pears to have been directed by a judicious, as well as affectionate hand. One of his mother's earliest presents to him was a manuscript copy of Goldsmith's Deserted Village, which he treasured religiously among his papers to his latest hour. She seems to have been a woman of extensive reading; and, next to his religious training, took peculiar pleasure in directing his studies into a useful track. He himself, from his earliest years, was a most assiduous reader. At breakfast or tea, he used to sit with a book before him, one or two under his arm, and several on the chair behind him. "My mother met him one night," writes Dr. Griffin, "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, when 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 childhood had shown great 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 astonishment, and some concern for his senses, Gerald instantly guessed what he was about. On returning to the parlor, my mother asked, 'Gerald, where is William?" 'He is spinning monsoons, mamma,' said Gerald, with an air of great gravity.” Although his early' boyhood does not appear to have exhibited any indication of the poetic talent developed in after life, yet, in his maturer poetry may be found abundant evidence of a mind early stored with the imagery which none but a poet can draw from external nature, and with impressions and recollections, unheeded, perhaps, at the time, but carefully treasured up for future use. The following beautiful lines, though written long afterwards, have a peculiar interest notwithstanding, as connected with the recollections of this portion of his life : I "Old times! old times! the gay old times! When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes My Sunday palm beside me placed, My cross upon my hand, A heart at rest within my breast, Old times! Old times! II "It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale, I mourn whene'er I think of thee, 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! III. "I've lived to know my share of joy, Old times! Old times! IV. "And sure the land is nothing changed, Still sweetly shades my frame, Old times! old times! V. "Oh, come again, ye merry times! My tears would flow in vain ; Old times! Old times!'-Pp. 59-60. In 1820, his parents, with the elder portion of the family, emigrated to America. Gerald, however, who was then about seventeen, remained in Ireland, with a younger brother, and two sisters-one of whom was in delicate health-under the protection of an elder brother, William Griffin, who had just entered upon the medical profession. For a time, it was intended that Gerald should follow the profession of his brother, and he had actually commenced a course of studies under his direction. But the love of literature prevailed in the end; and he gradually devoted himself entirely to it,-first, as an occasional contributor to some of the Limerick journals, and eventually as managing editor of a paper called the Advertiser. This, however, appears to have been any thing but a congenial occupation. Griffin was an ardent politician, and, although the journal was nominally liberal, the proprietor was afraid of every thing which could give the shadow of offence to "the Castle." During the intervals of these occupations, he devoted himself to poetry; and before he had yet completed his eighteenth year, he produced his first tragedy, Aguire, founded on a Spanish | to me. Until within a short time back, I have story. The extreme beauty of this play, and the high promise of literary excellence which it bespoke in so young a writer, induced his brother, though not without considerable hesitation, to yield his approval to Gerald's bold resolution of going to London, and offering it for representation at some of the leading theatres. Accordingly, in the autumn, of 1823, before he had completed his twentieth he set out for the great meyear, tropolis, "with a few pounds in one pocket, and a brace of tragedies in the other, supposing that the one would set him up before the other was exhausted." The history of his struggles in the commencement of his career-the oft-told tale of hope deferred-the chilling neglect of hollow patrons, and hollower friends-the wasting drudgery of unrequited labor, and the still more melancholy tale of the physical wretchedness, the penury, the neglect, the shame, the sickness, into which he was plunged is full of most painful interest. Much of it is given in his letters to his brother; some has been collected from the few literary friends whom he had during these years of trial, but much more remained untold, locked up in the recesses of his own sensitive heart. The following letter to his father and mother, when he had just begun to emerge from his trials, is a condensed history of this painful period; but it is easy to perceive that, in mercy to them, he passes over the darkest scenes, or touches them so lightly, as to disguise the depth of the misery to which he had been exposed. We premise that the actor to whom he intrusted his play for presentation is believed to have been Mr. Macready. not had since I left Ireland a single moment's peace of mind-constantly-constantly 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 any thing 