Enquirer." Unfortunately, Mangan, a dreamer of dreams, had altogether too little knowledge of the world to penetrate the bombast and futility of the schemes of the young Irelanders; and, without doubt, his regard for Mitchell was only as the noisiest and most prominent seemed to his dimmed eyes the greatest. His letter to Mitchell, when the latter was under prosecution, was honorable to his feelings, if not to his discernment; and we must remember, that many others were under the same generous delusion at the time. James Clarence Mangan was born in 1803, in an obscure hamlet called Shanagolden, in Limerick County, Ireland. Of his parents, it is only known, that his father, James Mangan, was a grocer, unfortunate in business; and that he died while his son was yet young. His mother, whose maiden name. was Catherine Smith, removed, after the death of her husband, to the place of her nativity, Dublin, and lived in what would here be called abject poverty, but which the "deeper deep" of utter destitution and starvation of Irish poverty leaves several degrees higher in the scale of society. Of the early life of Mangan, no tangible record remains, save that he attended school, for a short time, in an obscure alley of Dublin, known as Derby Square; and that, for seven years or more, he was a copying clerk in a scrivener's office, earning just shillings enough to support the mother and sister dependent on him. The office, or the name of his master, is not known; but he ever after, when mentioning the life he then led, expressed the utmost sense of loathing and detestation, which his gentle nature would allow. After he left the scrivener's office, there is a gap of several years in the record of his life, in which it is not known how he lived and fared. The story is, that by some chance, and the privilege of his acquirements, when or how got, with his means and his life, is beyond conjecture, he was admitted to the society of a family far above him in wealth and station, in which there were three highly accomplished and beautiful sisters: with one of these, Frances, encouraged or not, he had the presumption to fall in love. By the rude shock by which his tender spirit was awakened from his dream, his whole soul was unhinged. He fled to opium and whiskey for relief, and, as we have said, for several years hid himself from the eyes of all his friends. During this time, it is not probable that he was absent from Dublin. Indeed, it may be doubted, whether he ever saw more of a mountain than the Wicklow Hills, or knew the features of his native land, save in the pictures of Maclise. During all this time, he was sunk in helpless debauchery and degradation, in the lowest slums of Dublin, in the companionship of the vilest of the human species. Scarcely a sentient or responsible being, he was as isolated from humanity, as if on a desert island. Like that soul which, "Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, the history of literature records no sadder fall or more innocent degradation. When he re-appeared, he was twentyseven years of age, and as old in appearance as if forty. The clear blue eyes, and features of peculiar delicacy, which had distinguished his youth, remained; but his countenance was pallid and worn, like that of a corpse, and his hair prematurely white, presenting almost a bleached appearance. At this time he commenced his connection with literature, by contributing short pieces, chiefly translations from the German and Irish, to an obscure magazine in Dublin. His compensation was hardly sufficient to supply his daily allowance of opium; but his pieces, by their peculiar qualities, attracted the attention of several literary men in Dublin, among them Dr. Anster, author of "Xeniola," and one of the innumerable translations of "Faust," Petrie and Dr. Todd, librarian of Trinity College. He was sought out, and by their aid employment was found for him, in the preparation of a new catalogue for the magnificent library of the College. He was thus enabled to procure a comfortable subsistence for his mother and sister, and opium for himself. The following sketch of his personal appearance at that time is given by his biographer: "Being in the College Library, and having occasion for a book in that gloomy apartment known as the Fagel Library,' which is in the innermost recess of the stately building, an acquaintance pointed out to me a figure perched on the top of a ladder, with the whispered information that the figure was Clarence Mangan. It was an unearthly and ghostly figure, in a brown garment, the same garment, to all appearance, that lasted till the day of his death. The blanched hair was totally unkempt, the corpse-like features still as marble; a large book was in his arms, and all his soul was in the book. I had never heard of Clarence Mangan before, and knew not for what he was celebrated, whether as a magician, a poet, or a murderer; yet took a volume and spread it on a table, not to read, but with pretence of reading, to gaze on the spectral creature upon the ladder." The story of the remaining years of his life may be briefly told. He contributed to various magazines, including the "Dublin University," poems and translations, giving as the latter some of his own grotesque yet beautiful utterances. His contributions also occasionally appeared in the columns of the "Nation," although his personal connection with the members of the Young-Ireland party was of the smallest, — where