Chapter LXX: Conclusion (1)

During the progress of these events, the health of George Wingate had been gradually failing, but so imperceptibly as to create no serious alarm; and he could not be prevailed upon to abandon his studies, or the hope that he would live to consecrate his young life to his God in holy orders, until it was near its close. Henry Howe and Johnny Hart devoted themselves tenderly to him, and watched his decline with the grief which under such circumstances always attends friendships created and cemented by religion. He began at length to fail so rapidly that his family were sent for, and he never returned to the home of his childhood, but sleeps in peace under the shadow of the "Holy Cross" which he so dearly loved.

His mantle seemed to have fallen upon his devoted friend, Johnny Hart, who in due course of time entered upon the vineyard from which his beloved companion had been withdrawn while the dews of the morning still lingered upon his head, and the labors of the day were hardly begun.

Soon after the death of George, his oldest sister, Mary, joined the Sisters of Charity.

In the same year, Henry Howe took his father's place in the mercantile business, which was rapidly increasing in importance with the growth of the village, and Dennis Sullivan went into partnership with him.

After Michael reached San Francisco, he arranged his affairs, and opened an office in one of the best locations in the city, without delay. He found a home in James Tracy's house, and one of the best friends in that worthy man, who took a pride and interest in the son of his lamented friend scarcely less than that of a father.

Frank Blair became importunate in his solicitations for the hand of Julia Plimpton. Her mother steadfastly declining to consent until he should have established a character for sobriety and stability, he became exasperated, and abruptly left the navy. His disconsolate family could get no trace as to the course of his flight.

One day, as Michael Hennessy was passing down the street to his office, he observed a young man walking rapidly in advance of him, and, accidentally catching a side glimpse of his face, what was his astonishment to recognize Frank Blair.

"Why Frank, my lad, where in the world did you come from?" he cried out.

"Rather answer that question on your own account!" replied the astonished Frank. "How in the world do you happen to be in San Francisco?"

"If I could have seen you as I passed through New York, you would have known all; but I could not find you, and had no time to spare for a long search," said Michael. "It is a long story; so come with me to the office, and you shall hear it."

When the friends were seated, Frank told Michael that he had left the navy without a discharge, and shipped as seaman on board a vessel bound for Panama; and that he supposed his friends were wild with anxiety about him.

Michael communicated the details relating to his own affairs, with which our readers are already acquainted. He then wrote to Mr. Blair the story of Frank's arrival in safety, and that if he had no objections Frank would study law with him in San Francisco. Upon receiving the letter, Mr. Blair obtained an honorable discharge for his son from the navy, and consented to his remaining with Michael. In the course of time he went into partnership with his friend--now his brother-in-law--who has become one of the most celebrated criminal lawyers in that city.

Two years after the marriage of Michael, Frank was permitted to claim the hand of Julia Plimpton. At the same time, Henry Howe was married to Mrs. Plimpton's youngest daughter, Mary, and her mother came to live with them.

Mrs. Plimpton's son Charles is a lawyer in Massachusetts, and it is said he is coming for Lucy Wingate soon.

The people of M----, having noticed the frequent visits of Dennis Sullivan and Patrick Casey at Mr. Hennessy's, and that two beautiful cottages are building on lots purchased by that gentleman each side of his own, have settled the question that two more weddings are soon to take place in M----, but have not yet "named the day."

READING HOMER.

How my dreamy childhood pondered
On that old heroic tongue!
Then, the dream-land where I wandered
Was the Olympus Homer sung;
The cloud-cleaving peaks that trembled
When the mighty gods assembled.

Dazzled saw I blue-eyed Pallas
Throned by Zeus on golden seat,
Sipped from Hebe's nectar chalice,
Plucked Cythera's roses sweet--
Breathless watched, as from those portals
Battleward clashed down the immortals.

Naiads from Scamander's fountain
Lifted to my lips the cup;
Oreads skimming Hæmus' mountain
To the tryst-place caught me up;
Gleamed athwart the forest's grace
The white light of Dian's face.

Burst upon my ear the townward
Thunder of Achilles' wheel,
When the fair long locks trailed downward,
And the shriek made Ilium reel.
Conquering torches, steep to steep,
Flashed along the wine-dark deep.

But my heart--that restless roamer--
Quit those fields of kingly strife,
That old world of Greece and Homer,
For the world of love and life.
Dead, like leaves on autumn clay,
Those old gods and wonders lay.

O the spirit's aspiration,
Glorious through all nature's bound!
The soul yearning through creation--
All the sought, and all the found!
Oh! what is--and what shall be
In far immortality?

For truth's marvels well are able
All of fiction to eclipse,
And the wine of classic fable
Tasteless palls upon the lips.
From the living fount of truth
Wells the soul's immortal youth.

Still at times when basks the river
The long summer afternoon,
When the broad green pastures quiver
In the rippling breeze of June,
I unclose the Iliad's pages,
To unearth those buried ages.

But no Ilium now, nor tragic
Plains I find in Homer's lay;
With a new and stranger magic
Now it leads another way--
Whirls me on a sudden track
To my merry childhood back.

All that fresh young joy rejoices,
Beats the child heart as of yore,
And again I hear--oh! voices
That I thought to hear no more,
Till--the dusk has round me grown;
Close the book--the dream has flown.

