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is but fair, but it is the invariable profession of patriotism which is so offensive--that patriotism, we find, being bounded by their lips and pockets. At the time we first wrote to you, we were very desirous of obtaining your contributions, because we then thought that your name

as an author and contributor would assist us in lauuching our little work successfully.

We have now, however, found that its unparalleled progress has depended more upon our own efforts than upon the aid of others, and are, therefore, much more indifferent. If you had assisted us then, you would have obliged us ; if you contribute now, it will be to oblige yourself.

We are, Sir,
Your obedient Servants,

GUNN AND Camerox.
To John BANIM, Esq.

Kilkenny, September 17th, 1840. Messrs. Gunn and Cameron,

When you first applied to me to contribute to your penny periodical, a member of my family informed you that from illness I regretted I could not do so; lately I repeated the assertion to account for my not sending at a later date anything new; but the respect due to at least severe suffering—I put forward to you no other grounds for your forbearance—has not been at hand to protect me; and, through me, the whole literature of my country, nay the character of that country itself, from the gross, though absurd and contemptible insolence of your letter of the 21st of August.

But I have no further answer to that impudent shop-boy letter; trusting, however, to make such use of it as may help to deter future adventurers in Ireland, from repaying with offered insult, the hearty support of, perhaps, a too generous people.

Continued indisposition must again account for my delay in answering your communication,

JOHN BANIM.” This was an unhappy quarrel, and one must regret, that the publishers had so little consideration for the author's condition. As Johnson said of Collins, when sickness or want are at the door, a man of genius is little calculated for abstruse thought or glowing flights of airy fancy.

There are, there have been, hundreds of men who, with not one ball John Banim's genius, and unafflicted with not one lundredth part of his sufferings and his sorrows, would have become misanthropic, and cold, and harslı, even to those nearest and dearest to them by every bond of relationship, of sympathy, and of friendship. Not so with Baniin; broken in liealti: ; powerless for work; weak in all that a brase, strong soul would wish to possess in full, complete, and vigorous strengtlı, still he was the manas 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 loping, John Banim lived on. He was happy in one blessing, his mind was strong as ever, and he, like Johnson, had prayed that his intellect might 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 liave extracted, my brother threw out the suggestion, that are should write a novel-of wlieh an old parish priest, might be the hero.-In 1840, five years after his return home, relinquishing on his own part all hope of being able to take up anything requiring continuous application, he urged me to resume my occupation-under his inmediate 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 whieh had bestowed on themselves, the fantastical name of Whitefeet.' some of the principal leaders of this lawless and wide spread combination I lad lield intercourse-I bad gained a know·ledge of their signs and passwords, and obtained an insight into their views aud proceedings. I proposed a tale wherein my materials could be used.; my adviser differed with

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• We have given,' he said, perlaps 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 childishly 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, ever since, regretted baving allowed him to do this. According to his conception the tale required extensive alterations as to style and management: I may have differed with bim ; 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 lad 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 fattery 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, Bapim's health began to decline, and, inore 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 Rman 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 tiine 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 IRISH QUARTERLY REVIEW, Vol. II., No. V1., 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.-IB., No. XI. Art., “ French Social Life; Jerome Paturot,” p. 497.LIB., No. XII. Art.. “ Dumas and Texier, on Men and Books,” p. 833., Vol. IV.-No. XIII. Art., Phases of Bourgeois Life,' p. 72.-IB., 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; be 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 nib, 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 Magazine hero; at least we cannot recollect any other Columbian 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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