much the expression of the Scotch girls' countenances —
pleasing, mild, and simple, harmonising agreeably with their
light coloured eyes, and fresh, untroubled features. View cf
Falkirk — Wallace wight :

And the sword that was meet for archangel to wield,
Was light in his terrible hand.

Falkirk reminds one of the beautiful lines of Miss in the

poem called the Fate of Falkirk. A red-haired girl opposite
me has some gold fish in a tin vessel with holes in the cover.
I thought at first in was a carrot floating about. The number
of red-haired people here is remarkable. We are now approach-
ing Linlithgow.

Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare,
Linlithgow is excelling.

i
We continued to see the Frith from time to time ail along.
Linlithgow is a tolerable-sized town. The castle, in which
Mary Queen of Scots was born, is situated on an eminence, which
commands a view of Loch Lithgow. It is still the palace.
The country around is hilly and well cultivated. As we
reached the canal boat office a poor woman and her little son

S^c2 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

welcomed us with a Scotch, ballad, to the air of "Welcome
here again :;'

Welcome home, my bonnie lassie,
Welcome home, my bonnie lassie.

Some one threw her a halfpenny, which I thought she deserved.
In Loch Lithgow is a little islet, with a single tree in the
middle. Poor Mary ! What a sweet scene this must be in
summer. Poor, poor Mary ! Who can look on the quiet old
ruin and its adjoining graveyard, and think of all that has hap-
pened, and all that has been written about it in both verse and
prose, without feeling the tears starting into his eyes ? Poor,
I dot Mary ! Yes, indeed,

Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,
In Scotland, far beyond compare,

Linlithgow is excelling.

Wooded valleys and hills abound on either side and in every
direction. It is so pleasant to perceive the passengers in the
boat acquainted with its history.

By the way, talking (as we are not) of Mr. Laing's Residence
in Norway, which the Dane admires so much, I do not at
all like the sordid principles he lays down with respect to pro-
perty and education. One of his maxims is, that a man with
a property is alread3T educated. What can be more false?
Are there not hundreds of ignorant boors, without three ideas
in their heads, who have abundant fortunes ? But I suspect
ho is a thorough-going political economist. Symptoms of a
near approach to Auld Reekie — a dense cloud of smoke, of
a manufacturing colour, is seen in the distance. We have
on board a carpet-bag directed Mrs. Fletcher. St. Leon-
ard's ; she is a sharp-featured lady, nothing like either
Jeannie or Erne. I can't help still thinking of the beautiful
cacti flowers which we saw in the botanical gardens yester-
day. The scenery is improving as we approach Edinburgh
—craggy hills, and. green and wooded slopes, with extensive
and well- cultivated valleys, are becoming abundant. At length
the welcome sounds of " We are landed, gentlemen," met our
ear, and we found ourselves in Edinburgh. After dining we
tet out to take a walk through the town ; passed the college,
a splendid building, of various kinds of Grecian architecture,
and of a very great size. Went into the register office, and
passed a kind of bridge across a valley which lay at a consider-
able distance underneath. ' The singular way in which those

Till? TO 5CC7L.»Ji'D. 313

streets cross and overhang each other produces a most extra*
ordinary and by no means an unpleasing effect to an unaccus-
tomed eye. The long valley underneath, with its numerous
Lights, extending to a great length on either hand, formed a
coup d'ceil which it is not easy to forget. Arrived at the register
office, we turned off to the right hand and ascended the Calton.
Hill, where we had, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour,
a very enchanting prospect of the country all around. On one
side the Frith of Forth, and the scene extended to the east and
south ; on the other the city, with its thousand lights, glim-
mering like stars in the increasing darkness. On another arose
Salisbury Crag and Arthur's Seat. Close around us were the
monuments of Nelson, Playfair, Stewart, the national monu-
ment, of which last only some fine Doric columns are built for
want of funds. There are two observatories, one of the city,
the other belonging to Miss Short, niece to the celebrated
James Short, the great optician ; it has a moveable dome.
There is a large Gregorian reflector there, made by James
Short, with metal about twelve inches in diameter, and the
place was shown to us by a little girl, who was very civil, and
showed us a microscope and view of the Thames Tunnel, as it
seemed to make amends for the state of the skies, in which
scarcely anything was to be seen. The city altogether is the
most beautiful as to situation that 1 have ever yet seen. Bath
or Dublin is not to be compared to it. I saw the crape tails
again in Edinburgh. Whatever the cause of it is, whether
that they were mourning longer here in Scotland than else-
where, or that people die faster, we see, I think, more people
in mourning here than anywhere else that I am acquainted
with.

On Friday morning, the 27th, we walked to the castle.
There were some men at exercise in the yard ; when they had
done we entered the gate and crossed the drawbridge. From
the battlements we had a most beautiful and extensive view
of the Forth and opposite shore of Fife, and of the new town
of Edinburgh immediately underneath. We saw Mons Meg,
an enormous piece of artillery, with several of the stone shot,
about a foot in diameter. It was formed of bars of iron, bound
fast with massive hoops of the same metal. Two or three of these
hoops appear to have been broken or burst by violence of some
kind, disclosing the nature of the whole fabric. It is mounted
on a new carriage. An inscription on it states that it was
carried to the Tower of London in 1754, and restored in 1S29
by George the Fourth. Believed to have been made at Mens

S'A LIFE OF GZRALD GPJFFTN.

(in Flanders) in 1485. It was at the siege of Norham Castle
in 149S.

We descended the hill, and went by West-row (vide Heart
of Mid-Lothian) to the Cow-gate ; passed along amid old-clothes
shops — brokers — horrible smells of various kinds — to the south
back of Canon-gate, and on to Holyrood House ; then to the
left up the Canon-gate as far as the Talbooth ; here we turned
down a narrow wynd or close, at the bottom of which we found
steps leading us to the top of Calton Hill, where we spent a
little time looking at Burns' monument, the sum laid out on
which must have been at least as much as would have made a
gentleman of the poor, decent man all his life ; but so it is with
the world —

Seven mighty cities fought for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.

They charge sixpence apiece to see the poet's statue, which I
think rather shabby. Admired again, by daylight, the beauti-
ful variety of prospects from Calton Hill. By the way, what
Vandals are sometimes born and reared in the very temple of
science. This James Short, whose niece keeps the observatory
here, is the man of whom it is said (with what truth appears
not quite certain), that when he was living, having*excelled all
polishers of reflectors in his time, he determined to provide
against being equalled after his death, by giving orders to melt
down all his tools, thus sacrificing the interests of science to those
of vanity ; he has, however, been since equalled by Herschel,
I believe. The truth of this story seems to want confirma-
tion ; I sincerely hope it never may receive it. The little
girl who keeps the place was very civil, pulling the dome
about, and dragging the telescope backwards and forwards.
There was a young man with her when we came in, who did
not appear particularly conversant in the business, but he took a
peep of Jupiter when all was adjusted. She told us there was
a beautiful view of Mercury the evening before. Playfair's
monument is a great deal higher than Dugald Stewart's, which
vS hardly fair play of Mr. Playfair's friends. Coming down
the hill to Waterloo-place, another of the many bridges with-
out any water beneath, we were tempted by our appetites and
t ae enticing words, " Confectioner to the Queen," on an oppo-
site shop, to step in and try her Majesty's taste in that article.
I walked on to Leith, where I had a whiff of the fresh sea air.
I rambled for some time, enjoying the roar of the waves, as
they rolled on and broke about my feet. I can't help thinking

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 345

of the splendid monument to Burns, with its magnificent
Corinthian peristyle and harps all around, and richly wrought
architecture, and to think how poorly the unfortunate fellow
was provided for in his lifetime. Coming back from Leith,
which is a well-built, thriving place, I saw Marmion just
published for lOd. in a bookseller's window — a new edition ; it
seems the copyright is out — a case in point for Sergeant
Taifourd. I don't like the spirit of Marmion near so well as
"the Lady" or "the Lay." The buildings in this city are
really magnificent, and, on the whole, abundantly sufficient to
entitle it to ihs appellation of modern Athens. There is, how-
ever, so much smoke, that I doubt if the more ancient one of
Auld Keekie be not, at least, quite as appropriate. Got home
and dined, altogether well satisfied with our day's work, and
our idea of Edina remains unchanged. I find that what I said
of Playfair's monument is not correct ; it is Nelson's monument
which is higher than the rest.

To-day, Saturday, the 2Sth, I set out by St. Leonard's Hill,
and by the road which leads by Salisbury Crag, up to Arthur's
Seat, which commands a fine view of the city and the
surrounding country ; the city, however, was so smoky, that
I could not see a great deal of it. The view to Porto-Bello,
to the sea, and road up to Stirling on the opposite hill, which
were free from smoke, were very beautiful and sunny. Set off
for Holyrood House, where we first visited the Chapel Koyal,
a curious old nun, in the Gothic style. Here we saw at one
end the identical door by which the murderers of David Eizzio
entered to take the life of poor Mary's unfortunate favourite.
Coming out, after seeing all that was worth looking at, in the
way of peers and king's servants, dukes, and others about the
old Scottish court, we visited the royal apartments. We first
entered the long gallery, containing portraits of the kings of
Scotland from time immemorial, many of which were, how-
ever, destroyed by Cromwell, and afterwards restored from
imagination. The old lady who showed us the place, and who,
from living so much among the kings' and queens' pictures,
and in their apartments, has a great dignity and majesty of
demeanour herself, told us that she would not vouch for the
correctness of the smaller portraits ; but she took the trouble
to explain to us all those in full length. Amongst others in
the bust form, appeared Macbeth — of course, grim enough.
We next went into the room occupied by Charles the Tenth,
while in this place. There are some pictures here, indifferent
enough, as it struck me. There was aa old crimson velvet:

B ' 0 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIX.

chair, said to have been used by the ancient kings of Scotland ;
on it was a label, requesting visitors not to touch or sit upon
it. I waited until the dignified lady was gone into the next
room, after which I just sat in it for an instant, to try how a
person would feel sitting in a chair that had been used by
kings ; but the only feeling I had was fear, lest the lady might
return and catch me in it, which was not unfounded, for
presently I heard her step returning, and bounced up just in
time to be a few feet from the chair when she came back. I
asked her, with a great appearance of innocence, who painted
the picture of Venus rising out of the sea ? She replied, with
some sternness, that she did not know. "VVe went on into
Charles the Tenth's bed-room, which, like the last, is tolerably
pacious ; the furniture is not surprisingly good. In the large
gallery was a picture of Mary Queen of Scots amongst the rest,
representing her as a very lovely woman ; but it was much
damaged, as our good lady told us, by Cromwell. We now
went op-stairs into a room which had once been Mary's
audience -chamber, but was afterwards made a bed-room by
Charles the First, whose bed was still in it. Passing on, we
entered Mary's bed-room, where was her bed, with very lofty
slender posts, and red silk hangings and gilt, the head of it
\ery highly ornamented. Here was the baby basket, in which
were the first clothes worn by James the First, when he was
born. There was also her work-box — poor Queen ! — a very
large one, much more so than those of later date ; but not at
all so elegant as the rosewood work-boxes of modem ladies.
There were two or three mirrors in it — the cover was executed
in embroidery ; there was also a chair, which our stately guide
told us was the work of the poor Queen's own fingers. On
the left hand, as one stood with one's back to the bed, was
poor Mary's dressing-room, in which was a curious shaped
mirror, placed there by one of the Jameses, on Queen Mary's
v.'ork-table, with a surprising number of legs. On the opposite
.-ule of the chamber to these is her boudoir, a very small,
narrow room, with a window commanding a sweet prospect
down the Calton Hill. Over the fire-place hangs a picture of
a youth, handsome, innocent, and with a seriousness almost
approaching to melancholy in his fine eyes ; it is David Eizzio's
portrait, brought from Italy by himself. On the table opposite
are cuirasses, gloves, boots, and various pieces of armour, the
remains of the armour worn by Darnley. In this little room
Uizzio received his first wound ; he was then dragged out by
the murderers, through the bed-chamber, on into the audience-

" TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 547

chamber, where he was despatched with "fifty-six wounds,
The body was left all night in the corner of the room, where
an oblong dark stain on the boards is pointed out as having
been caused by the blood which flowed from it while in that
position ; smaller stains disfigure the floor close to the wall.
The unfortunate Queen afterwards got a wooden partition
made, which now separates the audience-chamber from the
rest. In the bed vooni our guide showed us a portrait of Queen
Mary, in miniature, which seemed quite of modern execution.
The features are beautiful — eye-brows finely arched, nose aqui-
line, and the whole expression of the countenance serene and
pleased. There were many engravings hanging round the
room, and near the window — some placed there by Mary,
others by Charles the Second. The size of this suite of apart-
ments is so email as to surprise one. Any merchant's wife in
our own day has a finer suite of rooms than the Queen of Scot-
land had in Holyrood, particularly the boudoir ; it is so narrow
that Mary herself could, I think, have touched both sides toge-
ther with her extended hands. After quitting the scene of this
dismal tragedy, where so many mementoes made it seem as if
we had been personally engaged in it, we left, and proceeded
down Hunter's Square, where we saw the papers in a reading
room, open for a short time to strangers. On my way back
from Arthur's Seat to-day, I picked up, in a shop, a bill of a
Friendly Society. I saw three or four advertisements of such
societies in the town to-day ; — this speaks well for the prudence
of the people, and their good management, and must be, I
think, preventive of a great deal of misery. On getting up
early, on Sunday, and looking out of my window, about S
o'clock in the morning, the contrast between it and the
ordinary week-days seemed very great indeed — everything so
very still and quiet — scarce a single individual, much less a
carriage or vehicle of any description, to be seen in the streets.
My admiration of this piety was, however, considerably dimi-
nished, on finding that, in fact, the good citizens were all snug
in bed, it being the custom to sleep longer and later on the
•' Sabbath" morning than on the ordinary days of the week.
"Went to mass at 9 o'clock, to the chapel in Broughton-street.
where there was a most excellent discourse from a young clergy -
» man ; he mentioned the increase of Catholics. Came back
and breakfasted ; read something of the " Cottagers of Glen-
burnie," a most beautiful tale, which I read twice or three
times before, and could read again with great pleasure. Scott
eertainly was not a little indebted to Mrs. Hamilton's successes

348 LIF2 GF GERALD C-P.IFFI>:.

for his own ; and it is hard to say whether he would ever
have had the Heart of Mid Lothian, if the Cottagers of Glen-
burnie had never been written. After breakfast, I went down
to the strand of Porto-Bello, and along the sandy bank by the
sea side to Leith, picking up many spiral shells, pebbles, and
mussel-shells of a very delicate colour. It occurred to me last
night in bed, that a good story might be made by making
Fioun MacCumhal enter a city of skeletons, going through
all the business of life ; it would be only to imagine London
filled with the same pecple as at present, only divested of their
flesh.

