In Douglas was also my artist-friend Corbould, visiting at the romantic place of his relatives the Wilsons, who had to show numerous paintings and relics of John Martin, with whom in old days I had pleasant acquaintance at Chelsea and elsewhere.  I remember that on one occasion when I asked him which picture of his own he considered his chef-d’oeuvre I was astonished at his reply, “Sardanapalus’s death,—­and therein his jewels.”  Martin’s Chelsea garden had its walls frescoed by him to look like views and avenues,—­certainly effective, but rather in the style of Grimaldi’s garden made gay by artificial flowers and Aladdin’s gems, a la mode Cockayne.  At Bishop’s Court too we had a very friendly reception from Bishop Powys, and in fact everywhere as usual your confessor found a cordial author’s welcome in Mona.

CHAPTER XXI.

NEVER GIVE UP, AND SOME OTHER BALLADS.

Sundry of my short lyrics have gained a great popularity:  in particular “Never give up,” whereof there are extant—­or were—­no fewer than eight musical settings.  Of this ballad, three stanzas, I have a strange story to tell.  When I went to Philadelphia, on my first American tour in 1851, I was taken everywhere to see everything; amongst others to Dr. Kirkland’s vast institute for the insane:  let me first state that he was not previously told of my coming visit.  When I went over the various wards of the convalescents, I noticed that on each door was a printed placard with my “Never give up” upon it in full.  Naturally I thought it was done so out of compliment.  But on inquiry, Dr. Kirkland didn’t know who the author was, and little suspected it was myself.  He had seen the verses, anonymous, in a newspaper, and judging them a good moral dose of hopefulness even for the half insane, placed them on every door to excellent effect.  When to his astonishment he found the unknown author before him, greatly pleased, he asked if I would allow the patients to thank me; of course I complied, and soon was surrounded by kneeling and weeping and kissing folks, grateful for the good hope my verses had helped them to.  And twenty-five years after, in 1876, I, again without notice, visited Dr. Kirkland at the same place, scarcely expecting to find him still living, and certainly not thinking that I should see my old ballad on the doors.  But, when the happy doctor, looking not an hour older, though it was a quarter of a century, took me round to see his convalescents, behold the same words greeted me in large print,—­and probably are there still:  the only change being that my name appears at foot.  I gave them a two hours’ reading in their handsome theatre, and I never had a more intensely attentive audience than those three hundred lunatics.  The ballad runs thus,—­if any wish to see it, as for the first time:—­