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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 https://archive.org/details/lifeofjohnbanimi00murr_0 
 
N ew "Yoik.,!) . & J. S a dlier & C9 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN BANIM, 
 
 Insjr ItoirHisi, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “DAMON AND PYTHIAS,” &C., AND ONE OF THE WRITERS OF 
 “TALES BY THE O’HARA FAMILY.” 
 
 WITH 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM HIS CORRESPONDENCE, 
 
 GENERAL AND LITERARY. 
 
 BY 
 
 PATRICK JOSEPH MURRAY. 
 
 AMO, 
 
 SELECTIONS FKOM HIS 
 
 PR 405 7 
 BX.H8 
 
 NEW YOR 
 D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 B 
 
 MONTREAL : 
 
 COR. NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAYIER STS. 
 
 50 !;' 
 
 CHESTNUT 
 
 1 86 9. 
 
 f - M 
 
 HH 
 
 
 LBRARf 
 
 MASS, 
 
Stereotyped by VINCENT DILL, 
 
 ‘25 & 27 New Chambers St., N. Y. 
 
TO 
 
 RICHARD ARMSTRONG, Esq., Q. C., 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 HAPPY BAYS AND PLEASANT NIGHTS, 
 
 THIS MEMORIAL OF JOHN BANIM IS DEDICATED, 
 
 BY, 
 
 ONCE HIS PUPIL, AND FOR EVER HIS FRIEND, 
 
 PATRICK JOSEPH MURRAY. 
 

 
 
 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION — BIRTH — SCHOOL DAYS — YOUTH — FIRST LOVE. 
 
 It has been said that the lives of literary men in 
 England are, in general, devoid of incidents either in- 
 teresting or exciting, and yet, in all the long catalogue 
 of human joys and sorrows, of combats against the 
 world, and of triumphs over difficulties almost insur- 
 mountable, of instances where the indomitable will has 
 raised its possessor to the enjoyment of every object 
 sought, and to the full fruition of every hope long 
 cherished, where can such glorious examples be found 
 as in the pages of literary biography? It is true 
 that many a noble intellect has been shattered in the 
 pursuit of literary fame ; it is true that ghastly forms 
 of martyred genius flit across the scene, and that, from 
 the lowest depths of the deep hearts of Poets, the cry 
 of gnawing hunger, and the wail of helpless, hopeless 
 sorrow arises, with an anguish more frightful than that 
 of Philoctetes, more awful than that of Lear. Truly 
 
6 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 literature lias had its martyrs — Nash, the creature of 
 genius, of famine, and despair, tells us : “I sat up late 
 and rose early, contended with the cold and conversed 
 with scarcity, and all my labors turned to loss— 
 
 ‘ Why is ? t damnation to despair and die 
 When life is my true happiness 7 disease ? 7 77 
 
 Churchyard, who wore out life on the food and in 
 the rags of a beggar, had written on his grave, “ Poverty 
 and Poetry his tomb doth enclose.” Stowe, after the 
 labor of forty-five years, was a strolling mendicant 
 through the country of whose antiquities he had been 
 the learned chronicler. Otway, when he had endured 
 all the woes of want, was choked by the hungry eager- 
 ness with which he tried to devour a loaf, the price of 
 w T hich he had begged. The saddest picture of all, in 
 the martyrology of genius, is Chatterton — 
 
 “ the marvellous boy ; 
 
 The sleepless soul that perish’d in his pride 77 — 
 writing home to his mother those brave letters in which 
 he promises to become great and famous, because, “ by 
 abstinence and perseverance, a man may accomplish 
 whatever he pleases ; ” and then, after enduring days 
 of starvation, and refusing a dinner from his landlady, 
 the poor staymaker, he dies by his own hand of poison, 
 and is buried amongst the rank graves of beggars in 
 Shoe-lane workhouse. Literary biography has its kind 
 good hearts too, doing deeds that shine in the face 
 of heaven — its “ noble silent men, scattered here and 
 there ; silently thinking ; silently working ; whom no 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 7 
 
 morning newspaper makes mention of.” Look at 
 Goldsmith giving to the relief of want, whilst himself 
 existing on pennies. Look at Samuel Johnson crowd- 
 ing his house with the needy. Look at him walking 
 all night around St. James’s Square, because otherwise 
 his companion, Richard Savage, would sleep upon a 
 cobbler’s bulk. Look again, he is returning home late 
 at night, his dim eyes serve him but poorly to see his 
 way, and in his rolling, shambling walk, he stumbles 
 over some object lying on the footpath ; he stoops — it 
 is a woman, half dead with cold, disease, and want. He 
 takes her on his back, carries her to his lodgings, places 
 her in his own bed, sends for a physician, and finding 
 that she is a poor fallen outcast, prays, and teaches 
 her to pray, and upon her recovery places her where 
 poverty cannot again drive her from virtue. When 
 Harte dined with Cave, meat was taken behind a screen 
 placed at the end of the room ; and there sat Johnson, 
 too ragged and too proud to appear at table. But he 
 heard them praise his Life of Savage — and the same 
 man, so poor and so proud, some few years afterwards 
 flung back to the clever puppy Chesterfield his praises 
 of the Dictionary. Well has Thomas Carlyle written, 
 “ Old Samuel Johnson, the greatest soul in England in 
 his day — Corsica Boswell flaunted at public shows with 
 printed ribbons round his hat ; but the great old Samuel 
 stayed at home. The world- wide soul wrapt up in its 
 thoughts, in its sorrows, what could paradings and 
 ribbons in the hat do for it?” Truly nothing. Eor it, 
 
8 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 lionor and rectitude did all. These are the facts and 
 incidents which gave to literary biography its charms. 
 
 Think of Kirke White, poor murdered child of song 
 and sorrow ; of John Keats, by his solitary hearth, a 
 gloom-rapt soul, to whom 
 
 (i The bare heath of life presents no bloom ; ” 
 
 of Gerald Griffin, so worn and wan before his time, 
 starving by day, and awakened at night by the dread 
 pulsation of his throbbing heart, to sigh lest day and 
 its toil had come once more ; and, most woful of all, 
 Sir Walter and Southey — so bright in intellect, and so 
 dauntless in labor once, but so crushed and broken 
 at the close of life — come before us, all teaching great 
 truths in the moral of their lives, and proving, too, 
 that old Burton judged rightly when, in “ The Anatomy 
 of Melancholy,” he quaintly wrote, that the Destinies 
 of old “ put poverty upon Mercury as a punishment ; 
 since when, poetry and beggary are Gemini, twin-born 
 brats, inseparable companions. Mercury can help them 
 to knowledge, but not to money.” 
 
 It is not by reason alone of its fascinating details 
 that literary biography should be prized and estimated. 
 The author, more than any other man, rises by his own 
 merits, or sinks through his own faults. Even in the 
 days when the lot of the man of genius was, but too 
 often, 
 
 “ Toil, envy, want, the Patron, and the jail,” 
 the want and the jail were frequently attributable to 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 9 
 
 his own misconduct ; but, in this our age, when from 
 literature have sprung the glories of the Church, the 
 Bench, the Senate, and the Bar, genius need no longer 
 dress in rags, or live in poverty — -its Patron is the 
 Public ; and for him who is entering on the journey 
 of life, the best guide will be the biography of some 
 literary man of the time. He will there discover how, 
 by honorable conduct and by persevering application, 
 all the honors of the kingdom can be obtained — and 
 how, on the other hand, the brightest gifts of genius 
 are useless, if desecrated by idleness or by misap- 
 plication. He will learn, also, to doubt the truth of 
 one who has written : 
 
 “ Let no man be bred to literature alone, for, as has been far 
 less truly said of another occupation, it will not be bread to 
 him. Fallacious hopes, bitter disappointments, uncertain rewards 
 vile impositions, and censure and slander from the oppressors, 
 are their lot, as sure as ever they put pen to paper for publication, 
 or risk their peace of mind on the black, black sea of printers 7 ink. 
 With a fortune to sustain, or a profession to stand by, it may still 
 be bad enough ; but without one or the other it is as foolish a3 
 alchemy, as desperate as suicide. 77 * 
 
 The facts show to the reader how interesting and 
 how useful a study literary biography becomes when 
 rightly pursued ; and we have endeavored to render 
 our Biography of John Banim as faithful a memoir as 
 facts could make it, and to give it, through his own 
 letters, somewhat the character of an autobiography. 
 
 There is a charm about biography which is immedi- 
 
 * Jerdan’s Autobiography, Vol I. p. 39. 
 
10 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 ately felt and acknowledged by all ; but autobiography 
 ls still more attractive, being the record of the heart, 
 the feeling and the actions of him who is the subject 
 of his own pen. 
 
 Great old Samuel J ohnson said, that if any man were 
 to note down the facts of his daily existence, the diary 
 should prove interesting, and for our parts we believe, 
 most firmly, that he was right ; we even consider that 
 an indifferently executed autobiography is more inter- 
 esting than an ' ordinarily compiled biography. Who 
 would not rather read Horace’s own account of his 
 school days, of his boyhood, and of his every-day life, 
 than the most erudite and accurate biographical sketch 
 composed by his annotators ? When he writes of him- 
 self he is before us, as in the years when he, the freed- 
 man’s son, was brought to Rome by a father, noble in 
 the nobility of manhood, and was sent to learn all that 
 the Roman Knight could know. We see him as when 
 he went attended by slaves, and dressed as if his estate 
 had been princely. When he relates the moral lessons 
 given him by his father, and adds, to the noble born 
 Mecsenas — 
 
 “ Nil me poeniteat sanum patris hujus ”■ — 
 the old man is present before us, living, breathing, and 
 respected. When he describes his home life, that exqui- 
 site picture of Epicurean — real Epicurean — existence, 
 we see him plainly, jogging upon the bob-tailed mule, 
 or inquiring the price of bread and herbs, or loitering 
 in the Circus, or lounging in the Forum, or listening to 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 11 
 
 the fortune-tellers ; and we return with him at night to 
 the supper of onions, pulse, and pancakes, served by 
 the three slaves ; and observing the two cups, and 
 the tumbler, upon the white stone slab, we think him 
 a Eoman “ right gay fellow,” and grasping his hand, in 
 fancy, we cry, in his own line — 
 
 “Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico 
 and we hear him say, as his eyes sparkle, 
 
 “ Hie me consolor victurum suavitis, ac si 
 Quaestor avus, pater atque meus, patruusque fuisset.” 
 
 And turn now to Montaigne. Who could tell, as he 
 himself tells, the history of his early life ? Who could 
 place so well before us his father, Pierre Eyquem, 
 Feuyer , the brave and loyal soldier who had seen service 
 beyond the mountains ; who mixed his language with 
 “illustrations out of modern authors, especially Span- 
 ish ? ” The man is before us, carrying the canes loaded 
 with lead, and with them exercising his arms for throw- 
 ing the stone. We see him walking with leaden-soled 
 shoes, that he might be afterwards the lighter for leap- 
 ing and running. The old man and his son are before 
 us, when Michael writes : “ Of his vaulting he has left 
 little miracles behind him ; and I have seen him, when 
 past three-score, laugh at our agilities, throw himself 
 in his furred gown into the saddle, make the tour of 
 a table upon his thumbs, and scarce ever mount the 
 stairs, up to his chamber, without taking three or four 
 steps at a time.” 
 
 Who could tell as well as Montaigne the plan of 
 
12 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 education marked out for him by his father ; his being, 
 before he could articulate, committed to the care of a 
 German, who was ignorant of French, but who spoke 
 Latin fluently ; the scheme of education working so 
 well, that George Buchanan — “ that great Scotch poet,” 
 who was his tutor in the College of Guienne, where 
 Michael played the chief parts in the Latin tragedies of 
 Buchanan, Guerente, and Muret — told him that he must 
 write a treatise upon Education, founded on the plan 
 of that carried out by Montaigne’s father, Buchanan 
 being then tutor to that Count de Brissac, w T ho after- 
 wards proved so valiant and so brave a gentleman? 
 Who but Montaigne could lead us onward, through all 
 his charming, babbling book, where he, his habits, his 
 errors, and fine, noble, too truthful disposition steal out 
 in every page, till we agree in his opinion, “ Je n’ay pas 
 plus faict mon livre, que mon livre m’a faict, — livre con- 
 substantiel a son autheur ? ” Who but Bobert Southey 
 could tell us so charmingly of his own early life, as in 
 the first pages of his Memoir we read from his own 
 pen? Boswell’s inimitable work, with all its life-like 
 sketches, is not so interesting as the few personal in- 
 cidents stated by Johnson himself. Who does not wish 
 nat Sydney Smith had continued that preface to his 
 works, which he begins with the words, “ When I first 
 went into the Church, I had a living in the middle of 
 Salisbury Plain ? ” In these books, the writers are our 
 friends ; their minds, their actions, their hopes and fears 
 are before us ; and when the work is biography, we like 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 13 
 
 it better the nearer it approaches to autobiography, by 
 the insertion of the private letters of him who forms 
 the subject. Thus Eobert Southey thought, when about 
 to edit the poems, and to compose a memoir, of Kirke 
 White, he wrote to Neville White : “ The most valua- 
 ble materials which could be entrusted to me would be 
 his letters, — the more that could be said of him in his 
 own words the better.” Letters give the chief charm 
 to the biography of Byron, and of Scott. In the Son- 
 nets of Shakespeare, those assumed to refer to himself 
 are the most admired ; and it has been well observed 
 of Petrarch, that “his correspondence and verses to- 
 gether afford the progressive interest of a narrative in 
 which the poet is always identified with the man.” 
 
 It is true that genius has often been its own doom- 
 ster. Debauchery and improvidence have, alas ! been 
 lures to lead the grandest souls to ruin ; and fancies 
 which in the dawn of fame blazed bright in beauty, 
 have set in black clouds of gross and earthly passion. 
 But there are other sufferers who have perished in the 
 contest with the world, and who, in mental anguish and 
 in bodily pain, attempted to accomplish the great deeds 
 of which in youth they dreamed those dreams that come 
 only in the days when — 
 
 “All we met was fair and good, 
 
 And all was good that time could bring 
 And all the secret of the spring 
 Moved in the chambers of the blood/’ 
 
 These are the real martyrs of genius who, commencing 
 
14 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 ]ife in strength and hope, with that hope whose rosy 
 light tints every rugged pathway in the far-off steeps 
 that must be passed ere the gorgeous dream-land of 
 golden fame can be reached — commencing life, too, with 
 that power which ever dwells in the deep heart of 
 youth, making to-day but the training ground for a 
 future, when, amongst the clashing of minds, in the 
 jarring struggle with the world, triumph shall crown 
 him a victor — hope on for ever. 
 
 Such a man as this was John Banim : a bright-hearted, 
 true-souled Irishman. He began his way of toil in 
 trusting daring ; side by side with a loving, unchanging 
 wife, he would try the power of his mind, the readiness 
 of his intellect, and the versatility of his genius ; and 
 had Omniscient Wisdom spared him health, as fully 
 as it bestowed upon him energy of soul and ability of 
 mind, he would have been the Scott of Ireland. But 
 all his life long he labored amidst the frowns of Fortune 
 or the tortures of disease. He wrote in the intervals 
 of anguish, frequently too during its . paroxysms, and 
 closed his life a mind-wreck, drifting away upon the 
 lone black sea of pain and sorrow. But herein it is 
 that his life deserves a record : its home love, its 
 beautiful affection for her whom the Germans so 
 thoughtfully call “ the house-mother : ” his never-flag- 
 ging hope ; his patient endurance ; his triumphs ; his 
 efforts after excellence, form many important teachings 
 for him who would enter the world a candidate for liter- 
 ary fame. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 15 
 
 Banim was in heart and soul a man ; and in toiling 
 onward in his self-chosen profession, amidst all his griefs 
 was ever a hero, disdaining to be, while the soul of a 
 man dwelt in manhood’s frame — 
 
 “ An infant crying in the night : 
 
 An infant crying for the light 
 And with no language but a cry.” 
 
 “Work” was his motto, and of the great psalm of life 
 he made the anthem, 
 
 Laborare Est Orare. 
 
 Like Southey, he was always hoping, and always 
 working ; and the glory of his toil was not in the pres- 
 ent work, but in that which should be accomplished in 
 future times. Like Scott, he loved the humorous side 
 of things, and when not in heroics was most at ease. 
 His letters are more hearty than those of Moore ; and 
 the self-reliant independence of one who would be suc- 
 cessful by his own efforts, is plain and evident in all 
 his communications with the household at home. From 
 the first letter to the last, now before us, these feelings 
 are fully expressed ; and much as we have read, much 
 as we know, of literary men and their habits, we believe 
 that of those who are the supports of the periodical 
 Press, there is no man whom a Christian, a gentleman, 
 or a brother litterateur would prefer to have called friend, 
 before John Banim. 
 
 In the year 1792 there resided in the city of Kilkenny 
 a young, hard-working man, named Michael Banim. 
 
16 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 A natural love of out-door exercise and field sports had 
 sprung up in his breast, and had been strengthened by 
 all the influences that extend to young men who reside 
 in a county, the sporting habits of whose gentry are 
 even less remarkable than those exhibited by the mem- 
 bers of the once famous Kilkenny Hunt. Michael Banim 
 united pleasure with business, pushing his way in the 
 world as a trader in all the necessaries of a sportsman’s 
 and angler’s outfit, — dealing in everything, from a fowl- 
 ing-piece of John Rigby’s to one of Martin Kelley’s 
 fishing-rods. He was a farmer too, and kept a pair of 
 well-bred horses. 
 
 From the days when Venator, in “The Complete 
 Angler/’ kissed the pretty milkmaid who sang so sweetly 
 (one could wish, with Sir Thomas Overbury, “ that she 
 may die in the spring, and, being dead, ma}^ have good 
 store of flowers stuck round about her winding-sheet ”), 
 and for which the grave Piscator reproves him with a 
 “ Come, scholar ! let Maudlin alone : do not you offer 
 to spoil her voice,” to the time when young Squire 
 Thornhill stole away the heart of Olivia Primrose — 
 sportsmen have been the victims of bright eyes, and 
 have made fond husbands too, notwithstanding the cal- 
 umny of the jilted lover in Locksley Hall, who declares 
 of his sporting rival : — 
 
 “ He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel 
 force, 
 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.” 
 
 And so Michael Banim fell beneath the power of the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 17 
 
 god who “ rules the court, the camp, the grove,” and 
 was married, in the year 1792, to Joannah Carroll. 
 
 She was of honest, respectable parentage, and of her 
 character and personal appearance her eldest son, 
 Michael, has given, in describing Eose Brady, the 
 heroine of “ The Ghost Hunter and His Family,” the 
 following sketch : — • 
 
 “ She could not be called beautiful, for her nose was 
 neither Eoman nor Grecian ; nay, as we wish to speak 
 candidly in all cases, we must confess that it was rather 
 broad at the base, and perhaps about the sixteenth of 
 an inch too wide. But then her lips were cherry-red, 
 and beautifully formed ; her forehead was as smooth 
 as polished ivory ; her cheeks were round and peachy, 
 and, in color, ‘like to the Catherine pear, the side 
 that’s next the sun ; ’ her chin was full, marbly, and a 
 little dimpled ; and as for teeth, Eose might be excused 
 for unnecessarily displaying them, had she had the 
 vanity to do so. The eye is the gem of the counte- 
 nance ; and Eose could boast two dark hazel ones, 
 beaming with good-nature or with affection, full of 
 sense and intellect, and sometimes shooting forth a sly 
 humor. She was not tall, but her figure was nicely 
 moulded. Eichardson, while enumerating the perfec- 
 tions of his Clarissa, (poor, poor Clarissa!) relates that 
 her attire always bore the gloss of newness. We claim 
 the same praise for our humble little heroine, and we 
 add that whatever she wore seemed of the exact color, 
 kind, and pattern, which became her best. 
 
18 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “She was as cheerfully industrious as a bee in the 
 garden. Almost from her childhood she had been 
 accustomed to earn something for herself ; and by 
 assiduity and prudence in her occupations, she was 
 enabled not only to contribute to the comforts of the 
 family, but to e put money in her purse ; * and that 
 purse, a capacious one of gold-flowered silk/ lay in a 
 deep corner of the chest in her bedroom, and into it 
 guinea after guinea found their way, until Eose had 
 laid up her own dower.” 
 
 She possessed a mind of very superior order, and a 
 store of good sense, and womanly, wifely patience ; and 
 these, with health and trust in Heaven, were her only 
 marriage portion. 
 
 Michael Banim was a man of hasty temper, but with 
 a fund of deep and genuine feeling at heart ; and here 
 his wife’s gentle affection was the quiet soother of all 
 care ; and soon he was a man well to do in the world, 
 respected by his superiors in rank, and — best test of all 
 of one’s real worth — respected by his neighbors and by 
 his equals. 
 
 In August, 1796, there was born to him a son named 
 Michael, who is still living, and whom, in the course of 
 this biography, we shall have frequent occasion to men- 
 tion. His second son, John Banim, was born on the 
 3d day of April, 1798. 
 
 John grew up a plain-looking child, with great staring 
 eyes ; and his only characteristic was a kind, loving 
 disposition, which endeared him to all the humble 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 19 
 
 household. He was petted by his mother, and her kind- 
 ness, in conjunction with his own love of those about 
 him, rendered his early years but one united train of 
 childish joys. 
 
 His mother, as we have stated, petted, and as a matter 
 of course, indulged him : the best place at table, and 
 the nicest dainties of the dinner, even in mere child- 
 hood, were his ; and although Mrs. Banim did not spoil 
 her boy so excessively as did Quick the actor his little 
 girl, who, because she wished to dabble her feet in the 
 gravy of a saddle of mutton, was permitted to sit astride 
 upon the joint, yet little John Banim merely escaped 
 the socially atrocious character of an enfant terrible . 
 
 His father was a man of some information, for his 
 position and time ; his mother was a woman of good 
 mental powers, increased and strengthened by a love 
 for reading. Thus both the parents of the future nov- 
 elist were capable of understanding and appreciating 
 the advantages of education, and in his fourth year 
 their son J ohn was sent to a school kept by Mrs. Alice 
 Moore; where it was possible to learn the “Horn 'Boo'kf 
 and some fair share of the rudiments of reading, pro- 
 vided the words were not too long, and were those in 
 ordinary use. 
 
 Here however, John did not continue a scholar. Like 
 the more famous Academy and Lyceum, Alice Moore’s 
 school was held upon the ground-floor ; and this circum- 
 stance so much excited the indignation of little Banim, 
 that he rushed to his home from the cottage seminary. 
 
20 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 after an hour’s tuition, declaring to his mother that he 
 could not stay in a school where “ there wasn’t a bit of 
 paper on the walls, or a step of stairs in the house.” 
 Mrs. Banim thought this outburst but the childish in- 
 dication of an aspiring mind, and did not force her little 
 boy to return, but sent him to the school of a Miss 
 Lamb, who appears to have taught him the very merest 
 branches of learning. She was, like many other school- 
 mistresses — women who are supported by parents simply 
 because they act as a species of upper nurses, keeping 
 the children from harm and home — good-humored, quiet, 
 and fat. With Miss Lamb, John remained until he 
 could, as she used afterwards to boast, “ turn the 
 primer.” 
 
 In his fifth year he was removed from Miss Lamb’s 
 to a school at that period well known in Kilkenny and 
 its vicinity as “ The English Academy, Kilkenny.” Its 
 master, Mr. George Charles Buchanan, was an oddity ; 
 and if ever man lived for whom the apology offered by 
 Sir Walter for one of his characters should be freely 
 admitted as a plea in bar of all deprecation, George 
 Charles Buchanan could claim its fullest benefit, for 
 truly “the man was mortal, and was born a school- 
 master.” 
 
 Banim was, as we have observed, adoringly fond of 
 his mother. With a child’s love he ever feared to lose 
 her, and about the period of his entrance into Mr. 
 Buchanan’s school his chief grief was lest a notorious 
 highwayman of the time, named “ Earrel the Bobber,” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 21 
 
 should steal away his mother whilst he was absent. 
 This phantom haunted all his hours of play ; and if, for 
 a time, he forgot his mother’s fancied danger, upon 
 recollecting the fact he deserted his playmates, and ran 
 to the house to assure himself of her presence and safety. 
 She, in her turn, used to watch for him ; and as the 
 eager little face was pressed to the window, she smiled 
 upon it those smiles which gave a balm to many a sor- 
 row in after years. 
 
 A young, warm soul like this could not confine itself 
 to one object of affection, and John’s love for his elder 
 brother Michael was, even in these years, tender and 
 devoted. The second day after John’s introduction to 
 Mr. Buchanan’s establishment, Michael was placed upon 
 his knees in the centre of the school-room, in punish- 
 ment for some fault. John inquired the reason, and 
 finding that it was but the preliminary to a more severe 
 punishment, rushed to his brother’s side, and threw his 
 arms around the offender’s neck. The master ordered 
 him to his seat — he but clung the closer ; and threats 
 were unavailing to induce him to abandon the culprit. 
 Bribes were tried ; five shillings were offered — he was 
 unpurchasable ; two crown pieces, bright and shining, 
 were clinked before him, but all was unavailing ; and 
 at length, as the reward of his consistent affection, his 
 brother was forgiven. John led him in triumph to his 
 place, and having seen him safely seated, burst, for the 
 first time that day, into tears. 
 
 Michael Banim, the father, was, as we have written, 
 
22 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 a man of strong and violent temper. He punished his 
 children at one time for trifles ; at another he permitted 
 more serious offences to pass unreproved, being ever 
 guided by the feeling of the moment, which was excited 
 by various circumstances unconnected with the partic- 
 ular fault before him. Mrs. Banim rarely punished, 
 yet a reproving word from her lips was more dreaded 
 by her children than blows and violent threats from 
 the hand and tongue of their father. Indeed so great 
 a feeling of terror did his mother’s anger excite in the 
 mind of John, that once, when he had watched her 
 through a keyhole flog his brother for some offence with 
 a whip which he had frequently seen his father use for 
 a like purpose, he became so much terrified at the un- 
 usual occurrence, that he ran to the barrack-gate, and 
 entreated the sentry to come and save his brother, whom 
 his mother was about to murder. 
 
 These are but the traits of childhood, which friends 
 treasure up in memory, to make a story for the winter 
 fireside ; and yet they show the spirit of a future man, 
 who in years of well -won, honorably- worn reputation, 
 looks back to those days of childish griefs and joys, with 
 swelling heart, because they were the days of home and 
 love. 
 
 Mr. Buchanan’s Academy was not exactly suited to 
 a boy of Banim’s disposition. The master was a clever 
 man, but professed to teach all subjects, commencing 
 with what he called “ oratorical reading,” and ending 
 with the modern languages. He was an excellent in- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 23 
 
 structor for a more advanced pupil, and of himself and 
 his school “ The O’Hara Family ” have given the follow- 
 ing exceedingly graphic account, in the novel “ Father 
 Connell : ” — 
 
 “Through the partition separating his bed-chamber 
 from the school-room the head of the seminary had 
 bored a good many holes, nearly an inch in diameter, 
 some straight forward, some slantingly, to enable himself 
 to peer into every corner of the study, before entering 
 it each morning; and this is to be kept in mind. At 
 either end of the long apartment was a large square 
 window, framed with stone, and indeed stone also in its 
 principal divisions. Overhead ran enormous beams of 
 old oak, and in the spaces between them were monot- 
 onous flights, all in a row, and equally distant from 
 each other, of monotonous angels, in stucco — the usual 
 children’s heads, with goose wings shooting from under 
 their ears ; and sometimes one or two of these angels 
 became fallen angels, flapping down, on clipped wings, 
 either upon the middle of the floor, or else upon the 
 boys’ heads, as they sat to their desks, and confusing 
 them and their books and*slates with fragments of stucco 
 and mortar, rotten laths, and rusty nails. In a kind of 
 recess, on the side of the school-room opposite to the 
 boys’ double desks, was an old table, flanked by a form, 
 at which, at certain hours of the day, sat some half- 
 dozen young girls, from six to ten years, who came up 
 from the quaint old parlor below, under the care of the 
 master’s daughter, who therein superintended their edu- 
 
24 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 cation in inferior matters, to be occasionally delivered 
 into his hands for more excelling instruction. The 
 principal of this celebrated seminary wrote himself down 
 in full, and in a precise round hand, James Charles 
 Buchmahon, and his establishment as ‘ the English Acad- 
 emy ; 9 principal, we have called him — despotic monarch 
 we should have called him ; for he never had had more 
 than one assistant, and the head of that one he broke 
 before they had been many weeks together. And never 
 were absolute monarchy and deep searching scrutiny more 
 distinctly stamped and carved on any countenance, than 
 upon that of James Charles Buchmahon, master of the 
 English Academy. And that countenance was long and 
 of a soiled sallow color ; and the puckering of his brows 
 and eyelids awful ; and the unblinking steadiness of his 
 bluish grey eyes insufferable ; and the cold-blooded reso- 
 luteness of his marbly lips unrelaxable. At the time 
 we speak of him, James Charles Buchmahon might have 
 been between fifty and sixty ; but he wore well. He 
 was tall, with a good figure and remarkably well-turned 
 limbs ; ‘ and he had the gift to know it/ for in order not 
 to hide a point of the beauty* of those limbs from the 
 world, he always arrayed them in very tight fitting pan- 
 taloons, which reached down to his ankles. His coat 
 and waistcoat were invariably black. A very small white 
 muslin cravat, and a frill sticking out quite straight 
 from his breast, occupied the space from his chin to his 
 waist. And James Charles Buchmahon’s hat was of 
 cream color beaver, high crowned and broad brimmed ; 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 25 
 
 and lie ever carried either a formidable walking-stick of 
 stout oak, or else a substitute for it, made of five or six 
 peeled switches, cunningly twisted together, and at one 
 end loaded with lead.” 
 
 From this establishment, after an attendance of five 
 years, Banim was removed to a seminary kept by the 
 Bey. Mr. Magrath, at that period considered the best 
 Roman Catholic school in Ireland ; where he continued 
 a pupil for about twelve months, and was then sent to 
 the academy of a well-known teacher, named Terence 
 Doyle. 
 
 Although not a very idle boy, Banim loved to study 
 in his own way, and at his own time ; and his chiefest 
 pleasure was to steal away from school, and lying under 
 a hedge, or beneath the shelter of a haycock, to pore 
 over some prized volume of “ romance or fairy fable.” 
 Hans Andersen, in all his dreamy youth, never longed 
 to hear the lore of fairy-land more earnestly than did 
 little John Banim, and his ready memory enabled him 
 to retain the subject of each narrative of wonder. From 
 admiration, however, the future novelist soon aspired to 
 imitation ; and in his sixth year, having listened in silent 
 delight to a fairy fiction of more than usual interest, he 
 resolved to write a story, his own sole composition. 
 
 He was not sufficiently tall to write conveniently at 
 a table, even when seated, and having placed the paper 
 upon his bed-room floor, he lay down beside it and 
 commenced the construction of his plot. During three 
 
 months he devoted nearly all his hours of play to the 
 
 2 
 
26 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 completion of liis task ; and when at length lie had con- 
 cluded, the writing was so execrable that he alone could 
 decipher it. In this dilemma he obtained the assistance 
 of his brother Michael, and of a schoolfellow — they 
 acted as amanuenses, relieving each other when weary 
 of writing from John’s dictation. When the tale was 
 fully transcribed, it was stitched in a blue cover, and 
 John determined that it should be printed. But here 
 the important question of expense arose to mind, and 
 after long deliberation the youthful author thought of 
 resorting to a subscription publication. Accordingly 
 the manuscript was shown to several of his father’s 
 friends, and in the course of a week the subscribers 
 amounted to thirty, at a payment of one shilling each. 
 Disappointment was again the lot of our little genius ; 
 for in all Kilkenny he could not induce a printer to 
 undertake the issuing of his story. This was a heavy 
 blow to his hopes ; but honorable, even as a child, he no 
 sooner found that he could not publish the tale than he 
 waited upon his subscribers for the purpose of restoring 
 to them their shillings. All received him kindly, and 
 refused the money, telling him that they were quite 
 satisfied with reading the manuscript. 
 