C. E. B.

THE WORKS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.[208]

Of the works of fiction in the English language of which the first half of this century has been so prolific, Ireland has contributed at least a fair proportionate share. Her writers in this department of literature are numerous, and their productions have been generally received with due favor on this side of the Atlantic as correct portraitures of the habits and manners of a people in whom we take so deep an interest, and whose very contradictions of character render them interesting studies for the curious and philosophic. Of so large a number four at least deserve special notice, standing, as they do, prominently in the front rank of Irish authors and exhibiting in a marked degree a pleasant diversity of talent and invention, as varied as the peculiar characteristics of the provinces to which they belong. Carleton, for example, was an Ulster-man, rugged and ungraceful, yet possessing a deep vein of caustic humor, while his figures are struck out as distinctly as if his pen had some of the power Of Michael Angelo's chisel; John Banim was the embodiment of Leinster propriety and stability; Lever is never so much at home as at the mess-table of the "Rangers," or when endangering the neck of his hero or heroine over a Galway fence; while through Gerald Griffin's pages flow, now gently as a meandering stream and anon with the impetuosity of a mountain torrent, the poetry and passion of Munster. Still, in the strictest sense, none of these novelists can be considered national; yet all are true to Irish character. To those unacquainted with the radical difference of mind, temperament, and even physique, which is to be found in so comparatively small a country, this may seem paradoxical; but it is nevertheless true. Mickey Frees and Lowry Lovbys are plentiful enough in Ireland, but only in their respective sections; while Valentine McClutchy terrifies the northern tenant each recurring gala-day, and Banim's Paddy Flynn, to use the pithy remark of Sir Philip Crampton, "is hanged twice a year regularly in the south of Ireland."

If any of them be entitled to the term national, that honor should be awarded to Griffin, who in his _Invasion_, _Duke of Monmouth_, and some minor stories, has travelled out of his favorite province with some degree of success. But even in his wanderings in Wicklow, Taunton dene, and the wilds of Northumbria, we are constantly catching glimpses of the Shannon and Killarney. The reason of this is obvious. He aimed to be a strict and minute copyist of nature; and nature to him was bounded by the lovely scenery of Munster and the people with whom he had been in daily intercourse for almost the whole of his short life. His power of observation, thus limited, became intensified, and what he lost in breadth of view and amplitude of knowledge, he gained in the distinctness and fidelity of his pictures. Besides, the merits of the true novelist, like those of the painter, should never be estimated by the square of the canvas, but by his faithfulness, either to human figure, action, and circumstance, or to the embodiment of noble ideas. It is not so difficult as it may seem to call up imaginary kings and princes, noble lords and ladies, clothe them with all the gorgeous panoply so easily found in the pages of dear old Froissart, or in the latest book of fashions, and make them speak and act in the most approved manner of our modern romances, because few of us care to inquire into the correctness either of design or execution. Cervantes and Goldsmith painted the men and manners of their day with rare fidelity, and their works will be read by the learned and unlearned as long as the languages in which they wrote shall exist; and no one can doubt that two of the most popular authors of our time, Balzac and Dickens, no matter how inferior in some respects to the authors of _Don Quixote_ and the _Vicar of Wakefield_, have truly held up to us panoramas of modern society in the two great cities of Europe. For Gerald Griffin we may not, perhaps, claim the universality of those great masters; but in purity of expression, truthfulness to nature, and delicacy of moral perception he is the equal of any of them.

There are some persons conversant with Irish character who maintain that its essential element is neither gayety nor combativeness, but melancholy, and sustain their apparently singular theory by reference to the national music and poetry. Griffin's writings would afford an additional argument in favor of this position. His genius was decidedly tragic, his muse sad and retrospective. His pauses to give us a glimpse of fireside enjoyment appear to be more as tributes to old home memories, than as arising from any natural desire to linger over the recollections of such tranquil scenes; and his snatches of humor and merriment seem thrown in artistically, not so much to relieve the sombre shading of his picture as to give its most prominent figures greater depth and boldness. He also labored under the disadvantage of all tragic minds; for, though he never can be said to have ignored the "eternal fitness of things" in rewarding the good and punishing the wicked, we close many of his volumes with a feeling more akin to sorrow than rejoicing, and while admitting the righteousness of his judgments, we sigh to think how God's best gifts to man may be turned to his own destruction. It seems to be the law of tragedy that the bad men must be more men of action than the good, in order to produce the proper effect. They dress better, talk more persuasively, and display high mental and physical qualities which, say what we may, will generally provoke a certain sympathy for them, evil as may be their acts. This inherent defect Griffin labored to modify, if he could not entirely eradicate. His moral heroes are good enough in their way, but their virtues are of too negative a character. Kyrle Daly, in the _Collegians_, and young Kingsly, in the _Duke of Monmouth_, have all the qualities we could desire in a friend or brother; but while we honor and respect them, a something akin to sympathy is clandestinely stealing out to the proud and wilful Hardress Cregan, and even to the cool malignity of that unparalleled scoundrel, Colonel Kirke. O'Haedha, in the _Invasion_, is an exception. He is _sui generis_ in Griffin's pantheon, being not only a man of pure morality and well up in the lore of his times, but he is also a chieftain governing wisely and firmly, a man of war as well as of love and peace, strong in his affections and hatreds, living, moving, and breathing like one who has a subtle brain, warm blood, and a powerful arm to enforce his authority. He is decidedly not only Griffin's grandest conception, but will stand in favorable comparison with any we can recall in historical romance.