It struck me to-day how the difficulty of reading character
increases as one removes farther from home. Now, in the Irish
canal boat I could read the characters of the individuals as
easily as a primer ; all the shades of opinion and of party,
every influence which was likely to act as a spring to thought
or action, was well known to me ; and the slightest indication,
a look, a casual expression, a peculiarity in custom or demean-
our, almost anything, was sufficient to enable me to know my
man ; but as one leaves home, these keys to thought and char-
acter become less easy of interpretation ; we are ignorant of
the questions, both local and political, which act upon men's
rnincls, and if we institute comparisons at all, it is no longer
with each other, but rather with our own recollections of those
whom we have left behind. Beading character in this respect
is like the reading of languages in our own country ; a canal
boat or a mail ccach full of passengers is a small volume in our
native tongue ; further off, the variation of dialect increases,
until it becomes as difficult as a scroll of Sanscrit or of Chinese.

To-day, Monday, April 30th, the hills which I can see from
our window are all white with snow. We visited Leith Water ;
the walk up by St. Bernard's Well is, Uke ahnost everything
in this beautiful city, grand and imposing, from the singul?.:-
combination of the beauties of Nature and Art which one wit-
nesses at every step. The view of the lofty arches of the bridge
which crosses from Queensferry- street and Drumsheugh, and
also of the handsome Gothic church on the opposite side, is
worthy of old Athens itself, or of what one imagines of that city
of the arts. Went on to the Botanical Gardens. Not so satisfac-
tory as at Glasgow, though there is a great deal more ground,
twelve acres, laid out in it. The hot-houses are numerous, but
not so fine nor so well kept as at Glasgow, where there are
some tolerably lofty ones, though nothing to compare with the
. I ones at thfl Jardin des Planto;; in Paris. The collection

TRIP TC SCOTLAND. 3£0

at Glasgow, however, is said to be the finest in Europe, and of
course, therefore, in the world. It was delicious both here aud
at Glasgow, at this bleak season of the year, when snow is fall-
ing in a3 great abundance as it commonly does in Ireland in the
depth of winter, to enter these hot-houses, and be feasted both
with the smell and sight of flowers in full blow. It struck me
as very doubtful whether the pleasure I felt on entering them
was ever enjoyed by their proprietors or by the people of for-
tune who go to all the expense of keeping hot-houses. The de-
licious surprise which it was to me they can never experience,
so there is some advantage, even in a sensual and worldly
sense, in not being born to a fortune. It reminded me of the man
in London, who used to comfort himself by going about and
fancying everything, carriages, houses, &c, to be his own, but
that he merely allowed other people the use of them from pure
benevolence and good nature. The collection of cainelias, hya-
cinths, and other flowers in full blow, was delightful. A mid-
dle-aged lady, with three or four beautiful daughters, was pur-
chasing a bouquet from the man who was in charge of the flowers.
At Glasgow all the plants and roots are carefully labelled ; such
unfortunately, is not the case here, a very unsatisfactory ar-
rangement for visitors who happen to be indhierent botanists.

Came home and spent a very feverish night. Took some
medicine, which diminished the fever. "O Lord, my God,
whatever time Thou leavest me to remain in this world, I be-
seech Thee, in Thy great mercy, give me the grace and the
means to employ it in thy service." I have seen quite enough
to convince me of the utter hollo wness and nothingness of every

worldly pur uit. It is enough to name poor dear M .* It

is enough to think of poor Walter Scott's last words, after all
his fame : ' ' Lockhart, my dear, be a good man, be virtuous,
be religious ; nothing else will ever gain you any comfort when
you come to lie here." What then ! was all his fame nothing ?
All the honour he received from kings and, princes, from people
of rank and fortune ; all the wealth he accumulated, as magni-
ficent as his collection of rarities ; his numerous friendships
with the great and good of his age ; the certainty he had of
leaving a name behind which would descend with honour to all
future generations, his children befriended and respected in the
world for his sake— was all this nothing ? We have the fact

• A cousin of his, to whom he was greatly attached, an officer in
the 9th regiment, who died of cholera in his twenty -sixth year, a few
days after landing in India,

350 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

from liis own lips, his own words are our testimony, ottered ra
that truth-telling moment when we have no longer an interest
in deceiving either ourselves or others. Nothing, he assures his
friend who sat by him in that awful moment, nothing but a
virtuous and religious life can give a man any comfort on the
bed of death. Since this is so, 0 Lord my God, in Thy great
mercy, I beseech Thee defend my soul, and the souls of all I
love, from vanity, from ambition, from every worldly affection.
While I remain in the world, give me the great grace to keep
my heart perfectly detached from it, to be quite indifferent to
worldly success or failure. And oh ! if it be Thy holy will,
give me, my God, the grace to withdraw from it and its vain
pursuits, to serve Thee, and Thee only, without fear of returning
to it. O my God, hear my heart's prayer this day, and grant
it, through the merits and sufferings of Thy blessed Son.
Amen.

This day, May 1st, the snow has disappeared from the hills,
and the sky looks clear and sunny, though not yet quite set-
tled. I thought it better to stay at home and nurse my cold.
How many more Mays shall I ever see in this world ? God
grant that whenever they cease from me, I may have made my
peace with Him, and then it is of little consequence how few
they may be.

It would be a good plan to keep a journal of one's life in short-
hand. I find that poor Sir Walter, in the last days of his life,
was heard repeating some of the "magnificent hymns of the
Romish Ritual," as Loch hart informs us, "in which," as he
adds, " he had always delighted, but which probably hung on
his memory now in connexion with the church service he had
attended while ia Italy."

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. oC 1

CHAPTER XVI.

1S38.

TOUR JW SCOTLAND CONTINUED STIRLING CALLANDER — LOCH

ACHRAY — THE TROSACHS — FELLOW-TRAVELLERS — SETTLING A
WAITER'S BILL — LOCH KATRINE — BEAUTIFUL DAY — PASS OF

INYERSNAID — AN EDINBURGH SCHOOLMASTER — LOCH LOMOND

REMARKS ON SMOLLET AND FIELDLNG MISS MARTINEAU's OPI-
NIONS ON CEMETERIES FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND LOVELY

WEATHER — DUBLIN — RETURN BY THE CANAL — PASSENGERS

ANECDOTE CONCLUSION.

The remaining portion of the notes of our tour brings us
through some of the most delightful of the Scotch scenery,
1 hope, therefore, it will not be considered tiresome if I
venture to continue my extracts.

Stirling, May 2nd, 1838.— Left Edinburgh at half- past two
o'clock, for Newhaven, where we embarked on board the Vic-
toria steamer, for this place. The day was unpleasant and
rainy, but cleared up pretty well towards evening, and enabled
me to stay upon deck and look at the scenery. The view of the
Ochil mountains pleased me very much, the river winding and
turning interminably within sight of them. Certainly, if
there be anything majestic in nature, it is the sight of a lofty
range of mountains (not that the Ochils are the highest in the
world) looking down upon one from the very horizon, and
seeming to challenge admiration. Their misty grandeur, their
mysterious valleys and recesses, their calm and solemn serenity,
everything about them is enchanting, and produces an excite-
ment far greater to my mind than that of any other scenery,
or perhaps any other sight on earth.

It seems to-morrow is to be a fast day in Edinburgh, and:
many of the good citizens and their fair friends are taking ad-
vantage of it, to come up the Forth and see the country round;
about. The fast is not, however, of a very strict nature, as 1
was told by an intelligent young person who took tea with ma

352 LIFE OF GERALD GFJFFIN.

on the waiter's invitation. They eat their usual number of
meals, eating as heartily, and perhaps more daintily than on
ordinary days. The only difference is, that it is kept in every
respect like Sunday, as a kind of preparation for the sacra-
ment. Some of the more strict Presbyterians, he says, would
not leave town for the same purpose.

In speaking of Edinburgh, he mentioned Lord Jeffrey as one
of their great guns. He has now, he says, completely given
up literature, and devoted himself solely to the law. He
finds the school of YvTordsworth and Coleridge, he says, gaming
ground too fast ; they are both very popular in Scotland just
now. Professor Wilson, he seems to think, has done much to
occasion this change, so far as Wordsworth is concerned, and
his pupils adopt his views. Jeffrey used rather to depreciate
Wordsworth ; but now, he says, Wordsworth's greatness is
making its way, and Jeffrey has withdrawn from the field
which he finds growing too hot for him. I give this youth's ac-
count of this affair without making a remark as to its value.
As old Josephus says, when he tells anything particularly
wonderful, " Every one will judge of this as it seems good to
him."

May 2nd. — I got up early ; and, after breakfast, we hired a
drosky, a kind of Russian four-wheeled vehicle, like a double
gig. Having made our bargain, we went to see the castle of
Stirling, in company with a person who had joined us in our
drosky, being on the same road for a good part of the way. I
do not know when I saw anything with which I was more de-
lighted than with the view from Stirling Castle, on every side.
In one direction, Bannockburn ; in another, the interminable
windings of the Forth, constituting that part of the river called
the Links of Forth ; a delicious valley, clifted in the most ex-
quisite style, stretching away on either hand, and the prospect
bounded, in the distance, by the blue Ochils ; and the rich
cultivation of the flat country beautifully contrasted with the
bold projecting crags which arise almost directly opposite.
A.s we peeped through the embrasures of the battlements, every
one of which presented, as if in framework, a picture of the
most exquisite beauty and richness — compared to such a scene,
what were the most successful efforts that were ever made on
canvass with the pencil ? — all that I had ever seen in painting,
the finished landscapes of Claude Lorraine, or Poussin, or of any
master whose works I had ever looked at, were miserable
daubs, not worth even a passing glance.

We returned to the Eagle (Campbell's). In descending tLe

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 353

nteoet I happened to ask how the Scotch people pronounced
the word " wynd,"an open carriage-way, as distinguished from
' * close," which means a foot passage only. Our new companion,
at once answered, that in some parts of the country, among the
poorer class of people, it was pronounced wund ; in ordinary
conversation in the higher ranks it was pronounced wind ; but
for solemn recitative or poetry, it was called wind. It was
only when he had gone through all this elaborate, though some-
what superfluous dissertation, that I discovered his mistake,
and rectified it, on which he told me it was pronounced wynd ;
and some time after he let us know he was a teacher in Edin-
burgh, which, while it accounted for his learned lecture on or-
thography, made me respect him for his want of affectation.
He pointed out to us, from the battlements of the castle, the*
site of Dunblaine, celebrated in Tinnahil's well-known song,
" Jessie, the Flower of Dunblaine." The unfortunate poet, he
told us, had drowned himself in a little burn which ran at the
foot of his father's ground (that is to say, the father of our in-
formant, not of the poet). The wretched bard is still compa-
ratively unknown, though his songs (more numerous than I
believed) have been lately brought out at Glasgow with appro-
priate music, and, as the merry teacher says, have made a for-
tune for the lady who published them. Having got into our
drosky, we set off on a showery and unpromising day, unless
promising plenty of rain and fog may redeem it from that epi-
thet. The road had nothing to interest us excepting the excel-
lent cultivation of the soil, with its neat shorn hedge-rows, and
well-kept and extensive fields, reminding me much of England,
and showing us, by its occasional tracts of redeemed moss (or
bog, as it is called in Ireland), how much can be done by perse-
verance and industry even to draw profit from barrenness itself.
On reaching Doune we saw a small town with a pretty brawling
river, crossed by a brig, from which one has a view of an old
ruin, interesting rather from its historical associations than for
any particular grandeur or magnificence in the remains them*
3elves, at least so far as one could judge from the exterior.
Stopping to bait at this place, we had a lecture on the Kirk
from our fellow-traveller. On leaving here the road became
more hilly ; Cambus-more and Benledi soon appeared ia view,
at the very foot of which the romantic village of Callander lay,
as it were, overshadowed by the magnificent range of moun-
tains which rose behind. Here, we found, as usual, the walla
of the inn scribbled over with the names c£ previous tourists,
some foreign ones amongst the rest ; on. the glass was written
with a diamond the following s

z

354 LIFE OF GEKALC GRIFFIN.

" Lm noms de fous
Be irouvent partout."

A much-worn copy of "The Lady of the Lake," out of which
some mischievous persons had torn the spirited description of
the Chase in the commencement. On the pier of a gate oppo-
site our inn, a tame eagle "was feasting himself upon some gar-
bage. I could not help admiring the learned marginal note
which some scribbler had written in the book already spoken
of, on the lines,

" Like the tall pile which builders vain
Presumptuous heaped on Shinar's plain."

"Babel" was the erudite note written with a pencil on the
margin opposite the last line. Here our pedagogue had a trout
and some potatoes, while we solaced ourselves with a biscuit
and a glass of ale. After we had satisfied our drosky driver
and prepared to walk to the Trosachs, there was some question
of having another drosky, but after the specimen we had already
had I was very happy to have it decided the other way. The
frequency and, at the same time, the unexpectancy of the
shocks one received in this vehicle, rendered it to me the
most unpleasant I had ever travelled in. I had rather, I think,
have no springs at all, than have ones which did their business
so very badly.

Apart from all questions of scenery, I was quite in the hu-
mour to enjo}- a walk when we got to Callander. The road,
• inding amongst heath and mountain, brought us, ere long, in
sight of Loch Venacher, which was welcome to us as the first,
though not the best, of highland scenery. It is an extensive
Qheet of water, narrow for its length, stretching nearly east
arui west between a double range of mountains of moderate
elevation, Dut winch were now recommenaea to us by their
novelty, the deep brown colouring of the heath which covered
their sides, and the calmness of the sober evening, that had
already begun to give promise of a favourable change in the
weather. After walking some miles along the side of the
Loch, and repeating the ever -delightful description of the Chase
with which the " Lady of the Lake" opens, we reached the end
of the Loch, from which the view back was rendered more in-
teresting from the singular appearance of the sky. On our pro-
gress forward, we had been admiring the sun-set at the
western extremity of the Loch, and now, on reaching the othes
end, and looking back, we saw the sky just as bright between
the hills at the eastern extremity j so much so, that it would

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 355

have been difficult for one not acquainted with the points of
the compass, and the hills, to ascertain, by looking at the sky,
in what place the sun really was going down. What added to
the effect was, that a dark canopy of clouds covered all the
intervening space. As we were going up the mountain ride, on
which numbers of sheep with black legs and coarse wool were
browsing, a little lamb ran bleating towards us, and came up to
me on the road, but not recognising us, on closer inspection,
trotted back as fast as she came, reminding one of those ex-
quisitely sentimental lines :

" Svveet sensibility, oh! la !
I heard a little lamb cry, bah !
Sweet lambkin, have you lost your ma ?
Ah I

" The pretty lamb, as I said so,
Frisking about the field did go,
And frisking, trod upon my toe —
Oh!"