 His literary efforts did not end with his fairy story. 
 *We have seen a romance in two thick manuscript 
 volumes, written in his tenth year ; and have looked 
 through several manuscript poems, particularly one 
 extending to over a thousand lines, entitled “ Hibernia,’’ 
 written about the same period. 
 
r 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 27 
 
 This early authorship is not unusual amongst those 
 who have afterwards distinguished themselves in litera- 
 ture, as most students of literary history are aware. 
 Cato and Hobbes, Bacon and Descartes, Boyle and 
 Alfieri, Cowley and Pope, with a hundred others, were, 
 in childhood as in manhood, philosophers, or poets, or 
 painters. Like these last, Banim longed to be a poet, 
 even in early days ; and amid his stolen rambles in the 
 summer fields felt all that joy in Nature, which Byron 
 so nobly expressed, when he makes the boy Tasso cry : — 
 
 From my very birth 
 
 My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
 And mingle with whate’er I saw on earth ; 
 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
 
 And rocks whereby they grew, a paradise, 
 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 Of waving trees, and dream’d uncounted hours, 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering . 77 
 
 The poetic faculty, indeed, appears generally to have 
 developed itself in early life ; and whilst Tasso, Ariosto, 
 and Lope de Yega were, even in school days, poets or 
 romance writers, Boccaccio tells us, — and the analogy 
 of his case with that of Banim is striking, — “ Before 
 seven years of age, when as yet I had met with no 
 stories, was without a master, and hardly knew my 
 letters, I had a natural talent for fiction, and produced 
 some little tales.” 
 
 But neither in the biography of Boccaccio, nor of any 
 other man of genius, can we discover efforts so ardent 
 
28 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 and persevering to secure self-improvement as those 
 exhibited, even in childhood, by Banim. "Whilst in his 
 ninth year, he began a strange birth-day observance. 
 About a week before his birth-day he commenced the 
 arrangement and perusal of all the verses, and pieces in 
 prose, composed during the preceding year. "When all 
 had been read, and duly criticised, he generally found 
 that one set was puerile, — he himself being but a child, 
 — another set was turgid, a third portion was dull, a 
 fourth lot was forced or unnatural ; and the boy Banim 
 was as fastidious in self-criticism as, in grave manhood, 
 were Gibbon, Buffon, or Campbell. The evening of the 
 birth-day having arrived, the condemned manuscripts 
 were gathered in a pile, to which a lighted match was 
 applied, and as the blaze mounted high the little author 
 danced gleefully around the holocaust. 
 
 He felt no regret in thus destroying his compositions. 
 He was resolved that the productions of his intellect in 
 the succeeding year should be superior to those of the 
 past, and fancied that the pieces condemned to the 
 flames would but disgrace the more finished efforts of 
 the months to come. 
 
 Banim, from early youth, had all that adoration of 
 Poetry which is the characteristic of genius ; and his 
 love for 
 
 “ The pleasing cadence of a line, 
 
 Struck by the concert of the sacred nine,’ 7 
 
 was only equalled by his admiration of a poet. A good 
 example of his self-estimate, and of this poetic feeling, 
 
BIOCKAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 29 
 
 was exhibited in his tenth year. The private theatre 
 of Kilkenny was then open, and Banim was admitted 
 to witness one of the performances. He was delighted 
 with all he saw. Everything around was so unusual : 
 the audience all in full dress, a brilliantly lighted house, 
 the glittering costume of the actors, the beauty of the 
 scenery, all rendered the spot a fairy realm for the 
 child-poet. 
 
 He did not, however, attend so much for the purpose 
 of seeing the play, as for that of observing his idol, 
 Thomas Moore, who was one of the performers. He 
 was then in the first glory of his success, and formed 
 the theme of general conversation. On the occasion 
 of Banim’s visit to the theatre, Moore recited his own 
 “ Monologue on National Music.” It was encored, and 
 Banim was the loudest of those demanding the repe- 
 tition. The beauty of the poetry struck the fancy of 
 the child, and so profound was the impression created 
 by it upon his memory, that he, the following morning, 
 repeated the entire with almost perfect accuracy, and 
 with the gestures and inflections employed by Moore in 
 its delivery. After having breakfasted, he was observed 
 to dress himself in his best clothes, and the family saw 
 him leave the shop, and, with a roll of papers under his 
 arm, walk towards the house in which Moore lodged : 
 he was about to introduce himself to Moore as a brother 
 poet, and the roll of papers was the manuscript verses 
 by which he meant to prove his right to the “ honorable 
 name.” Moore, remembering probably the trembling 
 
30 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 anxiety with which he had, in his fourteenth year, sent 
 “ the attempts of a youthful muse ” to the editor of 
 (i The Anthologia Hibernica,” and the “ honor and glory ” 
 which he enjoyed when he found himself, shortly after- 
 wards, called “our esteemed correspondent T. M.,”* 
 received his odd little visitor kindly. He read a few of 
 the verses, inquired as to his progress at school, advised 
 him to be attentive and diligent, and closed the interview 
 by asking, if there was anything he could do to oblige 
 his “ brother poet.” To be called his “ brother poet ” 
 was quite sufficient for Banim ; but the offer of obliging 
 him was too flattering to be slighted, so, after some con- 
 sideration, he told the good-natured bard that there was 
 nothing in the world he should like so much as a season 
 ticket to the private theatre, where he could see Mr. 
 Moore on the nights of performance. This request was 
 at once granted, and, for the remainder of the theatrical 
 season, little John Banim was happy as his heart could 
 desire, — the same ticket which opened the theatre to 
 him was, he considered, a tribute to his poetic ability. 
 And how the boy’s soul would have swelled could he 
 then have known that but twenty-two years later his 
 own fame would be so fully acknowledged that this same 
 great poet, whom he was now so anxious to please, 
 would, when in Kilkenny, call upon old* Michael Banim, 
 and, finding that he was from home, write, as a card, 
 and leave for the old man, these words — “ Mr. Thomas 
 
 * See Moore’s “ Journal and Correspondence,” vol. i. p. 22; and “Irish Quar- 
 terly Review,” vol. ii. No. vi. p. 385. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 31 
 
 Moore called to pay his respects to the father of the 
 author of ‘ The O’Hara Family ! 5 ” * 
 
 Literary pursuits, however, were not the only ones by 
 which Banim’s attention was engaged : he frequently 
 devoted his play hours to mechanical inventions. He 
 formed a complicated machine which was to realize that 
 dream of philosophy — perpetual motion. Having read 
 “ Rasselas,” he fancied that the philosopher of the happy 
 valley must have been a very unskilful artificer. He 
 accordingly, of wicker-work and brown paper, formed 
 three pair of wings, and fastened one wing to each 
 "wrist of his brother, and of his younger sister ; having 
 mounted with his two companions upon a manure heap, 
 he fastened the remaining pair of wings to his own 
 wrists, and all three, jumping from their eminence, found 
 themselves, in place of soaring to the clouds, deposited 
 in the “ verdant mud” which formed their lake. His 
 next attempt was the construction of sky-rockets, intend- 
 ed to mount to a most extraordinary height, but which 
 only blazed along the ground, burning the pyrotechnist, 
 and almost destroying the house. 
 
 This last exploit developed a very remarkable trait in 
 his character. His father was so much offended by the 
 danger to which the family and the building had been 
 exposed, that in one of his outbreaks of passion he 
 ordered the child to leave the house, and seek his fortune 
 in the world. John took his cap, and went forth. It 
 was a winter night, dark and cold, with a roaring wind 
 
 * Moore’s “Journal and Correspondence,” vol. vi. p. 136. 
 
32 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 abroad. Away the boy went. Mrs. Banim was silent, 
 knowing that remonstrance could conduce to no end, 
 save that of increasing her husband’s anger ; and even 
 he seemed anxious, but was too passionate to recall the 
 offender. A quarter of an hour elapsed, and a sturdy 
 knock was heard at the door : it was opened, and John 
 reappeared. He approached his father, and taking off* 
 his cap, said, “ As I am to go, I’ll thank you, sir, for the 
 sixpence I lent you the other day ; ” — this was the last 
 remaining sixpence of the thirty shillings subscribed for 
 the unprinted fairy tale ; and with it he was as willing, 
 though a child, to commence his way in the world, with 
 as bold a heart, as self-reliant a confidence, as when, in 
 later years, he went forth with his young wife to venture 
 upon the troubled tide of literature. The sixpence was 
 repaid him, but, in addition, a second was given, and he 
 was ordered to bed, his father having forgotten all his 
 anger in the surprise of the moment. 
 
 These were Banim’s characteristics, and these are the 
 * histories of his life, in early school days. 
 
 When he had continued for about twelve months at 
 Mr. Doyle’s academy, he was removed, in his thirteenth 
 year, to that seminary which can show upon its register 
 the names of many men illustrious in literature — Kil- 
 kenny College. Of this college Banim has left us the 
 following account, in his tale, “ The Fetches : ” — • 
 
 “Kilkenny College was the most famous as well as 
 the most ancient preparatory school of Ireland. It 
 commenced as an appendage to the magnificent cathe- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 33 
 
 dral of St. Canice, for the preservation of which, after 
 Cromwell’s spoliation, we are indebted to the classic 
 Pococke, and was then situated, according to Staniliurst, 
 ‘ in the weste of the churchyard ’ of that edifice, and 
 had for its founder Pierce or Peter Butler, Earl of 
 Ormond and Ossory. And c out of this schoole,’ con- 
 tinues Stanihurst, ‘have sprouted such proper impes, 
 through the painful diligence, and laboursome industrie 
 of that famous lettered man, Mr. Peter White, as gener- 
 ally the whole weale publicke of Ireland, and especially 
 the southern parts of that island, are greatly thereby 
 furthered.’ We have a sure clue to the date of its first 
 erection, by the same writer mentioning that fact as 
 ‘ of late ; ’ and also by his proceeding to inform us that 
 (under Mr. Peter White, the original master) c it was 
 my happie hap (God and my parents be thanked) to 
 have been one of his crue ; and I take it to stande 
 with my dutie, sith I may not stretch mine abilitie in 
 requiting his good turns, yet to manifest my good will in 
 remembering his pains. And certes I w T ill acknowledge 
 myself so much bound, and beholden to him and his, as 
 for his sake, I reverence the meanest stone cemented 
 in the walls of that famous schoole.’ In 1684, the first 
 Duke of Ormond, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, 
 granted a new charter to Kilkenny College, vesting in 
 himself and his heirs male the appointment of masters, 
 and the office and dignity of patrons and governors of 
 the establishment. The statutes passed by him on this 
 occasion, no less than twenty-five in number, are each 
 
34 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of formidable length, regulating everything, from the 
 master’s morals, religion, and salary, to the punishment 
 to be inflicted upon an urchin for ‘ cutting or defacing 
 the desks or forms, walls or windows of the school.’ 
 Under this new arrangement the college also changed 
 its situation from ‘ the weste of the churchyard ’ of St. 
 Canice, to a large building at the other extremity of 
 the town of Kilkenny, which together with a fine park, 
 and the rectories and tithes of several parishes, near 
 and distant, the patron granted, in trust, for its uses 
 and advantage. But during the short and inauspicious 
 Irish reign of James II., that soon after ensued, this 
 endowment was frustrated. The first master, appointed 
 by the Duke of Ormond, fled on account of his politics ; 
 and ‘King James,’ says Harris, ‘by a charter dated the 
 21st of February, 1689, upon the ruins of this school, 
 erected and endowed a royal college, consisting of a 
 rector, eight professors, and two scholars in the name 
 of more, to be called the Royal College of St. Canice, 
 Kilkenny, of the foundation of King James : ’ and then 
 followed ‘ Articles conclus du consentement unanime des 
 regents des ecoles de Kilkenny, sous le protection de 
 1’illustrissime, et reverendissime l’evesque d’Ossory,’ as 
 curious, at least, as the state laws previously passed 
 for the same establishment under hand and seal of the 
 representative of majesty. "William triumphed, however ; 
 James sought the retirement of St. Germains, Ireland 
 once more rested beneath the reflux of Protestantism, 
 and Kilkenny College, in common with every other 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 35 
 
 public institution, reassumed its Protestant charter and 
 arrangement, and to this day continues to enjoy both, 
 with, we should perhaps mention, only one difference 
 from the whole economy proposed by the first Duke of 
 Ormond ; and that is, remarkably enough, a lapse of 
 the right of presentation to the school by the Ormoncl 
 family, in consequence of the attainder of the Duke in 
 1715, and the vesture of said right in the provost and 
 fellows of Trinity, Dublin. It has been seen that Stani- 
 hurst was a ‘ proper impe ’ of the old establishment ; 
 Harris, by his own acknowledgment, too, was also 
 educated in Kilkenny College, under the first master 
 nominated by the Duke of Ormond ; as also were sub- 
 sequently, Thomas Prior, George Berkeley, Bishop of 
 Cloyne, and other celebrated characters ; among whom, 
 if our recollection does not fail us, we believe w~e may 
 rank Swift. In fact, it was after its return to the hands 
 of Protestant masters and governors that this seminary 
 rose to the height of its fame, and that young Irish 
 noblemen and gentlemen crowded its classes for the 
 most approved preparation for university honors. It 
 might be called the then Eton of the sister country. 
 ¥e find it necessary to observe that the building to 
 which the title ‘ College of Kilkenny ’ now applies is not 
 the same endowed by the Duke of Ormond. The Irish 
 tourist is at present shown, from an opposite bank of the 
 Nore, a large square modern house, three stories high, 
 dashed or plastered, and flaunting with gay and ample 
 windows ; and this, he is informed, is the college. Turn- 
 
36 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 ing its back, in suitable abstraction, upon the hum and 
 bustle of the small though populous city, it faces towards 
 the green country, an extensive lawn spreading before it, 
 and the placid river running hard by, and is, altogether, 
 appropriately and beautifully situated. But the original 
 edifice, that existed at the time of our story, was pushed 
 further back, faced into the street of the town, and was 
 a grey, reverend pile of irregular and rather straggling 
 design, or, we should perhaps say, of no design at all, 
 having, partly, a monastic physiognomy, and partly that 
 of a dwelling-house, and bearing, to its present gay 
 successor, about the same likeness that the levee skirts 
 of Anne’s time bear to the smart swallow-tail of the last 
 summer but one. We surmise that, at a more remote 
 period, it belonged to the old and beautiful Augustinian 
 Abbey of St. John, of which the main building was not 
 more than three hundred yards distant, and which was 
 richly endowed ‘ for the salvation of his soul and those 
 of his predecessors and successors’ (asLedwich abstracts 
 its charter) by William Marshall the elder Earl of 
 Pembroke, in 1220. The entrance to the school-room 
 was immediately from the street, through huge oak 
 folding-doors, arching at top to suit the arched stone 
 doorway, and gained by two grand flights of steps at 
 each side, that formed a spacious platform before the 
 entrance, and allowed under them a passage by which 
 visitors approached the college. To the left was another 
 gateway where carriages had egress. The whole front 
 of the building was of cut stone, with Gothic windows 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. £7 
 
 composed of numerous small panes of glass, separately 
 leaded, and each of diamond form ; giving the appear- 
 ance of a side or back rather than of a front, on account 
 of its grotesque gables, chimneys, and spouts, the last 
 of which jetted into the street, to the no small annoyance 
 in rainy weather of the neighbors and the passengers ; 
 wdiile from the platform before the school-room entrance, 
 the lads of the college contrived, in all weathers, further 
 annoyances of every description. But in the past, as 
 well as the present time, the lawn of the college was 
 devoted to the exercise and sports of the students, and 
 had, for its left hand boundary, ‘the dark walk/ — a 
 shrubbery so called to this day, though its appearance, 
 and indeed identity, are changed, — and for its right the 
 crystal Nore, of which the opposite banks were flanked 
 by a wall some forty feet high ; and over this wall — its 
 foundations on a level with the top — towered in uncouth 
 grandeur, amid throngs of luxuriant trees, the old family 
 castle of the all but regal Ormonds. Close by the dark 
 walk, at the left of the lawn, there ran too, as there at 
 present runs, an artificial, but deep, rapid, and suffi- 
 ciently broad stream, conjectured to have been an aque- 
 duct formed by the old monks of St. John’s Abbey, that 
 while it discharged its immediate agency of setting in 
 motion the waterwheels of more than one grist-mill 
 on its course, served, at the same time, to ci^t off the 
 college grounds from the adjacent gardens of the poorer 
 class of people who inhabited the near outlet.” 
 
 At the period of Banim’s entrance the Bev. Andrew 
 
38 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 O’Callaghan was master. He was a man of learning and 
 ability, but our young poet disapproved of one por- 
 tion of his system of instruction — the complaint was, 
 that Mr. O’Callaghan preferred a strict, grammatical 
 translation in prose, to the most flowing and spirited 
 metrical version his pupil could produce. 
 
 Whilst at the Kilkenny College, Banim evinced a very 
 remarkable talent for drawing and painting ; and having 
 selected the profession of an artist as that to which he 
 wished to devote his life, he was, in the year 1813, re- 
 moved from his last school, the College of Kilkenny, and 
 sent to Dublin, where he became a pupil in the drawing- 
 academy of the Royal Dublin Society. He continued 
 a pupil in this academy during the two succeeding years, 
 and was a regular and industrious student. He had the 
 honor to receive the highest prize in the gift of the 
 committee, for his drawings placed in the first exhibition 
 held after his year of entrance. 
 
 During his two years of pupilage he lodged and 
 boarded in Phibsborough, in the house of a Mr. Oliver 
 Wheeler, an old friend of his father. Of Wheeler’s 
 habits, appearance, his household, and mode of life, 
 Banim gave the following sketch, in “The Nowlans,” 
 when describing the poor abode of John and Letty 
 Nowlan : — 
 
 “ The old man, who had some petty situation of thirty 
 or forty pounds a year in some public office, was upwards 
 of seventy-five years, tall, shrivelled, stooped in the neck, 
 ill set on his limbs, and with a peculiar drag of one leg, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 39 
 
 which, from certain reasons, and taken with other things, 
 rendered him very disagreeable to John. He was obliged 
 to be up every morning at seven, in order to reach his 
 office, or place of occupation, by eight ; and he might 
 be heard creeping about the lower part of the house, 
 making the parlor and kitchen fires, to save his daughter 
 and niece so much trouble ; cooking his own solitary 
 breakfast, his fat wife lying in bed ; and then cautiously 
 shutting the hall-door after him, as, rubbing his hands, 
 he tried to bustle off in a brisk, youthful pace, to his 
 important day’s work. His voice could never be heard 
 in the house : if ever a man of a house lived under pet- 
 ticoat law, it was he. The coarse, masculine, guttural 
 tones of his spouse often rose, indeed, to some pitch ; 
 but his, never. In other respects, too, he showed utter 
 pusillanimity of spirit. He would never appear to John, 
 in answer to a summons for arranging any misunder- 
 standing (and several there soon arose) between him or 
 poor Letty, and the daughter or niece ; his w T ife always 
 represented him ; and he would run to hide behind a 
 door, or into the yard, if he heard John’s foot on the 
 stairs during these domestic commotions ; nay, even 
 when all w^as at peace, his habitual poverty of nerve 
 urged him to shun a single rencontre with his lodger: or, 
 perhaps, he still dreaded to be called to account for 
 anything his wife or daughter had said ; and whenever 
 he was caught by John in the passage, or the yard, his 
 fidgets, as he lisped and mumbled, and continually 
 tapped his chest with one hand, ever complaining of his 
 
40 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 asthma, called up sentiments of irresistible disgust. His 
 sole attempts at manhood we have indicated, in describ- 
 ing the way he used to step out to his day’s labor every 
 morning. But rarer proofs of this still farcical and 
 contemptible humor came under John’s eye. As he and 
 his ancient fellow-laborer before described (a contrast 
 to him, by the way, being square-built, erect in his body, 
 cross in his temper, and loud and independent in his 
 tones) used to fumble about in the yard of an evening, 
 chopping or sawing sticks and rotten boards, and mend- 
 ing the little sheds with them, or for ever watering the 
 roots of the sad laburnum-tree, there was a would-be 
 briskness in his every motion (he knew his wife was 
 always looking at him out of the parlor window), an 
 energy in the way he grasped his saw, adze, or hammer, 
 or his watering-pot, and jerked them from hand to hand, 
 or upon a bench, when he had done with them ; all of 
 which plainly bespoke his ambition not to pass c for so 
 very old a man, neither ; ’ certainly to give an idea that 
 he was a miracle for his age. Every Sunday he appeared 
 caparisoned for church in a complete shining suit of 
 black, taken out of a press, and in a hat, also shining, 
 extracted from one of his wife’s early bandboxes ; the 
 clothes and the hat some ten years in his, or rather in 
 her possession, and thus displayed once a week during 
 that period, yet both looking as if sent home the Satur- 
 day night before ; and indeed, considering that they 
 had encountered scarce three months of careful wear 
 altogether, namely, the wear of about two hours every 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 41 
 
 seventh day for ten years, it was not, after all, so sur- 
 prising they should look so new. Sometimes his wife 
 allowed him to invite to a Sunday dinner five or six old 
 men like himself, all clad in shining black too ; and when 
 John saw them come crawling towards the house, or, 
 joined with their host, crawling and stalking about the 
 yard, he felt an odd sensation of disgust, such as he 
 thought might be aroused by the sight of so many old 
 shining black beetles ; the insects that, of all that crept, 
 were his antipathy and loathing. His wife has been 
 called fat : she was so, to excess ; so much so, that she 
 waddled under her own fardel — herself : but she was 
 strong and sturdy too ; and her waddle did not lessen 
 the length and stamp of her stride, when, upon occa- 
 sions that required a show of authority, she came out 
 to scold, or, as her niece called it, to 'ballyrag/ in the 
 kitchen, at her hand-maidens, or in the hall, at her poor 
 lodgers upstairs. Then the little house shook from top 
 to bottom under her heavy and indignant step, as well 
 as with the echoes of her coarse man’s voice, half smoth- 
 ered amid the fat of her throat, and the sputterings of 
 her great pursy lips. And poor Letty also shook, from 
 top to toe, on these occasions, and flew for shelter to 
 John’s arms. When not called upon thus to enforce 
 law in any refractory branch of her garrison, Mrs. 
 Grimes spent the day in a vast indolent arm-chair, 
 reading pathetic novels of the last age, or casting up 
 her accounts, to reassure herself, over and over again, of 
 the pounds, shillings, and pence, laid up during the last 
 
42 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 month or week, and how half a farthing might be split 
 for six months to come. Every day, by twelve o’clock, 
 she was dressed ‘like any lady’ (still according to her 
 niece) to receive her cronies, or strike with importance 
 the tax-collectors or landlord’s agent, none of whom had 
 ever to call a second time ; and that was her constant 
 boast : but even there, shut up in her parlor, the old 
 female despot was fully as much dreaded as if her voice 
 and her stride sounded every moment through the house, 
 or as much as if she had lain there screwed down in her 
 coffin, and that, at the least turn of a hand, herself or 
 her ghost might come out to roar for a strict reckoning. 
 Her daughter and niece (the latter an orphan) supplied 
 the place of a servant maid, in lieu of the eating, drink- 
 ing, sleeping, such as it was, that came to their lot. 
 They were of a size, and that size very little ; of an 
 age, and that more than thirty ; but from their stunted 
 growth, hard, liny shape, and nondescript expression of 
 features, might pass for ten years younger, or ten years 
 older, as the spectator fancied. They gave no idea of 
 flesh and blood. They never looked as if they wero 
 warm, or soft to the touch. One would as soon think 
 of flirting with them, as with the old wooden effigies 
 to be found in the niches of old cathedrals. They 
 
 imparted no notion, much less sensation of sex. But 
 they were as active as bees, and as strong as little horses ; 
 and as despotic and cruel, if they dared, and whenever 
 they dared, as the old tyrant herself. From the moment 
 they arose in the morning, thump, thump, thump, went 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM, 
 
 43 
 
 their little heels, through the passage, to the kitchen, 
 up stairs and down stairs, or into the parlor, to see after 
 the fires the old man had lighted ; to make up the beds ; 
 to prepare breakfast ; to put everything to rights ; to 
 sweep, to brush, to shake carpets, to clean shoes, knives, 
 and forks ; to rub, scrub, polish, and beautify, for ever 
 and ever ; the daughter always leading the niece ; and 
 the whole of this gone through in a sturdy, important, 
 vain-glorious manner ; accompanied by slapping of doors, 
 every two minutes, and (ever since Letty had refused to 
 go down to the parlor to join an evening party) by loud, 
 rude talking, and boisterous laughing, just to show that 
 they did not care a farthing for the kind of conceited 
 poor lodgers they had got in the house. The house- 
 keeping of the establishment was peculiarly loathsome 
 to John. The baker had never sent in a loaf, bun, 
 roll, biscuit, or muffin, since the day, now some fifteen 
 years ago, when Mrs. Grimes came to reside in the 
 neighborhood : and even the home-made bread was of 
 the coarsest possible quality, and often used a fortnight 
 after it had been baked. Each day the dairyman left 
 one half penny worth of milk at the door. They made 
 their own precious mould candles, or burnt such nefa- 
 rious oil in the kitchen lamp, or, upon a gala night, in 
 the passage, as poisoned and fumigated the whole house. 
 The morning tea-leaves were preserved and boiled for 
 evening. No eggs, no fresh butter, ever appeared. The 
 fires, after having been once made up in the morning, 
 were slaked with a compost of coal-dust and yellow clay. 
 
44 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 which, shaped into balls, also formed stuffing between the 
 bars. Upon a Saturday evening, the old man sneaked 
 out to drive hard bargains for some of the odds and 
 ends left in the butcher’s stall after the day’s sale ; and 
 these, conveyed home by stealth, furnished, by means 
 of salting and hanging up in a cool place, savory dinners 
 for the week. Upon a washing-day, starch was made 
 out of potatoes, to save a farthing. No charity was in 
 the house, nor in a heart in the house. In the faces of 
 all professed beggars the street-door was slammed with- 
 out a word, but with a scowl calculated to wither up the 
 wretched suitor ; and with respect to such as strove to 
 hide the profession under barrel-organs, flutes, flageolets, 
 hurdy-gurdies, or the big drum and pandean pipes, their 
 tune was indeed listened to, but never requited. Yet 
 the family was a pious family. Mr. and Mrs. Grimes 
 sallied out to church every Sunday, and sat at the parlor- 
 window every Sunday evening (while their daughter and 
 niece went, in turn, to have a rest, as they said), a huge 
 old Bible open before them, and visible to all passers 
 by, that the neighbors might remark, ‘ There’s a fine old 
 couple ! ’ John, however, thought it odd that, after all 
 this, his cold mutton or his cold beef used to come up 
 to him, out of the safe (a pretty c safe,’ truly), rather 
 diminished since he had last the pleasure of seeing it ; 
 and one Sunday evening, after listening for half an hour 
 to the daughter’s shrill voice reading the Bible before 
 supper, when, on particular business, he somewhat sud- 
 denly entered the parlor, he was still more surprised to 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 45 
 
 find the good family seated round the ham (a rare 
 temptation, no doubt, in their system of housekeeping) 
 which that day had formed part of his dinner. But 
 nothing irked him half so much as the ostentatious tri- 
 umph oyer starvation, the provoking assumption of 
 comfort, nay, elegance, as it were, and the audacious 
 independence which resulted from the whole economy. 
 He felt it, as before hinted, to be the most irritating 
 specimen of poverty. Old Grimes’s glossy Sunday coat, 
 perpetually the same, was worse than the clouted gaber- 
 dine of a roving beggar. Every burnished thing around 
 him seemed to shine with a beggarly polish. The whole 
 house and its inhabitants had an air of looking better 
 than they really were, or ought to be ; and the meanness, 
 the sturdiness, the avarice, the hard-heartedness, that 
 produced this polish and this air, he considered as 
 loathsome as the noise, the thumping about, the loud 
 talking, and the endless fagging of the two little skinny 
 Helots was brazen and vexatious.” 
 
 We have given these, and former extracts, from Banim’s 
 works, as they prove how strongly the every-day events 
 of his early life became impressed upon his mind ; and 
 how he, like Sir Walter, Galt, and Moir, drew from the 
 world around him the materials of which the scenes and 
 characters of his novels were composed. Thus situated, 
 the poor boy worked out his lonely time. But even 
 here the depressing effects of his abode could not re- 
 press his ardent industry, or overcome his love of 
 literature ; and whilst residing at Oliver Wheeler’s, he 
 
46 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 first “saw himself in print.” The piece was a metrical 
 criticism on the Exhibition of Irish Artists, and was 
 entitled “ A Dialogue in the Exhibition Room.” 
 
 We shall now introduce some extracts from his letters 
 written during his residence in Dublin. In each of these, 
 as in all those which we shall insert, addressed by him to 
 his friends at home, there is a love of all that surrounded 
 the hearth which recalls those beautiful letters written 
 by Moore to the dear friends in Aungier Street, and 
 which show a heart that not fame, not other and brighter 
 hopes than those of youth, could soil or taint. 
 
 Banim’s first letter is addressed to his mother, and 
 describes his mode of life : — 
 
 “ Dublin, December 23, 1813. 
 
 “My dearest Mother, — Your anxious love could not 
 wish me better than I am, or with better prospects 
 before me. I have the countenance of all, and the 
 friendship of many of the first artists and amateurs in 
 my profession. I meet with warm encouragement, and 
 hope of success from every one. 
 
 “ If with the assistance of heaven, and I know your 
 prayers will aid me, I can persevere in my studies, and 
 endeavor to trace the footsteps of eminent painters, 
 what have I to fear, or you to make you sorrowful or 
 apprehensive ? 
 
 “I am as contented and happy, as any one in my 
 position could be. I am grinding my colors every 
 second day, from seven in the morning until night ; 
 every intermediate day is spent in the gallery, and in 
 drawing from the figure.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 47 
 
 The two following letters are addressed to his father. 
 In the first he writes of his lonely Christmas ; in the 
 second he tells of his every-day occupations, and in 
 the refusal of the “ nice blue coat ” as a present, because 
 he could himself afford to buy one, we can trace the 
 spirit which he evinced when requiring repayment of 
 the sixpence which he had lent his father ; and though 
 not quite sixteen years old when this letter was written, 
 it proves that then, as in later years, he was ever anxious 
 to be the support rather than the incumbrance of his 
 family : — 
 
 “ Dublin, December 25, 1813. 
 
 “My dear Father, — I write to you on the festival of 
 Christmas, the first from my birth that I have spent 
 from home. 
 
 “There is nothing in the intercourse with strangers 
 to recompense one for the absence from our kindred : 
 but I must not murmur against what cannot be avoided. 
 
 “The festival of Christmas reminds me that I am 
 solitary. There is no equivalent for the peace and 
 blessings I have hitherto enjoyed at our Christmas 
 hearth.” 
 
 “ Dublin, March 23, 1814. 
 
 “My dear Father, — It would be the dearest wish 
 of my heart, could I have the inexpressible pleasure of 
 embracing you all at Easter. Solitary and retired as 
 I live, it would indeed be a treat to my feelings : but 
 necessity interferes to prevent this indulgence. Sunday 
 excepted, I have scarcely a moment unemployed. In 
 the morning early I attend my tuition : then either 
 
48 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 painting a portrait at home, or studying the antique in 
 the gallery, employs me until six ; my dinner is scarcely 
 swallowed, when I am off again, either to the figure 
 academy, or the anatomical lectures, opened for the 
 benefit of artists by the Irish Institution. I am scarcely 
 ever home again until ten, and then generally fall asleep 
 soon. Notwithstanding my conviction of its impru- 
 dence, I am greatly tempted to yield to the overflowing 
 impulses of my heart, and anticipate my summer visit 
 by an Easter one. 
 
 “ You state your intention, my dear father, of sending 
 me a nice blue coat. Providence has thrown a few 
 guineas in my way lately, and I have the prospect of a 
 few more. Let me decline your offer, therefore. I will 
 positively treat myself to a new coat and other etceteras, 
 the fruits of my own earning.” 
 
 Two years of the dreary life here recorded passed by, 
 and at length Banim returned to Kilkenny, intending 
 to commence life as an artist and teacher of drawing ; 
 and although he had received but two years’ tuition in 
 his art, he was fortunate in securing very satisfactory 
 and encouraging employment. 
 
 He was just eighteen years of age, about the middle 
 height, and of good figure. His face was oval, and 
 though not handsome, his high broad forehead, and his 
 dark-hued eyes, teeming with life and spirit, saved him 
 from the designation — ugly. And now the common fate 
 was his. Tennyson sings of youth — 
 
 “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to 
 thoughts of love ; ” — 
 
 and our poet-painter was no exception to the rule. He 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 49 
 
 was the admirer of every pretty girl in Kilkenny, and 
 between rhyming, painting, flirting, and book-lending, 
 his entire time was fully occupied. 
 