The _Collegians_ is Gerald Griffin's best known and most popular novel; and, when we consider the early age of the author at the time it was written, and the circumstances amid which it was composed, we are equally surprised at his knowledge of the springs of human action, and at the excellences of the book, both as regards correctness of style and completeness of plot. Though the working of some of the strongest passions of our nature is portrayed in it--love, hatred, revenge, ambition--there is nothing about them sensational or melodramatic; and though many different characters are introduced, and incidents necessarily occur in a short space of time, there is nothing hurried or disjointed, one character acting upon another and each event following and hinging on the one preceding so gracefully and naturally that the reader is borne along on an unbroken current, as it were, from cause to effect till he reaches the final catastrophe. It is related that a portion of this admirable book was written in court while the author, who had attained considerable proficiency as a short-hand writer in London, was engaged in reporting an important law case. During an interval in the proceedings, Griffin took out his manuscripts, and, as was his habit, when a moment of leisure presented itself, proceeded to continue his story, regardless of his surroundings. It happened that Daniel O'Connell was employed professionally in the suit, and not knowing the writer, and supposing him to be occupied transcribing his notes, looked over his shoulder to read the evidence; but finding that it was something very different from the dry question and answer of counsellor and witness, the great advocate turned away in silent indifference. He little thought at the time that the quiet, industrious young reporter was Gerald Griffin, and that the work upon which he was so intently engaged was the _Collegians_--a work which, from the day of its publication, was ever the favorite solace of the hours of relaxation of that illustrious statesman.

The moral of the book, however, is its greatest merit. The character of Hardress Cregan is inimitably drawn. Young, gifted both in person and mind, with a disposition naturally inclined to good, but warped and misled by a fond, proud, worldly mother, and the example of a dissolute father and his associates; early left to his own guidance and the indulgence of his whims and fancies, he descends from the high position in which we find him at the opening chapter, through all the stages of crime--parental disobedience, ingratitude, deceit, debauchery, and finally murder. Through each step in guilt we can trace the cause of his ruin--moral cowardice, false pride, absence of self-control, alternating or uniting, but always with disastrous effect, until in the culminating scene, in which, torn by remorse and conscious guilt, he leaves his native shores a condemned felon and dies at sea, we feel that the punishment, no matter how severe, is but in strict accordance with our highest sense of retributive justice. Nor are the almost equally, though perhaps unconsciously, guilty parents forgotten. Like a just judge, Griffin not only punishes the actual perpetrator of crime, but metes out penalties to those whose duty it is to correct the excesses of youth, restrain their passions, and lead them by precept and example to the practice as well as the knowledge of good, and who neglect the sacred trust. What parent, after reading the _Collegians_, can contemplate without a shudder the pangs of the haughty mother and the utter hopelessness of her dissipated husband, when they found their only child, so tenderly nurtured and so thoroughly schooled, torn from their arms in chains, and dying the death of an outcast and a convict. Their punishment abided in their parental hearts, and the author goes no further. Many years ago, we casually overheard one of the most thoroughly read, as well as one of the most profound thinkers in America, say, upon being asked his opinion of the _Collegians_, that he considered it the best novel in the language; for, while it made you hate the crime, it did not take away your charity for the criminal; an opinion which we think will be concurred in by all who have attentively read the book and applied the moral it contains. Kyrle Daly is an antipode of his friend and fellow-student, Hardress Cregan. His filial reverence and moral rectitude are depicted in his every action, and his whole character is as beautiful and lovable as that of the other is dark and fraught with terrible warnings. Not that young Daly is presented as a model lackadaisical individual, by any means; but as a strong man of matured mind and deep feelings, true in friendship and trusting in love; yet withal guided by the dictates of his religion and directed by the authority and advice of his father and mother, a weakness, if it be one, we are sorry to say, not often indulged in at the present day.

Did the limits of our article permit, we might furnish many extracts from this remarkable novel in testimony of the high opinion of the merits found in its pages by so many distinguished scholars, but the _Collegians_ is now so generally read that this is hardly necessary. We transcribe, however, the following brief sketch of a morning on the Shannon, and a breakfast scene, as a specimen of the author's power of minute description of rural scenery and felicitous rendering of social life:

"They had assembled, on the morning of Eily's disappearance, a
healthy and blooming household of all sizes, in the principal
sitting-room, for a purpose no less important than that of
dispatching breakfast. It was a favorable moment for any one
who might be desirous of sketching a family picture. The
windows of the room, which were thrown up for the purpose
of admitting the fresh morning air, opened upon a trim and
sloping meadow, that looked sunny and cheerful with the bright
green after-grass of the season. The broad and sheety river
washed the very margin of the little field, and bore upon its
quiet bosom (which was only ruffled by the circling eddies
that encountered the advancing tide) a variety of craft, such
as might be supposed to indicate the approach to a large
city. Majestic vessels, floating idly on the basined flood,
with sails half-furled, in keeping with the languid beauty
of the scene; lighters burdened to the water's edge with
bricks or sand; large rafts of timber borne onward toward the
neighboring quays under the guidance of a shipman's boat-hook;
pleasure-boats with gaudy pennons hanging at peak and topmast;
or turf-boats with their unpicturesque and ungraceful lading,
moving sluggishly forward, while their black sails seemed
gasping for a breath to fill them--such were the incidents that
gave a gentle animation to the prospect immediately before the
eyes of the cottage dwellers. On the further side of the river
arose the Cratloe hills, shadowed in various places by a broken
cloud, and rendered beautiful by the checkered appearance
of the ripening tillage and the variety of hues that were
observable along their wooded sides. At intervals, the front of
a handsome mansion brightened up a passing gleam of sunshine,
while the wreaths of blue smoke, ascending at various distances
from among the trees, tended to relieve the idea of extreme
solitude which it would otherwise have presented.

