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There are, there have been, hundreds of men who, with not one half John Baniun's genius, and unafflicted with not one hundredth part of his sufferings and his sorrows, would have become misanthropic, and cold, and harsh, even to those nearest and dearest to them by every bond of relationship, of sympathy, and of friendship. Not so with Banim; broken in health; powerless for work; weak in all that a brave, strong soul would wish to possess in full, complete, and vigorous strength, still he was the man as in other days, and sickness or pain, or grief could not depress his spirit.

Thus writing, talking, suffering, and amidst all his sources of despair, ever hoping, John Banim lived on. He was happy in one blessing, his mind was strong as ever, and he, like Johnson, bad prayed that his intellect inight continue vigorous to the last, that like Swift, they might not dic from the top while the leaves and branches were undecayed.

But strength to do was passing away, even while the will to do was eager; and in the following sketch, Michael Banim gives us an account of the last joint literary work of the authors of Tales by The O'Hara Family:

“I had laid by my pen to devote myself entirely to business from the period of my coadjutor's break down in 1833.-It will be recollected, that in one of the letters from which I have extracted, my brother threw out the suggestion, that we should write a novel of which an old parish priest, might be the hero.-In 1840, five years after his return home, relinquishing ou his own part all hope of being able to take up anything requiring continuous application, he urged me to resume my occupation-under his immediate supervision.

I had, some time before, filled a note book with materials referrible to the latest agrarian confederacy, that had disturbed our neighbourhood; the actors in which had bestowed on themselves, the fantastical name of Whitefeet.' With some of the principal leaders of this lawless and wide spread combination I had held intercourse-I had gained a knowledge of their signs and passwords, and obtained an insight into their views and proceedings. I proposed a tale wherein my materials could be used ; my adviser differed with


* We have given,' he said, perhaps too much of the dark side of the Irish character; let us, for the present, treat of

the amiable; enough of it is around us—I once mentioned our old parish priest to you ; the good, the childislıly innocent, and yet the wise Father O'Donnell—we have only to take him as he really was, and if we succeed in drawing him lifelike, he must be reverenced and loved, as we used to love and reverence him.'

I sat down as proposed, when time, not indispensably engaged otherwise, enabled me to do so—I read for my brother each chapter as the tale progressed, and when I had put it out of hands, he took it up for revision and amendment. I have, cver since, regretted having allowed him to do this. According to his conception the tale required extensive alterations as to style and management: I may have differed with lim; but, adhering to our original mode of proceeding, I did not object, either to substitution or condensation. The task was too continuous, for his disorganised brain, and I fear that, although his daughter then fifteen, and a young man who resided near the cottage, acted as occasional amanuenses, his death was hastened by his more than usual occupation on the tale of Father Connell.' In some instances the original was condensed; and one entire chapter substituted.

• Father Connell' was the last joint work of The O'Hara Family. John's attending physician, although not pronouncing positively, led me to think, he might have held out, longer if he had not wrought, for him too ardently, at this book.

Not presuming for one moment, that the tale of ' Father Connell

' possesses merit as a novel, I may be permitted to remark, that it is so far of value, inasmuch as the character of the old priest who governed the parish of St. John in Kilkenny, when my brother and I attended in our muslin surplices at his vesper chair, and partook of his twelfth night feast of cakes and ale, is attempted to be faithfully pourtrayed. No matter how meagre may be the colouring, or how ill-disposed the lights and shadows, and relief—the likeness is a true one, without flattery or exaggeration ; no virtue feigned, or habit imagined-such as he is given under the name of “Father Connell’ was our parish priest, the Rev. Richard O'Donnell, Roman Catholic Dean of Ossory-when the writers of the tale were young.”

From the period of the publication of Father Conneil, Banim's health began to decline, and, more perceptibly than


ever, he was wearing away. How his life faded into death ; how his last literary labors were performed ; and how his last hours passed, we shall relate in the next, and concluding, portion of this Biography of John Banim.

ART. V.-LITERARY AND ARTISTIC LIFE IN PARIS.* 1. Scènes de la Vie de Bohéme, par Henry Murger. Paris,

1854. 2. La Croix de Berny Roman Steeple Chase, par Mme. Emile

de Girardin, Théophile Gautier, Jules Sandeau, et Méry. Paris. 1855.

On looking through the volume heading this paper, and comparing the pictures there drawn with others that have lain by, and grown dusty in the store-rooms of memory, and which were drawn some fifteen years since by the great artist N. P. Willis for the literary potentate of Marlborough-street, we could not help being saddened by the present gloomy, scampish features of literary and artistic life in Paris, the centre of the civilised world, when contrasted with the honors, riches, and glory which rewarded the man of letters in that old time in busy, selfish, worldly, smoke-covered London.

