after managers, could never be persuaded to offer it again for representation. His "Gisippus" was, however, represented shortly after his untimely decease, when he had acquired an extended fame in another department of literature, and received with unbounded applause, to which the ear of the once enthusiastic author was then insensible. When the curtain fell, the audience rose in a body and cheered tumultuously.

The friendship of Banim and Griffin is one of the most interesting circumstances in the history of either; and, though the sensitive independence of Griffin, and his horror of the idea of patronage, carried to an excess, considering the ardour of Banim's friendship,-led to a temporary coolness, yet it was only temporary, and gave way to the utmost subsequent cordiality. Griffin entertained the most enthusiastic opinion of his friend. Writing to his brother, Dr. Griffin, he says: What should I have done, if I had not met Banim? Mark me, that is a man,almost the only one I have met here."

In 1822, Banim proceeded to London, on the strength of his dramatic success, no doubt with all the sanguine hopes and glowing anticipations natural to his years and ardent temperament. Little dreaming, probably, of the often sad realities, the precarious nature, and Bore struggles of a literary career, he embarked for life upon the troubled waters, where so many before him had made shipwreck. These things, though he lived to surmount them, his first years in London taught him. He was accompanied by a partner two years his junior. His first engagements were with the periodical press, and he drew his chief support from contributing to one publication weekly, and various others occasionally. He also brought out several small new dramatic pieces at the English Opera House, which were more or less successful, but too ephemeral to be of much consequence. Three years of the most incessant drudgery, with comparatively little remuneration, did Banim devote to working for the periodicals, when at length he hit upon the secret of his strength, and, consequently, the road to success. In 1825 appeared the first series of the "Tales by the O'Hara Family," which electrified the readers of fiction by their extraordinary power

and the novelty of the scenes and incidents described. Though Lady Morgan and Miss Edgeworth had previously produced many able sketches of Irish life and manners, and those of the latter especially never have been, and, perhaps, never will be, surpassed in their peculiar line, yet no one had attempted their delineation with that boldness, latitude, and historical freedom of which Scott had set the example in illustrating the character and condition of his countrymen. This task Banim accomplished with over-mastering energy in these powerful productions. The first series, comprising "Croohore of the Bill Hook," "The Fetches," and "John Doe," having at once established their author's reputation, he lost no time in taking advantage of the full tide of popularity on which he now found himself floating; and in the course of the following year, 1826, a second series followed, consisting of "The Nowlans," and "Peter of the Castle." The industry of Banim must have been very great. From this time till the year 1831, when his health began to decline, he produced not less than four-and-twenty volumes of tales under the fictitious title of "The O'Hara Family," including "The Boyne Water" (1826), "The Anglo Irish," "The Croppy (1828), The Denounced" (1830), and "The Smuggler," -all, with the exception of the latter, having reference to Ireland, though not in all cases exclusively the scene of adventure. Whatever appeared under the nom de guerre which he had assumed was eagerly received; the very name carried with it a general attraction. Though, of course, varying considerably in merit and interest, they all bore traces, more or less, of the characteristic genius of their author; unrivalled power and fidelity of delineation, with a vigour of style sometimes carried to an excess almost savage, especially when depicting the workings of the darker passions, apparently without effort, and too often equally without restraint.

In 1831, Banim's health, which had long been declining, completely gave way, and he was ordered to seek in France a climate more congenial to his precarious state. There is no country in which literary merit is such a passport to social distinction, as well as the most substantial honours of the state,

His

as France; and the people of its brilliant and fascinating capital vied in extending to him the most gratifying marks of attention, which his invalid condition, however, precluded him in a great measure from enjoying. ailment, disease of the spine, still continued on the increase till the period of his death. His literary pursuits could, consequently, only be followed during the intervals between the paroxysms of pain. In this extremity, when so little fitted to contend against the privations incident to his distressing condition, that great statesman, whose late untimely decease called forth such universal public regret, and one of whose highest praises it was that he never looked with indifference, or without the most active sympathy, on the unequal struggles of merit, at once placed his name upon the Civil List for a pension of £150 a year, to which £40 a year was subsequently added for the education of his daughter, an only child. Finding no relief from his residence abroad, he returned to his native city to die. The contrast which he there experienced from the soothing attentions which had been lavished on him at Paris, made him painfully feel the too frequent truth of the trite comparison between the fate of the man of genius and the prophets of old. Indeed, it is unreasonable to expect in the contracted circle of a country town what a metropolis alone can afford, and that little gossiping, invidious spirit, which is the bane of such places, had vented itself in an absurd and pitiful rumour, for which there have been but too many precedents, that he was not the author of his own works. Whether any one was hinted at whose overpowering modesty was incapable of bearing the full blaze of so brilliant a reputation; and, therefore, remained a silent partner in their authorship, we are not aware, nor was it necessary. When people are disposed to act unworthily, they will by some means soon make an excuse.