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, 1 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 and may me, as well just glance at a few of them. Let me first, however, beg 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 fill 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, induced me to set about revolutionizing the dramatic taste of the time by writing and the first step taken (a couple of pieces writfor the stage. Indeed the design was formed, ten) 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 carry 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 gentlemen; some of high that circle on that night was sweeter, far sweeter consideration too. The applause however of to me, than would be the bravos of a whole theatre at present, being united at the time to "15, Paddington Street, Regent's Park, the confident anticipation of it. One of the London, October 12th, 1825. people present immediately got me an introduc"MY DEAR, EVER DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, tion to * * * *I was offered several for -To make sure of your hearing from me now, all the actors.) To * * I went, and he I send a second letter. I have just received let down the pegs that made my music. He was from the editor of the Gazette, J. W- -'s letter very polite, talked and chatted about himself, of the 6th of last August. By the merest chance and Shiel, and my friend — excellent friend in the world it reached me, as its direction was Banim. He kept my play four months, wrote indeed the most uncertain possible. Mary me some nonsensical apologies about keeping it Anne's I never got. Under the circumstances as so long, and cut off to Ireland, leaving orders to they appear to you, it is matter more of pain have it sent to my lodgings, without any opinion. than astonishment to me, that you should have I was quite surprised at this, and the more so, been so entirely at a loss in finding excusable as Banim, who is one of the most successful dramotives for my silence, and I have no objection matic writers, told me he was sure he would whatsoever to offer to J's 'unwilling sup-keep it: at the same time saying, what indeed I positions.' It is one of those misfortunes (and found every person who had the least theatrical I hope the last of them) which the miserable knowledge join in, that I acted most unwisely in and galling life I have led since I came to Lon-putting a play into an actor's hands. But don, (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 may * * 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 these weekly publications; | and I told him Joseph (Gerald's name in confirmaall of which, except the Literary Gazette, tion). This did not satisfy him. He invited me cheated me abominably. Then, finding this to to his house in the country, (a splendid place he be the case, I wrote for the great magazines. has got,) and I declined. He repeated the inMy articles were generally inserted; but on vitation-and at last finding I could not precalling for payment, seeing that I was a poor serve the incognito any longer, I left the pubinexperienced devil, there was so much shuffling lisher, and secured myself with him by making and shabby work that it disgusted me, and I myself known. I went to his country house, gave up the idea of making money that way. I and found him there with his wife-a very elenow lost heart for every thing; got into the gant woman and family; surrounded by harps, cheapest lodgings I could make out, and there harpsichords, pianos, piazzas, gardens, in fact a worked on, rather to divert my mind from the perfect palace within and without. He professed horrible gloom that I felt growing on me in the highest admiration for me, for which I did spite of myself, than with any hope of being re- not care one farthing; but that at first it led me munerated. This, and the recollection of the to suspect he had some design of cheating me at expense I had put William to, and the fears- the end; such is the way of the world; but I do that every moment became conviction-that I so much for him now that I have in some degree never should be enabled to fulfil his hopes or made myself necessary. I have the satisfaction to my own expectations, all came pressing to-see-and he sees it too-my articles quoted and gether upon my mind and made me miserable. commended in the daily papers; satisfaction, I A thousand, and a thousand times I wished that say, as every thing of that kind gives me a firmer I could lie down quietly and die at once, and be hold of the paper. The theatrical department forgotten for ever. But that however was not is left altogether to me; and I mortify my reto be had for the asking. I don't think I left any vengeful spirit by invariably giving ** ** all thing undone that could have changed the course the applause he could expect, or in justice lay of affairs, or brought me a little portion of the claim to. I assure you I feel a philosophical good luck that was going on about me: but pride and comfort in thus proving to myself that good luck was too busy elsewhere. I can hard- my conduct is not to be influenced by that of ly describe to you the state of mind I was in at another, no matter how nearly the latter may this time. It was not an