"The interior of the cottage was not less interesting to
contemplate than the landscape which lay before it. The
principal breakfast-table (for there were two spread in the
room) was placed before the window, the neat and snow-white
damask cloth covered with fare that spoke satisfactorily for
the circumstances of the proprietor, and for the housewifery
of his helpmate. The former, a fair, pleasant-faced old
gentleman, in a huge buckled cravat and square-toed shoes,
somewhat distrustful of the meagre beverage which fumed out
of Mrs. Daly's lofty and shining coffee-pot, had taken his
position before a cold ham and fowl which decorated the lower
end of the table. His lady, a courteous old personage, with a
face no less fair and happy than her husband's, and with eyes
sparkling with good nature and intelligence, did the honors of
the board at the further end. On the opposite side, leaning
over the back of his chair with clasped hands, in an attitude
which had a mixture of abstraction and anxiety, sat Mr. Kyrle
Daly, the first pledge of connubial affection that was born to
this comely pair. He was a young man already initiated in the
rudiments of the legal profession; of a handsome figure, and
in manner--but something now pressed upon his spirits which
rendered this an unfavorable occasion for describing him.

"A second table was laid in a more retired portion of the
room, for the accommodation of the younger part of the family.
Several well-burnished goblets, or porringers, of thick
milk flanked the sides of this board, while a large dish of
smooth-coated potatoes reeked up in the centre. A number
of blooming boys and girls, between the ages of four and
twelve, were seated at this simple repast, eating and drinking
away with all the happy eagerness of youthful appetite.
Not, however, that this employment occupied their exclusive
attention; for the prattle which circulated round the table
frequently became so boisterous as to drown the conversation
of the older people, and to call forth the angry rebuke of the
master of the family.

"The furniture of the apartment was in accordance with the
appearance and manners of its inhabitants. The floor was
handsomely carpeted, a lofty green fender fortified the
fireplace, and supplied Mr. Daly in his facetious moments with
occasions for the frequent repetition of a favorite conundrum,
'Why is that fender like Westminster Abbey?'--a problem with
which he never failed to try the wit of any stranger who
happened to spend a night beneath his roof. The wainscoted
walls were ornamented with several of the popular prints of the
day, such as Hogarth's Roast Beef, Prince Eugene, Schomberg at
the Boyne, Mr. Betterton playing Cato in all the glory of

'Full wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair;'

of the royal Mandane, in the person of Mrs. Mountain,
strutting among the arbors of her Persian palace in a lofty
_tête_ and hooped petticoat. There were also some family
drawings done by Mrs. Daly in her school-days, of which we
feel no inclination to say more than that they were prettily
framed. In justice to the fair artist, it should also be
mentioned that, contrary to the established practice, her
sketches were never retouched by the hand of her master, a
fact which Mr. Daly was fond of insinuating, and which no
one who saw the pictures was tempted to call in question. A
small book-case, with the edges of the shelves handsomely
gilded, was suspended in one corner of the room, and, on
examination, might be found to contain a considerable number
of works on Irish history, for which study Mr. Daly had
a national predilection, a circumstance much deplored by
all the impatient listeners in his neighborhood, and (some
people hinted) in his own household; some religious books,
and a few volumes on cookery and farming. The space over the
lofty chimney-piece was assigned to some ornaments of a more
startling description. A gun-rack, on which were suspended a
long shore gun, a brass-barreled blunderbuss, a cutlass, and a
case of horse-pistols, manifested Mr. Daly's determination to
maintain, if necessary, by force of arms, his claim to the fair
possessions which his honest industry had acquired.

"'Kyrle,' said Mr. Daly, putting his fork into a breast of cold
goose, and looking at his son, 'you had better let me put a
little goose (with an emphasis) on your plate. You know you are
going a-wooing to-day.'

"The young gentleman appeared not to hear him. Mrs. Daly, who
understood more intimately the nature of her son's reflections,
deprecated, by a significant look at her husband, the
continuance of any raillery upon so delicate a subject.

"'Kyrle, some coffee?' said the lady of the house; but without
being more successful in awakening the attention of the young
gentleman.

"Mr. Daly winked at his wife.

"'Kyrle!' he called aloud, in a tone against which even a
lover's absence was not proof, 'do you hear what your mother
says?'

"'I ask pardon, sir--I was absent--I--what were you saying,
mother?'

"'She was saying,' continued Mr. Daly, with a smile, 'that you
were manufacturing a fine speech for Anna Chute, and that you
were just meditating whether you should deliver it on your
knees or out of brief, as if you were addressing the bench in
the Four Courts.'

"'For shame, my dear! Never mind him, Kyrle; I said no such
thing. I wonder how you can say that, my dear, and the children
listening.'