While upon this subject, we may state our impression that one of the few works of the series of which Banim was not the author, was the production of Miss Martin, daughter of the benevolent and well-known M.P. for Galway, lately deceased. Banim had endeavoured, though without success, to enlist Griffin also, who, however, with character

istic independence, wished to build upon his own foundation.

From the time of his going abroad, till the period of his decease, Banim produced little except occasional sketches, for the Annuals and other periodicals; and these he collected and published, in 1838, under the title of "The Bit of Writin' and other Tales." Previously, however, to that event, in 1831, he had produced some poetry, "A Chaunt for the Cholera, and National Ballads," which seemed to indicate that the prostration was not altogether confined to his physical frame, which even his well-earned reputation could not save from falling still-born from the press. In addition to the loathsome and repulsive nature of the principal subject, many of the songs were such as should never have seen the light; and a few spirit-stirring pieces, such as "Soggarth Aroon,” “The Reconciliation," which alone were worthy of their author, could not redeem the whole from oblivion. Early in 1842, he brought out a distinct work, the last he was destined to produce, entitled "Father Connell." This work, if not the one which would be pointed to as affording the highest example of its author's genius, is certainly that which gives the most pleasing impression of his amiability as a man. reminds us of the calm, serene radiance of the sun-set, after the scorching glow of his mid-day beams. There is a happy freedom from that over-strained excitement, and too frequent exhibition of the darker passions, in which he had delighted to revel in his earlier productions. The gentler and more attractive feelings and affections of our nature are here depicted with equal

success.

It

The latter years of Banim had been passed in a little rural retreat in the vicinity of his native city, his cottage standing on an eminence, and commanding a fine view of the surrounding country, with the Nore winding its way, at some distance, through the beautiful vale beneath; and there he died, in the latter end of '42, having long been worn down by disease to a mere wreck.

The primary aim of Banim, as a writer of fiction, had been to portray the character of his countrymen with fidelity and truth; to paint them in their real colours, and to do away with

the impressions and prejudices engendered by those distorted and atrocious caricatures, which, in the stage and other sketches, had so long passed current as genuine, and which had tended, in no small degree, to embitter the feeling between people nominally one. These, and the fearfully exaggerated strictures of the political press, upon some local outrage occurring from time to time, written as if for the express purpose of fostering ill-feeling between the two countries, but the real secret of which, perhaps, was merely the pressing necessity of a stirring "leader" for some morning journal, and Ireland was pressed into the service, and furnished up a hot and reeking victim, were the sources of the ignorance and incredible misrepresentation which he had to counteract. He brought to his task a mind intensely and ardently patriotic; a minute knowledge of a wide range of the history of his country; and of the manners, habits, and feelings of her people; and a masculine and graphic power of delineation, which has, perhaps, never been surpassed, and seldom equalled. If his advocacy was not always judicious, and sometimes liable to misapprehension, it was impossible that it should fail in the main, so far as its influence extended, in producing a powerful effect; creating good feeling, and just views towards his country, where ignorance and prejudice had hitherto prevailed; and demonstrating to those who were ready to believe everything ill of Ireland, that, if crime existed there, the causes which must inevitably produce crime had long existed in active operation there, also, in more than an equal ratio. Belfast, 1851.

H. R. M.

THE LAST WORDS OF GREAT MEN.

BEING dead, they yet speak to us; in the memory of their living example, and in the echo of their dying counsels. The great deeds and holy sayings of the illustrious good live after them; a rich legacy of which no change nor accident can rob us. Pernoctant nobiscum; perigrinantur; rusticantur. We may have mingled with them in the intimacy of friendship, and listened to their living words; but never with the solemn awe their lessons of wisdom

and virtue inspire when they come to us as the utterances of voices now silent in the grave. And of all the words of the dead, we may well account those the most deeply impressive which have been spoken when the light of eternity was breaking around them.

