From William Ginty   Friday night.

Friday night.

As I live ‘the clock strikes twelve’ – ‘tis now drear midnight’ Jack! ‘Sleep death’s counterfeit’¹ ‘swings his leaden scepter o’er a slumbering world’ – Liverpool – tumultuous bustling Liverpool is still and silent as the dismal tomb and oh God as if to add a sterner gravity to thought – an old sea captain that sleeps in the room above me is groaning horribly with the nightmare. Powers eternal what a solemn hour is this, what a time for calm contemplation – the din of this mighty mart – ‘the hum, the noise, the shock of men’² has subsided and the ‘spirit of silence reigns unbroke’ save by the solitary footsteps of the constable that paces in measured tread beneath my window. Aye! this is a solemn hour

‘This is the hour when fancy wakes

‘Visions of joy that did not last

‘This is the hour when memory takes

‘A survey of the past

Oh that I could recall that past

In fancy’s vision sweet and clear

Oh that those happy days could last

Till chased by others yet more dear

But no! to me they’re ever lost

The hopes that lit them – all have flown

A heart by sorrow’s tempest tossed

Remains for me – and I’m alone (God keep me so)³

Now I’m just far enough. My thoughts overwhelm me! Well you have seen Spec’s⁴ handwriting I s’pose. It was placarded on the walls of Liverpool this day on the same sheet with the ‘Repeal Question’⁵ ‘China tariff’⁶ ‘Welsh riots’⁷ &c &c.!!!

Sinnett swears the final is a – that is he says ‘the officers never exd., the plans before the revision’ d’ye hear! Don’t libel the wretches!

Do you intend to criticise on the policy of sending the old experienced officers away and replacing them by ‘Gawkys’⁸ that is after you have tossed up the ‘Detail Survey’⁹ ‘which is’ as Veritas¹⁰ says ‘now being carried on in great perfection’

I did not see S¹¹ yet – tis not my fault faith – but I have plenty of time. I will post No 3¹² for him along with this and then when I call on him for the memorial¹³ I will hear what his literary highness has to say about the matter and report accordingly to the prototype of [Junius]¹⁴ (!) No 3 by the way is far superior to No 2.¹⁵ One fellow here is about writing to Dublin to Griffiths¹⁶ men to find out the author – No less – !

Good night | Yours | The ‘Attorney General’¹⁷

Answer this

Do you get those letters posted by me in the morning or the evening? Look at the cover!

I find I have not a copy of this affair, so must excite my mental powers to give you summat in the shape of the original.

Few brook abuse and don’t resent it

Then by St. Mark you shall repent it

Had I a prouder – sterner heart

Silent contempt would be your part

But since the love of right is stronger

Be this my plea ‘truth stoops to conquer’

Be mine the task our rights to shield

My pen my sword – this sheet the field

I’m not the first of fighting lords

So here goes ‘parrys’ ‘points’ and ‘guards’

Resolve on giving your wrath full fling

You plucked a pearl from Byron’s string

Ill-suited every line to me

But what of that – it answered thee

Rage fancied fitness in the scroll

For dark vindictiveness of soul!

Oh noble relic oh nobler muse

Can Time thy beauties thus abuse

Bright spirit Band you little dreamed

Before your mortal visions faded

When from your souls deep essence teemed

Your laurels thus by Time degraded

‘When first I met thee warm and young’¹⁸

‘Twas thus the sullied gem begun

Not over young – nor yet too warm

But that must pass it means not harm

‘There shone such truth about me’ too

In truth I can’t say that of you

Not now at least and even then

I never sought your truth to ken

I tried not – cared not – proved not how

‘Twas then¹⁹ no more than now

-‘Tis mine to hope that lucent beam

Of Truth may ever round me gleam

Thus may it shine forever there

To guard my path from hidden snare!

Next in your passion’s bitter torrent

I’m styled Deceiver – term abhorrent

Now by my faith – the charge’s untrue

The term is false – aye false as you

÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ ÷ (forgotten)

‘Go – go Deceiver’ – powers of song

What means the ‘go’ when I am gone

St. George’s Channel broad and deep

Its vasty billows ‘twixt us sweep

May every billow swell a sea

To roll its waves twixt you and me

May tempests lash those waves on high

To wall the clouds, the heavens – the sky

As barriers fierce twixt you and I

I’ve done – farewell! but no! not yet

I cannot pass your green vignette

Eolian harp²⁰ – with strings unstrung

Emblem of ruins on rose tree hung

And then to damn it in effect,

The motto ‘ruined by neglect’

In blazing letters round it burn

Like torch-light pointing out the sun

Alas sad task! O enough Good Bye

I wish thee all a wish can buy

That’s simply nothing and to you

There’s something more than nothing due

But I forgive thee at the shrine

Of loves own patron – Valentine.²¹

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A dreadful bull. Subsequent to the transmission of this to the injured fair one (?) I bethought me that Moore and not Byron was the sufferer. A very ignorant mistake! I intended it to be at least four times as long. I however expunged nearly one half of it and of that²² half this is, 12 or 14 lines short my memory having so much failed me

Yours | Ginty.