 One evening, whilst he was sitting at tea with his 
 mother, the good woman abruptly said to him, — 
 
 “John.” 
 
 “Well, mother? ” was the response. 
 
 “ Whom do you love, J ohn ? ” she continued. 
 
 “Well, mother,” he replied, “upon my w T ord there are 
 so many of them that I am afraid I can’t particularise ; 
 but let me see,” — and, counting his fingers, he added, 
 “there is Mary — , and there’s Anne — , and there’s Kate, 
 and there’s Jane.” 
 
 “John, John,” cried his mother, smiling at the confes- 
 sion ; “ you know well that is not the answer I taught 
 you to give to the question — long ago you knew it and 
 would say, ‘ I love God above all things, and my neigh- 
 bor as myself for the love of God.’ I see, John, your 
 boyish days are over.” Truly, the boyish days w r ere 
 over, the catechism was forgotten, self was forgotten, 
 and the dream of youth was upon him. 
 
 At one of the schools which he attended, as the 
 teacher of drawing, w T as a young girl, named Anns 
 
 D , a boarder in the establishment, and a pupil of 
 
 Banim’s. She was a fair, bright-eyed girl, in the full, 
 fresh beauty of seventeen, artless, innocent, and pure- 
 minded. The young teacher — the poet and the painte;* 
 * — forget the grave moral of the history of the tutor 
 
 Abelard and the pupil Eloise ; and, day by day, a deep 
 
 3 
 
50 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 whole heart passion grew within his breast, and each 
 attendance at the school served but to strengthen his 
 affection. He dared not tell her of his love ; but love, 
 w;hen the youth is only in his nineteenth year, and the 
 maiden in her eighteenth, cannot long lie hidden, and 
 soon each read, in the eyes of each, that tale of passion 
 which was to end but in the death of one, in the long 
 and lingering agony of the other. 
 
 When Banim found that this girl loved him, he seemed 
 another being. He concealed his affection from all : he 
 told his brother that his mornings were devoted to 
 sketching the landscapes around Kilkenny ; but these 
 early morning hours were the trysting times when he 
 
 and Anne T> roamed along the quiet banks of the 
 
 Nore, or strolled through the fields, accompanied by an 
 under governess, who aided the young lovers, and de- 
 vised means by which the absence of her charge might 
 escape detection. 
 
 For both it was a happy dream ; for them — 
 
 “ Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with 
 might ; 
 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass’d in music out of sight.” 
 
 Mornings of love, days of love-musing, nights of 
 dreaming love, rarely continue unnoticed by those who 
 are intimate with the lover ; and Banim’s brother having 
 discovered this secret of his morning’s walks, was made 
 
 his confidant in the confession, “ I love Anne D as 
 
 boy never loved girl before.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 51 
 
 That Lis love was true and deep cannot be doubted ; 
 and as the expression of feeling, rather than as a proof 
 of his poetic ability, we insert the following pieces, 
 written at this period : — - 
 
 “ My Anna is tall, and my Anna is fair. 
 
 Dark brown is her eye, and jet black is her hair, — 
 
 She is straight as the poplar that springs in the dale, 
 
 Her eye-beam is such as the glories that sail 
 Over the bosom of midsummer heaven, 
 
 When angels disport in the sunbeam of even. 
 
 The bright rose of summer indeed does not streak 
 With full ruddy blush the warm snow of her cheek ; 
 
 For love thought it pity to scatter or spread 
 With ill-judging craft all his treasure of red, 
 
 But gave it to glow in a spot so divine 
 
 That the essence of all iu a kiss might be mine.” 
 
 The following is a scrap from a long effusion : — - 
 
 “It is the blushing time of roses, 
 
 I feel the fragrance it discloses ; 
 
 Love laughs before my beaming eye 
 Through grove and garden, earth and sky ; 
 
 In every path, o’er dale, o’er hill, 
 
 I meet that babe of beauty still.” 
 
 “ TO ANNA. 
 
 “ Yes, Love hath lent his smile of pleasure 
 To gild the morning of my days, 
 
 Oh! every sod my footsteps measure 
 Through fortune’s doubtful, devious maze — 
 Every path of toil they press 
 That beam shall bless — 
 
 That holy beam shall brighten up 
 The foulest draught of sorrow’s cup— 
 
 That holy beam shall light the shade 
 Of life when all her fancies fade, 
 
52 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 And on the way, to me so dark, 
 
 Leading to fame’s magnetic altar, 
 
 Oh ! even there that angel spark 
 Shall brightly guide my ardent gaze ; 
 
 My heart shall sparkle to a blaze, 
 
 And never falter. 
 
 I thank thee, high and holy pow’r, 
 
 That thus upon my natal hour 
 Thy blessed bounty hath bestowed 
 More than to mortal life is owed ; 
 
 If thy dispensing hand had given 
 All other joy this side of heaven ; 
 
 The monarch’s crown, the hero’s crest, 
 
 All honors, riches, gems, the best, 
 
 And Anna’s love away the while, 
 
 I’d change them all for Anna’s smile.” 
 
 BaninTs nature was impetuous, and, having assured 
 himself of his mistress’s affection, he resolved to wait 
 upon her father and demand her hand. A year had 
 passed since he first loved her, and he would not be 
 satisfied until he called her his wife. He was not twenty 
 years of age, his profession was not more than sufficient 
 to support him, his friends were reduced in circum- 
 stances, owing to the inability of some persons to repay 
 certain sums of* money lent by old Michael Banim ; but 
 all prudential considerations were despised by the lover, 
 and so he went forth, accompanied by a friend, to seek 
 the consent of Anne’s father. 
 
 Anne D was the natural daughter of a gentleman 
 
 residing in a neighboring county. He was a surly, rude- 
 tempered old man, and replied to Banim’s request of his 
 daughter’s hand with sneers and scoffing. The young 
 lover retorted the insulting expressions used ; both 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 53 
 
 parties were violent, and recriminations were ended by 
 the order of the old man that Banim should at once 
 leave the house. He returned to Kilkenny, dispirited 
 and heart-sick ; he had never permitted himself to con- 
 template a rejection of his suit, and when he, the same 
 
 evening, obtained an interview with Anne D , it was 
 
 one of tears and sorrow — it was the last time he ever 
 spoke to her, save clandestinely. 
 
 The doors of the school in which Anne resided were 
 closed against him ; all communication was barred be- 
 tween them, and by stratagem alone could he tell her 
 how deeply and how truly she was still beloved. All 
 means of addressing her were tried, and those who 
 watched An.ne and her fellow-pupils as, on Sunday 
 evenings, they left the church, might have observed a 
 figure clothed as a countrywoman, in long grey cloak 
 and full deep hood, stealing close to Anne’s side : this 
 was Banim disguised ; and it was on these occasions 
 that he contrived to press his mistress’s hand, whilst 
 he placed within it a poem, or a letter, telling her to 
 love and hope. In this manner, and by transmitting 
 notes in his sister’s school-basket, he was enabled to 
 communicate with her. 
 
 Anne’s father induced a female relative of the girl to 
 call upon her at the school, and by a pretended sym- 
 pathy, endeavor to discover if her love for Banim were 
 real and deep. The plan succeeded ; Anne told the 
 whole story of her heart. It was considered that ab- 
 sence alone could cure her girlish folly, and her father 
 
54 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 arranged that she should be secretly removed from 
 school, and placed in the house of one of her mother’s 
 family. She was removed ; but Banim discovered the 
 day and hour at which she was to leave, and the route 
 by which she was to travel. He found that the chaise, 
 bearing Anne and her female protector, was to pass by 
 his father’s door — he took his place by the threshold, 
 and as the carriage rolled by, he rushed, bare-headed, 
 before the vehicle : to avoid the danger of overturning 
 him, the horses were suddenly and violently checked, 
 Anne leaned from the window, pale and terrified and 
 sobbing bitterly ; the lovers’ eyes met but for a moment, 
 the carriage moved quickly onward, and John Banim 
 never more, in life, saw Anne D . 
 
 He re-entered the house, and uttered no cry, but sat 
 in stony sorrow. A small parcel w r as placed in his hand, 
 it was addressed to him, the hand- writing was that of 
 Anne, he tore it eagerly open, — it contained his own 
 miniature- which he had painted for her, and which for 
 months she had worn concealed in her bosom ; the 
 parcel also contained his letters and verses. He exam- 
 ined the miniature closely ; it bore no secret line : he 
 pored over the papers in hope that they might conceal 
 some covert intimation that this return of all his 
 offerings was not Anne’s own free act, — but all was as 
 he himself had written, not one line or word to tell him 
 she was faithful. He paused a moment looking upon 
 the miniature, and then, dashing it to the ground, 
 crushed it to atoms beneath his feet, — tore the letters 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 55 
 
 and verses into fragments ; and as he scattered them 
 away, as the memory of all his hopes and joys came 
 back upon him when he thought of their vows and 
 promises, he cried, bitterly and fiercely, “Curse her! 
 curse her ! to abandon me and break my heart ! ” and 
 burst into angry tears. 
 
 No commiseration could soothe him ; no attention 
 could win a smile, or word of pleasure from his lips. 
 His constant complaint was, that Anne had abandoned 
 him, although no earthly power could induce him to 
 forget or abandon her. Now she was false, false as only 
 heartless woman can be ; and in his despair he wrote 
 such lines as the following : — 
 
 u Thou that in youthful folly’s bower 
 Wouldst lavish thus an idle hour ; 
 
 Thou that wouldst fondly hope to win 
 The love a woman’s heart within — 
 
 Go, heart of hope, to pleasure’s sleep, 
 
 But let it be nor long nor deep — 
 
 Go, taste the bloom of woman’s lip, 
 
 But only taste, and lightly sip — 
 
 Go, if it suit thy sparkling soul, 
 
 On passion’s frantic wave to roll : 
 
 Partake of ev’ry boasted feeling 
 Of all that’s worth a lover’s stealing ; 
 
 But give thy lightest leisure hour 
 Alone to love’s delusive power ; 
 
 Pledge not thy faith a hair beyond 
 The sigh of sense or passion fond. 
 
 Let not one vital cord of thine 
 Round faithless woman’s heart entwine. 
 
 No youthful hope shall perish then, 
 
 As fickle woman roams amain ; 
 
 No fainting pulse, no brimming eye 
 Shall note the wanton trifler fly ; 
 
56 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 No riven heart-string there shall break, 
 
 When woman spurns her bondage weak ; 
 
 And not a withering pang shall wait 
 To blast thy hopes and gloom thy fate.” 
 
 But Anne was not faithless, and to the last hour of 
 his life Banim regretted his doubt of her affection ; he 
 learned but too late that 
 
 “ Love is love for evermore.” 
 
 The house to which Anne D had been removed 
 
 was situated about twenty-five miles from Kilkenny, 
 and the affection that still lingered in Banim’s heart 
 induced him to open a new correspondence with her. 
 He sent the letters by trusty messengers ; he knew 
 that they had been deposited in places with which 
 Anne was acquainted ; he wrote again and again, in 
 all the fervor of his earlier love : but to none of his 
 letters was there a reply. Anne was not faithless ; 
 she received one only letter, and that the first, all 
 gloomy and half upbraiding ; she was detected in the 
 act of reading it, and the succeeding letters were 
 intercepted. 
 
 Anne made no complaint. She thought of the pact- 
 by days of joy, of the mornings when, out by the 
 sunny river, she had heard the tale of love, as only 
 youth in its spring can breathe it, whilst around the 
 path of the poet-painter and his fair bright idol, 
 
 “ The summer murmur’d with her leafy lips,” 
 
 and pining for the loss of all her heart held dear, 
 her cheek grew pale, her step lost all its bounding 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 57 
 
 lightness, her eyes shone with that terrible brilliancy 
 which shows the wasting of life, and then it was plain 
 that the fiend, Consumption, had seized her. She 
 never struggled against the disease ; she was removed 
 from the school in Kilkenny in the month of Septem- 
 ber, and whilst Banim was condemning her as a heart- 
 less mistress, she was expiring, with his love the sole 
 treasure of her life ; and in the November following her 
 removal from school, a period of less than two months, 
 Anne D was dead. 
 
 Banim was informed of the melancholy catastrophe 
 the day succeeding that of her decease ; and then 
 came the full tide of sorrow upon his heart, for in 
 hearing she was dead he heard also that her love for 
 him had been the cause of all her griefs, and in her 
 agony his name had been the last upon her lips. 
 
 When he discovered that she was no more, he merely 
 said to his brother, who was appalled by the pain 
 
 displayed in his features, “ Anne D is dead ! ” and 
 
 retiring to his bed-room, remained in solitude and 
 silence. 
 
 He rose early the following morning ; it was cold 
 November weather, the rain was falling, and a gloom 
 was in the sky and upon the earth. Banim left his 
 home, wishing once more to look upon the victim who 
 had been so dear in life, but who now, in death, was 
 dearer than ever. He was too poor to hire a chaise ; 
 he borrowed a horse, but he could not endure the 
 slow, steady pace of the animal, and when about a 
 
58 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 mile from Kilkenny sent it back by a country child, 
 and continued liis way on foot. 
 
 He never knew by what route, or how he traversed 
 the twenty-five dreary miles which lay between him and 
 the corpse of his beloved, but night had closed around 
 the dripping weary man as he reached the farmhouse 
 where the body of Anne D lay. None of her rela- 
 
 tives were present as he entered, and but few friends 
 sat around. He stood beside the dead one’s head, and 
 the long black lashes of the closed eyes resting upon 
 the pallid cheek, the shrunken features, and the worn 
 look of her whom he had once thought so beautiful, from 
 whom he had so recently parted in all the glory of her 
 youth, terrified him, and he gazed upon her but shed 
 no tear. His face of agony attracted the attention of 
 those persons who had gathered by the coffin, and as 
 he stood beside its head, one of Anne’s half-sisters 
 recognized him, called him the murderer of her sister, 
 and demanded that he should be thrust from the room. 
 
 At first Banim felt indignant at this cruel conduct, 
 but suddenly he thought that if Anne had never loved 
 him she might be then living happily ; had she never 
 met him she might be joyous and in health — but now 
 she was a wreck of hope, of peace, of life ; and scarcely 
 daring to look upon her, he tottered from the room. 
 He had eaten nothing since the preceding day ; he felt 
 no hunger, but entering an out-house, sank upon the 
 wet straw of a car-shed, and there, in a stupor of grief, 
 continued until he heard the funeral guests assembling. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 59 
 
 He rose, re-entered the house, and being permitted to 
 stand beside the coffin, saw the face of his Anne for 
 the last time, as the coffin-lid hid it for ever. He fol- 
 lowed the body to the churchyard, stood by as the earth 
 was piled up, and when all had departed, cast himself 
 upon the fresh green mound that marked the grave 
 of his first love. He never could recollect where the 
 night succeeding this day of woe was passed, but the 
 following morning his brother met him about ten miles 
 from home. Leaning upon the arm extended to him, 
 he trailed his limbs along until he reached his father’s 
 house. With his brother’s help he ascended to his room, 
 and though from the time when they had met upon 
 the road no word had been spoken by either, yet when 
 entering his apartment he appeared to recognize it ; the 
 feeling of consciousness was but momentary, and he 
 sank upon his bed powerless and senseless, prostrated 
 in mind and body. 
 
 During the twelve months succeeding this day, Banim 
 merely existed. The whole system seemed shattered. 
 His head ached so violently that, in his paroxysms of 
 pain, his body rocked with an involuntary motion so 
 violently, that as his head rested upon his mother’s 
 breast, it required all the latter’s strength to curb the 
 volent swaying of the sufferer. “ It seemed,” he said, 
 “ as if the brain were surging through the skull from 
 rear to front, and from front to rear, alternately.” 
 He lost all anxiety for his profession or for literature, 
 no occupation could interest him, he could rarely be 
 
60 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 induced to leave the house, and when he did go abroad 
 he quickly became wearied ; he seldom spoke, and thus 
 his first love laid the seeds of that frightful suffering 
 which, during the greater portion of his existence, ren- 
 dered him one of the most miserable of men. The 
 three nights of suffering and exposure to which at Anne 
 
 T> ’s decease he was subjected, broke down the 
 
 stamina of life, and left him, at twenty years of age, a 
 victim to spinal disease, which, but a few years later, 
 reduced him to a crippled body, whilst gifted with a 
 mind active as ever genius possessed : his fate indeed 
 was harder than that of Tantalus. 
 
 The first symptom of returning health evinced by 
 the sufferer was the composition of some verses. They 
 show the weary spirit that would free itself from all 
 recollections of the past, and would — 
 
 “ Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
 
 Haze out the written troubles of the brain . 77 
 
 Sorrow, however, at nineteen, cannot be very deeply 
 seated, and he must be melodramatic indeed who fan- 
 cies that in plucking it from his bosom his heart may 
 form its root ; and thus, as time rolled on, Banim 
 found that the world had its joys still, even after all his 
 woes ; and so for him once more arose the bright blue 
 days,— 
 
 “Full of the sun, loud with a thousand larks .’ 7 
 
 Then it was that, as the clouds passed away, the 
 darkened spirit cast off its veil of grief, and he wrote 
 such verses as these detached fragments : — 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 61 
 
 u I saw her, God of goodness great ! 
 
 I saw her in her winding-sheet j 
 And I saw her mingle then 
 With her mother earth again, 
 
 I saw her — and I could not save — 
 
 Sink into her early grave. 
 
 It cannot last. The fever of affliction 
 But feeds on thought. And all the balm 
 Designed by preaching patience for the sufferer’s pang 
 Changes to poison on his parched lip. 
 
 Avoid me, Memory, we are friends no more. 
 
 It is an awful hour, the midnight moon 
 Looks from her land of loneliness upon me, 
 
 Yet in the silent night I fear no foe, 
 
 I fear no stalking spectre as I fear thee, Memory. 77 
 
 We here close the first part of this biography of 
 John Banim. We have told the story of his life to 
 his twenty-first year. It shows him to have been 
 swayed by all the passions and weakness that dictate 
 the actions of other men, but it shows too, the energy 
 which marked his later years. A boy, he left his home 
 for Dublin ; two years in the metropolis had not cor- 
 rupted him : like Southey he was too pure a worship- 
 per of beauty and of goodness to be vicious, even if 
 faith and early training had not spread their shields 
 above him ; and so, a boy, he returned to his father’s 
 roof. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 RESTORED HEALTH — LIFE IN KILKENNY REMOVAL TO DUBLIN 
 
 ABANDONMENT OF ART AND ADOPTION OF LITERATURE AS A 
 
 PROFESSION LIFE IN DUBLIN LETTERS OBTAINS CHARTER 
 
 FOR ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY, AND IS THANKED BY VOTE OF 
 
 IRISH ARTISTS LETTERS PUBLISHES THE CELT’S PARADISE,” 
 
 AND DEDICATES IT TO THE LATE LORD CLONCURRY EXTRACTS 
 
 CONTEMPLATES REMOVING TO LONDON LETTERS PLAY OF 
 
 “ DAMON AND PYTHIAS ” ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN: ITS SUC- 
 CESS EXTRACTS LETTERS VISIT TO KILKENNY AFTER FIRST 
 
 LITERARY SUCCESS FIRST IDEA OF NOVEL WRITING PUB- 
 
 LISHES A PAMPHLET ON THE ERECTION OF A TESTIMONIAL 
 
 COMMEMORATIVE OF THE VISIT OF GEORGE IV. TO IRELAND 
 
 EXTRACTS LETTERS. 
 
 The Christmas of 1818 had passed before Banim’s 
 health apparently recovered the shock which it had 
 received during the days and nights of anguish and 
 exposure, endured whilst he watched by the death bed 
 
 and by the grave of Anne D . We have written 
 
 “ apparently recovered,” for, in fact, the results of that 
 woful time were the evils of his after years, and ended 
 but with his life. 
 
 With returning health came all the buoyant spirit 
 of youth and hope, and Banim entered into all the 
 pleasures and convivialities of his native town. Those 
 who can remember what country towns in Ireland were 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 63 
 
 about six-and-thirty years ago, will understand the dan- 
 gerous position in which these tastes and connections 
 placed him who exhibited ability and social powers of 
 even a lesser degree than those of Banim. He formed 
 no low, no mean, or vulgar acquaintances, but in the 
 round of pleasure which formed his chief solace he 
 found himself the companion of those who were his 
 superiors in birth and fortune. They were not drunk- 
 ards, but they loved the midnight meeting around the 
 supper table ; as the glasses twinkled the fancy grew 
 bright, quips and drollery gave a fascinating charm to 
 each for each, and Banim might truly apply to himself 
 a passage of Charles Lamb’s, “ We dealt about the wit, 
 or what passes for it, after midnight, jovially. Of the 
 quality called fancy I certainly possessed a larger share 
 than my companions : ” and thus he became careless of 
 tuitions, and ail but neglected his duty to the few 
 schools and pupils who still continued to employ him. 
 Debts now began to accumulate ; credit failed, and 
 Banim, disgusted by his course of life, resolved, after 
 a few months’ experience of its evils, to abandon all its 
 temptations and false pleasures. This was not difficult ; 
 at all periods of his existence he was temperate, and in 
 joining the convivial parties of his fellow townsmen he 
 sought only a relief in society from the pains of memory 
 and the woes of solitude. 
 
 Although inattentive in these times to professional 
 engagements, he had not been completely idle ; he had 
 painted a few portraits, and had become a contributor 
 
64 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 to a local newspaper, “ The Leinster Gazette,” of which 
 he became the editor. This latter employment he con- 
 sidered a very important one, as it was a walk, how- 
 ever humble, in the great path of literature. It gave 
 him, he thought, a position as a literary character ; and 
 indeed he is not the first distinguished man whose 
 genius developed itself in the columns of a provincial 
 journal. Debts and difficulties, however, gathered around 
 him, and with many another man, he found that small, 
 like great “ pleasant vices” entail long, painful, and 
 harassing repentant regrets. Insignificant as his debts 
 were in amount, they formed a terrible obstacle to the 
 peaceful pursuit of his profession. He had begun to 
 lament his five months of dissipation ; he was then and 
 ever sensitive in regard to money matters, and thus he 
 became morbidly eager in his anxiety to discharge every 
 monetary claim against him. 
 
 With restored health he had recovered his courage 
 and love of literature. He believed that as an artist 
 he could not succeed unless he devoted time to per- 
 fecting his taste and skill, and time he was not satis- 
 fied to spend in the acquisition. He had pleased 
 himself by his literary efforts published in the local 
 journal, and he fancied that by other and better con- 
 sidered labors he could please the world of readers. 
 He was not formed by nature to lag or hesitate when 
 he had once formed a project : he determined to aban- 
 don the profession of an artist for that of an author. 
 It was a poor chance, in truth ; but when did genius or 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 65 
 
 courage (and what is genius but the noblest courage ?) 
 doubt ? And Banim resolved to leave Kilkenny and 
 try his fortune in Dublin. He knew that great diffi- 
 culties should be overcome before his merit could be 
 appreciated or even known : he possessed few friends 
 in the city, and they were chiefly amongst the artists, 
 the late Thomas J. Mulvany being the most remarkable 
 and most likely to aid him. But these considerations 
 were unheeded. He wished to be out in the great 
 world, amongst the clash and jarring of minds and 
 interests, where the strong, bold will and the ready 
 mind, or the flashing wit, could win golden fame, and 
 hold it safe and surely. He longed to be away from 
 the scenes of his lost hopes, his past-by joys, his present 
 sorrows, and he would dare or seek difficulties that he 
 might find a greater glory in their surmounting ; thus 
 resembling that bright image of young genius, as Yirgil 
 has described it in the character of Ascanius — 
 
 “ Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.” 
 
 Early in the year 1820 Banim left his father’s house 
 for Dublin, and from this period we may date his life 
 as a literary man. Mulvany had known him whilst he 
 was a pupil in the School of Art, of the Boyal Dublin 
 Society, in the year 1813, and now received him kindly, 
 and aided him by his counsel and interest. 
 
 At this time the Dublin artists were endeavoring to 
 obtain a Charter of Incorporation, and a Government 
 grant in aid of the profession in Ireland. Banim loved 
 the old memories of his art pupilage, and he gave all 
 
66 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 tlie assistance in his power to strengthen the claims 
 and demands of its Irish members. At the period of 
 which we write, reporting for the public journals was 
 not so highly valued as at present ; whilst “ leaders” 
 and their writers were much more important than in 
 our day. Banim had become a contributor to two or 
 three of the more important papers, and he was thus 
 enabled to serve the interests of his former professional 
 brethren through his position on the newspaper press. 
 His services were not denied by the artists, and when, in 
 the year 1820, the Charter of Incorporation was obtained, 
 they presented him an address and a considerable sum 
 of money, as a testimony of their appreciation of his 
 successful efforts to support their interests, and the 
 advancement of art in Ireland. 
 
 His life in Dublin was a hard and disheartening 
 struggle w T ith disappointments, and his wants were 
 many, and yet such as make the poor proud man of 
 genius, who would be successful, a silent long-suffering 
 martyr. The debts contracted during his wild days in 
 Kilkenny were a source of anxiety from which he could 
 not easily escape. He was ever anxious to repay this 
 money, and, as we shall hereafter find, he set aside the 
 first sums received from the publishers to defray these 
 charges. The debts, and the thoughts of the times in 
 which they were contracted, ever haunted his memory 
 as relics of a period of awful agony and disappointment. 
 But this desire to forget the past extended but to that 
 painful epoch of his unhappy love ; whilst the thought 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 67 
 
 of home, the true-hearted affection for all who dwelt 
 there, were as bright and pure as in the days of his 
 residence in Phibsborough, when a student in the art 
 school of the Boyal Dublin Society. He loved ever and 
 always the scenes of childhood’s joys and sorrows, and 
 when he had been some months in Dublin, w r e find that 
 he thus wrote to his brother, describing his feelings 
 for home : — 
 
 ‘•Dublin, May 10 th, 1820. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — The health that I enjoy is 
 wonderful to myself, — do not be so fearful on my ac- 
 count. You that stay at home and are very happy 
 have many superfluous apprehensions about a younger 
 son or brother who roves about a little. Be assured 
 of this, my dear and only friends, almost the sole thing 
 that sends the blood to my heart or the tear to my. eye 
 is the recollection now and then that I am parted from 
 you ; but this gives me greater strength for the strug- 
 gle to get back, — and back I will return, if God spares 
 me life, and we will spend and end our days together.” 
 
 He had, about the date of this letter, begun to think 
 that he possessed sufficient ability to enable him to 
 work his way in the great world of London. He had 
 found that Dublin gives but small hope to him who 
 depends on literature alone as the means of support ; 
 and though his friend Mulvany, and the late Joseph 
 Kirk, were willing to aid him in all his prospective 
 successes, he was dissatisfied with himself and with his 
 position. He was a poor man, but, like Griffin, a bold 
 
68 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 daring one, who would not wait upon fortune as a 
 suitor. He told his brother, Michael, that he had 
 determined to seek his bread in London. Michael 
 remonstrated ; reminding him that many men of greater 
 talent and experience than he possessed had gone to 
 the wonderful city and launched upon its vast troubled 
 sea the ventures of their lives, and that wreck and ruin 
 had been their fate, after weary struggles of unavailing 
 energy, and of unflagging, patient, mental toil. 
 
 But the brave heart, self-reliant and conscious, would 
 not doubt of success, and but rested until means could 
 be secured to defray the expenses of the journey and 
 outfit. When that true genius, Chatterton, wrote home 
 to his only friend, his mother, that “ by abstinence 
 and perseverance a man may accomplish whatever he 
 pleases when great Samuel Johnson came up to town, 
 and learned gratefully from the Irish artist whom he has 
 called Ofellus, in his “ Art of Living in London,” how 
 to exist respectably on ten-pence a day ; when poor 
 Gerald Griffin, pure bright soul of genius, went forth, 
 a boy, to gain the fame for which his breast so panted ; 
 not he, not any one of these, felt more deeply or more 
 truly the whole-heart devotion to literature than did 
 Banim when writing the following letter, in reply to 
 his brother’s cautions and warnings. We read in the 
 whole range of literary biography nothing more pa- 
 thetic than these words in the succeeding letter : “ I 
 know not how long I could fast ; even that I may be 
 called on to try. I have been the best part of two days 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 69 
 
 without tasting food, of late ; ” and then comes the grim 
 addition, “ often have I gone to whistle for my dinner.” 
 
 The letter to which we have last referred is as 
 follows : — 
 
 Dublin, May 1 8 th, 1820. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — You speak very gloomily on 
 the uncertainty of my means if I go to London. Don’t 
 let your fear affect you so keenly. I have not found 
 a crock of gold, nor has a prize in the lottery turned 
 up for me : but with heaven’s help I shall not want 
 means. No man of ordinary talents wants them in 
 London, with proper conduct and half the introductions 
 I hold. Say I possess no talent, — this you will not 
 say, it w T ould not be what you feel. I have a conscious- 
 ness of possessing some powers ; and situated as I 
 am, it is not vanity to say so. I have health, hope, 
 energy, and good humor, and I trust in the Lord God 
 for the rest. 
 
 “ I know not how long I could fast ; even this I may 
 be called on to try. I have been the best part of two 
 days without tasting food of late. Often have I gone 
 to whistle for my dinner, and once I walked about the 
 town during the night for the want of a bed. I see you 
 start at this. I can assure you, without affectation, it 
 has amused me, and I thrive on it. I am fatter and 
 better looking than when you saw me. At the present 
 time I am comparatively rich, and go as high as ten- 
 pence for my dinner, and a goodly plate of beef and 
 vegetables it is.” 
 
 This sad letter is but the plain statement of Banim’s 
 condition in the early period of his connection with the 
 Dublin press. In addition to his employments upon the 
 
70 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 metropolitan journals, he obtained some slight assist- 
 ance to his funds from occasional contributions to the 
 provincial papers. He wrote some very clever, but 
 ephemeral articles for a now forgotten paper, “ The 
 Limerick Evening Post.” These contributions were on 
 all subjects of the day, particularly theatrical topics, 
 and bore the signature, A Traveler. 
 
 Amidst the toiling of his every-day life the old love 
 for poetry and poetical composition was ardent and true, 
 as in the time wdien he aspired to be the “ brother poet ” 
 of Moore ; and he devoted his leisure hours to compo- 
 sition and construction of poems and dramas. He had 
 been introduced to Charles Philips ; at that period a 
 man of note and of rising fame in Ireland. Philips had 
 just published his poem, “ The Emerald Isle,” and his 
 “ Specimens of Irish Eloquence ; ” and having obtained 
 for himself the reputation of taste and ability, was wil- 
 ling to assist, by his counsel and interest, any worthy 
 literary man who needed either. He found in Banim a 
 young ardent genius ; he examined some of his poetical 
 compositions, he advised and suggested, and his wishes 
 were acceded to most cheerfully and readily. By 
 Philips’s advice Banim abandoned for a time his proposed 
 removal to London, and applied himself closely to the 
 completion of a poem which he had commenced, and 
 which he called “ Ossian’s Paradise.” Philips showed 
 some portions of the poem to Sheil, and to Mr. William 
 Curran,* and the latter gentleman having read some 
 
 * Now Ex-Commissioner of Insolvents. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 71 
 
 passages to the late Lord Cloncurry, his Lordship 
 expressed his willingness, in accordance with Banim’s 
 request, to accept the dedication of the work. These, 
 however, were not the only personages who expressed 
 opinions favorable to Banim’s ability. The manuscript 
 was shown to Sir Walter, who, with his never failing 
 kindness to young authors, read the extracts submitted 
 to him, and expressed his approbation of the composition. 
 
 Thus at length Banim seemed about to achieve that 
 position in literature for which he longed as eagerly as 
 he who cried — 
 
 “ For poesy my heart and pulses beat, 
 
 For poesy my blood runs red and fleet, 
 
 As Moses’ serpent the Egyptians swallow’d, 
 
 One passion eats the rest.” 
 
 His life was now full of hope, and he thus wrote to 
 his father : — 
 
 “ Dublin, October 12th, 1820. 
 
 “ My dear Father, — When difficulties pressed most 
 on me, I determined to wage war with them manfully ; 
 I called on my own mind, and put its friendship for me 
 to the proof. In the midst of occasionally using my 
 pencil, of newspaper scribbling and reporting, and sur- 
 rounded by privation, and almost every evil but bad 
 health, I manufactured some hundreds of verses, with 
 notes appending, which I called ‘ Ossian’s Paradise.’ 
 