Under what altered aspects do the ordinary objects of human pursuit present themselves to the mind of a dying man! His spirit hovers on the confines of a new world; and, as eternal realities stand partially revealed to him, and he catches a glimpse of the mighty interests and sublime occupations of the future, he learns the worthlessness of much he has hitherto prized, and discriminates with a truer eye than is given us amid the passion and excitement of actual life, between the things which are excellent and enduring, and those which belong to the fashion of this world, that passeth away. In the vigour of youth, or lusty manhood, he may have had his dreams of ambition, power, and wealth; but, as the world fades from his dying vision, he smiles at them as toys, or laments them as follies.

"Live well," said the dying Johnson, to a friend who stood by his bedside; and the parting words of the brilliant and accomplished Sir Walter Scott, to his son-in-law, echoed the counsel of the sage: "I may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man ; be virtuous, be religious, be a good man; nothing else can give you any comfort when you come to lie here." Henry Marten, the regicide, who spent twenty years of captivity in Chepstow Castle; a stern, proud man; a man of busy action in the stirring days of his youth, and of profound thought in the solitude of his long imprisonment; committed his latest meditations to paper, in the form of verses, of which this is the closing couplet :

"Examples preach to th' eye-care then ; mine says,

Not how you end, but how you spend, your days."

Not meaning, indeed, that it is to be a matter of indifference to us whether we die at peace with ourselves, the world, and God, for we are so to spend our days as thus to end them; but that to him who has lived a good life, it is a matter of small concern though he close it in a prison cell.

For it is the good man only who can

take a peaceful retrospect of the past, and embrace with hopeful serenity the mystery of the grave. A conscience void of offence, a sense of duty done and acceptance found, could alone have enabled Washington to say, a few hours before his death, "Doctor, I am dying, and have been dying a long time; but I am not afraid to die."

The last words of many great men teach us that no thought is more soothing to the dying pillow than the recollection of the faithful discharge of some high and important trust. Nelson, when dying in the cockpit of the Victory, exclaimed again and again to his friend, Captain Hardy, with much fervour, "Thank God, I have done my duty! Í have done my duty!" They were the last words he spoke. Men who have been entrusted with some high mission to accomplish in the world's destiny, have been raised into heroes and sustained as martyrs by an absorbing sense of the importance of their work. When Gustavus Adolphus was found by his enemies wounded on the field of battle, amid a heap of dying men, it was with a pride only to be equalled in the hour of victory that he cried out, "I am the King of Sweden, and seal with my blood the liberty and religion of the whole German nation!" The illustrious Sir Henry Vane, a man great in all the actions of his life, and greatest of all in his sufferings, who withstood, in his firm and unselfish devotion to the cause of human liberty, the unconstitutional enactments of Charles and the military absolutism of Cromwell, found a satisfaction in reviewing his unshaken constancy to principle, which the terrors of the scaffold were unable to affect. "Blessed be the Lord," he said, a few moments before execution," that I have kept a conscience void of offence till this day. I bless the Lord I have not deserted the righteous cause for which I suffer!" Hampden, with enduring patriotism, prayed, when mortally wounded, “O Lord! save my bleeding country. Have these realms in thy special keeping. Confound and level in the dust those who would rob the people of their liberty and lawful prerogative. Let the king see his error, and turn the hearts of his wicked counsellors from the malice and wickedness of their designs!" Sir John Elliot was another of the victims of this reign of oppression. Reduced to extreme debility by long imprisonment, he in

structed a painter, just before his death, to depict his emaciated countenance, and forwarded the portrait to his son, to be hung up by the side of one which represented him in the vigour of health, that it might serve as "a perpetual memorial of his hatred of tyranny." This proud feeling of freedom from selfreproach can only be tasted by those who, in the midst of every temptation, have "preserved the chastity of their honour." How bitterly Cranmer lamented at the last one hour of weakness, a weakness, nevertheless, almost atoned for by the noble heroism with which he thrust the hand which had signed his recantation into the flames, and exclaimed as he watched it consume, "This hand bath offended-this unworthy right hand!"