"'Pooh! the little angels are too busy and too innocent to pay
us any attention,' said Mr. Daly, lowering his voice, however.
'But, speaking seriously, my boy, you take this affair too
deeply to heart; and whether it be in our pursuit of wealth,
or fame, or even in love itself, an extreme solicitude to be
successful is the surest means of defeating its own object.
Besides, it argues an unquiet and unresigned condition. I have
had a little experience, you know, in affairs of this kind,' he
added, smiling and glancing at his fair helpmate, who blushed
with the simplicity of a young girl.

"'Ah sir!' said Kyrle, as he drew nearer to the breakfast-table
with a magnanimous affectation of cheerfulness, 'I fear I have
not so good a ground for hope as you may have had. It is very
easy, sir, for one to be resigned to disappointment, when he is
certain of success.'

"'Why, I was not bidden to despair indeed,' said Mr. Daly,
extending his hand to his wife, while they exchanged a quiet
smile, which had in it an expression of tenderness and of
melancholy remembrance.

"'I have, I believe, been more fortunate than more deserving
persons. I have never been vexed with useless fears in my
wooing days, nor with vain regrets when those days were ended.
I do not know, my dear lad, what hopes you have formed, or
what prospects you may have shaped out of the future; but I
will not wish you a better fortune than that you may as nearly
approach to their accomplishment as I have done, and that time
may deal as fairly with you as he has done with your father.'
After saying this, Mr. Daly leaned forward on the table, with
his temple supported by one finger, and glanced alternately
from his children to his wife while he sang in a low tone the
following verse of a popular song:

'How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue;
And when with envy time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I--'

with a glance at Kyrle--

'And I go wooing with the boys.'"

We cannot close this imperfect sketch of the _Collegians_ without commending the treatment of the humbler personages introduced, equally free as they are from that stilted phraseology and broad caricature which too often disgrace Irish novels and so-called Irish plays. Poor Eily O'Connor, in all her simple innocence and ignorance of the world, is a beautiful creation; and though travestied in three or four different forms on the stage, she still holds a lasting place in our affections. Her meeting with her discarded lover, Myles Murphy the mountaineer, presents us a scene of touching pathos such as only, we imagine, an Irish peasant could express in his native tongue:

"'There is only one person to blame in all this business,'
murmured the unhappy girl, 'and that is Eily O'Connor.'

"'I don't say that,' returned the mountaineer. 'It's no
admiration to me you should be heart-broken with all the
persecution we gave you day afther day. All I'm thinking is,
I'm sorry you didn't mention it to myself unknownst. Sure it
would be betther for me than to be as I was afther, when I
heerd you were gone. Lowry Lovby told me first of it, when I
was eastwards. Oh ro! such a life as I led afther. Lonesome as
the mountains looked before, when I used to come home thinkin'
of you, they looked ten times lonesomer afther I heerd of that
story. The ponies, poor crathers--see 'em all, how they're
lookin' down at us this moment--they didn't hear me spring
the rattle on the mountain for a month afther. I suppose they
thought it is in Garryowen I was.'

"Here he looked upward, and pointing to his herd, a great
number of which were collected in groups on the broken cliffs
above the road, some standing so far forward on the projections
of rock as to appear magnified against the dusky sky, Myles
sprang the large wooden rattle which he held in his hand, and
in an instant all dispersed and disappeared, like the clan of a
Highland chief at the sound of their leader's whistle.

"'Well, Myles,' said Eily, at length collecting a little
strength, 'I hope we'll see some happy days in Garryowen yet.'

"'Heaven send it! I'll pack off the boy to-night to town,
or I'll go myself, if you like, or I'll get you a horse and
truckle, and guide it myself for you, or I'll do any thing in
the whole world that you'll have me. Look at this. I'd rather
be doing your bidding this moment than my own mother's, and
heaven forgive me, if that's a sin! Ah Eily! they may say this
and that o' you, in the place where you were born; but I'll
ever hold to it, I held to it all through, an' I'll hold to it
to my death, that when you darken your father's door again, you
will send no shame before you.'

"'You are right in that, Myles.'

"'Didn't I know I was? And wasn't it that that broke my heart!
If one met me afther you flitted away, an' saw me walking
the road with my hands in my pockets and my head down, an' I
thinking; an' if he sthruck me on the shoulder, an' "Myles,"
says he, "don't grieve for her, she's this an' that," and if he
proved it to me, why, I'd look up that minute an' I'd smile in
his face. I'd be as easy from that hour as if I never crossed
your threshold at Garryowen! But knowing in my heart, and as my
heart told me, that it never could be that way; that Eily was
still the old girl always, an' hearing what they said o' you,
an' knowing that it was I that brought it all upon you--O Eily!
Eily!--O Eily O'Connor! there is not that man upon Ireland
ground that can tell what I felt. That was what kilt me! That
was what drove the pain into my heart, and kept me in the
doctor's hands till now.'"