 “ I handed Ossian’s Paradise to a friend, an eminent 
 poet, a celebrated orator and lawyer ; he showed it to 
 
 a friend of his, a Mr. C n, who introduced it to 
 
 Lord Cloncurry ; — it pleased both. It was subsequently 
 submitted to the greatest writer of the day, Scott ; his 
 
72 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 judgment was : — ‘ It is a poem possessing imagination 
 in a high degree, often much beauty of language, with 
 a considerable command of numbers and metre/ This 
 opinion was accompanied by a candid criticism on 
 particular portions, with a view to its success when pub- 
 lished. 
 
 “ Ossian’s Paradise is to be published by Mr. Warren, 
 of Bond-street, London. I am to receive <£20 within a 
 month, with fifty copies to dispose of on my own account. 
 If it runs to a second edition, £10 more ; these terms 
 my friend before mentioned, Mr. Shiel, thinks advan- 
 tageous. 
 
 “ My dear father, do not blame me for not communi- 
 cating this matter in its progress. I will explain my 
 motive. My failures hitherto had given to all of you 
 at home quite enough of uneasiness, and I wished to 
 have a rational probability of success in view before I 
 should excite your interest : if I had failed, I had deter- 
 mined to be silent on the affair to you, my mother, and 
 Michael, and to all the world besides. 
 
 “ Do me the favor, my dear Sir, of requesting Michael 
 to read this letter for my old schoolmaster, Mr. Bu- 
 chanan ; and fill your glass in the evening to the success 
 of Ossian’s Paradise, when you three are seated round 
 the little octagon table in your own sanctum sanctorum ; 
 and my own dearest mother, perhaps she may have 
 cause to think more respectably than was her wont of 
 my rhyming propensities.” 
 
 These were the real truths of his position and hopes, 
 and to some cautions of his brother, Michael, against 
 indulging in too sanguine expectations of success, he 
 thus replies : — 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 73 
 
 “Dublin, October 17/4, 1820. 
 
 “ My dear Brother, — I am not erecting a structure 
 on the doubtful success of Ossian’s Paradise. 
 
 “ The panting desire for fame is corrected, I will not 
 say extinguished in me. I have before now allowed 
 the vivacity of hope, or the restlessness of suspense, to 
 torture and distract me ; but this shall not be again. 
 I have held out my hand to grasp my object over and 
 over : I have never yet touched it. Disappointment 
 with me became as systematically attendant on exertion, 
 as shadow upon substance ; so much so, that I could 
 not get a glimpse of the one without looking hard for 
 the other ; so I will not reckon on success in this instance 
 beforehand. 
 
 “X will tell you what X intend doing. I am strongly 
 encouraged, by persons whose judgment I ought to 
 respect, to prepare a second poem. I regard the 
 present as an opportunity not to be neglected, and I 
 am, and will continue to be, at work accordingly. Of 
 course, I give up for the present my journey to London. 
 
 “While I occupy myself with this second poem, I 
 have to make out £1 per week ; every shilling of Ossian’s 
 money being destined to liquidate my debts, as far as 
 it will go.” 
 
 The reply to this letter was satisfactory ; and in a 
 subsequent one he thus explains why he has resolved 
 to become an author, and why he has selected literature 
 as a means of placing himself in a position of compara- 
 tive independence, at least, of his creditors : — 
 
 “Dublin, October 27/4, 1820. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — You are quite right in supposing 
 I do not calculate at present with a view to the remote 
 
 4 
 
74 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 future ; in fact, my dear brother, you will see I cannot 
 do so. My only speculation just now is, and ought to 
 be, the payment of the last shilling I owe ; and this 
 must be done by any means that are the readiest, and 
 are honorable. But what are readiest means ? I see 
 none, I am unconscious of any other within my reach, 
 but the pen. This may be a fallacious assistant, most 
 probably so. But I am rationally encouraged, so far 
 at least as to make indifference to the opportunity 
 criminal.” 
 
 Like Hazlitt, Banim had now finally, at the prompting 
 of genius, relinquished the brush for the pen, and some 
 month’s before Ossian’s Paradise appeared, he com- 
 menced the composition of a second poem. With the 
 old love of home still, as ever, around his heart, he thus 
 writes to his father, and the mingling of poetry and 
 clothes reminds one of Moore’s early London letters. 
 He writes : — 
 
 “ Dublin, November 30 th, 1820. 
 
 “ My dear Father, — I am employed for another and 
 larger work, which, in case of the success of the present, 
 Mr. Warren promises to give me a fair price for. I am 
 not flattered into anything like sanguine hope. I will 
 continue to do my best : if I succeed, I will thank God ; 
 if I fail, it may be for the better, and I will thank Him 
 then also. 
 
 “In remembering me to my dearest mother and to 
 Joanna, say that I thank them for their present ; they 
 have knitted me a fine lot of stockings indeed, — they 
 fit me excellently well, and to all appearance they are 
 everlasting.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 75 
 
 He had, whilst dwelling in his country home, formed 
 the usual ideal of a poet, and fancied that genius was 
 all inspiration, that poetry sprang up, spontaneous, 
 from the brain, requiring little care or culture. His 
 ideal had been the conventional one of those who con- 
 tribute to the “ Poet’s Corner” of provincial newspapers ; 
 but a few months spent in the world and amongst books, 
 taught him, that poetry, like every other pursuit of 
 mankind, requires patient, thoughtful application ; and 
 that he who would 
 
 “ Fling a poem, like a comet, out,” 
 
 must be careful lest his planet flame but as a fire-work 
 meteor. We shall hereafter find how anxiously he had 
 considered the materials by which a novel can and should 
 be formed. In the following letter he half gravely, 
 half humorously, describes the qualities requisite to 
 constitute the poet and the philosopher. The letter is 
 addressed to Michael Banim : — 
 
 “ Dublin, December 2 8th, 1820. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — Poetry is a different thing alto- 
 gether from what I considered it to be some time ago. 
 A good poem is not the fire flash of inspiration, it is 
 rather the steady sober light of a large pile of solid, 
 inflammable materials, first collected with choice and 
 patience, and then fired with a steady and skilful hand. 
 From what you recollect of my verbose effusions, you 
 will judge how little I knew of the craft. 
 
 “ You confound the poet and the philosopher ; they 
 are different beings. 
 
76 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 RECEIPT TO MAKE A PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 “ To make a philosopher, take a subdued and austere 
 understanding, a knowledge of all the theories and facts 
 on all the subjects, things, systems, matters, and essences 
 in the world ; and over, and under, and round about 
 the world ; in the body of man ; in the mind, soul, 
 spirit, and heart of man ; in his brain, and in his mo- 
 tions, actions and formations — of all compounds, simples, 
 and intelligences in the air, sky, and space above the 
 earth, and in the waters under the earth, and in the 
 eternities above the air, sky and space, or below the 
 waters. 
 
 “ Take a consummate and intimate acquaintance with 
 all the histories of all the nations that have ever existed 
 and do exist ; of all the languages ever spoken by 
 man, in every age and nation ; accompany these mere 
 acquirements, with an understanding prepared to appre- 
 ciate — a judgment capable of enumerating, arranging, 
 comparing, discriminating, combining, separating, and 
 deducing. To generate and mature your accompani- 
 ments, keep the mind, for God knows how long before, 
 exclusively exercised in the most rigid, practical, and 
 matter-of-fact habits, and this done, you have your phi- 
 losopher. Now for — 
 
 “ A RECEIPT TO MAKE A POET. 
 
 “Let the mind, by early practice and associations, 
 attain, first, a quick susceptibility of the beauties of 
 nature in her material works and in her immaterial 
 complex operations ; in the heart and passion of man, 
 as produced by extrinsic circumstances. Keep the 
 fancy and imagination always up, always ready to be 
 fixed by the slightest touch from a beautiful scene, a 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 77 
 
 pathetic expression of feeling, an impressive situation, 
 an heroic character, or a romantic association. Let 
 the individual in preparation feel strongly that trees, 
 rocks, flowers, and sky and water are beautiful f but 
 you need not teach him why, and by what combined 
 operations and remote contingencies, they are so. 
 Let him feel the effect ; be not anxious he should 
 understand the cause. Thus qualified to receive his 
 assorted materials, next cultivate his taste on the best 
 poetical models ; thus he may learn how to select, 
 refuse, and combine. After this, initiate him into a 
 thorough knowledge of rhetoric, that he may acquire 
 the simplest and shortest way of expressing his 
 feelings. All this done, shake him well, and con- 
 tinue to shake him, that the proper ferment and 
 excitation may always be kept up. And here is your 
 poet. 
 
 “ N. B . — If you give him his meals regularly, he will 
 become indolent and dull. 
 
 “ If the understanding be exclusively cultivated, can 
 the imagination soar ? The poet and the philosopher 
 are necessarily dissimilar creatures. Perhaps a little, 
 only a little, of the one mingled with the composition 
 of the other, might make both of them the more per- 
 fect. In building his structure, the philosopher must 
 use the square and compass, the proper order of 
 architecture must be observed throughout ; and from 
 the quoin stone to the pinnacle, every thing must be 
 uniform, and solid, and infrangible. 
 
 “ With the poet originality must stand for method ; 
 diversity for order. — And throughout the whole of his 
 fairy palace, inside and outside, the line of beauty 
 must play and curve with easy and unaffected grace and 
 vivacity.” 
 
78 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Our poet was now happy in liis rational hope of success; 
 the poem, however, did not appear until the month of 
 February, 1821 . Some short time previous to the period 
 of its publication, Banim, by, we believe, Shed’s advice, 
 altered the proposed title from “ Ossian’s Paradise,” 
 to “ The Celt’s Paradise,” and under the latter title the 
 poem was issued. The dedication was as follows : — 
 “ To the Bight Hon. Lord Cloncurry ; as a small Tribute 
 of the Author’s Admiration of his Lordship’s Public 
 Spirit and Love of Country, the following Poem is most 
 Bespectfully Inscribed.” 
 
 This poem is now all but unknown, and a copy is 
 rarely to be found, even at the book stands, or liter- 
 ary auctions. Yet it possesses passages of considerable 
 poetic vigor, and of great beauty. Saint Patrick and 
 Ossian the bard, are represented as discoursing chiefly 
 on subjects of Irish mythology, and the latter thus 
 describes the Celt’s Paradise : — 
 
 “ The summer there 
 Is cloudless, calm, and ever fair. 
 
 1 saw it once ! my waking blood 
 At that one thought rolls back the flood^ 
 
 Of age and sorrow, and swells up 
 Like old wine sparkling o’er its cup. 
 
 I’ll tell thee of the time I spent 
 Beneath that cloudless firmament, 
 
 And thou shalt judge if aught could be 
 So pure a Paradise to me, 
 
 If by my own frail spirit led 
 Its smile I had not forfeited. 
 
 Give me the old Clarshech I hung 
 On my loved tree, so long unstrung, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 79 
 
 E'en to its master's measure free, 
 
 It may refuse its minstrelsy : 
 
 But give it — and the song tho’ cold 
 May kindle at a thought of old, 
 
 Of younger days — and now and then 
 It may be strong and bright again. 
 
 Hear a song of age’s daring, 
 
 The sighings of the harp of Erin ! 
 
 When thou, the warbler of the West, 
 
 Wakest from thy long, long rest ! 
 
 In this Paradise the highest place is thus assigned to 
 the patriot, and patriot poet : 
 
 “ All were happy ; but some felt 
 A holier joy, and others dwelt 
 In higher glory. I saw one 
 Who, for the good deeds he had done 
 On earth, was here a worshipped king, 
 
 Triumphant o’er all suffering. 
 
 On the utmost verge of his own shore, 
 
 One foot amid the breakers’ roar, 
 
 Another on the rocky strand, 
 
 He met the invading foe, — his hand 
 Grasped its good sword. He was alone 
 And they were thousands ; and when flown 
 His strength at last, he could but throw 
 Between his country and the foe 
 His heart, — aud, through it bid them smite 
 At hers. 
 
 He fell, but in the light 
 Of Paradise the hero's deed 
 Found fittest eulogy and meed ; 
 
 The gaping death-gash on his side 
 Was turned to glory ; far and wide, 
 
 As a bright star, it beamed ; and he 
 Walked on in immortality, 
 
 Worshipped and wondered at ; the brave, 
 
 Unconscious, to his virtue gave 
 Honor and fame and praise, — the old 
 
80 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Blessed him as he passed by, and told 
 His name in reverence. 
 
 And thousands rushed, 
 
 Forgetful of themselves, to gaze, 
 
 And give, in looking, their heart's praise 
 To him, of heroes the highest and best, 
 
 Whose death-wound was turned to a star on his breast. 
 "With him walked one in converse high, 
 
 Music and song 
 
 At his birth informed his tongue. 
 
 And fired his soul ; and with them came 
 The throb for freedom ; but the name 
 Of his own land had passed away, 
 
 And fettered amid her waves she lay, 
 
 Like a strong man on his hill, — the bard 
 In all her breezes only heard 
 The sigh of her past fame, — no strain 
 Rose o'er her desolated plain 
 To mourn her glories gone, or call 
 The blush of shame for her early fall 
 Up to her cold destroyer's cheek, 
 
 Or on his heart in thunders break, 
 
 But the bard caught up his harp, and woke 
 His Country's Song ! and as it broke 
 Forth in its pride, unmoved he met 
 From despot tongues their chide or threat, 
 
 Their lordly frown or luring smile, 
 
 That strove to silence, or beguile 
 To silence, a song so high and bold, 
 
 So true and fearless ; for it told 
 Her tale in every strain ! The wrong 
 And outrage she had suffered long 
 V/ent forth among the nations ; till 
 The eyes of men began to fill 
 With sorrow for her sorrows, and 
 Even in that cold and careless land 
 That wrought her woe, one manly sigh 
 Was heard at last in sympathy 
 With all her sufferings ; and for this 
 Thro ? our world of light and bliss 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 81 
 
 He walked immortal, side by side 
 With him, the hero, who had died 
 The highest death a man can die 
 For his native land and her liberty ! 
 
 And equal reverence to the bard 
 All creatures gave ; and his reward 
 Was equal glory, — a blessed song 
 Went with them as they passed along ; 
 
 It was over and round them on their way, 
 
 And ever it said through the cloudless day, 
 
 ‘ Joy to the hero who dared and died 
 
 For his country’s honor, and fame, and pride ; 
 
 And joy to the bard whose song brought fame 
 And pride to his fallen country’s name ! ” 
 
 The “ Celt's Paradise ” has its Eve, a thing of aerial 
 beauty, “ who moved in light of her own making.” Had 
 “ The Loves of the Angels,” or “ Heaven and Earth,” 
 been published before the appearance of Banim’s poem, 
 he could not escape the charge of plagiarism, but as 
 “ The Celt’s Paradise ” was issued some months before 
 these works, the coincidence is less striking than that 
 which so plainly appears between these two fine com- 
 positions. 
 
 Ossian thus describes the first appearance of the fair 
 spirit : — 
 
 “ I sat in the tall tree’s trembling shade, 
 
 And the moss of its trunk my pillow made. 
 
 My eyes could not their watching keep, 
 
 My soul was sinking in its sleep, 
 
 And wild and wavering thoughts came on. 
 
 Of deeds imagined, actions done, 
 
 And vain hopes mingling with the true, 
 
 And real things a man may do. 
 
 A sight came o’er me soft and warm ! 
 
 I started — but nor shade nor form, 
 
82 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Appeared thro’ half-seen gloom around, 
 
 To utter such a silver sound. 
 
 It might be the sob of the summer air. 
 
 Which glowed so rich and sultry there — 
 
 Again I slumbered — again the sigh 
 Of woman’s fondness fluttered nigh — ■ 
 
 And while I listened, ggjtle lips, 
 
 Gently met mine — and, touched, and trembled, — 
 
 As if beneath the moon’s eclipse 
 Alone, love’s feeling long dissembled, 
 
 Alight dare to own in bashful kisses. 
 
 Its maiden flame and modest blisses. 
 
 Fondly I raised my arms and prest, — 
 
 They closed upon my lonely breast. 
 
 Back from their kiss the young lips started, 
 
 Sighed one rich sigh — and touched and parted — • 
 
 I thought of the huntress young and fair, 
 
 Whose gifted glance had left me there. 
 
 And I said in the strength of my young heart’s sigh, 
 While the tear of passion brimmed mine eye, — 
 
 ‘ Lady of Kisses ! — Lip of love ! — 
 
 From the air around or sky above, 
 
 Come and bless my desolate arms 
 With the richness of thy charms.” 
 
 The charms of his spirit-mistress are thus described, 
 but she seems to possess too largely the graces of a 
 houri : — 
 
 “ And shining and soft was her virgin form, 
 
 In full blown beauty wild and warm ! 
 
 I know not if aught of earthly blood 
 Mingled with the magic flood, 
 
 That fed her veins — but you might see 
 A rich vein wandering sportively, 
 
 Beneath the bright transparent skin, 
 
 That kept its sparkling essence in. 
 
 ’Twas an earthly shape, but polish’d too high 
 For an earthly touch or an earthly eye — 
 
 ’Twas an earthly shape ! — What else could be 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 83 
 
 Moulded or made to rapture me? 
 
 What other form could loveliness take, 
 
 To bid my doating eye-balls ache, 
 
 And boil my blood and fire my brain 
 In agonies of blissful pain ! — 
 
 Nay, Saint, I pass thy word of scorn — 
 
 Thyself hath sung this very morn 
 Of beautiful and blushing things, 
 
 With golden hair and snowy wings, 
 
 Fair beyond minstrel’s fancyings, 
 
 Who, moulded like to forms of earth, 
 
 Even in thy own heaven have birth, 
 
 Tho’ basking in such holy light, 
 
 Hath made them look more soft and white — 
 
 I tell thee there she sat with me, 
 
 Fairer than earthly woman may be — 
 
 And she floated before my fainting glance, 
 
 Like the shapes of air that softly dance 
 Round the glorious evening sun, 
 
 In the joy that his daily task is done. 
 
 Her eye was large and soft and dark, 
 
 Floating in fondness — often a spark 
 Of mild and chastened light shone through, 
 
 And it was even as a drop of dew 
 Half seen within a darkened bower, 
 
 In the morning misty hour, 
 
 And you might know that underneath 
 All of her that did look or breathe, 
 
 There was a spirit pure and chaste, 
 
 As ice upon the unsunned waste, 
 
 Or silver waters under ground, 
 
 That the searching day has never found.' ” 
 
 The following lines, descriptive of the lovers’ life in 
 Paradise, are very musical and fanciful : — 
 
 " Or we wandered among shining streams, 
 
 That like the bard’s delicious dreams, 
 
 Ever flow thro’ beds of flowers, 
 
 And golden vales, and blushing bowers. 
 
81 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M, 
 
 And all in playfulness we gaze, 
 
 With sportive and well feigned amaze 
 On the water — and start, and blush 
 To see ourselves there, and we rush 
 And plunge together, as if to save 
 Each other from that innocent wave, 
 
 Then with it go and glide along, 
 
 In echoing laughter, mirth, and song. 
 
 Or alone we sat by the foamy fountain, 
 
 In the solitude of the silent mountain, 
 
 And I plucked a water-flower from its flow, 
 
 And wreathed it with leaves on the mountain that grow. 
 And when on her head it was a crown 
 At her feet I knelt me down, 
 
 And called her the lady and the queen 
 Of that wild and desolate scene. 
 
 Or often — for our pure nature gave 
 That triumph o’er the gloomy grave — 
 
 Often our spirits winged away, 
 
 Disembodied through the day, 
 
 And into aught they would possess, 
 
 Breathed themselves in gentleness ; 
 
 And so became the breeze or dew, 
 
 Or shrub, or flower of any hue. 
 
 “ Then sometimes my love was the tall young tree, 
 That grows on the mountain lonelily, 
 
 And I was the wooing eglantine, 
 
 Around her slender shape to twine, 
 
 And climb till I kissed the topmost bough, 
 
 That blossomed on her fragrant brow ; 
 
 Or she was the softly opening flower, 
 
 Among a thousand in her bower, 
 
 And I was the bee that passed all by, 
 
 ’Till I saw my own flower blushing nigh, 
 
 And then in her bleeding bosom I lay, 
 
 And sipt its sweets and flew away. 
 
 Or still she was that rose, and I 
 Came down as a soft wind from the sky, 
 
 And sadly I sighed thro’ fields and bowers, 
 
 Till I found at last my flower of flowers, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 85 
 
 And then beneath her folds I crept, 
 
 And there in perfumed sweetness slept. 
 
 Or a crystal drop was on her leaf, 
 
 And I playfully called it the tear of grief, 
 
 And then I was the loving light, 
 
 To kiss away its essence bright ! 
 
 Or she kept her own immortal form, 
 
 And I came as the breezes wild and warm 
 Of which she breathed. I was a sigh 
 Within her heart, alternately 
 Coming and going, or as she lay 
 Reclining, I stole in amorous play, 
 
 And fluttered all over her gentle frame, 
 
 As if to fan its virgin flame ! ” 
 
 This poem, we need scarce remark, is not at all worthy 
 of that reputation which Banim afterwards attained ; 
 but it exhibits undoubted proof of poetic ability, and is 
 distinguished by an intensity of feeling very perceptible 
 in his plays and in his novel “ The Nowlans.” 
 
 The poem would have reached a second edition, but, 
 unfortunately, Warren, the publisher, became bankrupt ; 
 and all Banim’s bright hopes and expectations were, 
 for the time, crushed. 
 
 He does not seem, however, to have permitted this 
 disappointment to check his ardor in the pursuit of literary 
 fame. He had succeded in gaining a price (and not a low 
 one for a poet unknown to the public and the trade) for 
 his work, and he saw in this success the first dawning 
 of his future fame. He continued to occupy his unem- 
 ployed hours in writing plays and poems. He com- 
 posed, amid all his wants and necessities, a very long 
 and elaborate poem, and a tragedy, entitled “ Turge- 
 
86 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 sius ; ” blit, as we shall presently find, the latter was 
 rejected by the theatres — the former was condemned by 
 Banim himself ; and both were eventually committed 
 to the flames. 
 
 He had occasionally his hours of relaxation, and 
 these were generally spent with his friend Mulvany. 
 One of their favorite amusements was to walk observ- 
 ingly through the streets, and guess, from the general 
 appearance of the passers by, the trades to which 
 they belonged. Each of the friends prided himself on 
 his discernment ; and years afterwards Banim used 
 to look back to those walks with all the grave joys of 
 pleasant memory ; and loved to tell how, when they 
 differed as to the trade of the passengers under discus- 
 sion, they watched his features, endeavoring to discover 
 if he were good-humored enough, to reply civilly to 
 such questions as, “ Are you a tailor ? ” or, “ Are you a 
 shoemaker ? ” and how, of twenty persons named tailors 
 by him, only two were discovered to be of other trades. 
 
 His fortunes were now about to brighten ; and of his 
 hopes and fears, of his studies and pursuits, at this 
 period, he gave the following account, in a letter 
 addressed to his father : — 
 
 ‘•Dublin, March 10th, 1821. 
 
 “ My dear Father, — I have made it a point not to 
 trouble you with any of my humble speculations, until 
 they should arrive at something of a reasonable pros- 
 pect of success ; therefore I did not write any account 
 of the matter, which I now sit down to detail. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 87 
 
 “ Yon recollect my old tragedy, bearing the magnilo- 
 quent name of £ Turgesius,’ which you at home thought 
 so highly of, and which, if you remember, Mr. Buchanan 
 pronounced to be c most honorable to him, as emanating 
 from a young gentleman, while a pupil of his English^ 
 academy.’ Through a friend, this was forwarded to 
 Mr. Elliston, manager of Drury Lane Theatre, by 
 whom, my friend’s good opinion notwithstanding, it 
 was rejected, with some softening praise, to be sure — 
 but rejected it was. 
 
 “ After that, £ Ossian’s Paradise,’ (the title of which, 
 by the way, I have changed, and now call it £ The Celt’s 
 Paradise’) occupied exclusively my leisure hours. When 
 this was put into train for publication, in the end of 
 October, I sat down to refit old £ Turgesius ’ for another 
 trial — this took me three weeks of what time I could 
 spare, and then, at the instance of the friend before 
 hinted at, I sent him to Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, 
 who also returned it, with, to be sure, a polite note, but 
 still — rejecting him. 
 
 “ Well, had I been made for fretting, this might have 
 caused me to fret. I did not, however : I got the man- 
 ager’s note about 7 o’clock in the evening ; I tied a cord 
 about the hopeless tragedy — all condemned criminals 
 are manacled, you know — and I flung it into perpetual 
 exile, into the bottom of a lumber box. 
 
 “ Before I went to bed I made the first arrangement 
 for a new tragedy ; Pliny’s letters supplied me with the 
 raw material ; his anecdote of Damon and Pythias gave 
 me the idea to be wrought out. The last refusal of my 
 old play came to hand in the middle of December ; I 
 was then, and had been for some time, engaged in com- 
 piling for a new poem : this employment I immediately 
 set aside, and fell to work on Damon and Pythias. 
 
88 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “It took me three weeks to study and design my sub- 
 ject, and collect the necessary local knowledge of the 
 persons and of the scene of action, and, in five weeks 
 after, I completed the first copy of the play, which I 
 then named ‘ The Test.’ In less than a fortnight after 
 I put the finish to it, and I have now the pleasure of 
 announcing to you at home, who are so anxious about 
 me, that I have received the strongest assurance of its 
 being acted at Covent Garden immediately, or soon after 
 Easter. 
 
 “ I am slow to encourage, in you or myself, sanguine 
 hope of success ; but a presentiment which I cannot 
 force from me, says that this play will do, and produce 
 fame and more tangible good. 
 
 “ It will have the aid of an actor who, in my mind as 
 well as in the estimation of all who have seen him, is of 
 very first-rate eminence — I mean Macready.* 
 
 “ I should mention that to Mr. Sheil I owe my intro- 
 duction to the theatre, and he has kindly undertaken to 
 bestow on me and my bantling all the care and solicitude 
 of a father. He will assist in correcting and arranging 
 for the stage ; and this is valuable in the extreme, he 
 being the most successful dramatist of the day. 
 
 “ This object being so far accomplished, I have now 
 turned again to compile for my poem, and as some of 
 the scenery and localities which I propose to make use 
 of, are situate in the immediate vicinity of Limerick, I 
 intend, with God’s help, to go down there on Thursday 
 evening, and remain for two months : by that time I 
 shall have made important progress in the poem, and 
 the fate of the play will have been decided. 
 
 * Macready knew, from the first reading of the play, that it was exactly suited 
 to his powers ; and it possessed an equally great attraction for him in the fact, 
 that no female character divided the interest of his part 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 83 
 
 “ My dear mother will pray for me ; beg of her to 
 have good hopes of me. As to my venture, whether the 
 play lives or dies, tell her I will persevere, and if God 
 blesses me with life and health, I will succeed at last.” 
 
 The play here mentioned has been frequently called 
 the joint composition of Banim and Sheil. In the pre- 
 face to the original edition, Banim states that the play 
 owed much to the generous aid of Mr. Sheil ; but the aid 
 consisted in that very important assistance to a young 
 dramatist — an introduction and recommendation to a 
 manager. Sheil was a powerful friend at this period, 
 in a case requiring such help as Banim needed. His 
 own “ Adelaide/' “ Bellamira,” “ Apostate,” and, above 
 all, “Evadne,” had placed him high in the opinion of 
 the stage authorities, and with his recommendation 
 Banim was enabled to catch, and by his own genius to 
 keep, the attention of the rulers of Covent Garden 
 Theatre. Those who knew Sheil best are able to state, 
 and do state, that he was at this time, as at all others, 
 a fast and steady supporter of those who possessed 
 the claim of merit or friendship, upon his services and 
 good offices. 
 
 “ Damon and Pythias ” was produced at Covent Gar- 
 den Theatre on the 28th day of May, 1821, the author 
 being in his twenty-fourth year. It was performed at 
 a time when the public taste was somewhat improved, 
 and when the noble language of great Shakespeare was 
 introduced once more upon the stage, excluding the 
 alterations of Tate, and, as Charles Knight has it, “ the 
 
90 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANiM. 
 
 joinery of Cibber.” Our fellow-countryman, Macready, 
 was, at that time, as in later years, the reformer of the 
 stage ; and not two months before the representation 
 of “ Damon and Pythias,” he had, at Covent Garden, 
 played Bichard, with “the original character and lan- 
 guage of Shakespeare,” to the Bichmond of Abbott, 
 Mrs. Bunn being the Queen Margaret, and Mrs. Yining 
 the Lady Anne. These were rather favorable times in 
 which to produce so grave and classical a drama as 
 Banim’s ; yet he had great difficulties to surmount, and 
 the dangers of depreciation by comparison were immi- 
 nent. His play was performed on the 28th of May, but 
 on the 9th, “ Borneo and Juliet ” was played ; on the 
 11th, “ The Provoked Husband ; ” and on the 15th, 
 “The Tempest,” with Macready for Prospero, Abbott 
 for Ferdinand, William Farren for Stephano, Miss 
 Foote for Ariel, and Miss Hallande for Miranda ; and 
 the latter was repeated on the 22d. “ Damon and 
 
 Pythias,” therefore, was not a tragedy bursting upon 
 the town at a time when the playgoers were easily 
 overawed by the high-sounding name of Tragedy ; and 
 our young author was to depend for success upon the 
 real merit of his work. 
 
 The cast of the play was as follows : — 
 
 Damon Macready. 
 
 Pythias (in love with Calanthe) Charles Kemble. 
 
 Dionysius Abbott. 
 
 Damocles Egerton. 
 
 Nicias . . (father to Pythias) . Chapman. 
 
 Calanthe (in love with Pythias) Miss Dance. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 91 
 
 Hermione Miss Foote. 
 
 Arria Mrs. Conner. 
 
 Damon’s Son Master Morris. 
 
 Philistias Mr. Jeffries. 
 
 Procles Mr. Comer. 
 
 Lucullus ( Damon’s Freed Man) Mr. Conner. 
 
 The story on which the plot is founded is, as Banim 
 informed his father in the letter last above given, in 
 Pliny. In Dodsley’s “ Old Plays ” there is, however, a 
 play entitled “ Damon and Pythias,” which Banim may 
 have seen. The only material alteration from either 
 play or story in the tragedy is, that Banim’s Damon 
 has only six hours given him in which he is to visit and 
 bid a last farewell to his wife ; in the play and story, 
 one friend is permitted to depart for six months, the 
 other friend remaining as a hostage. “ Damon and 
 Pythias ” was performed seven times during the remain- 
 der of the season, which closed on the 7th of August. 
 
 This tragedy is quite neglected on the London stage, 
 but it is occasionally performed in the Theatre Koyal, 
 Dublin. Its original success as a stage piece was due 
 to Sheil’s advice, who kindly prepared it for green- 
 room critics, and through his judicious management 
 Banim was little vexed by those clippings and m ang- 
 lings which so agonizingly tortured the soul of Mr. 
 Puff, when he discovered that Tilburina’s “ first meet- 
 ing with Don Whiskerandos — his gallant behavior in 
 the sea fight — and the smile of the canary bird,” had 
 been cut out.* 
 
 * See Appendix II, 
 
92 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 The success of the tragedy was the crowning glory of 
 Banim’s hopes at this period. All the London papers 
 were unanimous in its praise ; and referring to his fire- 
 work and other boyish failures, and slyly retorting his 
 brother Michael’s cautions, he wrote to the latter, an- 
 nouncing his success — “ at length, my dear Michael, one 
 of my sky-rockets has gone off.” 
 
 Macready and Charles Kemble played most glori- 
 ously ; it was precisely the style of tragedy most 
 approved by Macready — it possessed that isolation for 
 himself which rendered Richelieu so marked a favorite 
 with him, and not less so with the audiences ; besides, 
 “ Damon and Pythias ” had no role sufficiently promi- 
 nent to detract from the interest which this great actor 
 desired his own character should possess. Indeed, 
 the only performer who failed in the representation 
 of the tragedy was Miss Dance, who entirely misunder- 
 stood the conception of Calantlie. 
 
 Always desirous that the dear ones at home should 
 rejoice and share in the pleasures of his success, Banim 
 thus wrote to his father, and the true-hearted trust in 
 the toil of the future, and the purest resolve to pay 
 the few — but, to him, great — debts incurred in the wild 
 days, are worthy of notice : — 
 
 “ Limerick, June 3rd, 1821, 
 “ My dear Father, — If the papers have not already 
 informed you of the fact, this letter goes to tell you, that 
 at length, thanks to God, a trump has turned up for me. 
 The play has been successful. I have got Mr. Sheil’s 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 93 
 
 letter, giving Macready’s account. I have also read the 
 Courier, Globe, and Morning Chronicle. There is no 
 doubt of my success, so again I am a free man, my 
 debts paid to the last farthing, and I am in possession 
 once more of my seat by the old fireside, with my health 
 better than ever it was to fit me for working on. 
 
