From John Conwill   Monday morning, Dec. 21. 1840.

‘My morning thought, my nightly dream,

The subject of each prayer;

Have I a wish, a hope, a scheme,

Which Tyndall does not share.’

Monday morning¹

‘My dear Tyndall’

‘My motto’, to use your own words ‘needs not be doubted’ for I am convinced that it has been used by some love-lorn creature when he greeted the fair object of his affection. This circumstance does not render the ‘motto’ derogatory to the ‘present occasion.’ I doubt not but a corresponding feeling exists in your breast, and I expect that you know by this time that you have been premature in your animadversions on my unkindness.² You are very happy in your figures of speech. I defy all the powers of exaggerated hyperbole to transcend your figurative epithets with regard to the adamantine feelings that exist in my heart. However I must be a little egotistical – I fearlessly affirm that better feelings never strung the heart of an Irishman than the feelings are by which my heart is actuated. I do not suggest that you challenge my integrity, but I say that your comments as to my being apathetic are already disproved by the letter which contains an account of Professor Hennessy’s expanded hints to me on the definition of Number.³ Ah! My dear Tyndall, I am well aware that it is your overweening anxiety for my felicity, which urges you to judge rashly of my conduct towards you, and therefore I shall bear a thousand allegations, from my friend. Disembodied creations cannot write, consequently this letter shows I have not gone to that home whence no traveller returns.⁴ The rich man’s talent, in modern times, is far superior to the widow’s mite.⁵ It matters not what your abilities are if you possess an abundance of the ryno;⁶ it will screen all your imperfections, how glaring soever they may be, and hence I care little about the political cant of Bruen’s unshrinking Tory principles or scapegoat Ponsonby’s Whiggish recreancy.⁷ I deem the whole clan of Whigs and Torys a peculating⁸ clique. I shall now conclude in the words of Goldsmith:–

‘Wheree’er I go, whatever scenes to view.

My heart untravell’d shall fondly turn to you.’⁹

Your ever faithful teacher | J. Conwill

P.S. My Mother’s respects to you.

‘My valued Tyndal’

There is a peculiarity in the coincidence of our writing. I wrote this letter in the School; and when I came home, what had I for lunch but your sarcastic one on Hennessy’s audacity. You may rest satisfied that I would not undervalue myself so much as to break a lance with such a miscreant, but indeed I made Ford give him a sound snubbing.

I will write in the course of a month, God willing.

J. Conwill.

RI MS JT/1/11/3513

LT Transcript Only