Altogether different in design and scope is the _Invasion_, a historical novel intended to describe the institutions, manners, and ways of life of the ancient Irish, and it is much to be regretted that it is so little read by the descendants of that peculiar people, especially by those who turn aside from the difficulties of nomenclature presented by the actual history of Ireland. With the same motive that actuated Scott to present the otherwise unattractive and obscure facts of the early history of Britain in the fascinating garb of romance, our author, always deeply imbued with love of country and reverence for the past, sought in this book to give a complete picture of the public, social, and religious life of his ancestors as it was known or supposed to exist in the eighth century, before the repeated incursions of the Northmen had desolated their valleys, razed their towns, and pillaged their churches and seats of learning. To most men of a fine imagination and poetic temperament like Griffin, the study of laws long disused and customs forgotten centuries ago, wrapt up as they were in a language almost unintelligible to modern scholars, would have presented insuperable difficulties; but to him it seems to have been a labor of love, and it is a source of lasting regret that his opportunities for research were not in proportion to his diligence. The invaluable records of Irish history and antiquities since brought to light through the labors of O'Curry, Pietrie, O'Donovan, and others, were then slumbering in the mouldy archives of Trinity College, or scattered in inaccessible places over England and the continent; nor are we aware that the author of the _Invasion_ had such thorough knowledge of his native language as would enable him to decipher those ancient manuscripts, even had he the facility for so doing. The barbarous policy of the dominant power, which formerly not only sought to destroy the language of the conquered people by prohibiting its being taught in colleges, but made it penal to allow it to be spoken in the humbler country schools, was equally interested in keeping from the world at large the Irish people's records and book of laws, the evidences of their former glory and greatness and the muniments of their nationality; and even in this advanced age we owe mainly to local enterprise and private generosity whatever contributions to ancient Irish history we have been favored with for the last twenty years. The government of England is willing to spend annually tens of thousands of pounds sterling to facilitate the discovery of the sources of the Nile or to encourage the translation of the high-flown vagaries of East Indian poets; font it cannot afford, it appears, a miserable allowance to rescue from obscurity the annals of one of the most ancient and civilized nations of Europe; a nation, too, that has the misfortune to be called an integral portion of the British empire.

This necessarily limited knowledge of the epoch which he proposed to illustrate, while it in some degree unfortunately lessens the authority of the novel in an antiquarian point of view, does not impair its harmony of design, or weaken the moral and intellectual beauty of its entire composition; and even its technical defects are, to a great extent, corrected in the edition before us, by the insertion, in the form of an appendix, of the very valuable critical notes of the late Professor O'Curry. The principal figure in the book is O'Headha, (O'Hea,) a young chieftain born on the day of his father's death in battle. It describes the ceremonies of the marriage of his parents and of his own baptism, as introductory to his career. His education is supposed to be conducted at Mungharid (Mungret) Abbey, then famous for the number and rank of its scholars; and this gives the author an opportunity of describing the monastery, a description which may be taken as applying equally to the many similar institutions of piety and learning which at that time, and for centuries before, dotted the then happy island:

"Unlike many of the religious foundations of that period,
which were constructed, after the national manner, of wood,
the college of Muinghairid was a damhliag, or stone building,
and its grouted fragments, diffused at this day over an
extensive tract of ground, demonstrate the masonic skill of
its founders. The religious, who were of the order of St.
Mainchin, the founder of the abbey, and of prodigious number,
had, as is usual in such establishments, their various duties
appointed to them. Some devoted themselves wholly to a life of
contemplation and of manual labor. Others employed themselves
in the care of the sick, the entertaining of strangers, the
giving of alms, and the instruction of the numerous youth who
flocked hitherward in great numbers from different parts of
the island, from the shore of Inismore, and even from those of
some continental nations. Those who were skilled in psalmody
succeeded each other in the choir, night and day, which for
many a century sent forth its never-ceasing harmony of praise;
while far the greater number were employed in cultivating with
their own hands the extensive tracts of ground which lay around
the convent and the neighboring city. Morn after morn, regular
as the dawn itself, the tolling of the convent-bell, over the
spreading woods which then enriched the neighborhood, awoke the
tenants of the termon-lands, warning them that its cloistered
inhabitants had commenced their daily rule, and reminding them
also of that eternal destiny which was seldom absent from the
minds of the former. The religious, answering to the summons,
resumed their customary round of duties. Some aided the almoner
in receiving the applications of the poor and attending to
their wants. Some assisted the chamberlain in refitting the
deserted dormitory. Some were appointed to help the infirmarian
in the hospital. Some aided the pittancer and cellarer in
preparing the daily refection, as well for the numerous
members of the confraternity as for the visitors, for whose
accommodation a separate refectory was furnished; and after the
solemn rite of the morning, at which all assisted, had been
concluded, the great body of the monks departed to their daily
labor on the adjoining tillage and pasturage lands.

"Sometimes at this early hour the more infirm and aged, as
well as the more pious of the neighboring peasantry, were seen
thridding their way along the woodland paths to mingle in the
morning devotions of the religious. The peasant as he trotted
on by his car, laden with the produce of the season, paused
for an instant to hear the matin hymn, and added a prayer that
heaven might sanctify his toil. The fisherman, whose curach
glided rapidly along the broad surface of the river, rested on
his oars at the same solemn strain, and resumed his labor with
a more measured stroke and less eager spirit. The son of war
and rapine, who galloped by the place, returning with sated
passions from some nocturnal havoc, reined up his hobbie at
the peaceful sounds, and yielded his mind unconsciously to an
interval of mercy and remorse. The oppressive chieftain and
his noisy retinue, not yet recovered the dissipation of some
country _coshering_, hushed for a time their unseemly mirth
as they passed the holy dwelling and yielded in reverence the
debt which they could not pay in sympathy. To many an ear the
sounds of the orison arrived, and to none without a wholesome
and awakening influence."