they shine like arabesque silver ornaments on the broad, green fustian banner of the "Regenerators." He had but one whom he called friend, Joseph Brennan, to whom he addressed one of his most touching poems, and who, shortly after the death of Mangan, removed to this country, settled in New Orleans, where he became an editor of the "New Orleans Delta," and died less than six years ago. Dr. Anster, Petrie, and others, endeavored to no purpose to reclaim Mangan, or establish some personal intercourse with him. He had become the slave of opium, and at times would disappear for weeks, avoiding all decent society, and holding drunken orgies in the lowest pothouses, in the company of beggars and ragamuffins, being occasionally found senseless in the gutters, and carried to the station-house. His appearance, after emerging from these sloughs of periodical debauch, was more like a ghost than a human being. At last the end came. After he had been missing for some time, word was brought to his friends, that he was lying ill in an obscure house in Bride Street. He was removed, at his own request, to the Meath Hospital, where, after lingering seven days, he died, June 13th, 1849. At his last hour, he received the consolations of the Catholic religion, although he had not for a long time had any practical relations with that Church. Such is the brief record of the life of one who most assuredly was in the world, but not of it. He hardly seems like a human creature, so weird, forlorn, and miserable is the whole story of his existence. It is doubtful whether he was ever raised to the height of which stronger natures are capable, even in the factitious heaven of opium, or was more than enveloped in a sort of Elfin land, where it is not day, but merely absence of night. His soul appears to have been without the knowledge of gladness, as flowers are white that have grown up in a cellar without sunlight. With a person and mind so constituted, it would, of course, be in vain to look for any reflection or portraiture of national life or character in the volume before us. Mangan was in no sense, save birth, an Irish poet. The Burns, the Beranger, the Whittier of Ireland, is yet to appear. Perhaps the nearest approach at present is Mr. William Allingham, who is almost the only one that has appreciated the deficiency, or attempted faithfully to represent the character and scenery of Ireland in Irish idiomatic poetry. Beyond a doubt, "Lovely Mary Donnelly" and "The Girl's Lamentation" are two of the finest lyrics of modern times. They are full of local coloring and national idioms; in fact, are almost cantos of the old ballads, "Shule Aroon," and the like. But these are but the beginning of a promise, which we hope Mr. Allingham may live to fulfil, to rehabilitate and vivify with new life the fast-vanishing minstrelsy of his native country; to gather, polish, and string together the pearls into a chaplet that shall adorn the fame which his own original genius has already won. He may be proud to know, that his songs are printed on the half-penny broadsheet, and sold and sung all over his country. Thomas Davis, had he lived, and got cured of his "regeneration," would probably have ripened and sweetened into a truly national poet. As it is,- although his poems contain here and there a scattered "wood-note wild," amid the rumble and blaze and noise, he died too soon to be entitled to an enduring fame as an Irish poet. Gerald Griffin's verses, though sweet and tender, are at best feeble, and too much tainted with the "Keepsake " and "Annual" style to reach the heart of the Irish peasant. John Banim has left one poem, "Soggarth Aroon," which would alone be sufficient to stamp his name as one of the most forcible delineators of Irish life: it is full of power and pathos; a literal transcript of truth in the vividest and most idiomatic words. His other poems are much inferior. Samuel Ferguson, author of that noble ballad, "The Forging of the Anchor," which made such a sensation years ago, and seemed to give announcement of a new poet, has been content to be merely a lawyer, and indulge in literature only as a recreation. He is by far the best translator of the ancient Irish poetry. His poems have been collected recently, for the first time,* although in over-fastidiousness he has excluded many; and we can sincerely recommend their perusal to all lovers of poetry, or students of Irish character. Lover and Lever are not to be named as Irish poets. Moore is also out of the question. Aubrey De Vere is cold and rhetorical. Neither are any of the younger fry of the young Irelanders worth naming, although there is occasionally a piece worthy of preservation, amid the rant and fustian about the "sunburst" and "phonix," and other strange cattle. In respect to the preservation of her ancient ballads and poetry, as in many another, Ireland has been singularly unfortunate: with airs of the most wild and plaintive beauty, equal, and in many respects superior, to those of Scotland, — every one of which undoubtedly had words attached,—there is very little remaining save the music, which can now never be lost. The poetry, which was handed down from mouth to mouth, has almost entirely perished, with the extinction of Erse as a dialect, almost in our own day. The few scattered fragments that have been pre *Lays of the Western Gael, and other Poems. By Samuel Ferguson. Bell & Daldy, London. 1865. VOL. LXXIX.- 5TH S. VOL. XVII. NO. II. 18 |