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I had always assumed it had to do with the blacksmith's shop. When you heat a piece of iron or steel up to red hot, it develops a blackish coating, I think consisting of carbon and/or iron oxide. When the smith beats on it, the particles go flying. Pieces of steel go flying as well.

There would also be the residue from filing or otherwise shaping the metals. There is a character in Beowulf named "Eglaf" (pronounced "edge-laugh") If my memory is correct, the name means "edge-leavings", in other words, what is left behind after sharpening a sword. A bit of Anglo-Saxon humor.

Basically the floor of a smithy is covered with soot and debris, shards and ground metal; the tailings of a profession. That's what seems logically would be the actual meaning of "smithereens", so it was surprising not to have it borne out by the dictionary. But that's why this site is here, to keep reminding us to check our facts.

I missed that part about "smither", Ozzie. (Misplaced my AHD!) Good point. That would be a logical progression from smith to smithereens.

Griffin was writing about the Irish in 1829, apparently, so the case is strong for an Irish origin.

Admittedly my own conception was influenced by the iconic place the smith occupies in western culture. I've been in a couple of machine shops, the modern equivalent of the old smithy. There are two kinds: compulsively neat, tidy, and productive, yet devoid of personality -- or squalid, fearsomely messy, and filled with the history and imprint of hard work, talent, and knowledge. The latter is the kind to go to to get a difficult problem solved.

And of course there's a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

http://delnero.com/blacksmith/smithy.html

A good example of why certain 19th century poets (Longfellow, Joyce Kilmer) are no longer read.

Hey! I'm not endorsing it, just reporting it. Poor Longfellow, the subject of many a parody.