We tore ourselves away from the dear lamb, however, after
many fear.s for its future fate, which, moat probably, were need-
less,, as I dare say he knew what he was about as well as any
one amongst us. Going some distance farther, we told a woman
with a child in her arms, who stood at a cottage door, about
the lamb, and she seemed disposed to go back for it by her in-
quiries. We soon after came in sight of Loch Achray, a sweet
little sheet of water lying between Loch Venacher and Loch
Katrine, on the northern side of which is Mrs. Stewart's inn, a
place fitted up conveniently enough for the accommodation of
tourists. Close behind this inn a little burn comes brawling
from the mountain, and on the opposite side a neat farm-house.
We found the place rather in confusion, as visitors were scarcely
expected so early in the season. However, we were very com-
fortably settled, and had tea, with cold beef, eggs, and scone, a
kind of thin barley-cake, like pan-cake, which is eaten with
something sweet, such as jam, marmalade, or butter. Two
gentlemen (English, as it appeared to us), whom we had over-
taken on the road near Callander, joined us at tea. One of them
was an agreeable, gentlemanly young fellow, who had a spaniel
blind of an eye. whom he called Haidee. The other was ap-
parently delicate, and rather more silent. The name on
Haidee's collar was T W* , Esq. We had much amuse*

356 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

ment, after tea, in settling our accounts with the girl who
attended us, having previously agreed to be included all five in
one bill. The difficulty lay in dividing the balance of fifteen and
threepence in equal shares. It was at length done, greatly to the
satisfaction of the Edinburgh teacher, by our agreeing to give the
servants four and nine-pence, which, with the bill for tea and lodg-
ing, amounted to twenty shillings, a sum which happily was an
exact multiple of five. The satisfaction expressed by the little
red-haired pedagogue at the prospect of an even division of the
three-pence, was so hearty and undisguised, that it provoked
repeated bursts of laughter from the younger of the Engbsh
travellers, which were only checked, at length, on honest
Sandy's exhibiting symptoms of having heard enough of it.
I suppose the servants, who were not privy to our arithmetical
difficulty, must have been surprised at our liberality stopping
short of the crown, after coming within three-pence of it. Im-
mediately on our arrival at Mrs. Stewart's, we set out for the
Trosachs, and walked through them as far as Loch Katrine.
The evening was now dry and cdm, and I could easily judge
what a lovely ramble it would be in summer, when this roman-
tic pass is filled with verdure and foliage, and the singing of a
thousand wild birds would prevent the ear from running mad
with jealousy of the eye. The elevation of the heights is not
quite so great as I had expected, nor is the pass so narrow nor
so boldly cut ; but what earthly marvel equalled the expecta-
tions of him who beheld it for the first time ? The imagination
is capable of forming dark guesses at infinity itself ; and what
wonder, then, if it always outstrips reality in its anticipations
of that which it has not yet seen ? Does not the sober Captain
Gulliver himself express his disappointment at finding the Ca-
thedral of Brobdinag only three thousand feet high ? Who is
ihere that is not disappointed in the first view of St. Paul's ?
'•I was disappointed in it, people said so much of it," is the
verse of Mathews's disappointed tourist, in speaking of all the
sights and wonders which the earth contains. I do not say all
tins as meaning to insinuate that I was disappointed in the
Trosachs. It was a delightful walk and a delightful evening,
and I have nothing to say either against the one or the other.
I could easily see that it would have been much better if it had
been summer, but it was very good as it was, and I had no
fault to find. The thrush and the robin, too, notwithstanding
the bleakness of the season, lent their melody to the scene. The
little glimpse which we had of Loch Katrine, so land-locked at
this, its eastern extremity as to resemble a small artificial pond

TUIP TO SCOTLAND. 357

'made in a private demesne, and offering no indication whatever
of its real extent, was exquisite. We did but wait to look upon
it, and to cast a glance upwards at the majestic summit of Ben
Venue, which rose from its margin, and hurried back to our
inn, reserving the full banquet of delight which we expected
from the contemplation of its far-famed beauties for the
morning.

Having engaged a boat to take us to the western end of the
lake, we went to bed, and were all stirring before six o'clock
next day.

On looking out of my bed-room window, which had a sweet
view of Loch Achray, I was astonished at not seeing the Loch.
I looked again and again, but, like the father of the Sultan
Aladdin, it was only to confirm my astonishment. I could not
see the water, and thought I must have been mistaken in suppos-
ing that the window at anytime afforded a view of it. At length
I observed, that what seemed to me to be the lower part of the
opposite mountain had a kind of bluish tinge, and, on contem-
plating this portion of the scene steadily for some moments, I
became aware that what I took for the base of the mountain
was, in reality, nothing more than the reflection of the moun-
tain itself in the perfectly motionless waters of the clear, calm
lake. I never saw an illusion more complete — it was absolutely
impossible to see the water, or to distinguish the reflection from
the reality. Taking leave of our hostess, who had all the dig-
nity of a Stuart about her, we set off on a delicious morning,
without a breath of wind, for Loch Katrine. We had, again,
a most delightful walk through the Trosachs. We had some
time to ramble about and cut sticks before our boatmen arrived.
Being at length fairly embarked, we were soon hurried along
amid such a change and variety of scenery as I shall not readily
forget. The unbroken stillness of the lake ; the reflections on
its breast of crag and mountain, shrub and wild flower, with a
distinctness, and, in many instances, apparently surpassing
reality ; the soft blue lines which mellowed the outline of the
distant heights ; altogether presenting such a series of pictures
S3 one rarely enjoys. Sometimes the reflection was so perfect
on the water of the lake, so limpidly transparent, that, looking
uq the adjacent shore, it was absolutely impossible to tell where
the reality ended or where the reflection began. Turning a
point, we came in sight of Ellen's Island, where we landed ;
ascended the hill, which is rather high, by a flight of stono steps,
near the famous " naked oak," which is said to have stood here
einco the days of James V. On reaching the summit of the isle,

T53 LIFE OF GER.MD GRTFFTN.

a cushat, or wild pigeon, rose from the spot where an imitation
of Ellen's cottage had stood till the last year, when it was
burned down by some person using a cigar in the place. Several
points of interest, both from their historical associations and
picturesque claim to one's admiration, are visible from this ivle.
Some wooded points are seen, connected with the mainland by
slips of land, so narrow that they had all the appearance ot
distinct islets. I got a root of wild hyacinth and some wood
anemone from this spot, and came down to the boat, when we
renewed our little voyage. It added nothing to the charm of
the scenery to listen to a shocking recitation of Scott's poe~ j
from our boatswain. There are some echoes on the lake, one
in particular, between which and the voice there is an interval
of rather more than six seconds. Something more than one-
hour's rowing brought us to the head of the lake, where we got
on shore, and commenced our walks across the mountains to
Iiiveranaid, passing Loch Achlet, a small sheet of water at a
little distance from Loch Katrine. In these parts of the moun-
tains many patches of ground are reclaimed, and held by the
colliers. I should mention the amusement afforded us by our
Edinburgh schoolmaster, who was quite a character in his way.
On hearing the driver of the drosky announce the Callander
Craigs, he said he liked the sound of the " adjective" there, as
intimating a speedy termination of our drive. Looking at a
sign-board in the village, he remarked that there v. as a full
point at the end of every word ; and when we got to Mrs.
Stewart's inn. his grammatical ear was still further offended by
a card which we found on the chimney-piece. On it were writ-
ten the following lines :

" Xone but persons of small fame
Would scribble on these walls tlieir name.
Who, if they all were hanged to-morrow.
Who would rejoice or who would sorrow?"

riie combination " their name''' grated terribly on his ear ; T
suggested " none but a person," and "his name," as an amend-
ment, which he adopted, nor did he leave the house until he
got a pen and ink, and made the alteration. Not far from
Loch Achlet we passed one of those mountain cottages, near
which a woman was employed in sowing potatoes, not in drills
or ridges, as in Ireland, but in the fiat ground. Our school-
master drew her into conversation. " You have your spot of
ground cheap, here, I suppose?" " Oh ! we think it is eneuch

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 359

we pay for it." " Indeed ! and your good man farms it ?" "I
bae na gat ane y&" (She -was an old woman, apparently be-
tween forty and fifty, perhaps nearer to the latter.) " Not got
one ?" " No ; I live wi' my father in yon hoose." " I see 'tis a
good warm comfortable house you have got there." " Nae, it's
not warm, nor yit comfortable ; it's coming down, I think."
"Coming down?" "It looks like it." "I suppose you are
not without getting a little tea and bread and butter here, now
and then ?" "On ay whiles, when we buy it. We must buy
everything here. There's things we want mair than tea.*'
"You get a bit of braxy ham, I suppose, now and then?"
"Ay." (A braxy ham means the ham of a sheep which has
died on the mountain from cold or injury.) "And how cornea
it you have no good man, as you say ?" "I could nae git ane."
Leaving this highland vestal to continue her husbandry, we
proceeded on our way, and, after traversing a wild and dreary
region, in which nothing was to be seen but black-legged and
black-faced sheep and cattle, of a small breed, with manes com-
ing down over their brows, so as to give them a very graceful
appearance ; going onwards, we passed the round fort of Invers-
naid, made interesting by one's recollection of Rob Roy, and,
after a steep descent, during which the road wind3 for nearly
half a mile, we arrived at the little inn on Loch Lomond, where
we were to wait for the steamer. Here we made an excellent
breakfast, on eggs, oaten cake, and tea. We found the inn a
small one, fitted up with what seemed cupboards on one side,
but which, on closer inspection, we found to contain beds, thus
separated from the sitting-room ; they appeared to have been
newly fitted up, I suppose in expectation of visitors during the
summer. The woman made a fire of dry sticks, which she ga-
thered outside the house, and one of our party, the Edinburgh
schoolmaster, borrowed a rod and line, and went out to fish in
the turbid pool at the foot of a mountain torrent, which came
eddying down behind the house ; but, as may be guessed, was
not very successful. We were yet at breakfast, when some one
came to tell us the steamer was in sight ; on which we hurried
out, and saw her approaching from Tarbet, and got on board, ac-
companied by the boatswain, who had acted as Cicerone to us on
Loch Katrine, and had followed us across the mountain paths
from a somewhat too hearty affection for the grog we had given
him in the little cabin at the head of the lake. When he came
upon us at breakfast at Loch Lomond, he was much changed in
manner. On the lake he was somewhat reserved, and looked
as if he had been called out of bed rather earlier than he liked.

860 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

Only think of the rogue -wanting to slip by Ellen's Island with*
out saying a word about landing until I asked him to do so ;
but now, on making his way into the room where we were at
breakfast, he was as glorious as any Paddy I had ever seen, and
in no way deficient in noise or enthusiasm. Going on board,
and getting rid of our grog-loving friend with much difficulty,
we proceeded to the head of the Loch, where the steamer dis
charged some commodities for the use of the few inhabitants in
these parts, and returned. We stopped at Rob Roy's cave,
and landed to explore. There is nothing particularly remark
able about it ; it merely consists of a narrow recess in the crag,
without spar or any ornament to recommend it. The day con«
tinued most beautiful as we coasted by Ben Lomond, and among
the many wooded isles and woodlands by which the lake is
diversified ; te -.cards its lower and wider extremity our classical
recollections were gratified by the sight of the braes of Balloch,
as we approached the Waters of Leven, which connect the
Loch with the Clyde. A shallow bar which crosses the river
prevented the steamer from entering it, so we were obliged to
perform the rest of the little voyage in a boat.

On landing, we found coaches read}7 to convey us to Dumbar-
ton, on the road to which we passed the monument which has
been raised to Smollett, who was born in the neighbourhood. I
could not help smiling at the nonchalance with which a nameless
writer, who has published some lucubrations which he has been
pleased to call " Reflections on Men and Things," speaks of the
immoral tendency of modern novels, and praises, in contra-
distinction, " the mirth-inspiring pickaxes of life which have
been handed down to us by Smollett and Eiel cling. " How any
educated person, writing in our own time a serious " Essay on
Men and Things," can speak with approval of the grossly licen-
tious works of these writers, in every page of whose writings
coarseness, and pride, and malignity are recommended by
precept, or at least by implication and example, is somewhat
curious. This amusing person announces himself as the author
of " Lives of Celebrated Travellers" — mirth -inspiring truly !

Passing by the bottle-factories, and the bustle of Dumbar-
ton, we again took steamer for Glasgow, where we arrived on
Friday, May the 4th. Here we met once more with our
little Dane, who again held out to us the many pleasures to be
derived from a trip to Copenhagen in August, whei. a kind of
national entertainment tases place in the woods a few miles
distant from the city, at which the king and almost the whole
of tne population attend. On Monday, May the 7th, we

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. SSI

visited the old cathedral of Glasgow, of which so impressive a
description is given in Rob Roy. The fidelity of the picture
is admirable. I have little doubt that the whole incident, as
described in the novel, happened to Scott himself, as the
woman who showed it told us that the vaults underneath
were used as a place of worship about thirty years ago. The
nave and choir of the cathedral are fine specimens of Gothic
architecture. On the ceiling of the aisles were various inscrip-
tions in black letter, of various colours, red, blue, &c, such as
" Vive memor leti," " Maria," and similar sentences. "We pre-
vailed on the man in charge of the gate, with much difficulty,
to show us the steeple, which is about 240 feet high, half the
height of the steeple of Lincoln, the highest in England. The
view from the summit was much impeded by the smoke
of the factories. The man pointed out to us a green field,
opposite the Fever Hospital, in which, as he informed us,
..people were buried six over each other in every foot. It was
the place where bodies were buried during the prevalence of
cholera. There were between three and four thousand buried
in this burying ground alone that year, which, of course, wac
but a small proportion of all who were interred in Glasgow
altogether. Going round the building, I found, on the east,
side, a monument, on which was an inscription. While I was
transcribing it in shorthand, (which, by the way, I found a
most advantageous acquisition in our trip,) a man, with a
woman and some children, came by ; the former said, " This
is the martyr-stone of the people who were murdered by those
atrocious papists. I shall take the liberty of reading it to my
family when you (bowing to me) have done making your
notes." I wonder who told him the "papists" had anything
• to do with the murder of these covenanters. * * * Oppo-
site the cathedral, on a hill, at the other side of the valley, is
a cemetery, somewhat in the style of Pere-la-chase, in Paris,
but not so crowded nor so gaudy in the fashion of its tomb-
stones. * * * I was surprised at a sentiment of Miss
Harriet Martineau's, in a late work of hers, respecting ceme-
teries of this kind. She appears to fall into the vulgar French
taste in these matters, and speaks of the advantage of having
church-yards made as gay as possible. Now I do not see the
good of making them gay. We go to a church and church-
yard to forget this world, and to be reminded of the next as
much as possible, and I cannot but think a solemn and sombre
style of architecture more suitable than such decorations as
mast be more in harmony with a place of public ami^ement

SC8 LIFE OF GERALD GRTFFLY.

than of private sorrow ; I cannot but feel that it manifests an
unworthy desire to forget the dead and death itself, as much
as may be, of either of which designs I do not see either the
use or the amiability.