indolent despondency, affect my interests. Mr. W- the editor I for I was working hard, and I am now-and it speak of, has this week given me a new engageis only now-receiving money for the labor of ment on a new weekly publication-and also on those dreadful hours. I used not to see a face one of the Quarterly Reviews of which he is that I knew, and after sitting writing all day, editor, that is, as he told me plainly enough, if when I walked in the streets in the evening it he liked my articles, that they should be inserted usually seemed to me as if I was of a different and paid for; and if not, sent back to me. I species altogether from the people about me. have sent one and he has kept it. This you must The fact was, from pure anxiety alone I was know is no slight honor, for all the other conmore than half dead, and would most certainly tributors are the very first men of the time. The have given up the ghost I believe, were it not review appears on the same day in four difthat by the merest accident on earth, the literary ferent languages, in four countries of Europe friend who had procured me the unfortunate in- Thus, things begin to look in smiles upon me at troduction a year before, dropped in one evening last. I have within the past fortnight cleared to 'have a talk' with me. I had not seen him, nor away the last of the debts I had incurred here, any body else that I knew, for some months, with the good fortune of meeting them in full and he frightened me by saying I looked like a time to prevent even a murmur. With the asghost. In a few days, however, a publisher of sistance of Heaven, I hope my actual embarhis acquaintance had got some things to do rassments ('tis laughable to apply the words to works to arrange, regulate, and revise; so he such little matters as they are) have passed asked me if I would devote a few hours in the away for ever. Will you direct a letter for me, middle of every day to the purpose for £50 a my dear mother, to the address I have given year. I did so, and among other things which above, and as soon as you receive this? I have got to revise was a weekly fashionable jour- not seen a line from one of you since I came to nal. After I had read this for some weeks, I London. Let it be a long one, and contrive to said to myself, 'Why, hang it, I am sure I can say something about every separate individual write better than this at any rate.' And at the of that dear circle to which my thoughts are consame time I knew that the contributors were stantly and affectionately wandering, and where well paid. I wrote some sketches of London I have resolved on wandering myself as soon as life, and sent them anonymously to the editor, the despotism of circumstances will allow. I offering to contribute without payment. He in- sometimes luxuriate in the prospect of being able serted the little sketches, and sent a very hand- to arrange matters with a publisher here, so that some sum to my anonymous address for them; a trip might set me down, at least as it found desiring me to continue, and he would always me; and such an arrangement it is not improbabe happy to pay for similar ones. This put me ble I may accomplish when I have established a in great spirits, and by the knowledge I had ac- better connection here. quired of literary people and transactions altogether, I was enabled to manage in this instance, so as to secure a good engagement. The editor made several attempts to find me out. He asked my name plainly in one letter, "My dear Father and Mother, -pp. 137-141. We could not bear to curtail this long but all his influence to forward his prospects,interesting letter. Throughout all his diffi- to whose friendly and persevering services culties, he seldom allowed himself to forget he was indebted for his eventual success. hope, which he calls "the sweetest cordial, And yet the same extreme sensitiveness, next to religion, with which Heaven qualifies which induced him to conceal his circumthe cup of calamity." In the interval of stances from his own family, prevented him sunshine between the presentation of his from allowing Banim to know any thing of play and its final rejection, he turned him- his embarrassments. He was keenly alive self to almost every other possible means of to all his kindness. "I should never be tired procuring a literary livelihood. First he of talking about and thinking of Banim," he sought employment as reporter in the law writes to his brother. And yet he could not courts; but, as the parliament was not sit- bring himself, we do not say to ask, but even ting at the time, he found the profession to accept, when kindly offered, the slightest overstocked by the unengaged parliamentary pecuniary assistance from him. reporters then he commenced, with a Spanish friend named Llanos, a series of translations from Calderon, which they offered to Colburn, but found to be "out of his line." Then he conceived the idea of translating or modifying the Causes Célèbres of the French courts. The bookseller to whom he mentioned it, was caught by the idea; but, before he could be induced to take it up, the scheme was anticipated by another. He wrote for almost all the magazines, and his papers generally found a ready insertion; but the payment was