From William Ginty   Saturday 1st. Feb./45

Langford Arms | W. Meath | Saturday 1st. Feb./45

Dear Tyndall,

Can your memory paint Ginty in one of his ancient sneezing fits – with his proboscis¹ dyed a deep crimson and swelled into a German sausage – his eyeballs inflamed and blinking in the sunbeam – and a well saturated ‘wipe’ stuck in his fist which finds its way noseward at least 40 times in the minute – if it can – you have a true portrait of his present state – I have been very ill for the past week and now half-blind and with my nether end in close communion with the sweets of a roaring coal fire I am about replying to your philosophic rantings² – damn that acrostic³ I must have been (as Jack would say) ‘labouring under the influence’ when I submitted it to your review – you laid it on terrible thick – you lashed most unmercifully – oh dam that acrostic or rather the pen that copied it for Tyndall’s perusal. I sent Tid⁴ your address at his own request yesterday, his father is very ill – and Jack has assumed the important office of amanuensis.⁵ Evans is in Carlow, he has not yet given up the idea of coming here – but prefers waiting for a longer day – now for a stave – the mountain is in labour – a mouse shall come forth a mere Brutum fulmen⁶ – Dijecta membra poetae⁷ – The scattered remains of the Poet (save the mark)

Free from fetter curb or chain

My spirit Jack is still the same–

Unchanged – unaltered still it glows

As fearless as when first it rose

And hobbled side by side with thine

By ‘moonlit shone’ on ‘Ellen’s’⁸ shrine

Here I’m stuck in the mud – I can’t budge a peg – The Bird can not sing Tyndall – tis all up the spout – I’ll try it again – but I think tis useless – labour may make an orator – but a poet must be born a poet – I’ll at it again however –

It was but hobbling Jack you know

Where’er the silly thing would go

You propped her up – you cheered her on

And pumped her out in blubbering song

Disjointed – unconnected stuff

Rough as the muse: herself was rough

The prop is lost – the guide is gone

The creature now sits sick alone

A mule – a cripple and a drone

Sleep on then dull and heavy muse

Thoust trod too long in others shoes

Sleep on thou ill-begotten strap

And take thy all-inglorious nap

The grass above thee’s not more green

Than thy poor simpering e’er has been

Sleep on – while neighbouring spirits soared

You dirty witch you only snored –

far enough in that strain – I ween⁹ for your edification – and now I shall gallop thro’ the conclusion of the snotty production in double quick time – So you see the quondam.¹⁰ Mary¹¹ – is she much the worse of the wear? I am most infernal lonely here. I have not a single being to open my mouth to. Jim¹² tells me you are about visiting the House of Commons on business¹³ – don't say you are a radical or you’ll be kicked out – How is that little celestial being in Kingston¹⁴ and you getting on? I was very much surprised when Jack¹⁵ asked for your address – for I really did think you and her kept up a ‘constant fire’ – I was in Tyrrellspass¹⁶ lately and was enquiring for ‘Blackthorn’¹⁷ he has not yet made his appearance there all I could hear was that he was ‘laying out a railway in England’. How is our friend of the monster nose¹⁸ getting on? Why forget all in your letters but your self.

In my next I hope to be able to give you a more lengthened stave – even with your terrible volcano of abuse – staring me in the face – I am not terrified – blast you and your ‘Defunct’ – Just as you get in to it – you get out of it. Do not be so long in writing as you usually are.

ever faithfully yours | W. Ginty.

I sent you ‘The Dublin Evening Mail’¹⁹ yesterday.

RI MS JT/1/TYP/11/3634-3635

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