On Tuesday, May 8th, we embarked on board the Arab
steamer for Dublin. I should remark the number of women
otherwise well dressed whom we saw barefoot in the streets of
Glasgow ; but, on the morning of our departure, we were still
more surprised to see the young woman who attended, and who
seemed to be the daughter of the people who rented the "flat. "
and who on other days was dressed well enough for a lady, and
always better than servants are in general, came in barefoot,
and attended us at breakfast. This cannot be from poverty.
About two o'clock we left Greenock, where the Arab made
some delay, and renewed our voyage down the Clyde, having
spent, in a most agreeable manner, a fortnight and two day?,
from Sunday, the 22nd of April, to the above date, when we
bid our last

Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest.

Like the shroud of the dead, on the mountain's cold breast ;

To the cataracts roar, where the eagles reply,

And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.

Never do I remember a more lovely day and night than we
had on our voyage home ; the sea was like glass ; the view of
the Arran Isles, of Benghoil. of Ailsa Crag, of the shipping,
scattered far and wide over the sunny deep, of the numerous
sea-fowl, gulls, and divers, by which the surface of the water
va3 animated, gave an interest to our voyage which I shall not
easily forget. Our passengers were not numerous. We had a
young Scotch clergyman, who seemed most anxious to have a
view of a Catholic priest, and seemed on the look-out for one
mu?L as one might look for an elephant or tiger on visiting
some oriental clime ; a tall young man, also, who had a military
air. and carried about with him an Arabian caboose, or stick,
with an immense knob at one end. which he told us was the
or Unary weapon in that country. It was made of the almond
tree, and seemed a very formidable weapon. He talked very
fairly of his residence in Egypt, and Spain, and Portugal, which
made me conjecture him to be one of the legion. He said, when
in Cairo, they told as a remarkable event their having had a
shower of rain about ten years before. Besides this young
gentleman, was a young person who had the appearance of a
qua Stood, and carried a small crooked cane, like a reed, which

TRIP TO SCOTLAND. 365

he explained to us was the reed of a bamboo, but of a species
which was only to be got in the higher regions of India.

Landing in Dublin, we proceeded directly for the Porto
Bello canal. What a contrast the gay, bustling streets of
Dublin, thronged with carriages of every kind, and crowded
with fnshionabiy-dressed pedestrians, presented to the business-
like towns in Scotland, where, as in Glasgow, one will not see,
perhaps, a single equipage from one end of the day to the
other. The \iew of Dublin Bay, as we came in, was beautiful.
We ran close by Howth, and the handsome villas, with the
sun shining brightly on the roofs, of Kingstown and the
suburbs, the numerous plantations on the hills of Wicklow
appearing in the distance, presented a scene of great beauty
and animation. At two o'clock p.m. we started from Porto-
Bello, and, as usual, we had a crowded and a talkative cabin.
Opposite me sat a rich old land agent, who has long acted in
that capacity for one of the principal noblemen in the south of
Ireland. He had brought with him his servant, his half-pint
of sherry, which he put into the empty fire-grate immediately
on entering the cabin, in what I admired as a great conve-
nience for travelling, a long leathern strap and buckle. Near
him sat a fat man, who seemed a decent fanner or shopkeeper,
and was going to Ballinasloe. He was a quiet -looking man,
with a heavy, listless eye and countenance, except when both
were moved to laughter at some jest, generally of his own
making. He had all the histories, I think, of all the families
living between his own neighbourhood and Dublin, and was
by no means stingy of hi3 information respecting them. Our
fat fellow-traveller knew, I think, every man's property to
the farthing, and every halfpenny that had been got for any
estate in his neighbourhood for centuries before. He told us

some entertaining anecdotes about Lord B, , who he said

frequently came to and from Dublin in this way, on his
farming business. The land agent told us an interesting story

of the same lord. Lord II , it appears, was travelling in

the canal boat about thirty years ago, when, by the bursting
of the floodgate in one of the locks, the boat was swampeu,

and eleven persons were drowned. Lord B was happy

enough to save one — a young lady, whom he caught by the hair
of her head, and drew on the bank. In many years after,. he
happened to betravelHng the same way, and by the same mode of
conveyance. The cabin, as usual, was crowded ; and his lord-
ship being an affable man, and sociable withal, began to tell the
stoiy which I have just related. He had scarcely concluded.

364 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

when a lady cried out from the end of the cabin, * ' I am that girl,
my lord, and these are my children," pointing to three or four
lovely little beings who sat around her. I know not whether
the incident be true, but I have seldom heard one more beauti-
ful and affecting. The land agent's eyes were flowing with
tears as he related it, which made me think, what before seemed
very problematical, that even land agents can feel. We con-
tinued our voyage, and arrived in Limerick on Thursday even-
ing, May 10th, 1S3S, having been three weeks absent, wanting
-one night. Deo gratias.

CHAPTER XVIL

1838—1840.

&£BALD RETURNS HOME— DETERMINES TO EMBRACE A MONASTIC

LIFE THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS — HIS PREVIOUS HABITS AND

CONVERSATIONS — DESTRUCTION OF HIS MANUSCRIPTS HIS DE-
PARTURE— LETTER TO MRS. . HIS RELIGIOUS LIFE FEEL-
ING OF HAPPINESS IN IT STRENGTH OF HIS ATTACHMENTS

REMOVAL TO CORK — VISIT TO HIS SISTER — HIS ILLNESS AND
DEATH — CHARACTERISTIC INCIDENTS — LINES ADDRESSED TO

hus. .

"We are now about to enterupon the latter and not the
least interesting portion of our author's life. If the reader
snould be led to admire its closing scenes, I hope he will
remember the pious parent who laid the foundation of such
• a conclusion so deep and so sure.

On his return from Scotland, he pursued, with undevia-
' ting strictness, the same regular system in the disposal of
his time, which a daily adherence to had now made in some
degree habitual to him. Though he was not accustomed
' to speak of the vocation which he had once announced to
me, there was nothing to convey any intimation that he had
altered his intention, and we took it for granted that his
•mind was -the same. A great change had, however, taken

RELIGIOUS VOCATION. 365'

place. He no longer had any desire, as before, to enter,
the church, or such a desire, if it existed, was controlled by
some more powerful feeling. Whether this arose from a
sense of the deep responsibility attached to the office,
or from some other cause, we could not tell ; but, in the
month of August of that year (1838), he informed ns
of his determination to join the society of the Christian
Brothers, a society that, besides fulfilling all the pious
exercises of the monastic state, devotes its best energies to
the religious and moral instruction of the children of the
poor. We heard this announcement with the utmost re-
gret ; in fact, it would not be easy to describe our feelings
when it was first disclosed to us, Though our unilluminated
perceptions might have made us lament his desertion of
literature, there were many things to reconcile us to the
life of a clergyman if he had adopted it. The vast prac-
tical good effected in the ministry ; the chance that by his
talents or his future writings he might shed a lustre upon
the church, and become one of its standing ornaments (ideas,
many of them worldly in their origin, and allied to pride
and vanity, but still not unnatural) ; all these things in-
fluenced us in favour of that mode of life; but that a
person with abilities of the highest order should leave the
world, and set himself down to such a simple task as the
instruction of the poor — a task which any one, we thought,
could easily execute — it seemed to us like the degrading of
most excellent faculties from their sphere, and devoting
them to very unworthy purposes. Besides this, we were
informed that many of the members of this society were
men of humble origin, and that they would be totally inca-
pable of appreciating Gerald's talents, or his habits of feel-
ing and of thought. The first of these assertions was true ;
the second extremely false, as a little further experience
fully convinced us. I tell all these things plainly and un-
disgabedly now, because I do not think I can speak with
too much harshness of the excessive ignorance such notion*

36G LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

betrayed of the real nature of that exalted calling, and be-
cause I fear there may be many yet, even among Catholics,
who, from business, or pleasure, or want of thought, are as
uninformed as ice were at first of the labours of these pious
men, who, in silence and in sanctity, are diffusing so much
good around them ; pouring blessings on the world almost
without awaking its consciousness.

It is not easy to estimate all the advantages to society of
such an institution as the one I speak of. That a body of
men, renouncing the world and its pleasures, should take
the education of the whole of the poor into its hands, and,
undisturbed by the distracting influence of personal or sel-
fish interests, should bend their minds to its pursuit with
the zeal that a religious offering only can inspire, is a cir-
cumstance highly interesting in its consequences ; one which
the coldest and most apathetic spirit could not consider of
small moment ; which must tend to call forth and foster all
the elements of public virtue in a people, and the effects of
which must surely be extensively felt in the rising genera-
tion.

. All the members of this community with whom we be-
came acciuaiuted were persons of exemplary piety, showed
tue greatest constancy and devotion to their charitable
duties, and, contrary to the information we had at first re-
ceived, exhibited acquirements of such a varied and solid
character as one would scarcely at first be led to anticipate
in then- humble sphere. They showed, also, a fondness for
al| that wras valuable and praiseworthy in literature, and, in
many instances (a natural consequence, perhaps, of the con-
stant exercise of the mind in acts of benevolence and purity)
a \ ery refined taste in it. The simplicity and courteousness
of their manners, and their respectful deference to others,
made them respected in return, and the total absence of any
approach to tamiliarity in their address, gave a peculiar
grace and dignity to their carriage, which the world, in
certain of its circles, and after long training, offers a won-

THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS. 3G7

dorfully accurate imitation of, though springing from a dif-
ferent principle.

How iong the change from his vocation to the priesthood,
to one of religious retirement, was in taking effect, I do not
know. He speaks of it himself in the following terms, in
a letter to America :

" It is possible you may have heard, before this reaches you, of
my having entered as a postulant in the Institute of the Brothers
of the Christian Schools. I had long since relinquished the
idea, which I ought never to have entertained, of assuming the
duties of the priesthood ; and I assure you it is one of the at-
tractions of the order into which I have entered, that its sub-
jects are prohibited (by the brief issued from Rome in approval
and confirmation of the Institute) from ever aspiring to the
priesthood. So much, then, dear sister, for the world and the
prospects in it to which I was once so ardently attached ; so
much for literature, and for the still more dangerous and slip-
pery path in which I had the hardihood to think of entering.
If I now exert myself for God as ardently as I did for so many
years of my life in pursuits which were dearer to me than
either health or home ; if I am willing to resign so much for
Him as I did for them, I may yet hope for greater happiness than
they could ever bestow upon me. The holy end of the Insti-
tute I have embraced is the Christian education of the male
children of the poor, in which charitable work, if the Almighty
spare me health and life, I shall have an abundant opportunity
of sending far bet'ter deeds before me than I fear it would ever
be my lot to perform amid the distractions and temptations of
the world. The good to be done is, indeed, immense ; the
only impediment which can come between me and the great
reward promised to those who 'instruct others unto justice,'
is a defect in my own disposition or manner of accomplishing
it. And this, indeed, ought to be a source of fear to me when
I remember how different my pursuits have been, and how far
my natural temper is removed from that patience and immove-
able spirit of mildness and justice, which are most essential to
such a vocation ; but I have here abundant assistances to ac-
quire all, both interiorly and exteriorly, that is necessary, and
it must be my own fault if I do not succeed."

I have some reason to think the course of life he here

LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN*

speaks of was not adopted suddenly ; for even before we-
had left Pallas Kenry, there were many circumstances in
his conduct that looked like some preparation for it. Ei3
rigorous exactitude in the disposal of his time ; his early
hoars ; his perseverance in his instruction of the poor ; the
portions of the day set apart for prayer ; his complete ab-
straction from all lesser concerns while engaged in it ; and
the calm, religious fervour by which it was attended, all
seemed as if he was making a trial of the practice of some
regular rule. Often have I seen him, at the first glimmer-
ing of dawn, before the light was yet strong enough to
reveal more than the outline of his figure, already dressed,
and kneeling by the side of his bed in prayer ; his attitude
erect, and his hands and eyes • uplifted with an earnest
expression of supplication. He built a pretty little house
in our garden, in which he spent a considerable portion of
the interval between breakfast and dinner. It consisted
only of one room, and this was so small, that, like Mary
Queen of Scots' boudoir, he might with the utmost ease
have touched the opposite walls with his extended hands.
These were hung with pictures of a religious character ; a
fine print from an Ecce Homo, by, I believe, Corregio, .
and another beautiful one, representing the emtombment
of our Saviour, being the principal. Here he used to carry
on his writing, and deliver himself freely to his religious
exercises ; and I have no doubt he felt an advantage in the
retirement it afforded, by which he was enabled to devote
himself to them without any restraint, and without their
attracting a degree of observation which might have been
otherwise unpleasant to him. The little hermitage, how-
ever, was not at all ascetic in its aspect. The walls were
ornamented externally with roses and climbing plants, and
before it was a neat enclosure divided into flower knots,
with pretty borders, and planted with evergreens and other
shrubs and flowers, which he took great pleasure in attend-
ing to, and which . were thriving under his management* .

LAST DAYS AT PALLAS KEXLT. 369

The whole was surrounded by a hedge of beech, which he
planted with his own hands, and clipped every year until
it thickened, and shut out the other parts of the garden.
A small Gothic doorway, cut in the hedge, formed the
entrance to this sweet retreat, which was in a very flourish-
ing condition when we left the place, but has, I fear, since
been allowed to fall into decay.

