me crowd in that I am ever your friend,

G.W.C.


IX

N.Y., _Sunday evening, Feb. 25, '44._

Do you remember ever to have read a novel called "The Collegians?" A work
of great interest, and displaying great dramatic power. I was always
anxious to know the author, and chance has thrown his name and history in
my way. It was Gerald Griffin, an Irishman of genius, who lived the varied
life of a professed literary man. Desirous of having his dramas accepted
at the London theatres, and finding no one to favor him. Too noble to be
dependent, and going days without food. In 183ty something he published,
"Gisippus," a tragedy, famed of the greatest merit. Finally he became
weary of his literary life, and entered an Irish convent, where, within
two or three years, he died. His father's family in greater part have
removed to America, and his elder brother, a physician of note, has
recently published his memoirs, the reviews of which I have happened to
meet. The reviews say the usual thing of genius, that his writings were
full of promise, and that he might have achieved greatly had he lived.
Must not this be always a complaint of genius? Its being, not its
expression, has the charm which captivates. The dramas are the least part
of Shakespeare, and one would give more to have known him than to study
them forever. It must seem to us promising, till we have entered into the
fulness of its spirit. The necessity of expressing compromises the dignity
of being. God is more pleasing to thought as self-contemplation, rather
than creation. Expression is degradation to us, not to the genius. That