Here are a few traits that have not altogether faded from the once glowing canvas Our young American man of letters, and (through their influence) man of fashion, is reclining on a downy couch in a most superbly furnished drawing room in May Fair. He is striving to finish his dainty and costly breakfast as well as ennui, and the reminiscences and effects of the seventeen parties he attended the evening before, will

• For the other papers in our series, devoted to French novels, and the light literature of France, see Irisu QUARTERLY REVIEW, Vol. II., No. VI., p. 348., Art., Modern French Novels." IB., No. VIII., Art. “ Untranslated Novelists : Alphonse Karr," p. 677., Vol. III., No. X. Autobiography of Alexander Dumas,” p. 193.-B., No. XI. Art., French Social Life: Jerome Paturot,” p. 497.-1B., No. XII. Art., “Dumas and Texier, on Men and Books," p. 833., Vol. IV.-No. XIII. Art., “Phases of Bourgeois Life,' p. 72.-1B., No. XIV. Art., “ French Life in the Regency," p., 328,

permit. We do not recollect whether the walls of the apartment were ornamented with portraits of the then famous ballerinas; but are pretty sure that some of our hero's present discomfort was caused by the inspection of certain perfumed satin-paper billets, bearing the signatures of ladies the greatest and fairest among Albion's lovely wives and daughters : was Mrs. Ellis sleeping on her post, ye Gods! It was a proud day for America and literature, that this deity in slippers and morning gown, thus worshipped by the brightest and highest dames in the eastern hemisphere, owed his eminence in a small degree only, to the beauty of his features* and graces of his person. All the other blushing and blooming glories were showered on his aching head, by whatever goddess represents literary excellence. But ah, our West-End sybarite is not without his crumpled rose leaf : the devil shews his inkstained horns at the door, and claims his soul, at least that emanation of it known by the name of Copy. The wearied and blasé victim bids him avaunt, but he sticks to his bond, and“ Copy" he must have. Forty-eight pages of the New Monthly, as blank this moment as the emptiest fools-cap, must ere fall of eve, be filled with “ thoughts that breathe and words that burn, and in a small week's span, enthral and occupy some thousands of empty and admiring minds.

Needs must; the heavy ambrosial curls are waved aside ; the poetic eyes and marble brow are bent on Cupid and Psyche in the centre of the lofty ceiling; the point of the jewelled pen, the souvenir of a Duchess, just touches the paper : there is a pause ; he is awaiting for the rush of inspiration as the housewife, when she applies her ear to the end of the waterpipe, and hearkens for the gurgling of the liquid, as it comes pouring on, but still a street away. All at once his eyes dilate, his cheeks flush, his fingers quiver, and away goes the uib, carrying the poet's creative powers in its wake. The images crowd and jostle, each to get issue first at the diamond slit: time, place, self-consciousness vanish, and the operation proceeds swiftly and steadily, and the sheets are furrowed

We take for granted, that the writer intended to present his own corporal identity under the effigies of his Magazinc hero; at least we cannot recollect any other Col Apollo of the time, that claimed a likeness to the fancy portrait. If so, we are decidedly of opinion, that Mrs. Trollope shewed considerable spite, injustice, and littleness of spirit, in calling our talented Author " an ugly man.”

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with dark lines, even as the dewy surface of a bush is covered with the filmy threads of the creative spider, 'till the matter of the forty-eight pages rises round the poet în billowy sheets of foolscap.

Now with a sigh of relief he rises up, wipes his glowing brow, dons those envied garments the pride and despair of Bond-street, orders his cab to Marlborough-street before Mr. Colburn's novel-raised temple, delights that great man by walking into his sanctuary, and condescending to receive at his hands a paltry check for £500 more or less, the guerdon of his three hours' labor, and again instals himself in his triumphal chariot, the cynosure of tigers, flaneurs, ladies' maids, and their mistresses. Pondering the sundry claims of the morning, he finally decides on rewarding the least selfish of his admirers, drives off to the splendid mansion of the lovely and titled Lady * * . (If our memory is not at fault, she was wearing weeds for her lost lord, now hunting chamois in the Tyrol); they bid the world (of London) farewell, and for three weeks, the Baronial mansion of * *** in Devon: shire and its household ministers, are alone conscious of their dream-wrapped existence.

Oh youthful candidate for the privilege of delighting the readers of Blackwood or Frazer, 'month after month; aspiring artist that never get could secure a decent strip of exhibition wall for your picture; composer of music, longing to hear your ideas issuing in soul-subduing melodies from the twisted brass tubes and elastic chords of a parterre of musicians, did not our heart glow as we called to mind the noble lot of our gifted Adonis of the olden time, and were about to project this article for your encouragement, to proceed confidently and hopefully through the picturesque and flowery pleasure grounds of literature and art! And here, on opening this book of evil omen, are our hopes' disappointed, our wishes thwarted, and our spirits dejected. For, if our author comes within any reasonable distance of the truth, the present lot of the aspirants to fame in art or letters in Paris, is no more like that of the corresponding class in the palmy days of the “ New Monthly," than the plodding track of a dray horse, to the soaring course of Pegasus, when from the top of the cleft hill above Delphi, he springs above the clouds to meet bright Phæbus issuing from the glowing portals of the morning.--This winged quadruped reminds us of Bellerophion and his

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