It is obvious that changes of opinion so important as
those I have so frequently brought under the readers notice,
could not havy occurred without giving a tone and colour-
ing to his conversations different from what they formerly
exhibited. That vervour and depth of feeling which was once
bestowed upon, literature, was now transferred entirely to
religion, and rnis with so keenly awakened a sensibility, that
circumstances connected wlih it, even of a comparatively
trifling character s affected him to a degree almost beyond
belief. I have seen him suddenly burst into tears, and lose
all control over himself, on finding that his defence of a
Catholic clergyman against some charges brought against
him in his hearing, not of a very grave nature either, was
ineffectual with those who had introduced them. " Isn't
it extraordinary," he used to say to me, " the inconsistency
9f the world in its maxims and opinions ? What can be
the reason that self-sacrifice, self-denial, and mortification,
are so much admired in the pursuit of ambition, worldly
glory, or military renown, and yet that they will not be toler-
ated when undertaken lor the sake of religion ? Look a*
any of those generals of ancient or modern times, who have
made their names great in the conquest of kingdoms, or in
war ; observe their abstinence from food on various occa-
sions ; their watchings, their lying on the ground in wet
and cold, in camp and field ; the manner in which they
inured their bodies to fatigue, and all other privations, and
see how the historian praises them precisely in proporti' n
to the degree of self-sacrifice such practices imply; yet if
the same things are undertaken through a religious feet-

2 A

3T0 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

in.;, they not only do not meet with approval, but are often
attacked with a bitterness altogether unaccountable, as if
religion was a mere human weakness, or as if it contained
some notorious and palpable absurdity." These remarks,
and a thousand others of the like kind, formed the subject
of our fire-side colloquies, which were enriched and ren-
dered exceedingly interesting latterly, by the quantity of
information he drew from ecclesiastical history, to which
he devoted many of his leisure hours. He admired greatly
;he writings of some of the French Divines, especially
Bourdaloue and Massillon. The sermons of the latter,
indeed, were a constant study of his. On reading Fleury's
Ecclesiastical History, the style of which he was quite charmed
with, I have heard him remark, with some surprise, as a
character of the doctrinal errors of modern times, the total
want of all novelty about them. " There is not one of
them," said he, u that has not been repeatedly broached in
different ages of the church, and as repeatedly refuted,
condemned, and forgotten."

As his intention to pursue a life of religious retirement
was not disclosed to us until the time had just arrived for
putting it into execution, the preparations for his departure
commenced almost immediately. He had already made
all his arrangements with the community he was about to
join, and it only remained to make a final disposition of his
affairs, and to supply himself with such articles (a matter of
no great difficulty) as the simple mode of life he was about
to adopt demanded. There was one proceeding, however,
which I would have gladly prevented, if I had any idea of
its occurrence, but which the absence of any suspicion of,
rendered easy of accomplishment. The reader will remem-
ber his scruples as to the moral tendency of his writings.
Besides his published works there were several manuscripts,
consisting of novels, tales, and poems, some in a complete,
others in an incomplete form, which had been written and
laid by from time to time, during the progress of his other

INSTRUCTION- OF ITTS MANL'SCRIFTSi 6i I

fkootrrsi Most of these were now devoted to the flames
without mercy. On returning home a few evenings pre-
vious to his departure, I learned that he had retired to his
room after breakfast, and had not left it all day long. I
went upstairs at once, and knocking at the door, which
was bolted, was immediately admitted. On entering the
room, I saw him standing on the middle of the floor, his
trunks and boxes lying open and empty ; a multitude of
little scraps of paper strewed about, and the whole grate
and fire-place as full as they could hold of the charred
and ruined remnants of burned manuscripts. The quantity
was immense, and the destruction complete, and beyond
all remedy. I was thunderstruck, and I believe showed it
in my countenance ; for he said immediately, laughing,
*' I never saw anything so funny as your face ; what's the
matter?" iS Can it be possible," I said, " that you have
burned Matt Hyland ? or what are all those papers I see in
the grate ?" u Why, yes," said he, smiling, " I have ;
but what signifies it? Surely I can write it over again."
I tossed my head in despair, knowing how unlikely this
was. Among those devoted manuscripts was a very beau-
tiful little poem, which I had in my possession a short time
previously, and which I often regret kaving parted with.
The scene was laid in the west of Ireland, and in the reign
of Elizabeth, and the story was founded on an interesting
incident told of Carolan, (the chieftain, not the minstrel.)
in some of the Irish histories. The little song called
'• Ailleen a Roon" was introduced in the course of it, and
associated with the narrative in such a way as made eveiy
verse intensely interesting. The greater part of Matt Hyland
was afterwards recovered, being found written in pencil on
the little scraps in which it first came from his hands;
many of the verses were, however, illegible,, and many
others that existed in the copy which was destroyed were
not found in this version ; so that the subject was often
broken and unconnected, hthI the force of certain passages

37.2 -LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

greatly diminished, circumstances which I hope will induce
the public to receive it with all due indulgence. I believe
he had no idea of the existence of this manuscript when he
destroyed the second, which was a fair copy, written out
with care and completeness. It was singular, and perl&pg
indicated some lingering remains of his ancient auction
for the drama, that amid all this havoc he prese1; Ved Gisip-
pus, which he had then in his possession^ and which he
handed to his brother, Dr. Griffin, wlie^n. the fate of the
other manuscripts was sealed.

He left us on the 7th of September. The following

letter was addressed to his friend, Mrs. , the previous

evening. It was the last she ever received from him, and
brought their correspondence, though not their friendship,
to a close,

To Mrs. .

I wish I could give you an idea, dear L •, of the pleasure

your note gave me, and yet it ought not to surprise me. There
are many kind things you do and say, -which are not the less
noticed by me because one thing or another has prevented my
ever speaking of them. Your calling at "William's the other
day, when I was really very uneasy, and your visit to Pallas
some time since, when we were all out, — many things of this
kind were not lost upon my mind nor my memory, though I
never bad the grace to thank you for them. I knew well what
pain that visit to Pallas must have cost you, and, believe me^
I thought more of it, and felt more sincerely grateful for it, than
for a thousand visits which, would not have been attended with
the same sacrifice of feeling. But I believe we both give each
other credit for that strong and lively interest in all that con-
cerns the happiness of either, -without which friendship is but
a name. In parting with my old desk, which has accompanied
me through almost all my labours in the literature of the world,
for which, perhaps, I have worked at least quite as hard as it
deserved, it occurred to me that you would attach some value
to what would be worthless in the eyes of most others — so I

Leave it for you, dear L , and in it your letters, and my

own haLwfal share of the correspondence. 01 the latter, I

HIS CONVENTUAL L!FF: 37T

opened one or two, and found them sd odious that I was not
much tempted to proceed. There are passages in your note
which desex-ve a longer and less hurried answer than I can give
them to-night, amid all the bustle of packing-up and leave-
taking. If we do meet again in this life, dear L— - — , as I hope
we often may, I trust it will be with unaltered feeling3 of con-
fidence and friendship. Our dear Lucy said she never knew

any one so like a real sister as you were, and such, dear L ,

I beg of you to continue always to me and mine. I fear you
will think this letter cold, as my manner has often been, even
when my feelings were farthest from indifference. And so you
ask for poor Gerald's prayers, dear L — — ? Indeed you shall
have them, and, if fervour can procure a hearing for them, you
shall have them as fervent as I shall ever offer for my own wel-
fare. Though your letter was written evidently in grief, it
was, somehow, cheering to me, some of its sentiments particu-
larly so, and I cannot help thinking you must have felt the
pleasure they would afford me, when you wrote them. Farewell,
dear, dear L ; this will not, I trust, be the close of our cor-
respondence. In the mean time, that every blessing may wait
on you and yours is the ardent wish and prayer of your affec-
tionate friend and brother,

Gerald Griffin.

On the 8th of September he entered on his new voca-
tion. His habits of piety were even then found to be of
so fixed a character, that he was admitted to the religious
habit on the feast of St. Teresa following (Oct. 15). " The
earnestness with which he demanded it at the altar," said
one who was present, " and the fervour with which he-
offered himself to be henceforward consecrated to the ser-
vice of God, affected to tears all who had the good fortune
to be present at the heart-touching ceremony." The early
period at which his reception took place was an unusual
favour, as it is more customary for those entering on a
religious life to go through their duties as postulants for
six months before the commencement of the noviciate.
There is, indeed, a considerable time allowed before taking
the final vows. In a letter, received from him a faw days
after the ceremony, he says, .pleasantly, " You will oblige*

3 « 4 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

ine by taking care of any other things of mine which I 3&
not now recollect, until I make my regular legacy, which
will not be for about five years, as the brothers do not
usually make professional vows before that time, so that,
you see, I shall have a good long while to look about me.
The noviciate is two years ; then triennial vows are made ;
after which if the candidate is not black-balled he is admit-
ted to profession. You perceive, by this, that a man hag
time enough to know his mind before he makes it up to so
important a step as that of making perpetual vows." His
sentiments at this period cannot be better described than
in his own words, taken from the notes of his first retreat ;
many of them are of so exalted, so devotional, and so rapt
a character, that it is possible they may excite only
a sense of weariness in those who have but little sympathy
with the feeling from which they emanated. Though a
very slender degree of respect is due to persons of that class,
i: is not my intention to trepass on them much ; and if
there be any among the more thinking portion of the com-
munity whom the impressions — I will not say prejudices —
of an early education may incline to consider these institu-
tions as merely ingenious illusions — clever contrivances of
human origin, innocent by virtue of their sincerity, but
-answering no other end than as outlets for a kind of ele-
vated and harmless enthusiasm — I would beg of them to
consider the matter more seriously, and if they cannot alto-
gether suppress these feelings, at least to ask themselves
if such a conclusion be more edifying, or more practically
useful to society, than the lives and sentiments of those who
seek a retreat in them. There is, unfortunately, a disposi-
tion abroad to sneer at Catholic institutions and Catholic
practices, and especially to hold up to ridicule (as the point
that pierces more keenly) the self-sacrificing spirit upon
which most of them are founded. There is something,
however, in the earnest expression of human feeling th;tt
puts all bantering out of countenance, and if this be -the

HIS CONVENTUAL Lira. 375

case on the commonest subjects, it ought surely to be so
with such as are associated with religion. I shall, there-
fore, not hesitate to leave before the reader a few of those
pious aspirations which he breathed forth in his religious
seclusion, and when it is remembered that they were the
sentiments of one before whose judgment the world had
been weighed in the balance, and found wanting, I am not
without a hope that the appeal I have made may be con-
sidered unnecessary ; some of them, indeed, are so touching
and beautiful that they require no apology.

" I have," be says, " entered this house, at the gracious call
of God, to die to the world, and to live to Him : all is to be
changed ; all my own pursuits henceforward to be laid aside,
and those only embraced which He points out to me. Give me
grace, 0 my God, to close my mind against all that has been,
or may be, in which Thou hast no part : that it be not like a
roofless building, where all kinds of birds, clean and unclean,
fly in and out, without hindrance ; but, like an enclosed taber-
nacle, devoted solely to Tky use and to Thy love."

The following is copied from shorthand notes, found
among his papers after his death, and entitled,

My favourite Solitude.

" Let my most cherished solitude be the tomb of my adorable
Redeemer, as it suggested itself to me during my retreat. Be-
fore this silent, and wounded, and disfigured body, let me al-
ways keep myself recollected, in holy love, compunction, and
detaenment from the world. Into this holy sepulchre let me
continually retire, so that the mortification of my dear Re-
deemer's sacred corpse may enter deep into my heart, and pro-
duce there a lasting effect. Let this sweet and silent retreat be
my refuge from worldly thoughts and distractions ; and may I
keep myself so continually in my Saviour's grave, that it may
be neither a surprise nor an alarm to me when 1 shall be called
to enter into my own.

•' O, silent tomb ! torn and wounded corpse ! be you, hence-
forth, the object oi all my love on earth, of all my happiness in

376 LIFE OF GERAXD GRIFFIN.

this dying life, my refuge against everything that would suRy
the purity of my heart. My dear dead Redeemer, may I ever
keep Thee present to my mind and heart."

The manner in which his time was disposed of may be
interesting. I give it just as I have had it from one of the
community. " He rose every morning at five, unless when
prevented by the palpitations of the previous night ; spent
an hour in prayer, after which he read a short spiritual
lecture, and heard mass ; breakfasted at eight, and spent
the intervening time, between breakfast and school, read-
ing in the garden. At twelve he again occupied himself
in spiritual exercises, until one, when he ordinarily returned
to school, where he continued until three. After dinner,
he conversed until five, and those who enjoyed these con-
versations will never forget them ; they were principally of
a religious character, filled with a good deal of anecdote,
gleaned from the biography of religious persons, — some-
times, too. from the daily occurrences of the school, which
he told with uncommon humour. From five to six he
spent in spiritual reading and prayers ; after which, he
studied until half-past seven, when he made half an
hour's meditation. At eight, he joined in recreation, during
which he seemed a picture of happiness ; he conversed
freely and lively, and often amused us with a song — ' Those
evening bells,' and ' The baby lay sleeping,' being great
fa v-ourites." The description here given, as well as the
i Ilowing extract from one of his letters, will show that
ti.ere is not much time squandered in these institutions.
" I am now a regular novice; not, however, applying the
word regular in its moral sense, although our rules are not
quite so strict as to make it impossible to keep them. I
might, indeed, except one, which restricts the time allotted
to shaving and dressing, &c, to a quarter of an hour — a
feat which I (who, even in my most regular times at home,
was wont to allot a full hour to the same duties) was never

DEVOTIONAL SPIRIT. 6 i i

ret able to accomplish on more than one solitary occasion,
and how I did it then, I cannot, for the life of me, make
out. I was greatly cheered, however, to learn that one of
the professed Brothers in the community could never do it
in less than twenty minutes ; so I hope my constant failure
is not absolutely a mark of reprobation." " H is piety" —
I quote again from my informant — " was of the most ab-
sorbing character ; prayer accompanied him through every
duty — even whilst he conversed with others, his heart was
with God ; and in the times set apart for this exercise, he
was totally lost to everything else ; his look, his posture,
his whole demeanour were expressive of the most profound
forgetfulness ot everything earthly ; so absorbed, indeed,
was he, on some occasions, that he seemed insensible to the
passing of time, and perfectly unconscious of the presence
• of others." I find among his notes, that he considered it as
" the first of all his duties ;" that it was "never to have a
second place in his affections ;" that " he would never com-
mence it without calling to mind what he was going to do ;
its importance and necessity ;" that, on entering the oratory,
he would " fix his heart, with all the strength of his affec-
tion, on the Blessed Sacrament, before which he knelt, and
thus secure recollection, attention, and an ardent spirit of
devotion." The resolutions, here so earnestly dwelt on,
be appears to have adhered to with the utmost fidelity.