 “ The moment I receive even part of the proceeds, I 
 will fly to Kilkenny ; that, however, may be some weeks. 
 Joanna is to weave a laurel crown for me ; my poor 
 mother shall place it on my brow, and we shall be as 
 happy as happy can be.” 
 
 This letter, it will be perceived, was written from Lim- 
 erick. He had gone there for the purpose of making 
 arrangements for a regular series of articles to be con- 
 tributed to “The Limerick Evening Post,” and, as has 
 been already stated, to gather local knowledge. Whilst 
 staying in Limerick, and visiting the remarkable and 
 interesting localities of the city, Banim first discovered 
 that the stirring era of the Great [Revolution, and the 
 position of Ireland at that period, were romantic and 
 exciting in all the glowing colors of that greatest of 
 romances — historic fact ; and many of the incidents 
 afterwards introduced into his novel “The Boyne Water,” 
 were suggested by local association, and treasured in 
 his never failing memory. Having arranged his business 
 in Limerick, Banim returned to Dublin. 
 
 Upon arriving in town, he found every party and 
 grade of citizens in anxious expectation of the proposed 
 visit of George the Fourth to Ireland. As all know, the 
 King did then pay a visit to this country, remembered 
 
91 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 only as having incited Byron to compose “ The Irish 
 Avatar,” and by the erection of an unmeaning granite 
 pillar at Kingstown. Banim, after the departure of the 
 King for England, in September, 1821, went, late in the 
 same month, to rejoin the dear friends at home ; and 
 his first act was to pay, from the money received for 
 “ Damon and Pythias,” the sums due to the creditors 
 of former days. 
 
 This reunion was a happy one ; he did not, whilst 
 revisiting old scenes and reviving old memories — some 
 sad and dreary — neglect the duties of his self-selected 
 profession. Although devoted to literature, he still 
 desired to see the arts supported and encouraged. 
 With all literary men who have abandoned the pencil 
 for the pen, like Hazlitt and Hood and Lover, he was 
 ever ready in assisting to secure the interests of his 
 old associates and of their profession. When Banim 
 found that the people of Ireland were about to erect 
 a testimonial to commemorate the Royal Visit, (and 
 this project, as all our projects of the same kind, ended 
 but in failure,) he thought that the time was suitable 
 for introducing to the public attention the requirements 
 of Art in Ireland. 
 
 Accordingly, whilst still in Kilkenny, he commenced 
 the composition of a letter which he completed before 
 his return to Dublin. It was published in the month 
 of January, 1822, by Milliken. It is in pamphlet shape, 
 and extends to thirty-two pages. The title-page is 
 as follows : “ A Letter to the Committee appointed to 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 95 
 
 appropriate a Fund for a National Testimonial, Com- 
 memorative of His Majesty’s First Yisit to Ireland. 
 By John Banim, Esq.; ” and the letter is dedicated, 
 “ To those of every Class who have contributed any Sum 
 towards the Erection of a National Testimonial, Com- 
 memorative of His Majesty’s First Yisit to Ireland.” 
 
 He commences by recounting the various plans pro- 
 posed, and after showing that all professions, and all 
 bodies in the city possess appropriate buildings in which 
 to assemble — that all professions, save one, are enabled 
 to claim some particular place of meeting as their own, 
 for all their peculiar uses and purposes — he demands, 
 “ Where is your Temple of Art ? "Where is your Louvre 
 or Somerset House ? ” He then instances the support 
 given to Art by the great statesmen and rulers of other 
 nations ; but, assuming that it may be contended that 
 in this country the professions of painting and sculpture 
 are not of sufficient importance to justify the serious 
 contemplation of an outlay of the fund collected, in 
 erecting an Irish National Gallery and School of Art, he 
 writes, referring to the great men who have been the 
 patrons of Art, thus : — 
 
 “ With the theorist who may think the immortal names we have 
 glanced at were or are wrong in their large and national estimation 
 of art ; with the political huckster who picks his steps through 
 every path of cultivated pursuit, leaning on Adam Smith as on a 
 walking-stick ; with him, to whose stunted apprehension this spacious 
 and flowery world is but a sales-market or a counting-house ; and 
 mind and talent, in all their varied impulses and uncontrollable ten- 
 dencies, predoomed exclusively to buy and sell, and barter and 
 calculate ; with him to whose taste the pounds, shillings, and pence 
 
96 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of a nation are the most glorious acquirements of a nation, and who is 
 well prepared to ran us up and down the politico-economical gamut 
 on every note and key of 1 increase and of supply,’ 1 demand and 
 market,’ — with such a theorist we have another appeal. If individuals 
 of the order we have mentioned be wrong, let us ascertain the sense 
 of the past and present civilized world on the importance of the Arts, 
 generally. 
 
 “ Egypt is a wilderness. We only remember that she was. But 
 of our recollections of her old name, which is the most lively — the 
 most interesting ? which most arouses our sympathy, commands our 
 respect, our veneration ? Is it our recollection of her wealth, her 
 grandeur, her arms, her commerce ? No : it is her mind, and not 
 her wealth ; her philosophy, and not her arms ; her arts, and not her 
 commerce, which we remember with vivacity, which we admire, 
 respect, emulate. We explore her waste places for one atom of her 
 art ; if found, we cherish it as a 'saint’s relic or a parent’s memento, 
 and we point to it and say, ‘ This is a part of Egypt.’ 
 
 “ Her foster-child, Greece — old Greece, has left us a greater variety 
 of models for admiration. Her laws, her arms, her poets, orators, 
 heroes, either were more distinguished, or history has better defined 
 and transmitted them to us. They invite our attention equally with 
 her arts — but only equally. With her Lycurgus, her Homer, her 
 Leonidas, we rank her Phidias, her Praxiteles, her Apelles ; and 
 while we burn at the recollection of her Marathon and Thermopylae, 
 we glow with as pure an ardor over the historical memory of her 
 pictured Thunderer, or in the actual presence of her Farnese and 
 Apollo. In Greece, a painter* was allowed to assume the regal 
 purple and golden crown. In Greece, painters and statuaries were 
 eligible to the highest offices of the state.f In Greece, it was the 
 law that none but men of noble birth should profess the Art £ Pam- 
 philus, the master of Apelles, was a statesman and a philosopher as 
 well as an artist. By his influence the elementary principles of the 
 Art were taught in the public schools of Greece, and its acquirement 
 associated with a liberal education. When Emilius, after subduing 
 all Macedonia, demanded of the Athenians their most renowned 
 philosopher to educate his children, and their best painter to super* 
 intend the ornaments for his triumph, the Athenians seLt Metrodorus 
 
 * Apelles. 
 
 t Vide Mooke — F. Junius de Pictura veterum. 
 
 + Pliny. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 97 
 
 to the Roman General, telling him, they had provided in one person 
 all he had required of two.* Metrodorus was an artist. 
 
 “ From the political structure of ancient Rome, we must not expect 
 much practical excellence in the Art. But that which the Romans 
 either did not or could not rival, they knew how to admire and 
 appreciate. Quinctilian, Pliny, Tacitus, are often the historians or 
 eulogists of ancient Art ; and Cicero himself plucks from the garland 
 of the graphic muse some of his sweetest flowers of exemplification. 
 
 “ The Augustan age of Britain does not present a character which 
 stands more boldly forward than that of Reynolds. Those who do, 
 and those who do not, understand his excellence, concur in esti- 
 mating it as a high national honor and ornament. The more than 
 Augustan age of Britain, her present age, displays a galaxy of talent, 
 as various as it is consummately excellent. With the senate, the field, 
 the cabinet — with science, philosophy, poetry, great and immortal 
 names are connected. Yet, against any of them, the names of West 
 and Lawrence may be fearlessly arrayed. They stand as high as any 
 in national estimation. They are as often appealed to as evidence 
 of national character. They are as much the boast of their country. 
 Their fame is as widely diffused through polite nations. They are 
 parallels to Britain’s proudest names, and can be produced to the 
 same extent. 
 
 “ During thirty years, the profession of arms would seem to have 
 been the only one pursued with enthusiasm in France, yet her Arts 
 were not forgotten. In the hot career of her unrivalled success, 
 elated and laurelled with triumph, France could pause, and hold out 
 to Art the hand of patronage and protection. The genius of victory, 
 gathering up all her trophies,- often came to the genius of Art, and 
 sued for her graphic immortality. Denon, David, Le Fevre, Le 
 Theyre, were or are contemporaneous with every era of thirty years 
 of political convulsion in France ; — bright names, like bright stars, 
 have risen around them in the national horizon, yet theirs have not 
 been eclipsed. 
 
 “ Italy has, at present, no name, no character, but that which her 
 Arts reflect upon her. It is the only current which keeps her floating 
 up to the level of nations. Italy, that was the war-school of the 
 world, whose thought was intelligence — whose tongue was oratory — 
 whose breath was patriotism — whose sword was victory — Italy is a 
 province — an abject, trampled province. Her Tully, her Cato, her 
 
 * Turnbull— Rise and Decline of Art in Ancient Greece and modern Italy. 
 
 5 
 
98 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Scipio, her Augustus, her Brutus, are no more — Italy has only her 
 Canova.” 
 
 And so the life of a literary man of our day was en- 
 tered upon. To Banim, as to all others, it was the cold, 
 stem enchantress, the demon Mistress, that wins men’s 
 love, and then claims health, and energy, and buoyant 
 youth’s bright blooming hours, as smallest duties offered 
 in her worship — and thus Banim, and Laman Blanchard, 
 and Thomas Hood, have each been types of this class, 
 and to each we may apply these lines of Charles 
 Mackay : — 
 
 “ 7 Mid his writing, 
 
 And inditing, 
 
 Death had beckoned him away, 
 
 Ere the sentence he ha*d planned 
 Found completion at his hand.” 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 FIRST PLAN OF “ TALES BY THE 0 ? HARA FAMILY ” MICHAEL 
 
 BANIM’s SHARE IN THEM THEIR DESIGN JOHN BANIM’s MAR- 
 RIAGE- — REMOVAL TO LONDON LETTERS HINTS TO NOVELISTS 
 
 • — LITERARY STRUGGLES — LETTERS ILLNESS LITERARY EM- 
 PLOYMENT ILLNESS OF MRS. BANIM LOVE OF HOME LETTERS 
 
 PLAYS HIS OPINIONS OF LITERACY MEN ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 WITH WASHINGTON IRVING — CONNECTION WITH DRURY-LANE 
 
 THEATRE LETTERS PROGRESS OF FIRST SERIES OF “TALES 
 
 BY THE o’HARA FAMILY” CONNECTION WITH ARNOLD AND 
 
 THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE OPINIONS OF KEAN, MISS KELLY, 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING AND OTHERS LETTERS ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 WTTH GERALD GRIFFIN THEIR FRIENDSHIP MISUNDER- 
 STANDING BETWEEN THEM LETTERS ILLNESS PUBLISHES 
 
 “ REVELATIONS OF THE DEAD-ALIVE ; ” EXTRACTS OBTAINS 
 
 PUBLISHER FOR “ TALES BY THE O HARA FAMILY ” LETTERS. 
 
 Whilst visiting liis family, after the production of 
 “Damon and Pythias,” Banim frequently wandered 
 away through the lovely scenery of the county Kilkenny ; 
 he generally resided, on these occasions, with some 
 friend of his father, and was always accompanied by his 
 brother Michael. Few counties in Ireland can pre- 
 sent scenery more varied or picturesque than Kilkenny. 
 Thomastown, Jerpoint, and Kells, possess monuments 
 of older days, interesting and valuable to the antiquary : 
 Inistiogue, and Woodstock, once the residence of the 
 authoress of “ Psyche,” are glowdng in all the pride of 
 
100 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 leafy loveliness ; and every feature of sylvan beauty is 
 enhanced by the proximity of the bright, pure, gentle- 
 llowing Nore. Banim’s favorite spot, amidst these scenes, 
 is thus described in “ The Fetches ” : — 
 
 “ It rises from the edge of the Nore, at about thirteen miles from 
 Kilkenny, into curves and slopes, hills and dales, piles of rock, and 
 extensive spreads of level though high ground ; hills and dales are 
 thickly or wildly planted ; and mountain streams, made rough and 
 interesting by the stony impediments in their course, seek their way 
 through the bending and shivered banks and fantastic woods ; some- 
 times leaping over an unusually steep barrier. The waterfalls send 
 their chafings among the woods and hollows, which on all sides, and 
 at a distance, reply ; and these voices of nature, together with the 
 nearly similar noise of the rustling trees, or the crackling of their 
 knotted arms in the blast, are the only, or the overmastering sounds 
 that disturb the solitude. 
 
 “ Extrinsic interest has lately attached to this fine scenery on 
 account of its having been the last residence on earth of a lady not 
 unknown in the literary world. In fact, the present proprietor is a 
 Mr. Tighe ; and here the gentle author of ‘ Psyche , 7 that gentleman’s 
 aunt by marriage, breathed the last notes of her femininely sweet 
 song, and the last breath of a life she was almost too good and pure 
 to have longer breathed, in a bad and gross world. Here she sang, 
 in sighings of the heart, her last melancholy farewell to the ‘ Odours 
 of Spring ; 7 and, alas, the flowers she addressed had not wasted their 
 perfume till they were transplanted to her grave. A beautiful girl, 
 long the humble protegee of the minstrel, culled them with her young 
 hands, and in recollection of notes that the silent tongue had once 
 murmured, placed them on her bed of clay, and thus in the tears of 
 beauty and of youthful sorrow, they were there nurtured. The grave 
 is one of many in the church-yard of the village that skirts the 
 domain. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey 
 that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw 
 their mantle of tender shadow over it : simple primroses and dasies 
 now blossom round. It is a place for the grave of a poetess. 
 
 “ But when Tresham visited this district, it had, for him, the single 
 yet abundant interest of its own beauty. Even as he approached it, 
 the introductory scenery grew fair and enchanting. The country out_ 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 101 
 
 side of Kilkenny was uniform ; but at last, from the highest point of a 
 rough, mountain-road, his eye was at once flung over a semicircular 
 extent of hill, dell, and mountain, broken into every desirable shape 
 of the picturesque, and thrown and tossed about, as if in the awful 
 sportiveness of the creating hand. Hill bestrode hill, the guardian 
 giants of the race appearing pale and mysterious in the distance ; 
 while through the midst, in the depths of a spacious valley, the lady 
 Nore curved on her graceful course. 
 
 “ It was the first approach of an unusually fine evening in Septem- 
 ber, and. the red sun, setting over an extreme vista at Tresham’s back, 
 lackered all the opposite scene with gold : producing, at the same 
 time, those stretching shadows that make evening the painter’s best 
 hour for the study of his chiaroscuro. At every turn of this road the 
 scene only changed into another mode of beauty. From a nearer 
 point appeared the lowly village of Inistiogue ; a few white cottages, 
 glinting, like white stones, at the bases and in the mighty embrace 
 of hills, richly planted. Its light and not inelegant bridge spanned 
 the crystal river, groups and groups of trees massing behind it ; and, 
 overall, the high grounds of Woodstock rising in continued and varie- 
 gated foliage. Tears of pleasure filled Tresham’s eyes. He felt it 
 was happiness to live in so fair a world ; alas ! he enjoyed the scene 
 as if he had been doomed to enjoy it.” 
 
 Amidst these quiet haunts B&nim loved to linger. 
 The first round of life’s great ladder of fame was, he 
 fancied, passed ; the jostling crowd who, panting and 
 eager, thronged its foot, were no longer to be feared 
 and day dreams, such as only the young poet knows, 
 made bright and joyous the hopeful musings of that 
 autumn after he had seen “ one of his sky-rockets go off.” 
 It was not that he felt unwilling still to labor and fast, 
 and watch and wait. Fame to him was like that image 
 of Love in “ Gondibert ” — and made all and everything 
 bright and sunny — - 
 
 “ As if the thing beloved were all a Saint, 
 
 And every place she entered were a shrine.” 
 
102 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 The sad times of walking about the streets for lack of 
 lodging — of “ whistling for want of a dinner,” were past 
 — but the strong will, the earnest love of literature, were 
 true and daring as ever. Plays, Essays, Novels, and 
 Poems were designed, and talked over with Michael, 
 who was the confidant now as ever. 
 
 It is a well known fact, that the genius which consti- 
 tutes the Dramatist is nearly akin to that which forms 
 the Novelist ; and in discussing the plans of his future 
 life with his brother, Banim resolved to make his next 
 venture as a writer of Irish fiction. At this period 
 (1821) Miss Edgeworth was in the full possession of the 
 public taste as the best and only Irish novelist. That 
 reputation which she had obtained through the “ Tales 
 of Fashionable Life,” and through the “ Moral Tales,” 
 was out-topped by the success of the “Essay on Dish 
 Bulls,” and of “ Castle Backrent.” These, however, 
 were but the elegant drawing-room portraitures of 
 Irish life and character, which might be represented in 
 conjunction with the performances of that famous bear, 
 in “ She Stoops to Conquer,” who only “ danced to the 
 genteelest tunes.” They wanted vigor and individuality, 
 and were entirely deficient in that dramatic power, 
 without which any — most of all an Irish — novel must 
 be weak. Admirably as Miss Edgeworth’s genius might 
 qualify her for the composition of her inimitable fictions 
 inculcating moral precepts ; excellently as she might 
 construct that most difficult of literary labors — a story 
 for children, or for young people, — she wanted many, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 103 
 
 very many, attributes peculiar to that phase of genius 
 which can obtain, and keep secure, the title of the Irish 
 novelist. Banim knew well that his countrywoman 
 possessed ability of a very high and polished order ; he 
 felt that in entering upon the w T orld of literature as a 
 writer of Irish fiction, he should be prepared to take 
 his place beside, if not above, one who enjoyed all that 
 strength which is derived, in literary matters, from a pre- 
 occupation in the public mind. He was fully impressed 
 with all the might and force of these facts, but Sir 
 Walter was his ideal of a National Novelist ; from this 
 ideal nothing can be more dissimilar than that dis- 
 coverable in the style and tone of the works of Miss 
 Edgeworth. Banim had known the people of whom 
 he desired to write from childhood ; he wished, like 
 Galt, to draw his scenes and plots from the characters 
 and events furnished by the every day world around 
 him. As we shall, hereafter in this portion of his 
 biography learn, he thought that from the body of his 
 acquaintances the “ studies ” for many novels might be 
 made. The scenery of his native county, and various 
 portions of his native city, were to form his still life — 
 they but required careful description to become the 
 external nature of his fictions. The human nature he 
 would find in the humor, in the pathos, in the tender 
 hearts, or in the wild fierce passions of the Irish peasant. 
 
 In the year 1821, the Roman Catholics were just 
 beginning to make their chains “ clank o’er their rags ; ” 
 the battle against Tithes was being fought ; O’Connell 
 
104 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 liad not, as Sydney Smith said, “ lapsed ; ” the reign of 
 Captain Rock was flourishing, and all the wild nature 
 of the people was aroused. Banim’s feelings were in 
 unison with those which actuated the great mass of 
 his countrymen ; and thinking thus, Banim resolved to 
 attempt that which many others have tried to accomplish 
 — to raise the national character in the estimation of 
 other lands, by a portrayal of the people as they really 
 were ; but at the same time to vindicate them from 
 the charges of violence and bloodthirstiness, by showing, 
 in the course of the fiction, the various causes which 
 he supposed concurred to draw forth and foster these 
 evil qualities. He fancied that of the lawlessness of the 
 peasant he could discover the actuating principle in 
 that bitter thought of Shylock, which teaches that those 
 oppressed will in their turn oppress ; and he longed 
 to be their champion. The Irishman had been the 
 blunderer of the stage for years — his stupidity being 
 only equalled by his vulgarity and coarseness : — not 
 alone on the stage was he misrepresented, the novelists 
 had likewise held him up to ridicule, he was their butt 
 or their adventurer — a species of commingled “ Gil 
 Bias” and “Vanillo Gonzales,” speaking a barbarous 
 English with a most abominable brogue — and in the 
 whole range of the drama or of fiction, the only mod- 
 erately fair portraiture, before the appearance of the 
 “ Tales by the O’Hara Family,” of an Irishman, was to 
 be found in the Sir Callaghan O’Brallaghan of Macklin’s 
 “Love a la Mode,” and in the Sir Lucius O’Trigger of 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 105 
 
 “ The Rivals.” Whether Banim knew these mistakes of 
 former writers, or whether he was incited- in this pro- 
 ject by the success of the Waverley Novels, is now a 
 question of little moment. Doubtless he knew that 
 half the merit of Sir Walter’s wonderful fictions con- 
 sisted in their nationality, their naturalness, and their 
 truthfulness. Fielding and Smollett and Macklin had 
 caricatured the Scottish character in precisely the same 
 manner as that adopted towards our own countrymen : 
 yet despite the ridicule of the older wits, Scottish 
 character will be truly understood ; and from Oldbuck 
 and Dumbiedikes — from Baillie Nicol Jarvie, “rest and 
 bless him,” and Caleb Balderston — from Rob Roy and 
 Jeanie Deans — from all so dissimilar, and yet so Scottish 
 in their individuality, the world has learned to know 
 Scotland in her people. And to accomplish such a work 
 as this for Ireland, was the great aim of Banim’s efforts 
 — the object which from this period, and at all after 
 times, was ever honestly before him. We are here 
 writing of the reasons which induced him to become 
 an Irish novelist, and are now but recording the plan 
 and scope of the projected works, — hereafter we shall, 
 in the proper place, discuss the various topics connected 
 with the tone and style of composition marking these 
 excellent fictions. 
 
 Much as Banim longed to become the novelist of 
 Ireland, yet knowing the great difficulties to be en- 
 countered and surmounted, he hesitated and feared 
 and doubted. Whilst roaming through the demesne of 
 
106 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Woodstock, whilst revelling mentally amongst the 
 various scenes of sylvan loveliness of the landscapes 
 around Inistiogue, he spoke of all his hopes and fears 
 to his brother Michael. Michael was all courage and 
 trustful aspiration. From the period at which he had 
 ceased to be a pupil of Mr. Buchanan’s “ English 
 Academy,” he had been engaged in business as an assist- 
 ant to his father. He had been, as we have already 
 seen, the constant correspondent and adviser of John : 
 he knew little of books, but much of the men who 
 formed the world in which he lived. These were pre- 
 cisely the men who were to make up the characters of 
 John’s projected novels. Michael urged his brother to 
 proceed : he knew nothing of the literary jealousies, 
 the carping, the injustice which must be encountered 
 in working one’s way to the public eye. He believed 
 in John’s genius ; he had gloried in his progress ; he 
 had been his confidant in his unhappy first love ; he 
 had been his nurse in the long and terrible sickness 
 
 succeeding the death of Anne D ; and now he 
 
 was his best and truest friend, for he kept him firmly 
 fixed to one plan of many, promising success. They 
 talked of plots and scenes ; they repeated old stories, 
 and criticised their adaptability for the novel or ro- 
 mance ; and thus Michael became confirmed in his 
 estimate of his brother’s genius, and John learned the 
 great advantage to be derived from the judgment, and 
 kind but honest criticism of Michael. And he learned 
 more : — in discussing their plans, and in relating the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 107 
 
 country tales that seemed most suited for John’s pur- 
 pose, Michael related one particular story so well, so 
 clearly, so graphically and with so genuine a pathos, 
 that John determined upon venturing all his hopes of 
 success in an Irish Novel — a novel to be written in sepa- 
 rate tales — one, at least, of which should be written by 
 Michael — and thus, amid the green fields of Inistiogue, 
 were the “ Tales by the O’Hara Family ” planned, and 
 a joint system of writing commenced, which rivalled in 
 popularity the “ Canterbury Tales ” of the sisters Lee. 
 Michael was unwilling to join his brother in this plan ; 
 he doubted his ability ; a book and printers were 
 awful things in his eyes — but John insisted — implored : 
 he would correct ; he would be in London, Michael 
 would serve him by shortening his work — the “ filling- 
 stuff ” of the volumes would be supplied by Michael’s 
 story if it served no other purpose ; the story was a 
 good one, — he might depend on John’s judgment for the 
 truth of the opinion ; and at length it was agreed that 
 each should commence composing forthwith, Michael 
 to write the story he had told to John, John to prepare 
 the other tales necessary to complete the ordinary three 
 volumes — and each was to submit his work to the judg- 
 ment and correction of the other. 
 
 This joint plan having been arranged, another joint 
 plan was to be undertaken, in which John was to appear 
 as chief actor. In his wanderings around the neigh- 
 borhood of luistiogue he had selected, as his chief rest- 
 ing place, the house of John Ruth of Cappagh, a very 
 
108 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 old and steady friend of his father. John Ruth was 
 what is, or used to be, called a “ gentleman farmer”; 
 one of those who with good land and low rents made up 
 the somewhat spendthrift race of Irish “strong farm- 
 ers.” His house was well built and warmly thatched ; 
 it had its fool, its lame cook, its herd of hangers-on, its 
 guests, whose days were idleness and whose nights were 
 too frequently drunken revels. He was amongst the last 
 of his class, and as many of our readers in this age of 
 staid, sober Incumbered-Estates-purchased farms may 
 not be aware of the causes which conduced to make 
 Irish “ gentlemen farmers ” incumbered land-holders, we 
 here insert, from “The Nowlans,” Banim’s sketch of 
 Aby Nowlan, the original being a cousin and neighbor 
 of John Ruth : — 
 
 “ Daniel Nowlan had an important bachelor brother, who was god- 
 father to his second son, had given certain characteristic symptoms of 
 a liking for the boy, and would most probably take him home one of 
 those days, keep him in his house, ‘ and make a man of him.’ Some 
 few close critics now and then hinted, indeed, that no such hasty con- 
 clusions ought to be drawn from the symptoms alluded to, or from 
 the general character of Mr. Aby Nowlan; or, supposing John to 
 have been transported to his house, it did not follow, they said, that 
 he would be much the better for the change ; for 1 Master Aby's 
 house was a wasteful house, and money went out of it, a power of 
 money,’ no one knew how or where ; and, in fact, the hints on this 
 subject were so many, that we feel it our duty to bring more fully 
 before the reader the character and condition of Mr. Aby Nowlan. 
 
 “He was the first Roman Catholic ‘gentleman farmer’ of the dis- 
 trict, inheriting, almost undividedly, the profit rents of many farms 
 taken from time to time by his father, at very low terms and on very 
 long leases, tilled and cultivated with skill and industry, and at last 
 brought to such perfection, as on his death-bed to leave the prema- 
 ture old man the willing of almost a real estate of about one thousand 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 109 
 
 a year. And, by the will he made, old Nowlan seemed perfectly to 
 understand the importance of his acquisitions : for, in imitation of the 
 proprietors of real estates around him, he would have, in his eldest 
 son, a representative also $ while three other sons, Daniel among the 
 number, were left but scantily portioned ; Murrough, the second, 
 being apprenticed to a saddler in Limerick, and, when out of his 
 time, turned off to shift for himself upon three hundred pounds and 
 a blessing ; Davy, the third, similarly disposed of ‘ in the grocery 
 line ; 7 and Daniel, the youngest, favored, at the same rent under 
 which the old man himself held it, with a lease of part of the ground 
 on which we now see him living and thriving, and which, indeed, 
 was the beginning of his prosperity. 
 
 “ In fact, a gentleman, ‘ a real gentleman , 7 old Nowlan would leave 
 behind him in the person of ‘ Master Aby ; 77 and it was not by inde- 
 pendence alone, but by education and accomplishments too, he 
 sought to confer this character. For himself, who had the making 
 of the estate with his own two hands, late and early, through fair 
 weather and foul, 1 the larnin 7 would have been no use to him, and 
 might have proved an injury ; but the son who was to get all, ready 
 made to his hand, and live the life of any gentleman upon it, why, it 
 well became him to put something besides his mark to a lease or a 
 receipt, and to be able to read any book that might come in the way, 
 and to keep his accounts in ‘ pin-writin , 7 rather than on *'a tally , 7 
 and to have a word in his cheek before the best in the land ; nay, to 
 understand the soggarth’s Latin itself, and not 6 to have it tlirun 
 away upon him, like a cow or a horse . 7 
 
 “ But old Nowlan’s endeavors, in this second view, were not as 
 successful as his previous industry ; he found it easier to make a 
 thousand a year for his son, than to make that son a scholar or a 
 gentleman. In vain did he send him to the best schools in Limerick ; 
 
 1 Masther Aby 7 either learned nothing in them, or did not stay in 
 them long enough to learn anything. Sometimes he was turned 
 home, like an incurable out of an hospital ; sometimes he came home 
 of his own accord, and, without speaking a word, or showing the 
 least change in a face, always, from youth to old age, unchangeable, 
 sat down to dinner in his father’s parlor ; and, more than once, when 
 the old fellow thought that by dint of a good horsewhip he had 
 succeeded in prevailing upon him to return to his ‘schooling that 
 is, when after a sound Hogging he had shut the door in his face, ‘ the 
 young masther 7 has been discovered, months after, quietly passing 
 
110 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 his days under the roof of some distant tenant ; eating, drinking, and 
 sleeping ; whenever it was possible, riding a horse ; and scarcely 
 ever opening his heavy-lipped mouth to a creature around him. 
 
 “ In wrath and stern resolve, old Nowlan fell upon a plan, sug- 
 gested by an action he had seen performed by the blockhead himself. 
 At about twelve years of age, Aby was well skilled in dogs of all 
 degree, and there was a certain pointer of his kennel which took an 
 objection to breakfast on ‘stirabout,’ just at the very time when, in 
 consequence of the animal’s real or supposed state of body, stirabout 
 was deemed, by good judges, its best diet. So soon as, after repeated 
 efforts, Aby saw that the dog would not share the breakfast of its 
 brother-and-sister dogs, he was observed silently to unchain it, lead 
 it out into the middle of the yard, secure it to a large stone, place 
 before it a platter of the objectionable food, stand by until a reason- 
 able time was afforded for dog or man to form a decided opinion, and 
 then flog it with a steady hand, again adjust the platter, again stand 
 inactive, again flog, flog, and so continue, until some kinder-hearted 
 person beguiled him from his employment, or until his father, at last 
 recognising the matter, came out with another horsewhip in his hand, 
 not for the dog, but for the dog’s master. 
 
 “ And on this hint, old Nowlan acted in resolute prosecution of his 
 plan to make his eldest son a scholar. Mounting a good horse, he 
 rode, not to the ablest, but to the severest pedagogue in Limerick, 
 and proposed an unusual pension for Aby’s board and education, on 
 the following provisos : that, first, Aby should get neither breakfast 
 nor dinner until he had previously breakfasted ‘dacently’ on his 
 morning and afternoon tasks, or else upon three distinct whippings, 
 morning and evening ; second, that, to prevent elopement during the 
 day, he should be chained by the neck and leg to a block of wood 
 sufficiently large and heavy to hinder him from running, or even 
 walking fast; and, thirdly, that to guard against the like accident 
 at night, all his clothes except his shirt should be taken from him as 
 he lay down in bed, and not restored until the chain and log were 
 in waiting for re-adjustment at the hour of getting up: ‘ an if the 
 bouchal won’t ate his stirabout now,’ said old Nowlan, when the 
 bargain was ended, and Aby regularly installed in his log and fetters, 
 ‘ why, he may just folly his own likins.’ And, notwithstanding the 
 boasted wisdom of the arrangement, and the unremitting watchful- 
 ness and attentions of the pedagogue, ‘the bouchal’ did contrive 
 to ‘ folly his own likins : ’ for, upon a winter’s morning about eight 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Ill 
 
 o’clock, and about a fortnight after his father had left him in the 
 school, a vision of ‘ the young mastheiy habited solely in a draggle- 
 tailed shirt, appeared walking up to the house, just as the old farmer 
 was on his way to a fair at Nenagh ; so they met in the little avenue, 
 and Aby’s first salute from his affectionate parent was a lash across 
 his shoulders, at which, wincing somewhat, he turned down the 
 avenue again, and showed symptoms of a retreat to a tenant’s house ; 
 but the father spurring his horse, intercepted, and by words and con- 
 tinued lashes, exhorted him into the Limerick road, kept him in it for 
 miles, always foiling his efforts to double to the right or left ; until 
 as Limerick came in view, Aby, roused to a dogged despair, rushed 
 through a gap down a descent to the Shannon, gained the river’s 
 edge before his father could baffle his sudden movement, plunged 
 headlong in, and, as he had ever been too lazy to learn to swim, would 
 most certainly have been drowned, but that a fisherman’s cot paddled 
 to his assistance, picked him up, and returned him to the arms of his 
 now afflicted and remorseful parent. 
 