far less easily managed. He thought of reporting the celebrated trial of Thurtell for the murder of Weare, which was then pending; but seems not to have found any one to undertake its publication. The most miserable drudgery of translation or compilation was eagerly caught at. He translated a volume and a half of Prevolt's works for two guineas, and furnished a bookseller in five days, with a pamphlet containing as much matter as would fill an ordinary "Gerald had, as we have seen by one of the house for the last two months, though frequently last-quoted letters, not gone near Mr. Banim's 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 without 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 ascertaining 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 These she his condition and circumstances. spoke of in terms 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 commonest necessaries, that he To complete his distress, the intelligence appeared in bad spirits, dressed but indifferently, which he received of the ill-health of his shut himself up for whole days together in his brother, Dr. Griffin, made him conceal his room, without sending her for any provision, real situation from those who would cheer- and when he went out, it was only at night-fall, fully have relieved him; and he suffered on knew. This was a very distressing picture, parwhen he was likely to meet no one that he in silence, though never in absolute despair. ticularly when considered in connection with his "You have no idea what a heart-breaking incommunicativeness, and the silent endurance life that of a young scribbler, beating about, with which it was going on. Mr. Banim immeand endeavoring to make his way in London, diately returned home, and wrote him a very is: going into a bookseller's shop, as I have kind letter, offering him some pecuniary assistoften done, and being obliged to praise up my ance, until he should be able to get over his preown manuscript, to induce him to look at it at sent difficulties. As I am not in possession all-for there is so much competition, that a per- either of this letter, or the one written in reply son without a name will not even get a trial-to it, and as all that is characteristic in such things while he puts on his spectacles, and answers all your self-commendation with a 'hum-um ;a set of hardened villains! and yet at no time whatever could I have been prevailed upon to quit London altogether. That horrid word failure,-No!-death first!"—pp. 121–123. post octavo volume. It is pleasing to know, that amid all this misery, he found a constant and zealous friend in our countryman, Banim, who used It is suffi depends more upon the manner almost, than pursuing the matter further. The friends did correctly, panting to be permitted to toil, not meet again for some time; and the circum- would ever dream that the miserable state, stance occasioned a degree of estrangement not only of his finances but even of his wardwhich it was not easy to repair."—pp. 129-131. robe, which his excessive delicacy made him seek to conceal, was preventing him from availing himself of the introductions by which Banim sought to forward his fortunes, and even from applying to the booksellers for a renewal of the wretched pittance of employment, by which he had been striving to keep soul and body together.* But we have been anticipating a little. His first feeling, on Macready's returning his tragedy, was disappointment, though, he says, he felt relieved to know that he was not doomed to owe his success to "histrionic pa tronage." But he regained his wonted ener- ied it out." It is not easy to imagine the depths of suffering into which a mind like his, sensitive to a painful degree, must have been plunged by the humiliations and heart-burnings to which he was constantly exposed; and it is hard to conceive how his constitution sustained itself under the amount of physical labor he underwent. He was often kept drudging until four, and even five, in the morning, and seldom got to bed before three, unless when -(for sickness, too, was added to his cup of trial)" he happened to doctor himself, which was not often." Can we wonder that in scenes like these, his young aspirings after fame were chilled almost into indifference, or, rather, positive disgust? "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 every body, before they succeed, to wear away all relish for it in the exertion. I have seen enough of literature 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 as 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 they are the happiest who are making the most, and am so convinced of the reality of its blessings, that if I could make a fortune by splitting matches, I think I never would put a word in print."-p. 117. How few of those for whose intellectual enjoyment he was toiling, or, to speak more "The fact is". -we cannot transcribe the poor fellow's words without emotion—“ 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 a and to have no opportunity of laying an mountain of wealth, almost upon Change,' honest hand upon a stray draught of it, in its *The following beautiful ode is a most touching picture of his feelings in those hours of loneliness and desertion : |