The Superior General of the Order told me the following
circumstance : There is a little oratory near the entrance
of the school-room, where it is customary for the Brothers,
on entering the school, to spend a few moments in prayer,
before proceeding to the duty of instruction. He has seen
Gerald often, after kneeling there, according to custom,
become so absorbed in his devotions, that he seemed quite
to forget himself, and remain so long in this religious
abstraction, that it was evident he lost all consciousness of
the duties he came to discharge. The friend before quoted
further continues : " Nothing could exceed the earnestness

$73 LIFE OF GERALD GBUSOt.

with which he discharged every duty ; nothing was done
by halves ; nothing imperfect ; he seemed as if he had no-
thing else to do but that which he was doing ; the great
and the small were equal objects of attention ; his prin-
ciple being, that when the will of God was concerned, one
sincerely devoted to him should make no distinction.
From this principle he never deviated : how much he felt
its force may be gleaned from the fallowing note :

" ' If,' he says, addressing himself, * you think that what you
call trifles, in matters of duty, are beneath your consideration,
you show that you have not a true notion in what real greatness
consists. There is this difference to be observed between the
works of God and the works of man, in the material world.
In the former, the more minute and microscopic is our examina-
tion, the more do we find cause to admire the wonders of Al-
mighty power and wisdom in the organisation, combination,
virtue, and exquisiteness of the minutest parts of which they
are composed. In the latter, the test of close examination only
exposes to us their defects. Can we suppose that God is so
watchful over material things, and that he does not set an equal
value on perfection in spiritual affairs ? Can you suppose that
minute perfection in an act of virtue or religion is not as accep-
table to God as in the form of an insect or the texture of a leaf ?
If your good works be the effect of nature, they will hardly
stand the test more than human works in the material world ;
but if they be wholly directed by the Spirit of God, they wiD
be perfect in the detail, as well as in the general plan. ' "

These beautiful sentiments seem to have been earnestly
reduced to practice. Not only did he aim at perfection in
everything, but he also endeavoured to be guided by the
most pure and exalted feeling in all his actions, and this
even long before his entrance into religion. He says, in
one of his letters, " We show great ingratitude to Heaven,
when we only think seriously of it in moments of affliction :
love can hardly be the ruling motive, where the child will
do nothing without tne rod."

The undeviatmg regularity »\Mch the discharge of bii

HIS 1££LI(SI0US PEACE. 37^

duties in this new sphere required, seemed one of its prin-
cipal charms for him ; and the constant employment of time
in a manner calculated to satisfy him of its useful distribu-
tion, was the very tiling, of all others, which made it most
attractive. " He would," says my informant, " have no
exemption in any thing ; not a virtue, to the perfection of
which he did not aspire : profound humility, strict obedience,
conformity to the Divine will in the most trifling incidents,
a habit of prayer and union with God, and an ardent zeal
to promote his glory, were the striking virtues by which he
was characterised ; he wished to be the first and most la-
borious at every duty ; even the very relaxations, which,
■on account of his previous habits, were deemed necessary,
seemed to be taken but in accordance with the wish of
others." It would appear, indeed, from facts which havi
come to my knowledge, as if he long had a feeliug that
these were the circumstances that suited his disposition best.
I find the following sentence in a letter, written six or seven
years previously, when he certainly had no idea of a con-
ventual life : " The more I see, and the longer I live, the
more convinced I am that I can never enjoy quiet of mind
except in retirement, regularity, and incessant exertion.
Experience, too, shows me that the more indefatigably one
applies to the single object of his existence, the happier he
will feel." These conditions, so much coveted, formed now
tne daily routine of his life, and, with the motives and ends
with which they were associated, the whole sum of his hap-
piness. Nothing, indeed, could equal the degree of content,
and even felicity, he seems to have enjoyed in his present
condition.

"The more, ne says, KI see o. a religious life, the more I feel
the truth of -what * said by one of the scriptural writers,
'that if God did not please to keep its happiness secret, the
whole world would be running into it.' Those miserable year3
I spent in London! Whatever it may prove for the next
«a viiJ, it bas been to me, through God's inhnite m.-rcy, a com-

$P0 LITE OF GERALD GPJFFT^:.

plete specific for this ; nor — poor, sluggish, and distardly as m^
own efforts have been to correspond with His high graces —
\% ould I exchange the peace of heart they have procured me,
fur the fame of all the Scotts and Shakspeares that ever strutted
their hour upon the stage of this little brief play which they call
.ife ; let people twist and turn their brains about on which side
they will, and as long as they will, there is, after all, nothing
&1 wlutely worth thinking upon but saving their souls. 4 One
thing is necessary ;' all the rest, from beginning to end, is such
absolute trash, that it seems downright madness to give it a
moment's care." * * * << Religion is, indeed, the paradise
on earth: experience alone could teach it. The world will not
believe us when we tell them so, and they won't come them-
selves to make the trial." * * * ''Indeed, no one has or
can have an idea of the happiness of life in a religious com-
munity, without having actually experienced it. It is a
frequent subject of conversation with us here, at recreation
L ura, to gness at the causes which make time fiy by so rapidly,
that the day (though we make it a pretty long one, by
rising always at five) is ended almost before we feel that it is

Hia letters sre full cf such expressions. In another he
*ays :

"I wrnld despair of giving you any idea of the perfect
liberty of mind and happiness one feels in the religious state
(when it is not one's own fault), and which it is in his power
to increase every day and every hour. I could write volumes
alxmt it without being tired, bat it would be of no use attempt-
ing it ; to be known it must be tried. The worst of it is. thf
thought that one v,-1 have to give an account of all those
graces, and to show that he made good use of them, which,
alas ! — but I'll stop preaching-"

The following was addressed to a friend in London some
man hs later, and was written from the North .Monastery.
Cork:

"I was ordered oft1 here from Dublin last June, and have
ben since enlightening the craniums of the wondering Paddie9
in this quarter, who learn from *ne with profjund amazement

INDIFFERENCE TO LITERARY REPUTATON. 381

*•** profit, that o, x, spells ox ; that the top of a map is the
- >f th, and the bottom the south, with various other ' branches ;'
J \lso that they ought to be good boys, and do aethey are bid,
vid say their prayers every morning and evening, &c. ; and
yet it seems curi< >us even to myself, that I feel a great deal
happier in the practice of this daily routine than I did -while I
was roving about your great city, absorbed in the modest pro-
ject of rivalling Shakspeare, and throwing Scott into the shade. "

These simple extracts require no comment. I throw
them hastily before the reader for his own reflection.
Writing to a clergyman, to whom he was tenderly attached,
he says : " I have not yet known what it is to regret the
world ; if I regretted anything, it would be that we had not
parted sooner. If those who enter religion late in life, fail
not to receive some share of the peace which it confers,
what must it be to the young, who give it their morning
and their noon, with all the freshness and vigour of their
early affections ?" " His indifference to literary reputa-
tion," says one of the Christian Brothers, " was particularly
striking. During the whole time he was with us, I never
heard him even once speak of his writings, except in private
conversation with myself, and then only when I introduced
the subject. He was desirous of living unknown ; of
placing himself on a level in every respect with those im-
mediately around him, and therefore studiously endeavoured
to conceal all superiority. On one occasion we were speak-
ing in community of the county of Wicklow and its scenery,
when some one present said, ' Yon have been in the county
Wicklow ?' He merely replied that he had : judge my
astonishment when, a few days after, I met, for the first time,
his ' Reflections on Visiting the Seven Churches.' On
another occasion some allusion was made to Ullah. Some
one jestingly said to him, * You know something of Ullah'
(alluding, I believe, to his 'Voluptuary Cured')? He
blushed h'ke a child. He was sensibly affected by the least
irord said in his praise3 and avoided everything that could

382 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFI3V

directly or indirectly excite it. In fact, he was above aI2?
those little methods by which ordinary men seek to attract
it ; in this, as in everything else, giving constant evidence
how much his mind was beyond the ordinary level. He
once told me, that from the moment he got a decidedly
serious turn, he never could bring himself to the tempera-
ment necessary for works of fiction ; that he never produced
anything which satisfied himself ; and that, whilst occupied
in the composition, he often threw the pen out of his hand,
from the perfect consciousness that what he was then doing
would not be successful."

From the moment he had fairly entered on his new mode
of life, he manifested the greatest disinclination to take a
pen in his hand ; he could not bear the idea of it ; it seemed
as if he shrank, with an avoidance almost amounting to
loathing, from an employment to which he had long been,
indebted for much mental suffering. He used to tell a story
of a painter, of uncommon genius, who had entered a reli-
gious community, and who had destroyed his palettes and
brushes, lest they should afterwards prove an occasion of
temptation, and it seems not improbable that he applied
this lesson to himself. I could not help admiring the judg-
ment which the members of the community displayed in
their management of him in this respect : they did not,
in the least, urge him upon the subject, but left him alto-
gether to himself. It was, indeed, their hope, that this
feeling might gradually wear away ; that a fondness for
literary exercises might again arise ; and that, on its calmer
reawakening, it might be directed with renewed vigour to
the interests of morals or religion. They thought such an
end would be best attained by leaving his inclinations en-
tirely free, and showing on their parts no anxiety or leaning
one way or other. The event proved the wisdom of this
conclusion, for, as time passed on, the disinclination I speak
of became, by degrees, less and less, and in the last year
of his life he had commenced, and made some progress, in

T?«rr to his srsTE*. 383

oii^ or two talcs of a deep interest, and quite of the char-
acter anticipated.

It may be imagined that such a total abstraction from
all worldly feeling as ho evinced in his religious life would
be attended with a diminution of the strong attachments
he had always shown for the friends whom he had left.
The contrary was the case ; indeed, his sensibility in this
respect seemed to be exalted in a degree that was quite
extraordinary. He could hardly ever speak of them with-
out being moved almost to tears ; and, though he appeared
delighted whenever any of them paid him a visit, the re-
membrances it awasened were so vivid, and the pain of
parting so keen, that it seemed more than he could well
endure ; a circumstance that sometimes made him avoid
such meetings when they depended on himself. Shortly
after he took up his abode in Dublin, he went, at the in-
stance of some of his religious friends, to visit his sister,
who had been for some time a " Sister of Charity." The
meeting affected him so deeply that, though repeatedly
urged again to renew his visit, and though he often pro-
mised, and more than 'once fixed a day for it, he could
never be got to do so, and he actually left the city without
being able to bring himself to call even to take leave of her.
His friend, Mrs. , being in Dublin, called at the monas-
tery to see him. He was walking in the garden, and,
being told a person was within who wished to speak to him,
turned towards the house ; after walking a few steps he
asked who it was, and, on hearing the name, stopped, turned
quite pale, grew very much agitated, and, after a long pause,
requested the messenger, with much emotion, to say u he
was very much obliged for her visit, that he was very well,
and exceedingly sorry he could not see her." This was the
last opportunity that offered for a meeting, and I believo
the triends never saw each other more. I shall have to give
another remarkable proof of the strength of these attach-
ments before I conclude.

C&4: LIFE OF GEFJLLD GBIFFIN.

In June, 183y, he was removed to the North Monaster}',
in Cork. He gives the following account of his new resi-
dence, in a letter written a few days after :

u Ycu will see, by the above date, that I am somewhat nearer
to you than when I wrote last. I have been here a fortnight,
and am no way dissatisfied with the change of scene. This is
a very nice house, and delightfully situated on the top of a bill,
with the city lying in the valley at its foot, and ' Shandon
Steeple' rising in front about to the level of our feet ; so that,
in returning from mass or the school, we can look down upon
the world, in one of its busiest scenes, from a physical if not
from a moral or religious eminence. Between us and the city,
at the foot of the lawn sloping down from the house, stands
our school, a fine large building ; and a nicely gravelled walk,
winding between a close-shorn hedge and a line of trees that
completely overshadow it, conducts us to the schooL About
half-way down, on one side, close by the walk, stands a little
burying- ground, where the head-stones of a few Brothers invite
us to a de profundi*, and a thought or two on the end of all
things, as we are passing. "

This letter was dated the 20th of June. Before that
day twelvemonth he was himself lying at rest in that
little burying-ground, and a de profundi* was recited for
him. But I am anticipating.

In the month of September, after his arrival in Cork, I
again paid him a visit. He was in excellent health and
spirits, and delighted beyond measure at seeing me. He
spoke of his occupations, of his recreations, of the disposal
of his time, and of the different dispositions and abilities
i.»f the boys that attended the schools. One difference that
had been noticed pretty generally by the Christian Brothers
struck him as very singular. It had been observed (if I
remember rightly) that the boys in and about Dublin showed
a strong natural facility in acquiring a good hand, though
they were rather dull as arithmeticians ; but that those in
Cork, while they seemed to have some peculiar dimcnlty in
learning to write well, evinced in general a high degree of

VISIT TO HIS SISY3B. 3£&

talent for mathematics. He seemed as happy as possible,
and spoke warmly of the extreme kindness of the Brothers
to him : " You never saw such people as these are," he
said, " so kind and attentive ; I cannot give you the least
idea of it ; and not to me only, but to every member of the
community. You cannot have the least thing amiss with
you, that they will not whisk you off somewhere, and get
you cured almost before you have time to look about you. It
was but the other day that I made some slight complaint
of rheumatic pain somewhere, when they suddenly ordered
a car to the door, hurried me down to the Black Rock,
insisted on my having some baths there, and only con-
sented to desist when I assured them that I was for som a
day3 perfectly well." I proposed to the community that
he should be given into my charge for one day, for the pur-
pose of paying a visit to his youngest sister, for whom he
had always shown a particular attachment, and who, having
retired from the world about three years before, was now
living in the presentation convent at Youghal. To this the
superior kindly consented, and early next morning we set
off on our journey. The day was beautiful : we took out-
side seats on the coach, and he was in the highest spirits.
We had several conversations about literature, and literary
people , all his old recollections seemed to revive, and he
spoke on these subjects with an ardour and warmth of
expression that quite surprised me, yet with a degree of
calmness that showed that they were now no longer capa-
ble of disturbing his peace. I remember, particularly, hij
speaking with great enthusiasm of some of the scenes in
Woodstock, especially of that beautiful one, Cromwell's
soliloquy before the picture. This vfcit made him exceed-
ingly happy. We returned to the monastery early in the
evening, and he resumed his studies with his usual energy.
The remaining months of his religious life were spent
with the same piety, energy, and cheerful unbroken con-
tent that I have already described. Notwithstanding the

386* LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

expression be makes use of, in one of his letters, that ho
did not intend to make his regular legacy for about five
years, he seems occasionally to have been visited by his old
presentiment of an early death. " Apply yourself," he says,
in one of his Meditations, " diligently to prayer ; be exact
and attentive to meditation. Be generous in giving your
time to God ; do not fear to fling yourself into his arms ;
serve him courageously ; it will soon be over. The night
will soon come, very soon ; a few days, and there will be
no more talk of you: make friends, then, beforehand, in
the land to which you are going, and which is much nearer
than you think." In the same place the following passage
occurs : " Sweetly abandon your friends and all, 0 my soul,
into the hands of God. He will take care of you and them
if you serve him sincerely and faithfully. Do not be soli-
citous about such and such friends, in whose salvation you
feel an interest. Is not our Lord Jesus more desirous of
their salvation than you can possibly be ? These anxieties
can only serve to withdraw you from the care of your own
soul, and make you lose the opportunities of salvation
mercifully afforded you : beware, my soul !" It is singular
that this presentiment seems to have been fulfilled in the same
unforeseen, though not quite unexpected manner, that was
thus shadowed forth- to him. The tales of a religious char-
acter which I have "spoken of, though willingly and even
farnestly entered upon, were never completed. The last
»n which he was engaged was called " The Holy Island,"
and was said to be, so far as it went, of a surpassing in-
terest. Its last sentence runs thus :

" Of the things of this world, my son, they are well informed,
but as for that abyss beyond "

When he had proceeded thus far, the dinner bell rang.
He laid by his pen, and, as his fatal illness commenced soon
afterwards, these were the last words he ever wrote.