Arrived at manhood, the future chieftain is duly installed in office according to the prevailing customs of the sept, and henceforth we find him performing all the duties appertaining to his high position, including his attendance at the triennial assembly of Tara, _à propos_ to which we have an elaborate and highly interesting account of that historical gathering of all the estates of the kingdoms into which the island was then divided. A romantic adventure, ending in a love scene, of course, brings him among the Hooded people, the last remnant of those who, rejecting the teachings of St. Patrick and his disciples, continued to practise the Druidical rites in seclusion; and, as a consequence, we find a detailed description of the objects and forms of that extinct species of idolatry. The invasion itself, the first descent of the Northmen on the coast, successfully repulsed by O'Hea's forces, naturally leads to a disquisition on the gloomy superstition and uncouth manners of those terrible barbarians. Thus we find grouped together, gracefully and artistically, the leading historical features of the period, the old superstitions and the beneficent fruits of the new faith, the faults and follies, virtues and graces of the christianized Celts, contrasted with the physical prowess and ferocious temperament of the hordes who were so soon to deluge with blood, not only Erin, but the adjacent isles and the greater part of the coasts of Europe. Strange to say, the _Invasion_ is the only Irish historical novel ever written, and, as Augustin Thierry was induced to write his celebrated history of the _Norman Conquest of England_ by reading Scott's _Ivanhoe_, may we not hope that some present or future writer may be inspired by the _Invasion_ to give us a detailed and intelligible account of the Danish wars in Ireland?

The _Duke of Monmouth_ is also a historical novel, but more modern in its character and incidents. It is intended to describe the condition of the people of the rural districts in the west of England about the close of the seventeenth century; and the principal events upon which the story depends are the invasion of England by the ill-starred Duke of Monmouth, the illegitimate son of Charles II., during the reign of the latter's successor, the fatal battle of Sedgemoor, and the execution of the adventurer and his principal followers. The style is faultless, the prominent actors mostly taken from real life, though few are truthfully drawn. Still, we cannot but regret for the sake of poetical justice that Griffin chose this subject for a novel, from the fact that the truth of history compelled him to let the notorious Kirke, who figures so largely in his pages, go unwhipped of justice. The portrait of this infamous soldier, whose vices were proverbial, is thus briefly sketched:

"He beheld before him a man somewhat over the middle size, and
rather spare than otherwise; his features not ill-looking, but
marked by that expression of malign placidity which is no less
characteristic of the genuine tyrant than all the ogre-like
contortions and grimaces vulgarly associated with the idea of
habitual cruelty. There was something like a smile upon his
lips; but it was a smile that spoke not of benevolence of the
heart, and held out no light of promise to the hope of the
supplicant. His very courtesy, all easy as it was, seemed the
refined dissimulation of a callous nature. There was a kind
of sternness in his very courtliness of manner, a severity
even in the smoothness and gentleness of his demeanor and
discourse, that was more withering than the open violence of
the unmasked and ruffian oppressor. At times, too, it was said
he could be all the savage; but it was only when the security
of his position afforded a free scope to license. His hair
was already tinged with gray, though in so slight a degree as
to be scarcely perceptible. His complexion had much of the
sallowness, but little of the languor, usually acquired by long
residence in tropical countries; and, as he stood glancing
rapidly over the paper which he held in his hand, it might be
judged from the keenness and concentration of his look that his
mind, in like manner, had lost nothing of its activity beneath
the enervating influence of an African sun."

Notwithstanding the fault referred to, the book is one that merits attention both as being the production of the author's more mature years and as furnishing us an insight into the modes of life, manner of living, and unreasonable preconceptions of politics and religion of the humbler classes of England at the period immediately preceding the downfall of the house of Stuart. The so-called reformation in that country, while it deprived the peasantry of all the attractions and consolations of true religion, as well as of the innocent sports and pastimes so much encouraged by the church, left nothing in their stead to lighten the heavy burden of labor save the sensual attractions of the ale-house, or the more invigorating, if more hazardous, luxury of rebellion. Deprived of the refuge always afforded by the eleemosynary institutions of the monks to the deserving needy and afflicted, the wants of the widow and the orphan were neglected, the poor became poorer and more discontented, and the nobles more haughty and overbearing. The reformers succeeded in unsettling the religious faith of the masses, as the wars of the Commonwealth destroyed their ideas of authority and obedience. Hence followed in rapid rotation the restoration of Charles II., the dethronement of James, the Scotch rebellions of 1715 and 1745, and many if not all the evils which have afflicted the people of Great Britain up to the present time--evils which have become so glaring that a thousand acts of parliament cannot hide them, and distress, ignorance, and its attendant vices, so gross and general as to be beyond the cure of the poor-house and the penitentiary. Considered in the aggregate, England is one of the wealthiest countries in the world. Individually, her people are the poorest in Christendom; for she contains within her boundaries a larger percentage of paupers and those who live by crime of various degrees than any civilized country on the face of the globe.

