e, lowly,
and seemingly contemptible, and that labor spent in purely secular
pursuits is labor spent in vain. But the nobler promptings of his nature
were as yet unheard amid the discord in which he lived.

He now removed to a miserable garret in a lonely corner of a lonely
street in the loneliest part of London. The forlorn solitude of his
dreary room was, however, somewhat cheered by the thought, that in such
dizzy eeries, amid the eccentric gables and rheumatic chimney pots of
great capitals, works were often composed which were destined eventually
to confer lasting honors on their obscure authors. Goldsmith had written
his "Vicar of Wakefield" in the memorable, dingy eminence at the head of
Breakneck Steps. Pope, walking with Harte in the Haymarket, entered an
old house, where mounting three pair of creaking stairs he pointed to an
open door and said: "In this garret Addison wrote his 'Campaign.'"
Gerald Griffin, however, had yet to experience all the hardships which
were endured by Goldsmith before his landlady threatened eviction, and
by Addison before he received the fortuitous visit of Henry Boyle, Lord
Chancellor of the Exchequer. He wrote prose and poetry for which he was
often glad to get sufficient money wherewith to purchase a cup of coffee
and a crust of bread. He studied Spanish, and when he had so mastered
the language as to be able to translate fluently, his publisher said
that on second consideration he would prefer to receive original
contributions. And now commenced a period in Griffin's life, which, for
exceptional want and misery, might claim a certain pre-eminence in the
long list of hapless victims, who made up the literary hecatomb of the
Johnsonian era. Without the grosser elements, which enter into their
methods of living and disfigure their character, the abject squalor of
vulgar surroundings, the love for pot-houses and low companionships, the
utter disregard for personal respect, he otherwise underwent all the
pain, the want and uncertainty of their impoverished condition. But the
roughness of the road was unthought of in the anticipation of a rich
reward at the end of his journey. He would redouble his efforts to
ensure its nearer approach. He abandoned old companionships; invitations
to dinners and literary soirees, which came from his friends Banim and
McGinn, were politely declined. He locked himself in his lonely room and
wrote through the hours of an unbroken day. Only at night when th