MEDITATIONS. 387

RFs whole mind, indeed, seemed bent on securing a
proper preparation for his end. This great object seemed
now the aim of his whole existence ; not a thought, not an
act of his, with which it was not constantly mingled ; not
a single admonitory feeling that was not yielded to with a
prompt yet reflecting obedience. In a letter which I had
from him some time after the visit I have spoken of above,
he makes use of the following expressions respecting him-
self: u I think, long as I was without embracing the reli-
gious state, mine was always one of those minds of which
St. Gregory speaks, when he says,- ' There are some souls
which cannot be saved except in religion.' Its restraints
and freedom from temptation, to say nothing of its other
graces, were necessary to one so easily caught by every
tiling that favoured inclination and self-love." Those who
were intimately acquainted with him, and had often occa-
sion to observe the strength of mind he showed in conquer-
ing every feeling, under a sense of duty, will admire the
humility with which he expresses himself in this and other
passages. In the same and subsequent letters he requests
me to return to the owners several books he had borrowed,
" or the value of them ; as," he says, " I am about clearing
off all scores with my old friend the world before we part for
ever." He desires me also to give all his clothes away to
the poor ; and, with a most scrupulous remembrance of.
justice, directs the payment of several very small sums t«
some persons to whom he considers himself indebted. Fur-
ther, that no possible evil might arise from any want of
thought on his part, he says, speaking of some books he
had left in my care, M I suppose you will smile, as at a
stroke of character, when I say that I had as lief yon
would notlend Fleury's History indi'scrtminatiiy. Though.
a celebrated and very beautiful work, it is not quite cor-
rect, or has not the reputation of being so. Indeed, it con-
tains some misrepresentations, which, if intended, ara
quite shameful ;. and if not, surprisingly ignorant." Thus

"388 : LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

did he prepare daily and hourly for that event, of which,
as yet, he saw no positive sign, but which he had the
wisdom fully to believe was nearer than he thought.

In a letter written to the sister whom I have spoken of
above, which displays a veiy earnest solicitude for her wel
fare, he expresses himself as follows : " Since you came to
religion, I am more anxious about your health than I used
to be. In the world I used to think you were too good to
die (you remember how mad you were with me once foi
saying I thought you would live long), and I now am some-
times afraid you are too good to live ; for the last few years
have shown us that it is not always those who are best
calculated to benefit and edify the world, that God is pleased
to leave longest in it." This last passage had reference to
some amiable and pious friends of his, who were recently
earned off in the very prime of life.

In April, 1840, about a week or ten days before Easter,
he had a sharp feverish attack, resembling those he had
been subject to occasionally at home, though more severe,
and confining him sevea or eight days to his bed. From
this he recovered, though not perfectly. On the 8th of
May he wrote to Dr. Griffin, informing him of several dis-
tressing feelings arising out of this illness, which he wished
to have his advice upon. He was affected with his old
palpitations in a severe form, frequent perspirations, and
a degree of nervousness which made it difficult for him, he
says, to hold his pen steadily in writing. The physician
who attended him in the feverish attack had, he says, pre-
scribed for these symptoms with much advantage ; but
though his health improved as time passed on, his progress
was slow, and his strength still far below what was natural
to him. Dr. Griffin gave him such directions as he thought
necessary, and we heard nothing farther for some time.

On the evening of Wednesday, the 10th of June, we
received a letter from the superior, infonningus that he had
been indisposed for some day.^ and that latterly his illness

ILLNESS AND DEATH. , 389

Had shown a disposition to fever. Rumours reached us also
the same evening that his complaint had begun to assume
a serious character. I started for Cork next morning, and
arriving at the monastery about six in the afternoon, was
immediately shown upstairs. It was an affecting thing for
me, who had been a witness of almost every scene in his
well-spent life, to enter his room upon so short a warning,
and find him sunk in the last stage of typhus fever ; to see
that mind and heart, usually so bright and buoyant, strug-
gling vainly for expression amid the overpowering stupor that
attends the close of that disease. As I moved towards the
bed, he appeared to recognise me. A gleam of surprise
and delight kindled faintly in his eyes as he raised their
drooping lids, and fixed them on me. I took him by the
hand, and asked him if he knew me ? He immediately
said "No," but almost in the same instant called me by my
name. Presently, when I went out of the room for a few
minutes, he asked " Where is he ?" and these were almost
the only articulate sounds he uttered to the close.

On inquiry as to the origin of his illness, I found that on
Sunday, the 31st of May, he complained of a slight cold,
but on the following day was so well as to walk out, and in
the evening seemed to enjoy all his accustomed cheerfulness.
On Tuesday he remained in bed, but it was not until that
day week, the 9 th of June, that his sickness assumed any-
thing of a serious appearance. The superior then imme-
diately communicated with us. It was an unfortunate cir-
cumstance that we had not an earlier intimation of his
condition. It seemed a strange fatality, that though I was
no more than fifty miles from him, he should have passed
through such a disorder as typhus fever without my being
able to do anything more than just to see him in his lasfc
moments. For this the community, however, were not in
the least to blame, as they wrote to us the first moment
they understood the symptoms had taken on an alarming
aspect ; and with regard to the medical mei^ I believe the

S90 LIFE OF GE-RALB GRIFFIN.

fact was, that the illness in its early part was very moder-
ate, scarcely differing in appearance from the feverish
attack he had had sometime before, and that when it had
declared itself, and taken on a typhoid character, his pre-
vious debility made him sink with a degree of rapidity
that no one conld have anticipated. Indeed, considering
Ms previously weakened state, and the old affection of the
heart to which he was subject, I do not believe (speaking
apart from the designs of Providence) that it was in the
power of any mode of treatment, however skilful, to have
brought him through such a disease.

In fever, despair seldom comes but with absolute cer-
tainty. The physicians whose care he had been under,
and whose kind attention I could not help feeling grate-
ful for, paid a visit soon after my arrival ; they were quite
desponding, and did not disguise their opinions as to the
event. Desperate as the case was, however, I could not
give up the idea that it was possible some favourable
change might yet take place. In uncomplicated fever,
the contest towards the close is one with debility. The
indication was plain, to support his strength by every
means that ingenuity could devise ; therefore I remained
by his bedside, and saw everything that was suggested
carried into execution. At one time he seemed to rally a
little for about two hours ; it was, however, all in vain.
As one of the Brothers said, " If the Almighty had chosen
to preserve his life, the means would not have been want-
ing." He spent the night in constant restlessness, with
indistinct attempts at articulation, and a frequent loud
moaning, which it was distressing to listen to, and at
7 a. jr., on Friday, the 12th of June, was released from
his suffering.

It was now we heard of several little incidents which
showed the excess of his humility, the high degree of per-
fection to which he wished to aspire, and the extreme
depth of his attachments. I will just mention a few at

CHARACTERISTIC INCIDENTS. S91

tb8m : On his first entering the community, the superior,
in consideration of the delicacy of his health, made arrange-
ments to have him sleep in an apartment by himself, sepa-
rate from the rest of the novices. In a day or two he
came to the director of novices, complaining of the dis-
tinction that was made, and requesting particularly to be
treated exactly like others, and to be allowed to sleep, like
them, in the common dormitory. The director told him
the arrangement was entirely for the sake of his health,
and not at all from any desire to make distinctions. Gerald
still objected, saying his health was very good ; but, on its
being represented to him that his superiors ought to be
the best judges of that, and that it should be his business
to do exactly as he was desired, and obey without murmur-
ing, he acquiesced, and retired to his quarters. In a few
days he came to the director again, and told him he
really could not feel happy while any distinction seemed to be
made between himself and others ; that his health wa.s very
good, and did not, in the least, require any such indulgence.
The director then told him he should not be pressed
any further, and that he might do as he pleased. The
change was accordingly made, but had not lasted above
three nights, when he came before the director once more,
and said, "I am afraid there was a little self-will ia my
wishing to interfere with the directions of the superior the
other day ; I do not feel easy about it since, and I am now
anxious you should do whatever you think best, without
paying any regard to my feelings." " Well, perhaps there
was," said the director, quietly, "and I think you will
feel happier by leaving the matter entirely in our hands,
and giving yourself no further trouble about it." He
accordingly gave directions to have him reinstated in his
•Id position, and he heard nothing further.

On another occasion, the director of novices observed
him, daring recreation time, leave the apartment in Avhicfe
he and his companions were amusing themselves, so sud-

392 LITE OF GERALD GRIFFIN.

denly, that it immediately attracted his attention : v.s fol-
lowed him to his room, and found him bathed — ">:ers.
He sat down, took him kindly by the hand, and bej^'ju to
know what it was that affected him so deeply. Gerald
was silent for a long time ; bnt at last, on being earnestly
entreated not to conceal the canse of his grief, said, "lam
afraid I have inflicted a wound on my brother William's
heart, by leaving him ; he was always like a father to me."
The director tried to console him by such reflections as
jast then occurred to his mind, and, after a little time,
succeeded. The same gentleman, to whom he appears to
have been ranch attached, writes to me as follows :

" Nothing could exceed the sensibility which he manifested on
hearing of the death of any of his relatives or friends. Some
allusion having been made, one day, to the virtues of the late

Bev. Mr. E , he burst into tears, and was so overpowered

as to be obliged to leave the room. "We used to say of him
whilst he lived, that we never saw such a combination of intellect
and feeling. Among the many instances of his benevolence I
may mention one, quite indicative of his character. A poor
man, a native of Limerick, whom he had never before seen,
called one day, and told him some distressing story. He came
immediately to me. 'You know, Joseph,'* said I, 'the su-
perior being from home, I have nothing that I can bestow.
' He is in distress,' said he, ' and I have a small gold seal ; may
I not give it to him ?' Not feeling warranted in advising him
to give it to an utter stranger, I told him I thought it would be
better not. He acquiesced, with the meekness of a child ; but
there was an evident struggle between feeling and duty. I
often, since his death, think how much it must have cost him.

He was buried on Monday, the 15th of June, in the
little cemetery of the monastery, which is situated in a
prove beside the house. A simple headstone and inscrip-
tion indicates the spot, merely recording the name he had
adopted in religion, and the date of his death.

In speaking of several incidents such as these I have

* The name he had adopted in religion.

CALMNESF OF II fSSt. 393

mentioned, the director of novices made a remark, which
is worthy of being recorded. He said h<3 had often taken
an interest in observing the impressions with which dif-
ferent people, during their lifetime, regarded death. Some
had, constitutionally, a great fear of it ; others exhibited
no such feeling. He had, in his own time, seen a great
many persons die, and he had always remarked, that those
of the first class, who showed the greatest fear of death
previously, usually died with the greatest calmness. " Your
brother, I think," he said, " belonged to this class, and in
him, particularly, this observation was exemplified. He
always, even in his best health, seemed to have the idea of
death before his eyes ; it always made the greatest impres-
sion on him, and yet nothing could exceed the calmness of
his end. On the morning of the d&y when his illness took
an unfavourable turn, he called the person in attendance
on him to his bedside, and quietly told him, ' he thought
he should die of this sickness, and that he wished to receive
extreme unction.' His confessor, by a merciful dispensa-
tion of Providence, was then in the house, and ex-
pressed his opinion that, as a matter of precaution, it
was best to administer it. He repaired to his bedside,,
presented him the holy viaticum, and administered ex-
treme unction. He received them wTith the most lively
sentiments of love and resignation, a3 well as the utmost
fervour and devotion. During his illness not a murmur
or sigh of impatience escaped him; not a sentiment but
breathed love, confidence, and resignation ; not a desire,
but for the perfect accomplishment of the xn\\ of Him to
whom his habits of prayer had so long and so closely
united him.',

I have spoken more than once of his distrust and
scruples, as to the moral tendency of his works. A very
singular instance of it came to my knowledge after hit
death. I was informed that he wrote a letter to one of
his publishers some time previously, requesting him parti*

SO-i LIFE OP GEEALD GRIFFIN.

cularly to buy up all such copies of his works as he could
lav hands upon. It is evident, from this, that he would
have wished, if possible, to put a complete stop to their
dissemination ; a very apt commentary, as well on the
strictness of his later opinions, as the degree to which his
old love of fame had died away within him. The idea
was, of course, quite impracticable.

In personal appearance he was tall and well-formed,
and, though rather slender, possessed considerable muscular
strength. The engraving prefixed to this volume is a
tolerably correct likeness, though more grave and severe in
its expression than he was wont to be. It gives some-
thing like the gloom of the daguerreotype, to a counte-
nance naturally cheerful aud serene. I remember he had
the greatest admiration of a portrait of Manzoni, which
was attached to a copy of " I promessi sposi" that we had
in the house. He frequently took the book in his hand,
and said, "Now, don't you like that countenance ? I think
it is a beautiful one. I admire the expression of that
face more than I can tell you." There seems to have been
some similarity in the close of their career ; and if the
reader has an opportunity of comparing both portraits, I
think he will find in the character and expression of the
countenances a considerable resemblance.

I have brought forward so unreservedly, in this memoir,
everything that could enable the public to form an accurate
conception of our author's character, that it is unnecessary
for me to make any further remark upon it. One circum-
stance, however, I had nearly forgotten, which, in esti-
mating the control he usually had over lus feelings, will be
considered of some importance. He was a person of rather
quick temper — much more so^ indeed, .than one would
readily be brought to believe from ordinary intercourse
with him. His usual demeanour, however, was that of
mildness and gentleness ; and even on those occasions
when the influence of his .uatural temuerament seemed

LINES. 595

about to appear, he showed a degree of self-possession,
which prevented it from giving him any serious disturb-
ance. As the following verses contain a slight sketch of
his feelings and disposition, and are from his own hand, I
am tempted to close this concluding chapter with them.

They were addressed to his friend, Mrs. , during the

progress of their acquaintance. The last three verses werf
added about three years later than the rest, apparently
with the view of obviating any misconceptions that might
possibly arise upon the subject of their friendship.

To L .

i.
In the time of my boyhood I had a strange feeling,

That I was to die ere the noon of my day ;
Not quietly into the silent grave stealing,

But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away ;

n.
That even in the hour when enjoyment was keenest,

My lamp should quench suddenly, hissing in gloom?
That even when mine honours were freshest and greenest,

A blight should rush over and scatter their bloom.

m.
It might be a fancy — it might be the glooming

Of dark visions, taking the semblance of truth ;
And it might be the shade of the storm that is coming,

Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine of youth.

rv.
But be it a dream, or a mystic revealing,

The bodement has haunted me year after year ;
And whenever my bosom with rapture was filling,

I paused for the footfall of Fate at mine ear.

v.