It was while in this transition state, from "merrie" England in Catholic times to her present anomalous condition, that the Duke of Monmouth, relying on the ignorance and anti-Catholic prejudices of the rustic population, resolved to dispute the possession of the throne with James II., whose only fault, in the eyes of his enemies at that time, was his desire to concede some degree of toleration to his dissenting and Catholic subjects. Monmouth's miserable failure is a matter of history; but in this book we have likewise a glimpse of the feeling of the people who followed his standard, and which afterward led to the elevation of William of Orange, and of the sentiments which actuated the British portion of that prince's army in his subsequent wars in the sister island. The author also gives a very just idea of Monmouth and his subordinate rebels. The duke himself is represented as possessing all those exterior graces which are said to have distinguished the Stuarts, with more than all their vices and instability of character--false to his friends, cringing to his enemies, superstitious without faith, and ambitious without the courage or capacity to command success. Fletcher, his chief counsellor and best officer, is a keen, hard-headed, but passionate Covenanter, a theoretical republican of the Roundhead school engrafted on the antique; Lord Grey and Ferguson are simply respectable adventurers, equally destitute of honesty or brains, and worthy instruments in so desperate an enterprise. In comparison with those men, the devotion of young Fullarton to a hopeless cause becomes less blamable; and even the ultra loyalty of the old cavalier, Captain Kingsly, is respectable.

In addition to what we have before remarked of the design of this work, there is a feature in its composition which by some readers may be considered a grave defect. The interest which surrounds the heroine, Aquila Fullarton, from the very beginning of the tale deepens by degrees until it becomes painfully intense, and the scene between her and Kirke, wherein that monster perpetrates one of the greatest crimes known to humanity, and she in consequence loses her reason, though founded on well-authenticated facts, and described with all the delicacy of diction possible, is almost too horrible to receive mention. The necessarily gloomy pages of the story are occasionally enlivened by the introduction of two Irish characters--brothers--Morty and Shamus Delaney, who, like so many of their countrymen, then and since, have left home to seek their fortunes, and find themselves in Taunton on the eve of the stirring events related in the novel. Morty, being of a practical turn of mind, forthwith enlists in "Kirke's Lambs;" but Shamus, whose tastes are also pugnacious, but whose ambition is to wear epaulettes, takes service on the other side, and raises a company of ragamuffins not unlike that which shamed the redoubtable Falstaff at Coventry. There are many exquisite bits of humor scattered through Griffin's works, which might be quoted as evincing his keen appreciation of the ludicrous; but we prefer to extract the following address of Captain Delaney to his command, for the benefit of our military readers who have neglected studying the articles of war. Shamus _loquitur_:

"'Well, I see ye're all here, exceptin' those that's absent.
Well, then, fall in, fall in, an' much good may it do ye! An'
now attind to my ordhers, an' mind 'em well. Every man is to
fight, an' nobody is to run; that's plain enough. Secondly,
any man that wants arms, is to fight hard _for_ 'em first, an'
to fight _with_ 'em at his aise afther. Thirdly, any booty
whatsomever that any o' ye may take in the war, such as goold
rings, watches, sails, valuable clothing, an' the likes--but
above all things, money--ye're to bring it all to me. Do you
hear me?'

"'Ay, ay, ay!'

"'Very well. Because I'm captain, ye know, an' best judge how
it ought to be divided. For it is one o' the maxims of war,
that it's the part o' the common sodgers for to fight, an' for
the ladin' officers for to have all the call to the booty an'
the likes, how 'tis to be shared, an' what's to be done with
it. Do ye hear?'

"'Ay, ay!'

"'An' if there's any thing that's very dangerous--certain
death, for instance--as a place where one would be blown up,
an' the likes, it's the custom o' war for the common sodgers
to have it all to themselves, an' for the officer to give 'em
ordhers for to face it, but to stay behind himself, bein' more
valuable. Do ye hear?'

"'Ay, ay!'

"'An' if there be a scarcity o' food or clothin', or beddin',
an' the likes, or a dale to do, sech as diggin' threnches an'
the likes o' that, then it's the custom o' war for the officer
to have the first o' the victuals an' things that way; but
the sodgers is to have the first o' the labor always. Do ye
understand?'

"'Ay, ay!'

"'Very well, why. Now, mind the word! Shoulder your picks!
Quick, march!'"

Of Griffin's minor works, included under the titles of _Tales of the Munster Festivals_ and _Tales of my Neighborhood_, the _Rivals_, _Barber of Bantry_, and _Shuil Dhuv_ are decidedly the most entertaining. The latter particularly, though irregular in composition, is a story evincing great dramatic power and knowledge of the human heart. The dark-eyed hero, if such he may be called, who gives the title to the tale, stands out before us in all the enormity of his guilt as distinctly as if he had been an actual acquaintance, and we venture to say that there are few who have read the book but have experienced that feeling. In this story, also, Griffin departs from his usual custom of avoiding personal description of his female characters, and gives us an elaborate picture of his heroine, which, whether it be drawn from life or the creation of his own imagination, calls up before us an image of surpassing loveliness.

Griffin's other tales, such as the _Half-Sir_, _Card-Drawing_, and _Tracey's Ambition_, have all much merit, and, though not so prolonged as those we have mentioned, exhibit in a greater or lesser degree the skilful hand and rich imagination of the author. The _Christian Physiologist_, comprising a series of beautiful tales intended to illustrate the use and abuse of the senses, is worthy a place near the writings of that friend of childhood, Canon Schmidt.