 “ This was his last trial. From this day out, Aby never saw the 
 loathsome interior of a school ; though to the hour of his death, his 
 dreams often surrounded him with its villainous circumstantiality. 
 Old Nowlan, in addition to his caution of his former pertinacity, 
 consoled his heart with various reflections ; such as, when he was 
 cross — ‘ hard to make a silk purse out iv a sow’s ear ; hard to dhraw 
 blood from a turnip ; man proposes, God disposes : ’ or, when he rec- 
 ollected that Aby could indeed write a tolerably fair hand, and read 
 a book without much coughing and hemming ; and, fair time being 
 allowed, and no hurry, work out a sum upon a slate to the effect of 
 ‘ what would six sacks of wheat come to at — the sack ? ’ and find 
 out London and Dublin upon any map he was used to, with other 
 considerable things ; — why, when the old man took this to mind, he 
 would comfort himself with — ‘ half a loaf is betther nor no bread ; — 
 take an inch if you can’t get an ell ; — too much of one thing is good 
 for nothing ;’ &c. &c. 
 
 “ The stupid harmlessness of Aby’s character had further influence 
 on the natural feelings of the parent : ‘ Avoch, poor boy, there wasn’t 
 a bit of bad in him ; an’ the heart was in the right place, anyhow ; — 
 an’ he was no sich omadhaun, neither ; smooth water runs deep : he 
 could see as far into a mill-stone as another : he knew more nor a 
 cow did of a bad shillin’ ; lave him to himself; jist let well enough 
 alone ; you’ll never see him atin’ pavin-stones for phayties : ’ and in 
 
112 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 time, this negative admiration amounted to real love ; even of the 
 dolt’s clumsy person, set features, and staring eyes, the father became 
 fond ; nor was Aby’s taciturnity any check on their fire-side com- 
 munions, for, just as one can talk for hours to a dog, in imaginary 
 reply to its set gaze, or the wagging of its tail, old Nowlan easily 
 managed long conferences with his eldest son. 
 
 “ In a word, ‘ Masther Aby ’ was a mere animal of a very inoffen- 
 sive and perhaps amiable class : not a fool — that gives no idea of 
 him: an animal is the word, — an animal with an animal’s wants, 
 and with no mental stimulus to strive for anything beyond their 
 gratification. 
 
 “ Aby Nowlan however, had. in common with his father, an ambi- 
 tion to be thought a gentleman ; but he manifested it in a tamer and 
 more slavish way than his father would have done. To wear, like 
 ‘ Square Adams ’ (meaning Squire Adams) of ‘ Mount-Nelson,’ (or 
 some such ridiculous name conferred on a bit of barren ground once 
 called Killavochery, or Ballybrochlehin, or Coollavoorlich, and still 
 surrounded by similar ones) — to wear like him, who was the county 
 magistrate, before-mentioned, a very blue shining coat with very 
 bright buttons, a canary- colored waistcoat, top-boots, and fawn-col- 
 ored small-clothes ; to ride like him, a good hunter to every hunt, 
 and like him, and especially to him and his nine sons, and score 
 friends, to give great meat dinners, and ‘ lashins ’ of claret, port and 
 sherry, and all in the timid hope of being recognised as the boon 
 companion, and no more, of a man of less actual wealth, and of no 
 more actual rank than himself ; this was the weak, mean and super- 
 fluous way in which stupid Aby Nowlan tried to become a gentleman. 
 And, to his heart’s content, the ‘quality’ allowed him to make the 
 experiment $ day after day, night after night, ‘ Square ’ Adams, and 
 his ranting and roaring, cursing and swearing, sons and cousins, 
 friends and followers (himself as great a roarer and blasphemer as 
 any amongst them), would honor ‘ the bachelor’s house ’ with their 
 noise, voracity, guzzling and drunkenness ! While 1 Mrs. Nowlan’ had 
 a numerous circle to tea above stairs, the ‘ masther ’ gloated, with 
 staring eyes, and with scarce a word in his cheek, on all this glory 
 in the parlor ; so that his candle, thus lighted at both ends, blazed 
 away famously. 
 
 “But whether or no these loose courses of Mr. Aby Nowlan were 
 attended with the results hinted at by his neighbors, remained more 
 than doubtful, for no symptom of declining grandeur yet appeared : 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 113 
 
 the house might still be found full of company, and as much wine 
 and whiskey-punch were drunk in it as the oldest tenant could 
 remember.” 
 
 John Buth* had been unlike his cousin, the original 
 of this sketch ; he had not been a drunkard, but he had 
 been somewhat unfortunate in his farming speculations, 
 and he was not the man to raise himself into competence 
 •when he had once fallen from his position. But in the 
 incident of Banim’s life which we are about to relate, 
 this circumstance weighed lightly with him. John Buth 
 had three daughters — all pretty, and well educated for 
 their position in life. Banim, as their father’s guest, 
 was frequently their companion : he was not the fiery- 
 
 souled adorer of the days when he wooed Anne D ; 
 
 the hard and iron realities of his life in Dublin had 
 taught him, that love which begins without calculating 
 upon mutton chops, lodgings and coal, is likely to expire 
 in the daily struggle for the procuring of these neces- 
 saries — yet he was ardent enough to love the youngest 
 daughter of his host — even though she were dowerless. 
 He had known Ellen Buth little more than a fortnight 
 when he told her that he loved her. He did not ask her 
 then to marry him ; he left Kilkenny for Dublin. He 
 published a pamphlet on the proposed testimonial 
 commemorative of the visit of George the Fourth to 
 Ireland, and after arranging his affairs in Dublin, pre- 
 paratory to removing to London, he returned, in the 
 
 * This is not the only instance in which Banim has introduced his wife’s 
 family name : for example, in “ The Fetches,” he gives the name Ruth to his 
 heroine “Anne.” 
 
114 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 month of February, 1822, to Kilkenny. He then found 
 that his love of Ellen Ruth was returned by an affection 
 as warm, and fond, and true as his own ; and after a 
 courtship of less than five months, John Banim in his 
 twenty-fourth year, and Ellen Ruth in her nineteenth, 
 were married on the 27th of February, 1822. A pure 
 heart, a sweet kindly face, and great love and trust in 
 her husband, w T ere all the fortune she brought him ; and 
 as we recall now the patient care, the tender, never- 
 flagging zeal with which, in after years, she bore her 
 part as wife, and nurse, in many a weary month when 
 her husband slept but for minutes, to awaken to hours 
 of agony, we can apply to her the beautiful lines in 
 Gerald Massey’s “Poor Man’s Wife” — 
 
 “ Her heart it was lowly as maiden’s might be, 
 
 But hath climb’d to heroic height, 
 
 And burn’d like a shield in defence of me, 
 
 On the sorest field of fight ! 
 
 And startling as fire, it hath often flasht up 
 In her eyes, the good heart and rare ! 
 
 As she drank down her half of our bitterest cup, 
 
 And taught me how to bear.” 
 
 On the 13th of March, 1822, less than one month 
 after their marriage, Banim and his young wife set out 
 for London, really to seek their fortune. To the student 
 of literary history, how many memories the words “ seek- 
 ing his fortune,” and “ settled in London,” bring back 
 upon the mind. Johnson rises first — the great, heaving 
 figure is before us — he has failed as “ a dominy,” — his 
 weary years of sorrowiul youth, and disappointed early 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BxYNIM. 
 
 115 
 
 manhood are past, and now he seeks but bread by the 
 labor of his brain. David Garrick, with his skipping 
 step, and bright black eye, can work his way, and his 
 little vanities but help him onward ; but the deep, 
 loving soul, with thoughts and hopes for all, is gloomy 
 and distressed ; he lives somehow, “ genteely,” at an 
 eightpenny “ordinary/ 7 “with good company, sir and 
 he hangs about Cave’s at St. John’s Gate. He hopes 
 on, he calls upon Wilcox the bookseller, with a letter of 
 introduction, and requests employment as a literary 
 man ; Wilcox looks at him, measures his burly frame, 
 scans his heavy face, and tells him he had better “buy a 
 porter’s knot.” But he still perseveres ; he has a poem 
 with him, an imitation of J uvenal, and Dodsley liking it 
 publishes it for him, and when his “ London ” appeared# 
 Samuel Johnson was “settled in London. 7 ’ Goldsmith 
 comes next to London — poor Goldsmith ! his has been 
 a wild, wandering life ; but man and woman, age and 
 youth, had ever loved him as he loved them. He is at 
 first an usher in a school — what he thought of that 
 employment he has told us in his “ Life of a Philosophi- 
 cal Vagabond he leaves the school and sets up as a 
 physician at Bankside, and he “ has plenty of patients, 
 but no fees.” He too hangs about the publishers ; a 
 little pock-marked man, very shabby indeed, for this 
 was before the days of William Filby the tailor, and 
 the “ peach-colored suit ; ” but he works on, as he ever 
 did, hopefully, giving pence in charity when he himself 
 lived on pennies. And when the world thought Sterne 
 
116 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 a great novelist, thought Beattie a great poet, thought 
 Kelly a great comic writer, Heaven knows poor Gold- 
 smith might have despaired, even if Newbery had not 
 retained the “ Vicar of Wakefield” for two years, even 
 if Coleman had not thought so meanly of his play, as 
 to refuse to paint a new scene for a thing which he was 
 sure must be damned. These woes he suffered before 
 he was “ settled in London,” and yet Oliver Goldsmith 
 died 2,000Z. in debt — truly we may exclaim with Johnson, 
 “ Was ever poet so trusted before?” Then Tom Moore 
 goes to London ; bright-souled Tom, with his light- 
 purse, his glowing fancy, and his loving heart ; he had 
 no dark days save when he wanted a new coat ; he for- 
 got this care too in a supper with “ Incledon and Irish 
 Johnson,” and thought of it only when he was asked 
 to dine by “the Honorable Mrs. Gardiner, an English 
 woman, but she has an Irish heart ; ” he is happy be- 
 cause the Prince accepts the dedication of “ Anacreon : ” 
 and thus Tom Moore is “settled in London.” Gerald 
 Griffin goes to London ; a boy, fresh from the blooming 
 fields of his native place, founding his hopes of success 
 upon his tragedies “ Aguire,” and “ Gisippus ; ’’ only in 
 his twentieth year, and with no friend in all the great 
 city save one — John Banim. What a struggle was his ! 
 “ Cheated abominably ” by Magazines to which he had 
 contributed ; translating a “ volume and a-half of one 
 of Prevot’s works for two guineas ; ” disgusted with 
 his employment, “there was so much shuffling and 
 shabby work,” but yet he was ever hopeful, and Gerald 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 117 
 
 Griffin was only “ settled in London ” wlien bis “ Col- 
 legians 55 appeared ; and as his other novels were written 
 at all times, and in all places, so this was written 
 “ against the printer,” and as it was required. 
 
 These are the memories which arise as we record 
 the going forth of John Banim to seek his fortune in 
 London, and to obtain a home for his wife in that 
 unknown place. And truly his home was her home — • 
 they had no home save his, save that home which he 
 should procure, and support by his own exertions ; and 
 with a hurried leave-taking they quitted the old folks 
 at Cappagha and Kilkenny. It was a speedy farewell, 
 but one in which good wishes came from the souls 
 of the home-stayers. There was only the “ God bless 
 you / 5 of the father and mother ; the “ God speed ye , 55 
 of the neighbor ; the “ God be with ye / 5 of Michael and 
 the sisters — and, last but not least, the firm grasp of 
 the hand, and the honest smile of the servant, as she 
 half laughing, half weeping, said, “ More power to 
 you, Misther John / 5 And so, passing from the scene 
 of his joys and sorrows, John Banim went forth to 
 London ; and as he and his wife moved away towards 
 that vast city of all earthly evil and good, they proved 
 the beautifulest thing in all the world — woman, in her 
 blooming youth, clinging to man in the strength and 
 energy of genius — two whose hearts beat but as one, 
 whose life was faith, and hope, and love — faith in the 
 bliss of to-day — hope in the work of the dreamy future 
 — love in all times and in all fortunes. And as they 
 
118 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 entered the city, so they entered the reality of life, and 
 began to learn that solemn truth of Goethe, “ Ernst ist 
 das Leben.” 
 
 He arrived with his wife in the metropolis on the 
 23d of March, 1822. He had no friend in all that 
 world, he had very little money, but he possessed all 
 the courage that ever dwells in the strong, deep heart 
 of genius — and he required all, its fullest, sustainment. 
 Most literary men have commenced the struggle of 
 London life with no claims upon their exertions save 
 their own needs ; and in the from-hand-to-mouth ex- 
 istence of a young adventurer, who must be prepared 
 to wade and buffet in the tide of men around him, ere 
 he can hope to swim smoothly along the deep, broad 
 stream of popularity, this circumstance of being sole is 
 of great importance ; it eases the load of anxiety and 
 care ; and be such a young man’s course right or wrong, 
 he knows that in his failure he alone can suffer ; if he 
 succeed, his reward must be in the hereafter of a 
 future fame, and in the love of a wife wooed and won 
 in days not perhaps happier, but more secure in that 
 realized fame — a good name with, as Goldsmith said, 
 the author’s “real patrons — the booksellers.” 
 
 Banim, however, thought not of these things. Forth 
 from home he went, with his young wife, and his first 
 residence in London was at No. 7, Amelia Place, 
 Brompton — the house in which John Philpot Curran had 
 lived the last months of his life — the house in which 
 he died, on the 14th of October, 1817, and which John 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 119 
 
 Banim entered, as a resident, on the 29th of March, 
 1822. It was the last of a row of nine houses, and 
 around it were green and pleasant fields, and a nursery 
 garden, which now forms the ground of Pelham 
 Crescent. Banim was elated at gaining possession^ 
 these lodgings. His first pilgrimage in London (every 
 literary man who is worth the name, has some long- 
 selected spot in London, to which he makes a pilgrim- 
 age on his first visit) had been to the scene of Curran’s 
 death ; a lodging-bill was in the window — “ I,” as he 
 afterwards said, “bolted in, I took the rooms at once, 
 that I might dream of Ireland, with the glory and halo 
 of Curran’s memory around me.” Here, amidst the 
 semi-rurality of a London suburb, he fixed his residence, 
 and he thus, in his first letter to the dear friends in 
 Kilkenny, describes his lodgings, and relates the feel- 
 ings and emotions with which his heart is filled : — 
 
 “ London, 7 Amelia Place, Fulham Road. 
 
 “ March 3 Oth, 1822. 
 
 “My dear Father and Mother, — We got into Lon- 
 don on Monday evening. Tuesday, Wednesday, and 
 Thursday we spent lodging-hunting. We settled here 
 on yesterday. We are pleasantly situated as regards 
 accommodation ; and when I retire to the back drawing- 
 room, which I have fixed upon for my study, I am 
 as cjuiet as if I were in a wood. Exclusive of the 
 conveniences I enjoy, there is a charm attached to my 
 abode, that recommended it to me above all others ; I 
 breathe the very air of inspiration, I sit in the same 
 chair, I lounge on the same sofa, and I think, read, 
 
120 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 and write in the very study where John Philpot Curran 
 sat, lounged, and thought. 
 
 “ Four years of the latter part of this great man’s 
 life were spent in the rooms I now occupy. His 
 thoughts, even yet, perhaps, float about my little study ; 
 an& when I lock the door, and sit down, I almost 
 imagine I can get them into a corner and make them 
 my own.” 
 
 The day following that on which he entered these 
 lodgings, he commenced preparations for a vigorous 
 performance of his duties as an author. His details to 
 Michael, in the following letter, the course which he 
 had adopted, “ to keep,” as he said, “ the fire in and the 
 spit turning.’’ 
 
 One can fancy the brave, true-hearted “ country 
 boy,” sitting at the breakfast table, with a good appetite, 
 in which “ Ellen keeps him in countenance,” earnestly 
 searching the advertisements of The Times for some 
 employment that might suit him ; and wondering, like 
 Tom Pinch, that so many people wanted what others 
 offered to supply, yet apparently the parties never 
 met. We can fancy him, after a fortnight of these 
 hopes, and fears, and expectations had elapsed, writing 
 thus so heartily and honestly, as he ever wrote, to 
 Michael : — 
 
 “London, April ith , 1822. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — Do not be so uneasy about me ; 
 I am in the receipt of a weekly stipend, that is, paid 
 weekly, but it is a settled annuity, which keeps the 
 pot boiling very well. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 121 
 
 “As soon as I was fixed I took up a newspaper, 
 looked over the advertisements, saw a new periodical 
 advertised, wrote immediately to the proprietors, fur- 
 nishing some specimens of my capability ; was treated 
 with immediate attention, and soon engaged, and I am 
 right well pleased with the concern altogether. 
 
 “ And now you must praise me, and say that I have 
 not succeeded badly at the outset, considering that I 
 am only an Irish country boy. 
 
 “ I work hard, to be sure, to meet my engagement ; 
 it is what I expected, and what I like. I am not 
 indebted to a single introductory letter : this to me is 
 delightful — to work one’s own way, without incurring 
 obligation, sweetens labor. 
 
 “I was at work the second day after I got into a 
 fixed abode. I will take amusement, when I can do so 
 consistently with my industry : plenty of time for that : 
 in the meanwhile, I repeat it, is it not delightful to feel 
 myself getting on in a strange world, by my own efforts 
 alone? 
 
 “The expense of traveling has been very great, and 
 the cost of living here out of all proportion with Kil- 
 kenny. Then why, you will say, saddle yourself with a 
 responsibility to create the expense ? My dear Michael, 
 this is my answer — I have purchased by my outlay, 
 rational happiness, settled habits, and a continual stimu- 
 lus to future exertion. With the money I have expended 
 I am as happy as any fellow can be, in my humble 
 sphere. I am in excellent health and spirits. My appe- 
 tite may be said to be too voracious for my income ; and 
 further, Ellen keeps me in countenance in this respect. 
 I go to bed early, rise early, drink nothing but water 
 or tea ; work with a liking for it, all the day long, and 
 
 6 
 
122 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 I have my cheerful fireside, with a companion thereat 
 whose smile cheers me after my toil.” 
 
 This letter was written in the month of April ; and 
 early in the July following a weekly paper, entitled The 
 Literary Begisler, was started, and Banim was engaged 
 upon its staff, and was also occasionally employed as 
 its editor. This w r as his first step as a literary man in 
 London, and he believed it to be a fortunate one, for it 
 proved to him that “ a country boy ” might succeed, had 
 he but ability and industry ; and in reply to some anx- 
 ious questions of Michael’s, regarding his position and 
 prospects, he wrote thus : — 
 
 “London, July 21th, 1822. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — Your affectionate queries shall 
 be answered. I am well off, better than I deserve to be, 
 with a rational prospect of doing gradually better. I 
 am a more industrious fellow than I was ever before. 
 It is my delight ; it agrees with me. My health is good ; 
 my domestic happiness equal to my anticipation. My 
 time is my own ; that is, I can apportion it as I please, 
 consistently with my duties ; and I patiently and reso- 
 lutely await the coming of events.” 
 
 Amidst all his own cares and wants, he was at this 
 early period as anxious to serve a young man, a young 
 Irishman in particular, who needed assistance, as in 
 after days, when in the full possession of his fame, and 
 of his influence, he aided Gerald Griffin with that heart- 
 whole kindness which caused Gerald to write from 
 London to his brother, “ what should I have done if I 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 123 
 
 had not met Banim ? mark me ! that is a man — almost 
 the only one I have met here.” Indeed, he was never 
 weary of assisting needy brother-authors by advice, and 
 by kind words spoken in their favor to those who could 
 really advance them ; and money too he would give, but 
 he had it rarely to spare : he was not, however, inclined 
 to encourage the folly of those who consider that London 
 is a city where wealth can be made, in any profession or 
 walk of life, without energy and patience. The follow- 
 ing letter to Michael gives an amusing account of his 
 treatment of a young Irishman who had requested his 
 counsel and direction, on certain matters connected with 
 a proposed visit to London in search of employment, as 
 an apothecary’s assistant. The plain good sense of the 
 letter is very deserving of the attention of young gentle- 
 men of large aspirations, but small experience, who fancy 
 that an Irishman in London is a very wonderful and 
 clever fellow, and must excel the natives of England or 
 Scotland. Banim wrote thus : — 
 
 “ London, August 8th, 1822. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — Your inclosure from Mr. Mac 
 Gawly is curious : let me quote for you ; he requests 
 me to inquire into the state of the medical profession 
 in London ; and says, ‘ would you have the goodness to 
 acquaint me if there are facilities to Irishmen, to obtain 
 appointments at the houses of apothecaries ? 9 
 
 “ What the deuce ! (Lord forgive me) nonsensical 
 work is this he gives me to do ? By what means am I 
 to make out that vaguely generalised study — the state 
 of the medical profession in London ? What does he, 
 
124 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 or wliat can he, mean by facilities to Irishmen to 
 become druggists’ assistants ? Have they not the 
 same facilities possessed by Scotchmen, Welshmen, any 
 men ? I think I would not be serving Mr. Mac Gawly, 
 did I induce him to venture over here. Depend 
 on it, he would find it hard, even had he every facility, 
 to pound his way through the bustling and shoulder- 
 ing of this place of rivalry.” 
 
 Banim’s prospects were now becoming brighter ; he 
 had been engaged on other periodicals, through the 
 ability which had distinguished his contributions to 
 The Literary Register : so far he had been fortunate ; 
 but his wife became ill, her life was in imminent dan- 
 ger, and in the month of November, 1822, she was 
 delivered of a still-born child. These combined sor- 
 rows were the clouds of his married life ; but yet he 
 bore up against them hopefully, manfully — above all, 
 Christianly. If to-day were dark, to-morrow might be 
 sunny ; and his life was as that shown in the stanza of 
 Shakespeare, — 
 
 “ O, how this spring of love resembleth 
 The uncertain glory of an April day, 
 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away !” 
 
 His present griefs and future hopes were thus told 
 by him to Michael ; and, short as the letter is, there 
 shines a noble, beautiful heart through every sentiment 
 which it contains : — 
 
 “ London, November 22 d, 1822. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — Ellen has just escaped with her 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 125 
 
 life ; her confinement was premature, and our lovely 
 little infant came into the world still-born. My ex- 
 penses have been great, between nurse, doctor, and 
 apothecary. But God has done all for me ; notwith- 
 standing that I have encountered real difficulties, I 
 may say I enjoy absolute comfort. I can put my 
 hand in my pocket for every shilling circumstances 
 require, and my purse is never positively empty. 
 
 “ Conceive how grateful I ought to be to heaven for 
 my real independence, hardly earned, but the sweeter 
 for that very reason. 
 
 “ My salary has been increased, and I earn some- 
 thing by contributing to other periodicals.” 
 
 Mrs. Banim regained her health very slowly. Con- 
 stant labor of the brain was required from the young 
 husband, that money might be procured to meet the 
 increased expenses of his wife’s illness. "We know 
 nothing more interesting, in the whole wide range of 
 literary biography, than the account given by Banim, 
 in the following letter to Michael, of his position. It is 
 not painful, or disagreeable in its details of an honest, 
 poor man’s needs ; for the sorrows of the time are 
 relieved by the hope, and trust, and content by which 
 he is sustained ; and he required all his cheerfulness : 
 he wrote in a house where his wife lay ill — where his 
 servant lay sick ; he was at his desk about fourteen 
 hours each day ; he had “ doctors, and their bills 
 galore;”* and now it was that he found the usefulness 
 of the stern discipline of the time when he walked 
 
 * i. e. in plenty. 
 
126 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 about the streets for want of a bed, and whistled for 
 his dinner, being not the first by many and many a 
 score, who has involuntarily and unconsciously learned,* 
 in the school of early poverty, those lessons of self-denial 
 and self-discipline, without which success seems to be 
 problematical, if not impossible, in any and every walk 
 of life. There is a charming, lovable, honest simplicity 
 in the confession — that, much as he liked a glass of 
 punch, he never has it now ; and one can suppose that 
 as he wrote he recalled the happy evenings when with 
 his father, and Michael, and Mr. Buchanan, he sat by 
 “ the little octagon table ” in the old man’s “ sanctum 
 sanctorum,” when the pleasant jokes went round with 
 the bottle ; and things were somewhat changed, for — 
 “By the life of Pharaoh, sir, if I do not ply and tease 
 the brain, as wool-combers tease wool, the fire should 
 go out, and the spit could not turn.” The letter to 
 which we have referred is the following, and was written 
 about a month after Mrs. Banim’s premature con- 
 finement : — 
 
 , “ London, December 22 d, 1822. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I sit down to reply to two let- 
 ters of yours for which I am in your debt. 
 
 “Ellen continues to go on tolerably, though not as 
 rapidly as my opinion of her constitution led me to 
 hope. 
 
 “ You say you will favor me with your cordial 
 criticisms. My dear brother, you could not more ma- 
 terially serve me. I give you my word, I throw off all 
 matters for the Register , as I do this letter, and with- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 127 
 
 out half my present stimulus or purpose. I must write 
 — must stuff the gaping maw* of that weekly glutton, 
 with anything to fill it. Pages — pages ! that is the cry. 
 Well, too well I feel convinced that part, often the whole 
 of every packet, I shoot off at the office, is bad, meagre 
 stuff. But here is my difficulty. I have not time to 
 hunt for these parts, in order to fix them and avoid their 
 repetition. By the life of Pharaoh, sir, if I do not ply 
 and tease the brain, as wool-combers tease wool, the 
 fire should go out, and the spit could not turn. 
 
 “ By-the-bye, I am held pretty tight at present. My 
 poor Ellen is ill, and my very good servant, as if for 
 the purpose of adding to my difficulties, has got some 
 confounded stoppage in her throat, and is in bed too, 
 not able to swallow. Matters have been thus for a week 
 back, and we have doctors and their bills galore. To 
 meet the unavoidable increase of outlay, I am obliged 
 to knuckle down to my work, and to live close — close, 
 myself. You may remember, I used to like a cheerful 
 glass. Not one libation now, even to the temperate 
 fireside Bacchus. I am in great spirits for all that ; I 
 am always so, thank God for it.” 
 
 These labors here recorded : this “ teasing the 
 brain,” this knuckling down to his work, ‘This living 
 close, close,” at length produced its inevitable results, 
 and the poor, brave heart, whilst stout as ever, was 
 overcome by the necessities of the w T eaker frame — the 
 sword was outwearing the sheath. 
 
 In the hour of his utmost extremity, at the time 
 when Banim most required health and energy, a ter- 
 rible sickness settled upon him, the malady of his life 
 
128 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 began, and to him the awful moral of Cowper’s lines 
 was taught by a fierce discipline of agony — 
 
 *• Read, ye that run, the awful truth, 
 
 With which I charge my page ; 
 
 A worm is in the bud of youth, 
 
 And at the root of age. 77 
 
 Early in the year 1823, the racking pains which had 
 afflicted him during the twelve months succeeding the 
 death of Anne D , returned with all their violence. 
 
 The tortures which he endured, in head and limbs, 
 were increased by the thought that a delicate wife was 
 now dependent upon him for support, and, as a 
 “ Sorrow’s crown of sorrow/ 7 
 
 liis physician ordered an entire cessation of all literary 
 employments. This was a woeful sentence. It meant 
 that he must consign himself to beggary, or become, 
 with his wife, a burden upon his father, to whom it 
 had been his earnest hope that he might, at no distant 
 period, be an assistance. All was dark and gloomy 
 around him now, and at the very time, too, when suc- 
 cess seemed to be within his grasp. The despondency 
 of his first sickness returned : no hope — no rest — pain 
 by day — pain by night — pain even in dreams — and 
 waking hours but offering objects to rend the heart ; 
 for, as time passed on, he fancied that his position 
 with the publishers and the readers became weaker 
 and more uncertain. 
 
 He wrote at length to his father, informing him of 
 Ins condition, and stating that he feared he should be 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 129 
 
 forced to claim tlie shelter of his roof for himself 
 and for his wife. To whom could he fly from pain 
 and want, but to those for whom every pulse of his 
 heart had ever beat warmly in the dawn of fame 
 and manhood, as in the days of hopeful, dreaming, 
 loving youth ? 
 
 He was, however, spared the sorrow of this return 
 to Kilkenny. With rest, and skilful medical attend- 
 ance, he was, after the lapse of some months, restored 
 to health ; and with the first indication of its return, 
 he thus, with a buoyant spirit, writes to his father : — 
 
 “ We are wrong to anticipate twenty cloudy days, 
 because one is overcast. Praises be to Heaven, I am 
 better and likely to mend. My Sangrado frightened 
 himself and frightened me, and I terrified you all at 
 home too much. I must not, however, write so con- 
 stantly ; I must devote four hours per diem to exercise, 
 for some time.” 
 
 Whilst writing thus hopefully of his health, his means 
 of support were much diminished. He was unable to 
 spend sufficient time at his desk to keep up his con- 
 nection with the periodical press as in the days before 
 his illness, and therefore he was forced to endure many 
 wants, many privations. But, as usual, he hoped ; and 
 as his connection with the weekly press decreased, he 
 became a more regular and better paid contributor to 
 the monthlies. This circumstance was advantageous to 
 him in one very important particular ; his work was no 
 longer task work, filling stuff, struck off for the printer, 
 
130 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 and against time ; and lie had therefore leisure to pro- 
 duce papers of a more finished and more carefully 
 written character. With recovered health he changed 
 his residence from 7 Amelia Place, to 13 Brompton 
 Grove, where he had for neighbors, in Grove House, 
 first, William Wilberforce, and secondly, William Jer- 
 dan.* 
 
 His leisure, shortly after taking possession of these 
 lodgings, were rendered still greater by the termination 
 of The Literary Register , which closed its publication 
 with the 44th number, in May, 1823. 
 
 With leisure came back the old love of dramatic 
 poetry ; and amidst his other occupations, he found 
 time to compose a tragedy, which he entitled “ The 
 Prodigal.” The plot was well conceived, the situations 
 most effective, and the language glowing, yet vigorous. 
 The chief character, “ The Prodigal,” resolves to mur- 
 der his father ; he is led on by passion ; the perpe- 
 tration of the crime is checked by remorse, and in the 
 moment of committal the foul design is abandoned. 
 “The Prodigal” was accepted at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 and the parts were cast for Kean and Young. 
 
 Banim had just succeeded in getting his tragedy 
 accepted, when there arrived to him from the county 
 Limerick, bearing a letter of introduction, a healtliy- 
 looking, handsome youth, who had come to London 
 
 * No. 13 Brompton Grove, was lately occupied by a stone-mason. Gerald 
 Gridin succeeded Banim in these lodgings, which are separated from Grove 
 House only by Hermitage Lane — which takes its name from the Hermitage — the 
 house occupied by Madame Catalani, during her residence \n England. It was 4 
 after she left it, converted into a private lunatic asylum. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 181 
 
 to seek his fortune and to secure his fame by the sale 
 or representation of two tragedies, which he carried 
 with him from his native place ; it was poor Gerald 
 Griffin, all genius and hope ; but knowing as little 
 of London or the booksellers as did Parson Adams 
 when he commenced that famous journey to the city 
 to negotiate the sale of his two volumes of sermons. 
 Griffin had found much difficulty in discovering 
 Banim’s residence ; and whilst seeking it, he heard 
 from an acquaintance, that Banim had a tragedy in 
 rehearsal at Drury Lane, entitled “ The Prodigal and 
 thus, even before the future friends had spoken, one 
 of Gerald’s hopes was crushed ; he had a tragedy in 
 his trunk, and which he had called “The Prodigal 
 Son.” At length the two poets met ; and Griffin, in 
 a letter to his brother Wilham, thus describes their 
 interview : — 
 
 “ London, December 29 th, 1823. 
 