How

Few things are more humbling to a mind whose sensibility is quickened by the nearness of death, than the recollection of wasted or misdirected powers. Many a trick played with conscience; many a tortuous scheme of policy, in which truth and justice were made of little account, are seen, it may be, for the first time, in their real character, stripped of every subterfuge which disguised them; and the conscience revolts from its own handiwork. pregnant with instruction are the bitter words of Wolsey!-words amongst his latest, and almost literally adopted by the great dramatist,-" If I had served God as diligently as I have served the King, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs!" The last reflections of Newton taught him, too, humility; but a humility destitute of self-reproach. He felt the feebleness of his powers, the narrow limit of his opportuuities, and his words serve, not as a warning to us to repudiate the pursuits he adorned with his genius, but as a lesson to reprove the presumption of self-confidence, and remind us that we do but touch the confines of truth. "I don't know," he said, “what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me." Such is the befitting spirit of the inquirer; and the man who begins his investigations with this reverential self-diffidence, in emulating the temper of Newton, will be most likely to imitate his success.

"The ruling passion strong in death" has been already illustrated with sufficient frequency. Abundant facts show us that those features of character to which freest play is given in the activity of health, usually maintain their ascendancy to the last. When told that the enemy retreated, General Wolff, stricken to death on the heights of Abraham, exclaimed, "Now, God be praised! I shall die happy." And with these words the hero expired. Another soldier, wounded like Wolff in the hour of victory, showed in a somewhat different light the predominance of his professional and customary feelings. We speak of Sir John Moore, whose shoulder had been carried away by a cannon-ball, before Corunna. He was carried from the field in a blanket, and when Captain Harding was about to unbuckle his belt, to remove his sword, which pressed against him-" the sword he had never disgraced"—the General said faintly, "No, Harding; it is as well as it is. Í had rather it should go out of the field with me." The men shed tears as they bore their dying commander, for in him the soldier had not destroyed the man. He dismissed the surgeons, who offered him assistance, with these memorable words: "You can be of no service to me; go to the soldiers to whom you may be useful: I am beyond the reach of your skill,"-words which deserve to be recorded by the side of those of the gallant Sidney, who was returning from the field of battle pale, languid, and thirsty from excess of bleeding, and eagerly asked for water. It was brought him, but it had no sooner approached his lips, than he resigned it to a dying soldier whose ghastly countenance attracted his notice, saying, "This man's necessity is still greater than mine." Of both it may be said their death was of a piece with their life; and the same remark holds good of others who have neither been overcome with terror at the last moment, nor shown in it anything affected or inconsistent with their previous character. Sir Thomas Moore exhibited the same cheerfulness and harmless mirth at his execution, for which he had ever been remarkable. Observing that the scaffold was so weak that it was ready to fall, he said, "Master lieutenant, I pray you see me safe up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself," -and, when he laid his head on the

block, he desired the executioner to wait till he had removed his beard, for that had never offended his highness. The Earl of Strafford, under similar circumstances, maintained his habitual composure, and observed, "I do as cheerfully put off my doublet at this time as ever I did when I went to bed. Think," he added, in the quaint manner of the day, turning to take leave of his friends, "that you now accompany me the fourth time to my marriage-bed. That block must be my pillow, and here I shall rest from all my labours. No thoughts of envy, no dreams of treason, nor jealousies, nor cares, for the King, the State, or myself, shall interrupt this easy sleep." And Sir Walter Raleigh, as he asked for the axe and felt its edge, exclaimed, "It is a sharp medicine, but this is that will cure all sorrows." Nor can we omit the words of Legrand d'Alleray, an aged representative of France, who stood arraigned with his wife before the revolutionary tribunal during the Reign of Terror. The judge, anxious to save him, hinted at various means by which he might evade the charge; but the old man interrupted him, saying, "I thank you for the efforts you make to save me; but it would be necessary to purchase our lives by a lie. My wife and myself prefer rather to die. We have grown old together without ever having lied. We will not do so now, to save a remnant of life."

The dying have often given utterance to aphorisms of great truth and power. Such were the words of Raleigh when told by the executioner to lie with his head toward the East: "No matter how the head lie, so that the heart be right." Such was the apostrophe of Madame Roland, first an illustrious servant, and then a martyr, of the Revolution, as she stood beneath the guillotine and bent to the statue of liberty close at hand: "Oh, Liberty! what crimes are committed in thy name!" "Take heed by all means," was the last council of Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, to his son, "of blood, whether it be in public or in private quarrel, and God will prosper thee in all thy ways." "God bless you," said Bentinck as he parted from his biographer a few days before his untimely death; we must work, and the country will gather about us."

And this is truly the conclusion of the whole matter, the one great lesson