With this feeling upon me, all feverish and glowing,
I rushed up the rugged way panting to Fame,

I snatched at my laurels while yet they were growing,
And won for my guerdon the half of a name.

826 LIFE OF GERALD GRIFFIN-.

My triumphs I viewed, from the least to the brightest;.

As gay flowers plucked from the fingers of death ;
\nd wherever joy's garments flowed richest and lightest,,

I looked for the skeleton lurking beneath.

vn.

( »h, friend of my heart ! if that doom should fall on me^
And thou shouldst live on to remember my love,

Come oft to my tomb when the turf lies upon me,
And list to the even wind mourning above.

Lie down by that bank, where the river is creeping

All fearfully under the still autumn tree,
When each leaf in the sunset is silently weeping,

And sigh for departed days, thinking of me.

IX.

By the smiles ye have looked — by the words ye have spok'.
i Affection's own music, that heal as they fall) —

he balm ye have poured on a spirit half broken,
And, oh ! by the pain ye gave — sweeter than all ;

} Remember me, L , when I am departed,

Live over those moments when they, too, are gone

Be still to your minstrel the soft and kind-hearted,
And droop o'er the marble where he lies alone.

ilemember how freely that heart, that to others
Waa dark as the tempest-dawn frowning above,

Surst open to thine with the zeal of a brother's,
And showed all its hues in the light of thy love.

And, oh ! in that moment when over him sighing,
Forgive, if his fadings should flash on thy brain \

Remember, the heart that beneath thee is lying,
Can never awafe^ to offend thee again.

LINES. 32*

And say, while >^ pause on each sweet recollection,
" Let love like mine own on his spirit attend :

For to me his heart turned with a poet's affection,
Just less than a lover, and more than a friend."

Additional stanzas, written three years later :

XIV.

" Was he selfish ? — not quite ; hut his bosom was glowing
With thronging affections, unanswered, unknown ;

He looked all round the world with a heart overflowing;
But found not another to love like his own.

" Yet how ? — did the worthy avoid or forsake him ?

Ah, no ! for Heaven blessed him with many a friend
But few were so trusting that might not mistake him,

Oh, none were so dear that he could not offend !

" Yet, peace to his clay in its dreary dominion,
I know that to me he was good and sincere ;

And that VLtue ne'er shadowed, with tempering pinioi
An honest- r friendship than Death covers tcr?. j*

APPENDIX.

The following 13 the communication with which Profes-
sor Curry has kindly furnished me, and to which I have
alluded in a note in the early part of the volume. For
all his trouble in preparing it, as well as for the warm and
friendly interest he has taken in the subject, I am under
many obligations to him.

The Family of O 5|t]obcA (O'Griobhtha), pronounced
O'Greefa, and variously anglicised GrifTy, Griffith, and
Griffin, is of undoubted Milesian origin in Ireland.

The Book of Lecan, an ancient Irish MS., preserved in
the Library of the Royal Irish Academy, contains (folio
'.31a) a tract on the genealogies of the race of the great
Ulster Champion, Fergus (the son of Rossa Roigh), as
descended from hi3 three sons by Meave, the celebrated
Queen of Connaught at the commencement of the Christian
Bra. This race is represented in Munster at the present day
by the O'Conors of Kerry, and others of that country, who
descend from Ciar, the eldest of the sons of Fergus and
Meaye; and by the families of O'Oonor, O'Lochlan, O'Griobh-
tha or Griffin, O'Senaigh or Shanny, O'Nealan, O'Liddan,
O'Kett, &c, all of Burren and Corcomroe, in the present
".ounty of Clare, who descend from Core, the second son.

APPENDIX. 399

The pedigree of Fergus, who was of the Budrician race,
descended from B'beAjt (Ebhear), or JLber, son of Ir, sou
of Milesius, (see Genealogy of Milesius, p. 169 of Appendix
to the Battle of Magh Leana, published by .the Celtic Society,
1855,) will appear in the forthcoming publication of Professor
Curry's Lectures on the Materials of Ancient Irish History,
iu the Catholic University. The genealogies of his various
descendants also have been accurately preserved.

Of the descendants of Core, the second son of Fergus and
Meave, the pedigrees of the O'Conors and O'Lochlans, only*
are brought down, in the Book of Lecan, to the beginning of
the 14th century ; but there is a curious and valuable list of
all the families descended from Core, with the links connects
ing them with the parent stock, though not coming down
farther than the time of Brian Boru, that is, the beginning of
the 11th century; and in this list the tribe or clan of
CfGriobhtha, or Griffin, is to be found.

According to this ancient genealogy, Fergus was twelfth in
direct descent from the celebrated King Ollamh Fodla, and
the twentieth from Milesius. The fourteenth from Core, the
second son of Fergus, was Oscar ; and this Oscar had two
Sons, Conbroc and Ugran. From Conbroc, the eldest, de-
scend the O'Conors of Corcomroe (who are traced down to
Feidlim or Phelim O'Conor, who died A.D. 1365), and the
O'Lochlans of Burren. From Ugran, the second, descended,
m the 9th generation, the brothers 3fijobcA (Qriobhtha),
or Griffin, and Sen ac (Senach), or Shanny, from whom the
0'Griffy3, or Griffins, and the O'Shannys. The O'Nealans also
descend from the same stock of the Ultonian race, as appears
in Andrew MacCurtin's controversy, about the year 1720,
with Arthur O'Leary and Brian O'Coonar of Kerry, carried
on, in a well known series of poems, of which a eotemporary
copy is in the possession of Professor Curry.

400 APPENDIX,

O'Sham.y, who was a co -descendant with OHJriffy, waa
located at Ballyshanny, near Kilfenora, which is within the
ancient territory of his ancestor of Corcomroe. How or whe-
ther the O'Griffys, O'Nealans, and others of that race, passed
into the neighbouring territory of the Dalcassians, it \a diffi-
cult to say ; but we find them taking an important part iu
the civil wars of Clare, between the years 1260 and 1320.
At this time they were situated at Ballygriffy (t)«x^le uj
0|t|obcA, bdile ui Griobhtha), or O'Gritfy's-tovrn, a place
called after the name of this clan, which is in the present
parish of Dysert, barony of Inchiquin, in the ancient territory
of the Dalcassians. Accordingly it was with the Dalcassians
that the O'Griffvs were mustered for battle. In the old Irish
tract known under the name of the " Wars of Thomond"
(one of the most important pieces of history preserved among
our ancient MSS.), there is a minute and vivid description of
a battle fought at the monastery of Corcomroe, about A.D.
1317, between two rival sections of the O'Briens ; and here,
in the marshalling of the various clans under their local
chieftains the O'Griffys appear in the assembly of the O'Dead,
the O'Quinns, tec. (all Dalcassians), and they are mentioned
as being from their numbers and respectability one of the
most important sections of the muster. There were several
of them killed in this battle (fighting on the side of the legi-
timate chieftain of the O'Briens, as King of Thomond), aud
in a poem which accompanies the prose tract, and enumerates
the principal leaders that fell, the following verse occurs :

t)&f P]l|p — &o £oi|te8 A1fte, —
Saoc fie cerjel Y]yr> feftrrj^c ;
O'OjijbcA ]\) 5^c cjter b\ cue,
Tic&^v a clef \r) 5A6 corrjfiuc.

APPENDIX. 401

Literally —

Philip's death, — the reliever in danger, —
Long will the Kind Fermaic mourn ;
O'Griffy, in whatever contest found,
Was ever known by the fierceness of his combat.

The Kind Fermaic were a branch of the O&l C^if
{Dal Caw), or Dalcassian race. The word O&l, signified
clan, children, descendants ; and the Dalcassiaus were the
descendants of Cormac Cas, one of the two sons of the cele-
brated Oilill Oluim, King of Munster in the 3rd century ; the
other son, Eoghan Mor, having been the progenitor of the
Eoganacht or Eugenian clans, the MacCarthys, O'CaL
laghans, O'Sullivans, &c. The Dalcassians again included
various tribes ; aud as to the Dalcassians in general was
appointed a certain territory of Munster (that called Tho-
mond) to be exclusively theirs, so each tribe of this great
division of the population had its own peculiar lands accord-
ing to the laws of the time. Those tribes were called after
the common ancestor of each when the descendants of any
one personage of the line of Oilill Oluim were numerous
enough to form a tribe under his name. Thus the tribe
name of the O'Briens was the Claim 0&]l (T<ii7), from
<C><\\ G*f* (Tal Cas), the fourth descendant from Cormac
Cas ; and several other tribes took their distinctive names
from the several sons of this Tal ; and to each of them a
peculiar territory was specially appropriated. In this way
from CA|t*]r) (Cdisin), one of his sons, came the Ui Caisiiij
H-hose chief descendants were the Mac Namaras ; and these
were classed as the ClannCuilen, from a more immediate an-
cestor. So from another son, Uer^ur Gerw-N^CfiAC
(Aengus Cenn Nathrach), descend the O'Quins, who were
oi the Clann Ifernain, called from Jpefiu&rj ^unau\, a

22

402 APPENDIX.

more immediate ancestor. And thus from vter^^Uf CeDD-
A]Z]V) (Aengus Cenn aitiri), another son, descended the
powerful family of the O'Deas, and others, who from
TejiruAC, a more immediate ancestor, took the tribe name of
Cfi)el 7eftri)Aic (Cinel Fermaic), the word Gjuel, or
Kinel, also signifying clan, family; or descendants. And
these tribe designations (Dal, Kind, &c.) came to signify
also the territory appropriated by law to the respective tribes j
and again, as applied to the inhabitants, soon included all the
other families, though of different race, who by purchase or
permission came to be settled within the lands of the tribe
It was in this way that the O'Griffys came to be included in*
the Kinel Fermaic, and their locality, at the period of the
battle recorded in the above-mentioned poem (A.D. 1317),
i- thus fixed, for the boundaries of the Cinel Fermaic are
known to have extended from Dysert to Glencolumbcille and
Tullycomain, in the present barony of Inchiquin. (See
O'Donovan's Annals of the Four Masters, p. 2100.)

The Philip O'Griffy so honourably mentioned in the poem
was not, however, the CJiiefof his name at the time, as ap-
pears in another part of the tract above quoted, where it is
stated that that high position was filled by Ujt^Aile
' (Urthaile), or Hurley O'Griffy, who was one of the principal
advisers of the O'Brien.

In the Annals of the Four Masters, several references are
made, under subsequent year^, to the O'GruTys, residing in
the territory of Kinel Fermaic. At A.D. 1413 is recorded
the death of Mahon O'Griffy, Bishop of Killaloe, " at the
monastery of the Canons, in Cojica t)<v[rqi)D (Corca
Baiscm)." (This was the monastery of Canon Island, in the
mouth of the Fergus.) Under A.D. 1588, we find recorded
the death of William O'Nti.ian, at the hands of certain of
the O'Griffys, by th; cooiway of the monastery of Ennia.

APPENDIX. 403

And agaii. we h*re, under A.D. 1599, allusion made tt
Tully O'Dea, and Bally Griffy, M in the cantred of Kinel Fer-
maic, in Thomond,' in connection with the memorable inva-
sion by the great Red Hugh O'Donnell of the territories of
the renegade Earl of Thomond

The townland of Bally Griffy still contains the ruins of the
ancient castle of the O'Griffys in the parish of Dysert. And
the O'Griffys had possesion of this Bally, or Townland, and
castle, down to the reign of James the First ; for in a List of
the Resident Gentlemen of Thomond, taken in the year 15S6,
appears the name of " O'Griffee, of Ballygriffee." (A copy of
this List is preserved in the Cottonian MSS. in the British
Museum, tit. b. 17, folio 399.)

The final dispossession of the O'Griffys, in 1662, is recorded
in the following extract from a curious MS. now preserved
vn the Library of Trinity College, Dublin ; it is an origins*
MS. Survey, or Statement of the Bishops' Lands, in the
handwriting of Dr. Edward Worth, the first Protestant
Bishop of Killaloe after the Restoration, about 1662-3 :

" Barony of Inchiquin, parish of Killnemona, Ballinoknock, and
Ilandgare, in the county survey. These lands were possessed in time
of peace by Flan Neylan and John O'Gryphae, and are now trans-
ferred on transplanters. It appears by the Civil Survey, page 89,
that Donogh O'Brien of Newtowne, Esq., -was possessed of Islangar
\ quarter by virtue of a mortgage from Flan Neylan. The former
2 quarters, and 3 parts of a quarter, were released to the Bishop of
Killaloe, 6° Jan., Anno 1617, by John O'Grypha, and Teige O'Grypha,
and others. This is among the Releases, No. 7. And Bishop Rider
set the same to Loghlin, mac Mahon, O'Grypha, and John O'Grypha.
for three score years, from the year aforesaid, 1617, to be completed
and read in manner following, viz. : to Loghlin O'Greepha the i
parts of the carrowmire of Gortnenloghen, and Dromdavacke, the
-uirrowmire of Ballinekille, wanting the Stk part, the carrowmire of

40-i APPENDIX.

Raghen, the carrowmire of Cloncar, and the one halfe of three parts
of the carrowmire of Craggan, and another four (fourth?) in Craggan.
11 To John O'Greepha the carrowmire of Lackyn, the car. of Drom-
ban, the car. of Clonkerin, the three parts of the car. of Maharevor-
nane. the i of the car. of Lisivigin, the £ of the car. of Leid and
Gortnacloen, f parts of the car. of Dromcur, ^ of the car. of Mocholo-
cane, ^ of the car. of Knockarahine, another Jour of Kilcurish in the
parish of Disert, for sixty yeares, commencing the 10th of Jan., 1617
at £4 17s. 6d. yearly. * * * * * Upca my
petition to the house of Lords, 20th June 1662, I had an order that
tue tAjsseasors of the castle and lands of Disert should deliver up the
possession or appear and shew cause to the contrary. And upon
the ahidavit of John Credane 8° Julii, that the said order was served
ou leige U'Gripha and \Vm. Carrig the 26th of June, who obeyed
nut the same nor appeared, I had an order, 16th of July, to th«
sheriff to put me into possession, who, (viz. George Purdon, Esq.)
en the 25th of September, went personally to deliver the possession
to me. but tne cattle was forcibly detained by Captain William Xea-
lano. But he quickly delivered the possession of the said castle to

who was authorised by the sheriff to take it, and wuo

delivered it U) Lt. CoL Lucas in n0iit of the Bushuo."

OLE END.

=.

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PR Griffin, Daniel

4728 The life of Gerald Griff 1

G8Z68
1872

i