 “ My dear William, — I mentioned to you a few days 
 since, that I had seen Banim. I dined with him on 
 Thursday ; there were Mrs. Banim, and an Irish 
 gentleman, and we had a pleasant evening enough. 
 He had read ‘ Aguire ’ twice. He went over it scene 
 by scene with me, and pointed out all the passages 
 he disliked. He then gave me his candid opinion, 
 which was, that after making those alterations, the 
 play ought to be accepted, and to succeed. He gave 
 it very high praise, indeed, especially the third and 
 fourth acts, which he said could not be better. 
 Parts of the others he found fault with. The piece 
 
132 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 would not suffer by the loss of those passages, as he 
 thought the acts too long. He recommended me to 
 persevere in writing for the stage ; and if I did so, 
 to forswear roses, dewdrops and sunbeams for ever. 
 The fate of the unfortunate Vespers of Palermo told 
 me this before. Poetry is not listened to on the stage 
 here. I could not, on the whole, have expected 
 Banim to act a more friendly or generous part than 
 he has done. On the second day I called on him 
 (Saturday,) he made me stop to dinner. I put the 
 direct question to him, whether, from what he had 
 seen, it was his real opinion that I should be successful 
 as a dramatist. His reply was, that he thought I had 
 every claim ; and since I had dealt so candidly with 
 him, he advised me to write on, and that he would do 
 everything for any piece I wished to bring forward, 
 that he would do if it was his own. With respect 
 to the present piece, he advised me to leave it in * * *’s 
 hands until he sends it to me, and not to call or write 
 to him. If he knows anything of him, he says he 
 will keep and play it. I am very sorry I did not see 
 Banim first. In that case I should long since have 
 known its fate, as he could have procured me an 
 answer from the committee in ten days. With re- 
 gard to his present views, he has placed me on my 
 honor not to breathe a word of them ; therefore, on 
 that subject I can say nothing ; but I may talk of 
 the ‘ Prodigal Son/ as I had before heard of it. You 
 recollect I mentioned the coincidence in name with a 
 play of mine. I asked him about it. He showed me 
 sketches of it in his note-book. The story is the same, 
 and the scene is laid in the same place, so that all my 
 fine visions are knocked on the head there. He also 
 lent me part of another manuscript tragedy of his, which 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOIINlj&ANIM. 133 
 
 will come out at Covent Garden, in which I found the 
 counterpart of my character of Canabe. Is not this 
 vexatious? But enough of theatricals, as Lucy calls 
 them. It would be a great advantage to me if I could 
 keep my lodgings for some time, as with such a friend as 
 Banim, acquainted in the first literary circles in London, 
 and willing to give me every assistance in his power, 
 there can be little doubt of eventual success. He is in 
 high estimation at the theatres, and says he will procure 
 me an answer immediately to any piece I wish to pre- 
 sent. He has lent me a new French tragedy, which was 
 sent him by Talma, a very fine piece, as far as I have 
 read.” * 
 
 Banim’s regard for Griffin’s interest did not cease 
 here. The letters of the latter are everywhere filled 
 with acknowledgments of Banim’s kindness towards 
 him. He advised him in his literary ventures. Gerald 
 writes to his brother William, in February 1824, “ Banim 
 is very kind to me. On my calling on him, he urged 
 me to alter £ Aguire ’ in those passages he pointed out, 
 and told me that he still persevered in his opinions of 
 it : that there were scenes in it, which for stage effect, 
 and every requisite, could not be better.” Again, he 
 writes : “ I had a visit from Banim the other day. 
 What with the delays and disappointments I have met 
 since I came here, it is only his encouragement, and hi 3 
 friendship, that keep hope alive.” “Banim’s friendship 
 I find every day growing more ardent, more cordial if 
 possible.” 
 
 Thus this true-souled Irishman acted. He did not 
 
 * See “ Life of Gerald Griffin,” by bis Brother. 
 
134 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 fear a rival. He suggests improvements in Griffin’s 
 plays ; “ Banim made me an offer the other day, which 
 will be of more immediate advantage than the tragedy, 
 inasmuch as I need not abide the result. He desired 
 me to write a piece for the English Opera House. 
 When I have it finished, he will introduce me to Mr. 
 Arnold of Golden Square, the proprietor, who is his 
 friend, and get me immediate money for it without 
 waiting its performance. Banim offers me many 
 introductions. He is acquainted with Tom Moore, 
 Campbell, Ugo Foscolo, and others of celebrity. What 
 would I have done if I had not found Banim ? I should 
 never be tired of talking about and thinking of Banim . 
 Mark me! he is a man — the only one I have met since 
 I have left Ireland , almost .” 
 
 Whilst thus active in kindness and good offices to 
 his young friend, Banim was pushing his own way in 
 the world. He had become the chief adviser of Thomas 
 Arnold, the proprietor of the English Opera House, 
 and contributed many operatic pieces to the establish- 
 ment. These were but the things of an hour and are 
 now forgotten ; but to the close of his connection with 
 Mr. Arnold he found him liberal, honorable, and a 
 steady friend. 
 
 He had commenced, in 1823, the composition of his 
 intended novel, and had written to Michael, urging him 
 to hasten the completion of his story, which was, as had 
 been agreed upon, to form a portion of the volumes. 
 Michael had little time to devote to literary pursuits. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 185 
 
 From morning till night he was engaged behind his 
 father’s counter, and in literary composition he had had, 
 since leaving school, no practice beyond drawing up a 
 business account, or writing a letter to John. But John 
 had praised his talent as a story-teller ; had asked 
 him to write a tale for the forthcoming work ; and as 
 John, a judge of those things — a literary man himself — 
 had approved his efforts thus, he determined to make 
 the required attempt. 
 
 But how was the attempt to be made ? He could not 
 start from a customer to write down the thought of the 
 moment ; but when did genius ever fail in expedient ? 
 Michael Banim had naturally a good memory ; his story 
 was one founded on facts ; and accordingly whilst he 
 was behind the counter, with busy hands discharging 
 all the multifarious duties of a shopman in a country 
 town, his fancy was busily at work, weaving the scenes 
 of his narrative, and when he retired to his room at 
 night, he committed the already formed scenes to paper, 
 and the early morning generally found him clothing 
 his thoughts in words, and thus the powerful story, 
 entitled “Crohoore of the Bill Hook,” was composed 
 and written. 
 
 The first portion of the manuscript was transmitted 
 to John for perusal late in the year 1823. By return 
 of post, a letter of praise and thanks was written to 
 Michael, and entreaties for more were pressingly urged. 
 The progress of the composition was necessarily slow, 
 but scrap by scrap it was forwarded ; and, as had been 
 
136 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 agreed upon, John’s portion of the works, — “ The 
 Fetches ” and “ John Doe,” — was sent to Michael, each 
 brother acting as critic to the other, and thus the nom 
 de plume, “ Tales by the O’Hara Family,” was in every 
 point a reality — John taking the name Abel O’Hara, 
 Michael assuming that of Barnes O’Hara. 
 
 The brothers commenced their joint tales in 1823, 
 and during the succeeding twelve months, John’s letters 
 are chiefly devoted to criticism upon his own and his 
 brother’s contributions to the series. Amongst these 
 letters, the following is the most important. It extends 
 to fourteen pages of very closely written letter paper, 
 and in our mind contains the whole principle of the 
 novelist’s art. It is valuable not alone to the young 
 novelist, as teaching him how to write, but it is equally 
 useful to the critic and to the reader, as it teaches them 
 how to judge and how to appreciate. It was carefully 
 considered ; and although commenced on the 2d of 
 May, 1824, was not concluded until the 4th of June 
 following. It should be borne in mind that the letter 
 is not a didactic essay, but a friendly communication 
 addressed to Michael, and is meant to convey true 
 principles rather than to exhibit a finished style. The 
 letter is remarkable also as being the production of a 
 man only in his twenty-sixth year, yet showing a knowl- 
 edge of the sources of all the secrets of construction 
 which have rendered the novels of Scott and Galt so 
 famous, because so life-like. 
 
 This letter, too, is important, as it gives the writer’s 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 137 
 
 impressions of his literary brethren. He had fallen 
 into the common error of supposing, or assuming, that 
 literary men are exactly what their peculiar styles of 
 composition might lead one to suppose them : just as 
 many visitors of the theatre assume the tragedian to 
 be a grave, austere man ; and fancy the comedian is all 
 fun and jokes, when in the quietude of private life. 
 
 The passage in the letter which refers to Washington 
 Irving is extremely interesting, as it shows that the 
 opinion formed by Banim of his goodness of heart, in 
 1824, was fully supported by the testimony recorded 
 by Moore in 1821. Banim writes : — “ I have had op- 
 portunities of coming into close* contact with Geoffrey 
 Crayon ; he is natural as his sketches — a man ivho would 
 play luith a child on a carpet .” 
 
 How exquisitely this passage, in italics, supports an 
 entry in Moore’s “ Diary,” relating to Irving. Moore 
 and “ Bessy” have resolved, in the year 1821, whilst 
 residing near Paris, to give a children’s ball in honor 
 of “ little Tom’s ” birth-day. The children, in dancing, 
 have shaken the floor in some parts of the room, and 
 what follows is thus described by Moore : — 
 
 “ Our dance to the pianoforte was very gay, and not 
 the less so, for the floor giving way in sundry places ; 
 a circle of chalk was drawn round one hole, Dr. 
 Younge was placed sentry over another, and whenever 
 there was a new crash, the general laugh at the heavy 
 foot that produced it caused more merriment than the 
 solidest. floor in Paris could have given birth to. Sand- 
 
138 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M, 
 
 wiches, negus, and champagne crowned the night, and 
 we did not separate until four in the moring. Irving's 
 humor began to break out as the floor broke in, and he was 
 much more himself then ever I have seen him'' * 
 
 The letter is as follows : — 
 
 “ London, May 2d, 1824. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I have read attentively, and with 
 the greatest pleasure, the portion of the tale you sent 
 
 me by J. H- . So far as it goes, I pronounce, that 
 
 you have been successful. Here and there, I have 
 marked such particular criticisms as struck me, and 
 them you may note by referring to the margin. I send 
 you the MSS. of my tnle, and I request your severest 
 criticisms ; scratch, cut and condemn at your pleasure. 
 This is the first copy. Looking over it, I perceive many 
 parts that are bad ; send it back when you can, with 
 every suggestion you are capable of making. Read it 
 for the whole family in solemn conclave. Let father, 
 mother, Joanna and yourself sit in judgment on it, and 
 send me all your opinions sincerely given. 
 
 “I have met some eminent literary characters lately, 
 and many, of whom I had formed high notions, fall far 
 short of my expectations. 
 
 “ I will say no more about these ; and at your peril 
 keep my gossip to yourself. Hap ! hap ! it is dangerous 
 to meddle with edged tools ; a chip from an angry 
 homme de lettres, would cut deep. 
 
 “ I have had opportunities of coming into close contact 
 with Geoffrey Crayon ; he is as natural as his sketches 
 — a man who would play with a child on the carpet, 
 
 * See “Memoirs, Journal and Correspondence of Thomas Moore.” Edited by 
 the Right Hon. Lord John Russell. Vol. III. p. 213. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 139 
 
 and one of the few litterateurs I have known whose face 
 and character are in sincere keeping with his talents. 
 
 “I have found, that to write fine and enthusiastic 
 passages in a book — to deify virtue and honor, and melt 
 with pathos— it is not always necessary to have a heart. 
 Genius is frequently the artificer ; mimicking rich feel- 
 ings and warmth of soul, while the writer may be cold 
 and vicious. Put it out of your head, that genius and 
 worth always go hand in hand ; the reverse it has 
 been my lot to know, alas ! too often. 
 
 “ To turn again to your tale. Two of the personages 
 do not stand out sufficiently from the canvas. Aim at 
 distinctness and at individuality of character. Open 
 Shakespeare, and read a play of his, then turn to the 
 list of dramatis personae , and see and feel w T hat he has 
 done in this way. 
 
 “ Of a dozen characters, each is himself alone. Look 
 about you ; bring to mind the persons you have known, 
 call them up before you ; select and copy them. Never 
 give a person an action to do, who is not a legible 
 individual. Make that a rule, and I think it ought to 
 be a primary rule with novel writers. 
 
 “ Suppose one was to get a sheet of paper ; draw up 
 thereon a list of persons, and after their names, write 
 down what kind of human beings they shall be, leav- 
 ing no two alike, and not one generalised or undrawn. 
 After Shakespeare, Scott is the great master-hand of 
 character, and hence, one of his sources of great power. 
 To show you clearly what I mean ; not a creature we 
 ever met in our father’s penetralia, resembled the other. 
 There might be somewhat of a conventional, outward 
 similarity, arising from their pursuits, habits, and amuse- 
 ments being similar ; but each was, notwithstanding, 
 distinct. 
 
140 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “I think that in writing a tale, every character in 
 it should be drawn from nature. It is impossible all 
 should be absolute originals. Human nature being the 
 same, in all ages and in all climes, it cannot be hoped 
 now-a-days that a writer can be the discoverer of a 
 new character. It can be no more than the same 
 dough, somewhat differently shaped. Habits of country, 
 habits of station, habits of any kind, will diversify; but 
 human nature is the same now that it ever was. I say 
 one can scarcely draw an orginal character ; but I say, 
 draw like nature ; no matter what kind of nature you 
 draw from, provided that the likeness be not that of a 
 disgusting object. After all, there is nothing common- 
 place in nature. 
 
 “ Since I am on this, I may as well tell you how, as I 
 think, character ought to be marked. Apart from pro- 
 priety of language and thought, fit words and fit ideas 
 for each person, (and by the way lift up both your 
 hands, and wonder how Shakespeare makes his people 
 walk before you without any other means,) character 
 can be indited by portraits of the face and person, 
 with allusion to the expression and conformation of 
 both ; by painting dress, by describing gait, motion, 
 gesticulation, and by the tone of the voice sometimes. 
 I here purposely omit the downright easy way of tell- 
 ing us at once, that a man is a good, or a wicked fellow. 
 If you sharpen your eye and ear on these points — • 
 I see you are pretty sharp already — you can, either 
 from your recollections, or present and future study, 
 in society, and among men and women, every hour in 
 the day, gain truth, and conviction, and pleasure. 
 
 “ If either of us could only delineate the peculiarities 
 we daily witness in those we meet, success would be the 
 result. All will appreciate a likeness ; and the artist 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 141 
 
 who can convince every beholder, that he has transferred 
 to his canvas, each peculiar mark of the individual he 
 paints, will be praised, and he deserves it. 
 
 “ For example, only draw well for me in a novel, 
 
 little round-paunched, puffing Kogerson M , who 
 
 used to lament so pathetically over the hardships of 
 a soldier’s life, when as a member of his yeomanry 
 corps he was ordered to mount guard. Give me the 
 clinging of his wife and daughters, round their un- 
 wieldy, asthmatic warrior, as he issued forth, to sit 
 all night before a good fire in the tholsel of Kilkenny, 
 and drink his punch to give him valor. No enemy 
 within forty miles of him, and he, doughty hero, 
 physically unable to raise his ponderous musket to 
 his shoulder, were twenty rebel pikes coming full tilt 
 against his wizend. 
 
 “ Many of his brothers in arms occur to my mind 
 
 just now. Johnny M , the linen draper, who bore 
 
 no good will to the house of Hanover, ‘ being Protest- 
 ants,’ but who, to escape the very improbable fate of 
 being hanged as a papist on the permanent gallows 
 at the gaol door, put on the King’s livery and groaned 
 and sweated beneath the King’s firelock — Johnny 
 
 M , whose ‘ quick march ’ was a gouty trot, and who 
 
 would not, in obedience to orders, or by persuasion, 
 put a bullet into his gun, lest, in his own words, c it 
 might hurt somebody.’ 
 
 “ Paint for me to the life, our old parish priest, 
 Father O’Donnell, hat, wig, jock coat, worsted stock- 
 ings, shoe-buckles, as he appeared and spoke, w T hen 
 he patted our heads, and approved of our proficiency 
 in catechism. 
 
 “ Give me Tom Guinn, hat, gaiters, watch, pipe, and 
 his horn tinder-box ; his peculiar jokes, his frequent big 
 
142 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 words, and liis gurgling laugh at his own conceits. 
 For a reckless bully, boy and man, remember Michael 
 B : I might, but I will not here, increase the list. 
 
 “Get fourteen or fifteen of any of the persons you 
 ever knew ; put them into scenes favorable to their 
 peculiarities, their individualities can be exemplified, 
 without straining after the point ; in proper situations, 
 set them talking for themselves ; by their own word 
 of mouth, they will denote their own characters, better 
 than any description from your pen : thus will you 
 dramatise your tale, and faithful drama is the life and 
 soul of novel- writing. Plot is an inferior consideration 
 to drama, though still it is a main consideration. 
 
 “ Do not say that I am dictatorial, or that I consider 
 you to be a subject for a drilling ; but let us unaffect- 
 edly compare notes as often as we can, and both will 
 be benefited. 
 
 “ This long letter of mine is a disjointed affair, taken 
 up from time to time as I find opportunity ; all the 
 remarks are thrown in a hurried, and, of course, dis- 
 arranged way together, but you will, for my sake, 
 endeavor to reduce them to method. 
 
 “A few words more, as to the mode of studying the 
 art of novel- writing. Bead any first-rate production of 
 the kind, with a note-book. When an author forces 
 you to feel with him, or whenever he produces a more 
 than ordinary degree of pleasure, or when he startles 
 you — stop and try to find out how he has done it ; 
 see if it be by dialogue, or by picture, or by de- 
 scription, or by action. Fully comprehend his method 
 — his means for the effect, and note it down. Write 
 down all such impressions. Enumerate these, and 
 see how many go to make the combined interest of 
 one book. Observe, by contrasting characters, how ho 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 113 
 
 keeps up the balance of the familiar and the marvel- 
 lous, humorous, serious, and romantic. 
 
 “ This would not be imitation, it would be study ; 
 what, I will venture to say, great men have done with 
 their predecessors — what painters do in the study of 
 their art.” 
 
 Whilst thus directing his brother, he was anxiously 
 engaged in various literary employments, and all his 
 leisure was given up to the construction and composi- 
 tion of his portion of the tales. His wife’s health was 
 still very weak, and was a cause of constant anxiety. 
 He had, as his own ailments decreased, commenced 
 anew that overtaxing mental labor which had before 
 affected him so disastrously, — and again the pains of 
 head and limbs returned, and once more he "was 
 forced to lay aside his pen : on this occasion however, 
 the attack, although fully as violent as either of the 
 former, was not of so long continuance, and when 
 again at his desk, he was gay and hopeful as ever, 
 — and he wrote to his father thus : — “ I am snug : 
 calculating like a spider in his corner.” An unlucky 
 simile by the way, in every respect — save the curious 
 perseverance of the insect. 
 
 This illness had, like the other attacks, rendered 
 him, as he said, “tight;” but he no longer thought 
 of seeking a refuge at home, as his reputation was 
 now fully established with the publishers of serials ; 
 and in Arnold he had a judicious, yet kind friend. 
 His chief care still arose from the ill health of his 
 
144 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 wife — and hoping that this might pass away, and that 
 with time he might, by his own genius, gain a compe- 
 tency sufficient for the support of all whom he loved, 
 he wrote the following letter to Michael ; it is credit- 
 able not alone to the writer, but to all whose names 
 are mentioned in it : — 
 
 “ London, June 2nd, 1824. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — My poor Ellen is improving. 
 My anxiety is principally on her account, and she repays 
 me by affection. I always thought, that if knapsacked 
 with a responsiblity, I would not be deaf or negligent to 
 or of my duties, and I trust I have proved that this 
 opinion of myself was not self-flattery. 
 
 “That my dear Ellen, and my dear Joanna, should 
 live together in love and unity, is my great wish and my 
 hope too. To see them working, or reading, or making 
 their womanly fuss near me, and under my roof, and 
 mutually tolerating and helping each other, and never 
 talking loud ; and my mother, my dear, dear mother, 
 sitting in her arm-chair looking at them, with her 
 old-times placid smile ; and my father and you doing 
 whatever you liked. Tush ! Perhaps this is foolish and 
 Utopian of me. Yet we must live together : that is 
 the blessed truth. Such a set of people were not born 
 to dwell asunder. And, perhaps, the old times would 
 come back again after all. What is the reason, I ask, 
 that after a little while we should not club our means, 
 and dwell, as Mr. Owen preaches, in one big house, 
 every mother’s son and daughter of us ; and have good 
 feeling, good taste and economy presiding over us? 
 More unlikely things have happened. After the world 
 is seen, it does not bear to be gaped at every day ; and 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 145 
 
 the only true aim of a rational creature ought to be, 
 humble independence on any scale, and the interchange 
 of those little and tireless amiabilities, that in a loving, 
 and virtuous, and temperate circle, make life indeed 
 worth living for — to me. And without these, life is a 
 compulsion ; a necessity to breathe without enjoyment — 
 to sweat without a reward.” 
 
 These longings for home life were but day dreams : 
 the visions of that cloud-land future of which we all, at 
 times, catch glimpses, but into whose happy valley we 
 seldom enter. 
 
 Although these intended kindnesses to his family were 
 but things of the future, there were kindnesses of the 
 present to be performed, and of these Griffin was still 
 the object. They were fast friends, and Banim consulted 
 him frequently upon the merits and demerits of the 
 tales, as the brothers proceeded in the work ; and yet a 
 coldness, for a time, checked the growth of their friend- 
 ship, and might have destroyed it for ever, but that 
 each was good and true in heart. It was not a quar- 
 rel, rather a misunderstanding commencing through 
 some apparent slight done to Banim, and increased by 
 Griffin’s morbid delicacy, and horror of patronage. Of 
 the causes of this misunderstanding we gather the facts 
 from the following extracts from various letters appear- 
 ing in Griffin’s Life by his brother : — 
 
 “ The looking for lodgings, for an engagement, and 
 several other matters took up my time so entirely, that 
 I was compelled to break an appointment I had made 
 
146 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 with Banim that I would call on him for a particular 
 purpose — to have my criticism, as he did me the honor 
 to say, on a work which he is sending to the press, and 
 which, so far as I have read, is really a delightful per- 
 formance. The consequence was, when I did call, it had 
 been sent off, and though his manner was as friendly as 
 ever, I could see that what he considered the neglect 
 had somewhat cooled him. I could not explain then, 
 and I perceived that he thought the apology I did make, 
 a very lame one indeed. However, I did explain after 
 nearly three weeks’ absence, and received two or three 
 days since a letter full of kindness and friendship ; in 
 short, everything that I could wish. I should almost 
 like to transcribe part of it here ; it would so fully show 
 you what manner of man he is.” In another letter of 
 a later date he says : “ You ask me of my dramatic 
 prospects. I have done nothing — I could do nothing 
 in them while I was prevented from calling on Banim — 
 my kind, my true friend — which I have not done these 
 two months. The restraint in this instance is absolute 
 torture to me, when I consider what a cold return I 
 must appear to make to his most friendly and pressing 
 invitations. Since I wrote last I have heard or seen 
 nothing of him.” “ I cannot tell you here the many, 
 
 many instances in which Banim has shown his friend- 
 * 
 
 ship since I wrote last ; let it suffice to say, that he is 
 the sincerest, heartiest, most disinterested being that 
 breathes. His fire-side is the only one where I enjoy 
 anything like social life, or home. I go out occasionally 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 147 
 
 in an evening, and talk or read for some Lours ; or have 
 a bed and leave next day.” 
 
 So far we can understand the kindness of Banim, and 
 Griffin’s hearty appreciation of it ; but when the latter 
 had been, as he states, two months absent from Bromp- 
 ton Grove, Banim thought that some serious obstacle 
 must have interposed to cause so long an estrangement. 
 He accordingly sought Griffin’s residence, and with 
 much difficulty discovered it- — “ a small room in some 
 obscure court near St. Paul’s.” Griffin was out : Banim 
 called again next day, and with no better success ; and 
 upon questioning the landlady as to the apparent cir- 
 cumstances of her lodger, he was shocked at finding 
 that Griffin was badly dressed, still more poorly fed, in 
 low spirits, and rarely going abroad by day, fearing to 
 encounter his acquaintances in his pitiable condition. 
 It was low enough, and Gerald afterwards, in a letter 
 to his father and mother, described its horrors 
 
 “ It was then that I set about writing for those weekly 
 publications ; all of w T hich, except the Literary Gazette, 
 cheated me abominably. Then, finding this to be the 
 case, I wrote for the great magazines. My articles were 
 generally inserted ; but on calling for payment — seeing 
 that I was a poor, inexperienced devil, there was so 
 much shuffling and shabby work that it disgusted me, 
 and I gave up the idea of making money that way. 
 I now lost heart for everything ; got into the cheapest 
 lodgings I could make out, and there worked on, rather 
 to divert my mind from the horrible gloom that I felt 
 
148 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 growing on me in spite of myself, than with the hope 
 of being remunerated. This, and the recollection of 
 the expense I had put William to, and the fears — that 
 every moment became conviction — that I should never 
 be enabled to fulfil his hopes or my own expectations’ 
 all came pressing together upon my mind and made me 
 miserable. A thousand and a thousand times I wished 
 that I could lie down quietly and die at once, and be 
 forgotten for ever. But that, however, was not to be 
 had for the asking. I don’t think I left anything un- 
 done that could have changed the course of affairs, or 
 brought me a little portion of the good luck that was 
 going on about me ; but good luck was too busy else- 
 where. I can hardly describe to you the state of mind 
 I was in at this time. It was not an indolent despond- 
 ency, for I was working hard, and I am now — and it is 
 only now — receiving money for the labor of those dread- 
 ful hours. I used not to see a face that I knew, and 
 after sitting writing all day, when I walked in the streets 
 in the evening, it actually seemed to me as if I was of a 
 different species altogether from the people about me.”* 
 These painful circumstances were sufficient to sour 
 the mind of any man ; and doubtless Griffin looked 
 on all the world around him with disgust, whilst 
 Banim, rising in fame, saw — as indeed he ever saw 
 save when racked by pain — only the bright side of 
 life. He returned to Brompton Grove, from the poor 
 lodging of his friend ; he wrote to him kindly and 
 
 * Life of Gerald Griffin. By his Brother. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 149 
 
 openly, yet delicately, offering pecuniary aid freely, as 
 lie had already offered and given the assistance of his 
 counsel and of his influence, and Gerald, the kindest, 
 fondest, most patient soul, among all the suffering, 
 enduring thousands of the great struggling city in 
 which he lived, was so warped from his own proper 
 self, as to reply coldly and abruptly, and with a 
 harsh refusal, to an offer which sprang, as he then 
 thought, from pragmatic and impertinent officiousness. 
 The coolness was, however, but for the day : Griffin 
 hardly knew why he deemed himself offended. As 
 his biographer writes : — “ It seems to have been a 
 mystery even to himself, if we may judge by the 
 following introductory sonnet to £ Suil Dhuv , 5 one of 
 the ‘ Tales of the Munster Festivals,’ in which he 
 evidently alludes to it. There is something affecting in 
 the little pleading allusion he makes to his struggles 
 and ill success, and in the humble confessing spirit 
 in which the sonnet is written. It would appear, too, 
 from the first of those passages which I have marked 
 by italics, that there was nothing in Mr. Banim’s 
 manner of conferring the favor, that in Gerald’s opinion 
 could at all justify the mode of its rejection : — 
 
 i. 
 
 “I hold not out my hand in grateful love, 
 
 Because ye were my friend, where friends were few, 
 Nor in the pride of conscious truth, to prove 
 
 The heart ye wronged and doubted yet was true — 
 It is that while the close and blinding veil, 
 
150 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 That youth and blissful ignorance had cast 
 Around mine inward sight, is clearing fast 
 Before its strengthening vision — while the scale 
 Falls from mine eye-balls, and the gloomy stream 
 Of human motive, whitening in my view, 
 
 Shows clear as dew shdwers in the grey morn beam, 
 While hearts and acts, whose impulse seemed divine, 
 Put on the grossness of an earthlier hue, 
 
 I still can gaze and deeply still can honor thine. 
 
 n. 
 
 Judge not your friend by what he seemed, when Fate 
 Had crossed him in his chosen — cherished aim. 
 
 When spirit-broken — baffled — moved to hate 
 The very kindness that but made his shame 
 More self -induced, he rudely turned aside 
 In bitter, hopeless agony from all, 
 
 Alike, of those who mocked or mourned his fall, 
 
 And fenced his injured heart in lonely pride. 
 
 Wayward and sullen as suspicion’s soul, 
 
 T& his own mind he lived a mystery — 
 
 But now the heavens have changed, the vapors roll 
 Far from his heart ; and in his solitude, 
 
 While the fell night-mares of his spirit flee, 
 
 He wakes to weave for thee a tale of joy renewed.” 
 
 "Whilst these events were occurring, Banim had 
 disappointments, and sources of uneasiness, quite as 
 depressing as those which surrounded Griffin. His 
 tragedy, “The Prodigal,” had been accepted at Drury 
 Lane Theatre early in the year 1823 ; the parts had 
 been cast, and- it was supposed that the great Ed- 
 mund Kean was satisfied with his character in the 
 peice. Such, however, was not the fact : Kean had 
 grown fastidious in his parts, and thus it became a 
 matter of impossibility to produce the piece at Drury 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 1.51 
 
 Lane ; and Banim, being unwilling to risk its success 
 with less able performers, withdrew it from the hands 
 of the manager, and it was never afterwards offered 
 for representation. He thus states the causes of its 
 non-production, in a letter to his father and mother ; 
 and it is worthy of notice, that even with the depressing 
 fact before him — that his play was unacted, not through 
 want of merit, but because the chief performer wrangled 
 about his part, — the letter is in the following uncom- 
 plaining style : — 
 
 “London, June 1 6 th , 1824. 
 
 “My dear Father and Mother, — Since I had the 
 pleasure to write you some account of my theatrical 
 progress, other revolutions have come round. 
 
 “Mr. Kean, after accepting his part in my tragedy 
 of ‘ The Prodigal/ and attending with the other per- 
 formers to two readings, has declared that he will 
 appear in no new play that does not give him one 
 superior character. Such is the statement made to 
 me ; whether it be true, or ‘but partially true, I cannot 
 positively determine. 
 
 “After some difficulty I have succeeded in withdraw- 
 ing the play from the hands of Mr. Elliston of Drury 
 Lane, and expect to have it brought out at Covent 
 Garden, the two principal characters to be played by 
 Charles Kemble and Mr. Young. In better hands they 
 could not be. 
 
 “ I could give you a specimen of green-room jealous- 
 ies and contentions, that might be amusing, and I may 
 do so at some other time.” 
 
 « 
 
 A letter was brought to Michael by the same post 
 
152 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 which bore the last, and in it Banim thus relates the D1 
 success of Sheridan Knowles’s play, “Caius Gracchus,* 
 and recounts the difficulty which he himself experienced 
 in obtaining the manuscript of “ The Prodigal ” from 
 Elliston. 
 
 “London, June lbth , 1824. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — c Caius Gracchus* did not deserve 
 its fate. The author, as I learn, submitted to have his 
 production cooked in the green-room, and after the 
 cookery it was ‘ dished * — to use a cant word, signifying 
 that it had been made unpalatable. 
 
 “ I called on the manager for my MS. c Oh ! yes, yes, 
 certainly, * he said, £ to-morrow ; don’t for the hie of 
 me know where to lay hand on it. But to-morrow. ’ 
 On the morrow, accompanied by a friend, I met Mr. 
 
 E n ; he expressed a willingness to give up the play, 
 
 c but really, and indeed, did not look it out since.’ 
 'Then don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, C I have another 
 copy, somewhere. I think I can find that ’ — ‘ Oh ! for 
 the world, would not give you such a job — I’ll send it 
 to-morrow.’ I walked off, and made another perfect 
 copy, which I have now ready for Co vent Garden.” 
 
 The play was not produced at Covent Garden ; and 
 though it was considered by those who read it as the 
 most admirable of all Banim’s dramatic pieces, though 
 he appears to have prized it highly himself, preserving 
 it with especial care, even to within a few months of 
 his death ; yet, after a most careful and anxious search 
 amongst his papers, no trace of it can now be discovered. 
 
 He still worked closely at the Irish stories ; and con- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 153 
 
 tinuaUy incited Michael to hasten with his portion. 
 He criticised, advised, and encouraged the latter, and 
 as a specimen of the style in which these letters were 
 written, we insert the following : — - 
 
 “ London, July 10 th, 1824. 
 
 “My dear Mike, — I think I recognise your tithe- 
 proctor, Peery Clancey ; the portrait is so accurate I 
 could not mistake the gentleman. Your next door 
 neighbor, Mickle Kyan, is your original, and you have 
 not outstepped nature, or misrepresented facts, in the 
 slightest degree. 
 
 “You have given some of my people a good castiga- 
 tion ; you have frightened me in fact, and almost made 
 me hopeless of them. Don’t spare one of them how- 
 ever — better you should deal with them than critics of 
 less bowels or humanity. 
 