[Enclosure: a letter and poem from Martin Cuddy]

My dear Ginty, ²³

It was with infinite pleasure I received yours long, long ago. I hope you will forgive me for not answering ere this. Neither am I at present prepared to argue with you the cause of our slavery. You cannot deny but that Ireland is in worse bondage than ever the Israelites of old were under Pharaoh. For instance what is the cause of so many miserable beings leaving the land of their birth to seek the little food that’s denied them at home, curse upon the cause, I say, and to hell with bad men, and bad measures. If Repeal was granted tomorrow could we be worse off than we are – whatever better, we cannot be worse. It is that infernal religious bigotry is the cause of Ireland not getting her just [1 word illeg]. Government knows it well, and why not when men are paid well to add fuel to the fire.

I send you a few verses of mine, in favour of liberty but as you do not choose to be free you’ll not regard them.

Oh! Erin²⁴ my country awake from thy slumbers

The trumpet of liberty, re-echoes, the land

Shake off the vile shackles that does thee encumber

And crush’d thee, for years, with a death dealing hand

Arouse then brave sons of freedom benighted

And hail the loved morning of liberty’s dawn

Remember the curse by which you are blighted

Arise then, and vanquish the wolf and its fawn

Men of Erin unite, round the common cause rally!

Let your voices go forth on the wings of the wind.

Let repeal, be the word, through mountain and valley,

And starvation to the Saxon, that would you dare bind.

Too long have you suffered, by Saxon oppressors,

And your country laid desolate by fire and sword

But vengeance ere long, will o’ertake the aggressors

For heaven, and justice their aid will afford.

The sun its brilliant beam on Tara²⁵ is shedding

The spirits of our forefathers look smilingly on

And the music that once enlivened that dwelling

Will burst with fresh ardour when our freedom is won.²⁶

Then Erin arise from thy heart rending sorrow

Behold that bright orb, proclaims victory’s [1 word illeg]

May each coming day give him strength for the morrow

To fight with fresh vigour for the rights of our land.

If you like this, perhaps in due time I may send you more but you must not expect that anything in the strain of poetry from me will be sublime, but ‘I give thee all I can no more’.²⁷

[Ginty: [30-40 words illeg]]	What direful thoughts of sickening gloom, Around me gathers, this evening Noon! [Question] Enough to quench, the little ray of joy That grew with me, ere I was a boy	[Ginty: [3-4 words illeg]]
	Like waves, that roll, with thundering tempest tost And dash their fury on the sea beat coast. With madning force, and mountains of white foam Engulfing men into one vengeful doom.	[Ginty: a miserable attempt stealing another’s [1 word illeg]]
	Like tyranny – base that demon power A.F.R. Griff28 – dark as midnight hour With nostrils gaping!!! See behold they come With fiendish strides and hellish brimstone fume	[Ginty: G flat at fortissimo]
	To suffocate devour and dethrone All poor Surveyors and hunt them home For why the millions, T.R.29 days is growing slack Those beggars I’ll hunt – Griff your knapsack
	To hold the surplus of the Government Stock ‘Tis little enough the thing will shortly dock Of all my vestures maps and title deeds For robbing the Surveyors of their fees	[Ginty: Hooray! more music!]
	But what for that I to myself must look I’m almost blind Youth hath me forsook My ears grow cold, a naceous juice doth flow From out the pores oh! misery, sorrow, woe! To be deprived of life. Oh! God what shall I do For satan claims his own. I cannot look to you See the fiend comes while blasted spirits attend To waft my soul to H--30 most wretched is my end So ends the life of one a blasted race did run A Robbing thieving knave. A father’s ‘cursed Son’ Philanthropist.	[Ginty: Oh Lord!]

These last 8 defy all common sense!³¹ The ‘Scotch reviewers’³² would throw down their scourging quills in despair and set about writing an ode to the memory of ‘damned nonsense’. It excels all I ever seen or imagined in the way of literary hotch-potch! Certainly it is a philanthropical effusion with a heavy vengeance! in the letter speaking of it he says: I ‘must not publish it’ as the subject is rather a ‘domestic one’. This is the first letter I had from poor ‘Blackthorn’³³ since I came to England, so it is quite evident that it is his own high opinion of ‘the poem’ has induced him to write. I’ll keep him to it! until I get a few more from him. Byron could not afford as much amusement!³⁴

RI MS JT/1/TYP/11/3623-3625

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