 “ You must adopt my amendment. The woman, sing- 
 ing the keenthecawn, must be the mother of Terence, 
 not his wife ; kill his wife — I decree her death ; by 
 slaying her, you give a very rational increased incentive 
 to the wretched widower’s thirst for vengeance. 
 
 “ You tell me you intend to cut off the proctor’s ears : 
 slice them close to his head by all means ; do not leave 
 a shred ; no honest man will say that he does not de- 
 serve the cropping.” 
 
 His wife’s ill health, and a slight attack of his own 
 pains, were again pressing upon his slender resources ; 
 and being unwilling to delay his task — the completion 
 of the tales — by entering into any new engagements 
 with publishers, he earnestly and anxiously endeav- 
 ored to discover some means by which his purse might 
 
154 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 be replenished speedily, without much labor or delay. 
 His last sovereign had dwindled to half ; his credit he 
 did not wish to test, and with ideas quickened, by what 
 John Taylor quaintly calls, “ Wit’s whetstone, Want,” he 
 resolved to correct, and offer to the publishers, a series 
 of miscellaneous essays which he had from time to time 
 composed, and which now swelled to the proportions 
 of an octavo volume. He arranged the manuscript for 
 inspection in a few hours, and early the following morn- 
 ing set out in search of a purchaser. He valued the 
 papers lightly, and his hope of finding a publisher will- 
 ing to buy them was almost forlorn. Mrs. Banirn spent 
 that lonely day in anxious expectation of his return. At 
 length, late in the evening, he entered their little draw- 
 ing-room. He looked weary and despondent, and seat- 
 ing himself by his wife’s side he gazed mournfully in 
 her sad face : he drew her towards him, kissed her 
 tenderly, but spoke not a word. She feared to question ; 
 but after he had sat in silence for a minute, he sprang 
 from his seat, crying, “ Ellen, my darling, hold out your 
 dress for a present,” and in a moment he threw into 
 her lap a shower of bright clinking guineas — and kissing 
 her once more, whilst his eyes laughed out in all the 
 joy of his heart’s triumph, he cried, “There, Ellen, 
 there are thirty guineas, the price of the essays.” 
 
 The essays thus opportunely disposed of were pub- 
 lished in 1824, in one volume, by Simpkin and Mar- 
 shall, and bore no author’s name ; they were entitled 
 “Revelations of the Dead-Alive,” and extended to 37G 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 155 
 
 pages. In tlie first chapter, the rather odd title of the 
 book is thus explained. The writer states himself to 
 possess the power of sleeping at will for lengthened 
 periods, and during these periods to possess the faculty 
 of, as it were, going out of himself ; a species of self- 
 acting clairvoyance. He has been enabled by a peculiar 
 American root, to extend the periods of sleep to a 
 length much beyond that which, ijnaided by its power, 
 he could accomplish. After a slumber of one hundred 
 and ninety-eight days and a quarter, he is enabled to 
 relate, and does record in the succeeding chapters of 
 the book, the events of one hundred and ninety-eight 
 years and a quarter ; or, as he writes : “ I was dead one 
 hundred and ninety-eight days and a quarter, and for 
 every day I saw a year of time, so that when I came 
 to life again, I had observed what was, and is to be, in 
 the lapse of one hundred and ninety-eight years and 
 a quarter, a year for each day and in the relation 
 of these experiences consist the “ Eevelations of the 
 Dead-Alive.” 
 
 The “ Eevelations ” are, for the chief part, very clever 
 hits at the follies, fashions, and manners of the year 
 1823. Amongst the fashions of that period was a most 
 absurd reliance on the system of Phrenology — then 
 rendered a very imposing question by Gall — which 
 Banim thus satirizes : — 
 
 “ They spoke of a gentleman who had invented a new and approved 
 science of moral physiognomy, deduced from Messrs. Spurzheim and 
 Gall ; and deduced I may in every sense say, for, leaving them in 
 
156 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 possession of the head, it seized on the feet ; thus, perhaps, pushing 
 the matter to extremities. Mr. Klapptrapp made the cover of leather 
 usually worn by these members, equivalent to the integument of the 
 cranium in Mr. GalPs system, and hence his science derived its name 
 of Ocreology. Prior, I believe, bas ingeniously set to work in his 
 smart poem of Alma Mater, to discover the residence of thought in 
 the human machine ; and, if I mistake not, traced it indifferently to 
 the limbs. Such at least was the floating recollection in my mind, 
 that, at the first mention of Mr. Klapptrapp ’s theory, made me think 
 something might come of it. 
 
 “ Mr. K’s attention was first seized by observing that after a man 
 has worn a boot or shoe for a considerable time, his feet give it a 
 particular set, and also particular markings, that raise and fix the 
 leather at certain points of the insteps and toes, into greater or 
 smaller convexities : these in the end become confirmed on the out- 
 ward surface, so that when the shoe or boot is even thrown away or 
 cast aside for ever, they keep their places and shapes. The varieties 
 of bumps thus insured to boots and shoes were, he next observed, as 
 endless as the varieties of human talent and general character ; and 
 here and at once was a coincidence too remarkable not to be curiously 
 analysed. 
 
 “So Mr. Klapptrapp became industrious, and in the very infancy 
 of his inquiries, ascertained the strong-marked difference between 
 the bumps conformed on the boot of a very vulgar and brutal man, 
 and on that of a very refined and amiable man. No one, he well 
 remarked, can have been without noticing the horrid conformations 
 acquired by the boots of a huge wagoner or Smithfield badge-man, 
 who from constant use of same has fully impressed them with the 
 knuckles and twistings of his broad, bullock-like, splay-foot. Only 
 hang up by their side a pair of genteel old boots, such as may have 
 been worn to the welt, by a scholar or philanthropist, and can you 
 not instantly vouch the exact kind of intellect and heart that once 
 put in motion the different limbs to which both were once appended? 
 
 “ This was the foundation of Mr. Klapptrapp’s system. He followed 
 it up with a zeal, a perspicuity and minuteness I cannot pretend to 
 detail : first, contrasting general differences, and then — his eye and 
 intellect becoming quicker by practice — at last establishing the nicest 
 subdivisions and distinctions, so that bring him a pair of cast-off 
 shoes or boots he had never before seen, and he told you, within a 
 bump, of the fearers talent and morality. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 157 
 
 “ When Mr. Angle introduced me into his study, we carried with us 
 a pair of shoes that had been left behind by a man recently hanged 
 for a shocking murder ; and the moment Mr. K., laid his eyes on 
 them, he proclaimed their sanguinary conformation. In this he wa3 
 fully warranted by the appearance of the organ of destruction which, 
 as I recollect, is formed by an unusual swell of the outward knuckle 
 of the great toe, leaving a correspondent knob on the outside of the 
 shoe or boot 5 and which, in this instance, peculiarly verified its 
 nature by having burst through the leather on or about the night 
 when the homicide committed his bloody act. 
 
 “ We found the philosopher surrounded by rows over rows of old 
 boots and shoes of every possible class ; and I listened with much 
 interest and deference to his lecture of some hours, upon the virtues 
 or vices, genius or stupidity, of those by whom they had once been 
 worn. There was the last pair of Waterloos that John Thurtell had 
 doffed, authenticated by certificates under the hand of each collector 
 of curiosities who had possessed them, from Lavender or Ruthven 
 down to Dr. Klapptrapp ; and the benevolent and cautious, and heroic 
 cut-throat and brain-pounder came in for his future as well as present 
 vindication. By felicitous chances other shoes and boots of other 
 remarkable characters of this day, had been snatched from oblivion : 
 but while all proclaimed the admitted and general excellence of the 
 individuals they professed to illustrate, they also suggested curious 
 differences, in minute points indeed, between the real and self-asserted 
 characters of some of those persons. Lord Byron’s boot, for instance, 
 wanted the organ of amativeness ; hinting that notwithstanding all a 
 man may rhyme about the passion, he need not, as a consequence, 
 ever feel it ; or that, vice versa, as Shakespeare says, one may be 
 
 ‘ over boots in love, 
 
 Altho’ he never swam the Hellespont.’ 
 
 Neither did Mr. Hazlitt’s shoe exhibit much of this organ. I was 
 surprised to see a pair of Sir Walter’s evince almost as much con- 
 structiveness as ideality, and not so much secretiveness as I had 
 expected. Wordsworth, after all, left behind him a pair of shoes 
 indicative of little veneration, while time, tune, order, causalty, and 
 locality were jumbled together in them. Mr. Southey’s had a strong 
 bump of self-esteem, now equivalent to self-conceit ; Ugo Foscolo’s 
 had no combativeness ; Coleridge’s no form ; Hogg’s no wit : the 
 
158 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 author of Lacon no inhabitiveness ; and Bowles’s very litfle weight 
 and momenta. 
 
 It will be here remarked, that Mr. Klapptrapp had unceremoni- 
 ously transferred to his leathern knobs all the organic names invented 
 by his predecessors ; which, however common to both the names 
 might be, I own I regarded as a plagiarism unworthy of his genius . 77 
 
 Banim did not, however, spare the literary profession. 
 That was the age of reviewing, in the sense in which 
 Macaulay understood it, ten pages to himself to ten lines 
 of his author ; or reviewing was committed in another 
 manner, but by inferior minds — one connecting page of 
 the review to ten pages of the author ; and thus, when 
 poetry was before the critic, he became — to the injury 
 of author and publisher — nothing more than a paste and 
 scissors purloiner, and might truly say with FalstafT, “ I 
 have abused the King’s Press most damnably.” 
 
 Of these two classes of reviewers, and of the news- 
 paper critics, the “ Dead-Alive ” thus expressed his 
 opinions : — 
 
 “‘How many periodicals have you? 7 said I. 
 
 “ ‘ By act of parliament, three. There was another curse of the age 
 we have so often alluded to, and one other slow but sure rot in its 
 literature. Every periodical, great and small, had its own friends 
 and its own coterie, or its own political opinions, and right or wrong, 
 mawkish or extravagant, as its contributors might have been, they 
 were partially deified, and their literary opposites run down in the 
 same breath : and thus a most dangerous jumble of tastes frittered 
 away the public mind, until puzzle begat languor, and languor indif- 
 ference, and both an utter neglect of every new book and author . 7 
 
 “ • It seems to me , 7 I continued, ‘ that in another view, periodicals 
 must have produced the decay you speak of. A small volume of 
 poetry costs five shillings, and it will contain the bad as well as the 
 good of an author ; and you purchase his errors and slips, which you 
 don’t exactly want, along with his brilliant bits and savory passages. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 159 
 
 Behold on the other hand a grand army of reviews, of all shapes and 
 prices, from five shillings down to fourpence, in many of which was 
 to be had the cream of from five to five-and-twenty authors together, 
 carefully skimmed for your sipping palate, and ready for use at your 
 tea or coffee in the morning. Moreover, you bought ready-made 
 opinion for your money, a few shillings or pence, as it might be, and 
 so were saved the trouble of forming your own. And what man or 
 Miss in his or her senses might be expected to pay a great deal for so 
 little, when with a little, he or she could have the great deal? ’ 
 
 “ 1 No one did so, 7 said Mr. Drudge : ‘ the “ reading public ” rested 
 satisfied with periodicals alone, and the author was left on the pub- 
 lisher’s shelf. Of course no author would continue to write for the 
 profit of other persons only ; so the pen was at last totally abandoned, 
 and the sole comfort resulting to authors was to see their monstrous 
 tyrant, the periodical press, sharing with themselves a common ruin 
 and oblivion.’ 
 
 “ ‘ The periodical press ? ’ I exclaimed ; * truly, sir, it was a species 
 of steam-loom, or thrashing or winnowing machine, that with its short 
 methods and unnatural despatch, threw thousands of honest people 
 out of bread.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I wonder,’ said Mrs. Drudge, 1 they never rose out against it, as 
 about the same time the indignant trades, weavers, and spinners, and 
 carders rose out against the mechanical encroachments — monopoly 
 indeed — of Manchester, Glasgow, and other manufacturing places. 
 Surely, if the great body of authors were united (but that was, in 
 itself, rather a difficulty), one night would have been sufficient for the 
 demolition of all the periodical presses in London and Auld Reekie.’ 
 
 “ 1 Or I should have chosen a more legal proceeding,’ said Mr. 
 Drudge. 1 It is my fixed opinion that a good action — Authors vs. 
 Reviewers — might have been made out, to go for damages to a special 
 jury in King’s Bench. I think an author might have crippled them 
 in a thumping verdict, not on account of their defamatory praise or 
 censure, but on account of their piratical quotations. Where was 
 their right to republish, without end, the best part of a man’s book? 
 Was it not as black piracy as if the promulgators of the sixpenny 
 Cain did so, without any dull or prattling remark at the head, the 
 tail, or between the passages? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Here is a curious little book that, among other curious things, 
 gives us some notion of the views entertained by applicants for em- 
 ployment to a periodical editor, of their self-measured fitness for the 
 
160 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 office,’ resumed Mrs. Drudge; 1 shall I read from it a letter found 
 among the papers of a gentleman, who, it would seem, once swayed 
 a miscellaneous periodical of the time ? ’ 
 
 To the Editor of the Universal and Multifarious Magazine. 
 
 Sir, — Being at present disengaged, I have no objection to tender 
 my services for the advantage of your respectable journal. I do not 
 much care into what department you may put me, as I think I shall 
 be found fit enough for any. Indeed, if agreeable to you, I should 
 rather like to do, now and then, a little on every topic. I write essays 
 off-hand on all subjects. I am particularly liable to be struck with 
 the minutest errors of a literary work, and particularly slow at com- 
 prehending what an author means by a beauty : hence you can 
 estimate my capacity for your review sheet. By the help of a lexicon, 
 and a friend of mine, a young Cantab, I scruple not to say I should 
 be quite competent to detect the bad orthography of a Greek quota- 
 tion ; and should an error happen, you know we could lay it either on 
 the author or the printer, as might suit our convenience. I make 
 poetry myself, on one leg, so you cannot doubt my capacity to be a 
 fiogger and mangier of all new poems, particularly the successful 
 ones. By the way of poetry, I have a large blue book of original 
 sonnets, odes, &c., lying by me, with which I shall be happy to 
 harmonize your last sheet, on reasonable terms ; but I wish it to be 
 understood, that they must go in at double the rate of my prose 
 contributions. 
 
 Send me to the King’s Theatre, if you like : I am no great adept 
 myself, nor indeed can I boast a good ear, and in honest truth have 
 never heard an Italian song ; but a musical dictionary is within my 
 reach ; a dear friend of mine frequents the opera : so I could manage 
 a brisk technical paragraph for you. Of the drama I ought to know 
 something ; I have trod the boards myself, before now, and since then 
 have written a play which would have astonished the town if the silly 
 managers had produced it. So don’t spare me at Drury Lane or 
 Covent Garden. 
 
 But I request one department entirely to myself — the fine arts : for 
 although I know little of the matter, my brother is an artist of long 
 standing ; his pictures have been twice turned out of Somerset House, 
 and he promises to furnish me with critiques on the works of the 
 council, and particularly of the hanging committee. As to the rest, 
 I know no subject more easily handled by a writer completely igno- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 161 
 
 rant of it. Only compile a list of painters’ names, and the cant of 
 the painting room; boldly arraign Sir Joshua’s lectures; compare 
 pictures and styles that may be as antagonistic as north and south ; 
 slip in such terms as glazing, and scumbling, and toning, and keeping; 
 conclude by saying your kettle is singing to make whiskey punch, 
 and the thing is done. 
 
 Horace Handy. 
 
 We have given these extracts as specimens of a work 
 little, if at all, read in these days, and as affording an 
 example of Banim’s ability in an excellent style of light 
 composition, very dissimilar to that for which he is best 
 known. 
 
 To resume — once more the dreaded malady returned, 
 and days of pain were succeeded by nights of sleepless 
 watching. Still he bore up manfully against all odds, and 
 amidst his sorrows, the dear friends of the old house 
 in Kilkenny were as close to his heart and as warm in 
 his memory as ever. He wrote thus to Michael, — 
 
 11 London, November 15 th, 1824. 
 
 “ Dear Michael, — Tell me how this weather treats my 
 poor mother. As to me, leaving me otherwise in good 
 health, it brings a score handsaws, chisels, and cork- 
 screws, to work all at once, on every inch of my thighs, 
 legs, shins, feet, and toes. I roar out from the pain, and 
 I cannot restrain myself ; the other night I was awake 
 from lying down to rising, all the while in torture.” 
 
 This attack was not of long continuance, and with 
 the new year, 1825, came the satisfaction of having 
 completed the “ Tales by the O’Hara Family,” for the 
 purchase of which he was, in January, in treaty with 
 Colburn. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ TALES BY THE O’HARA FAMILY ” PUT TO PRESS — “ THE BOYNE 
 
 water” COMMENCED A PUBLISHER^ RUSE “ TALES BY THE 
 
 O’HARA FAMILY” PUBLISHED THEIR SUCCESS SHARE OF 
 
 MICHAEL AND JOHN BANIM IN THE SERIES LETTERS SICK- 
 
 NESS OF MRS. BANIM — SLIGHT RETURN OF HIS OWN ILLNESS 
 
 LETTERS PROGRESS OF “ THE BOYNE WATER” VISIT OF 
 
 JOHN BANIM TO DERRY TOUR OF MICHAEL BANIM THROUGH 
 
 THE COUNTY LIMERICK — EACH BROTHER COLLECTING MATE- 
 RIALS FOR “ THE BOYNE WATER” LETTERS ENGAGEMENTS 
 
 WITH ARNOLD OF THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE LETTERS FROM 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN HIM AND BANIM 
 
 VISIT OF JOHN BANIM TO KILKENNY MICHAEL’S ACCOUNT OF 
 
 IT LETTERS PUBLICATION OF “ THE BOYNE WATER” LET- 
 TERS SECOND MISUNDERSTANDING WITH GERALD GRIFFIN — - 
 
 cc THE NO WLANS” COMMENCED LETTERS RELIGIOUS FEELINGS 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS LETTERS. 
 
 We have related the various phases, sometimes sunny 
 and frequently clouded, marking the life of John Banim, 
 and we have now reached that epoch of his life-history 
 in which, when in his twenty-sixth year, he had com- 
 pleted “ The Tales by the O’Hara Family,” and had 
 succeeded in obtaining a publisher. Now had come the 
 time for ^yhich, through all the sorrows of the weary 
 past, he had toiled and hoped. True, it was not his 
 first triumph, he had known that joy which elevates 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN RANIM. 
 
 163 
 
 the dramatist when his thoughts are filling the hearts 
 of an enraptured audience ; he had heard great actors 
 in his “ Damon and Pythias,” and, as some noble pas- 
 sage in the play had charmed the listeners, he had seen 
 the surging, swaying crowds applauding to the echo. 
 But this was a triumph too uncertain, and too much 
 dependent upon the mass, and, in the probable success 
 of “ The O’Hara Tales,” he fancied that he saw the 
 brightest dream-land of his brightest reverie — fame, 
 competence secured, a happy home for Ellen, for his 
 mother, for all ; the full fruition of that charming aspi- 
 ration which he expressed to Michael when he wrote : 
 “ That my dear Ellen, and my dear Joanna, should live 
 together in love and unity, is my great wish and my 
 hope too. To see them working, or reading, or making 
 their womanly fuss near me, and under my roof, and 
 mutually tolerating and helping each other, and never 
 talking loud. And my mother, my dear, dear mother, 
 sitting in her arm-chair looking at them, with her old- 
 times placid smile ; and my father and you doing 
 whatever you liked. Tush ! Perhaps this is foolish and 
 Utopian of me. Yet we must live together : that is the 
 blessed truth. Such a set of people were not born to 
 dwell asunder. And, perhaps, the old times would come 
 back again after all. What is the reason, I ask, that, 
 after a little while, we should not club our means, and 
 dwell, as Mr. Owen preaches, in one big house, every 
 mother’s son and daughter of us ; and have good feel- 
 ing, good taste, and economy presiding over us ? More 
 
164 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 unlikely tilings have happened. After the world is seen, 
 it does not bear to be gaped at every day ; and the 
 only true aim of a rational creature ought to be, humble 
 independence on any scale, and the interchange of those 
 little and tireless amiabilities, that in a loving, and 
 virtuous, and temperate circle, make life indeed worth 
 living for — to me. And without these life is a com- 
 pulsion : a necessity to breathe without enjoyment — to 
 sweat without a reward.” 
 
 These were his hopes and heartiest wishes — success 
 in literature could alone for him secure their attainment, 
 and once attained, life would be fair as 
 
 u A light upon the shining sea.” 
 
 But, even whilst correcting the proof-sheets of the first 
 series of “ The Tales,” he was preparing materials for a 
 novel, and he wrote thus to his brother : — 
 
 “London, January Yith, 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I am reading hard for a three- 
 volume tale, and, if our present venture succeed, I may 
 hope for a fair price.” 
 
 He was not, however, at all forgetful of his success as 
 a dramatist, and he still negotiated for the production 
 of “ The Prodigal ” at Covent Garden Theatre, having, 
 as we have already related, failed in inducing Elliston 
 to accept it for Drury Lane. But in this attempt he 
 was, as the reader has been informed, unsuccessful, 
 owing to disagreements with Edmund Kean. 
 
 Disappointments connected with this tragedy were 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 165 
 
 not his only causes of uneasiness. Mrs. Banim’s health 
 had not improved, and she was directed by her physi- 
 cian to pass a short period in France. In the follow- 
 ing letter Banim describes his position, his cares, his 
 hopes, and his expectations. The old kindly home love 
 is bright as ever — whether in joy or sorrow ; struggling 
 or prosperous — home, his wife and his mother, are 
 always at his heart. And yet how strange it seems 
 that his love should cling so firmly to those scenes 
 where he had known many sorrows, many pains, and, 
 save in childhood, no joys. Can it be that this thought 
 of the lamented Arthur Henry Hallam is true, and that 
 “Pain is the deepest thing that we have in our nature, 
 and union through pain has always seemed more real 
 and more holy than any other.” Thus, at all events, 
 John Banim wrote to his father : — 
 
 “ London, January 28 ib, 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Father, — I have to inform you, that I have 
 kept back at Covent Garden to watch the fate of a play 
 
 by . This play I judged would not succeed, and my 
 
 judgment has proved good. It was repeated only twice. 
 I may expect to come on, when Young returns to his 
 engagement, in about six weeks. The stage apart for a 
 moment, pleasant little matters are occurring elsewhere. 
 Our publishers, being highly pleased with the matter 
 now in progress, engage liberal terms, should our venture 
 have luck. Yesterday I received a proof of their good 
 opinion, in the shape of a handsome snuff-box, with 
 which I intend to present you when we meet. So far, 
 my dear father, with other seasonable assistance from 
 
166 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 my good friend Mr. Arnold, who receives my small the- 
 atrical pieces freely, I am very comfortable, considering 
 that I have had to win my way in a scramble, where no 
 human being was interested to lend me a hand. I think 
 I have not altogether done badly. I have been here 
 three years, and I do not owe a shilling. I am now es- 
 teemed in the market. Alas ! literature is a marketable 
 commodity, as well as any other ware, and sells according 
 to its quality. But, if able, my regular business will 
 soon send me to Ireland, and afford me the happiness of 
 embracing my family. 
 
 “ One regret I must feel during my visit ; I shall not 
 be accompanied by her who has for three years been 
 the sharer of my struggles — the only friend in my exile. 
 Ellen has been ordered to seek a milder clime for awhile, 
 and I must convey her to France for a period. She is 
 not very or dangerously ill : I send a medical certificate 
 to her father to convince him of this ; but still her 
 removal has been pronounced necessary, and I owe 
 her too much to counteract the injunctions of her phy- 
 sician. 
 
 “Michael gave me charming assurances in his last 
 letter of my dear mother’s health. Were she ever so 
 ill, I know the expectation of seeing me (you see I am 
 growing riotous in my own good opinion) will speedily 
 make her well.” 
 
 He accompanied his wife to France, and having se- 
 cured apartments for her, he returned to London, and 
 to its labors. In the following letter, written a few days 
 after he had reached London, he informs Michael of the 
 progress of “ The Tales ” through the press, and hints 
 at his returning illness : — 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 1G7 
 
 “ London, May 9 th, 1825. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — I remained scarce a day in 
 France after I saw Ellen housed : yet short as was my 
 absence from London, matters got into a pretty pickle 
 with the printers before I came back. 
 
 “ The labor of getting £ Crohoore 9 through the ordeal 
 has been hideous : almost every sheet of him came 
 back to me three or four times. It is tremendous work 
 to compel English types to shape themselves into Irish 
 words. Happily he is now equipped for his debut , as 
 well as I can shape him. £ The Fetches ’ is disposed 
 of also, and I am through the first hundred pages of 
 the last volume. I have been leading a solitary life 
 since my wife left me : but no help for that. To keep 
 me alive I have plenty of work on hand, and there 
 are fair prospects in view. 
 
 ££ My health has been only tolerable ; as Shakespeare 
 hath it, 
 
 1 The moon, the governess of floods, 
 
 Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 
 
 That rheumatic diseases do abound.’ 
 
 ££ I greatly fear and dread mother has also had her 
 visitation, if the weather has been such in Ireland as 
 we have had here.” 
 
 Upon the eve of the publication of ££ The Tales,” the 
 next letter was addressed by John Banim to his brother, 
 and in it he details a little publishing ruse ; one of a 
 class of which many instances have been afforded in 
 London, during the anxiety of the public to possess 
 books containing information on the countries sur- 
 rounding Sebastopol : — 
 
1G8 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ London, April 6 th , 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — Our tales have not been an- 
 nounced in the usual manner, and I will tell you why. 
 
 “A certain literary gentleman, an Irishman too, of 
 undoubted talent, being aware of the nature of our 
 volumes, started with a spirited publisher, and got 
 out notices, and it became rather an amusing race 
 between us. He would come occasionally, in the most 
 friendly manner, to hope I was going on well. Pen 
 against pen it was, as fast as they could gallop. 
 Mounted on my grey goose quill I have beaten him, 
 as to time at all events. It was necessary to keep him 
 in the dark by leaving our books unannounced. What 
 may be the further result of our race is yet to be seen. 
 There is quackery in all trades, from the boudoir to the 
 pill-box. 
 
 “ I purpose to be in Derry, two hundred miles north 
 of you, in a few weeks, and in some time after I will 
 run down to Kilkenny to shake hands with you all, and 
 hear my poor mother call me her own ‘ graw bawn * once 
 again.” 
 
 The visit to Derry, mentioned in this letter, was 
 undertaken for the purpose of gaining an accurate 
 knowledge, from personal observation, of the scenery 
 and character of the country around the Boyne ; and this 
 knowledge was turned by Banim to excellent account, 
 as may be perceived in those admirable descriptions 
 introduced in that novel upon which he was then 
 engaged, “ The Boyne Water.” 
 
 The “Tales by the O’Hara Family” appeared on 
 the 7th of April, 1825, and their success was, from the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 169 
 
 first day, unquestionable. Gerald Griffin wrote to his 
 brother, and described Banim’s triumph thus : “ Have 
 you seen Banim’s O’Hara Tales ? — if not, read them, 
 and say what you think of them. I think them most 
 vigorous and original things ; overflowing with the very 
 spirit of poetry, passion and painting; if you think 
 
 otherwise, don’t say so. My friend W sends me 
 
 word that they are well written. All our critics here say 
 that they are admirably written ; that nothing since 
 Scott’s first novels has equalled them. I differ entirely 
 with W in his idea of the fidelity of their deline- 
 
 ations. He says they argue unacquaintance with the 
 country ; I think they are astonishing in nothing so 
 much as in the power of creating an intense interest 
 without stepping out of real life, and in the very easy 
 and natural drama that is carried through them, as 
 well as in the excellent tact which he shows, in seizing 
 on all the points of national character which are capable 
 of effect ; mind, I don’t speak of ‘ The Fetches ’ now. 
 That is a romance. But is it not a splendid one ? 
 Nobody knew anything of Banim, till he published his 
 4 O’Hara Tales,’ which are becoming more and more 
 popular every day. I have seen pictures taken from 
 them already by first-rate artists, and engravings in the 
 windows.” 
 
 Literary fame, however, was not the only point to be 
 considered ; the pecuniary reward of merit w r as a very 
 important consideration. The fame, indeed, belonged 
 
 entirely, so far as the public knew, to John ; but Michael, 
 
 8 
 
170 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 living at home quietly in Kilkenny, had formed very 
 prosaic ideas, and thought, very naturally, that if the 
 public admired “ The O’Hara Tales,” the public ought to 
 prove its appreciation by purchasing them ; and he wrote 
 to John, requesting information upon the interesting 
 topic comprised in the short question, “How do the 
 books 8611?” John’s reply we shall just now insert, but 
 we would here draw the reader’s attention to the facts 
 already related, in which we have detailed the plans of 
 joint contribution agreed upon in the composition of 
 the “ Tales by the O’Hara Family.” 
 
 The first tale of the series, entitled “ Crohoore of the 
 Billhook,” was written by Michael Banim, who wrote 
 also the opening chapter, descriptive of a “ Pattern,” in 
 “ John Doe/’ the third tale of this first series : the 
 remainder of this tale, and the entire of “ The Fetches,” 
 the second tale, were written by John Banim ; but, as 
 was agreed upon, each brother submitted his contribu- 
 tions to the earnest criticism of the other. 
 
 And when one comes now to examine these fictions, 
 to mark their vigor and dramatic power, to note those 
 qualities indicated by Griffin, who wrote of them, “ they 
 are astonishing in nothing so much as in the power of 
 creating an intense interest without stepping out of real 
 life, and in the very easy and natural drama that is 
 carried through them, as well as in the excellent tact 
 which he shows in seizing on all the points of national 
 character,” we must agree with Gerald in his estimate 
 of the merit of the series. These qualities attributed 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 171 
 
 by Griffin to “ The Tales ” appear more clearly in the 
 fictions subsequently written, but the ability of the 
 brothers is not the less plainly shown. And it is, indeed, 
 strange that two young men, the one a shopman to his 
 father, planning his scenes by day whilst attending to 
 his business duties, and stealing his leisure from the 
 night ; the other, a hard-worked literary man — one who, 
 as he said himself, should “ tease the brain, as wool- 
 combers tease wool, to keep the fire in and the pot 
 boiling,” could have been able to produce those novels 
 which, though entering upon a pre-occupied branch of 
 literature, obtained and secured attention from the 
 earliest publication. In J ohn BaninTs case, too, it should 
 be remembered, that he was forced to write when he 
 could write ; that is, he wrote at such times as he could 
 snatch from his ordinary engagements : sometimes when 
 racked in body by his own pains, sometimes when racked 
 in mind through sympathy for the ill-health of his wife. 
 But the strong bold will, the earnest hope of success, 
 bear the mental hero above every sorrow — the victor 
 of every woe — and thus is proved the wisdom of 
 Wordsworth’s thought — 
 
 “ A cheerful life is what tbe Muses love, 
 
 A soaring spirit is their prime delight.” 
 
 In the following letter those qualities of mind are 
 proved, and his industry and mental courage are most 
 admirably displayed: — 
 
172 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ London, May ls£, 1825. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — You ask me a very vital ques- 
 tion, How do the books sell ? Very well. 
 
 “ The publishers are quite contented : big with 
 hopes, and withal benevolent. On mature reflection, I 
 venture to solve another important query ; I deem you 
 should neglect neither your business nor three new 
 volumes. Plan out three tales, and work at them from 
 time to time at your leisure, and I think I can obtain 
 for you a remunerative price. 
 
 “ I will be ready with a tale in three volumes by 
 Christmas, and I propose you should be prepared for 
 the next trial. For my tale I will visit every necessary 
 spot in the North and South. Derry, Lough Neagh— 
 thence to the Boyne, and then to Limerick. I have 
 christened the tale before its birth. It is to be called 
 ‘ The Boyne Water.’ I have sent you all the criti- 
 cisms ; in no case have we got a drubbing. We have 
 yet to undergo the scrutiny of the monthly and quarterly 
 periodicals. This I can tell you to inspirit you — the 
 good Belles Lettres critic of the Quarterly has read our 
 volumes, and has deigned to praise them in high quarters. 
 
 “Man alive, hold up your head and have courage.” 
 
 A few days after the date of this letter, John Banina 
 sailed for Ireland, and reaching Dublin safely, he at once 
 set out for Belfast. His occupations in the North were 
 thus described, in a letter to Michael : — 
 
 “ Coleraine, May 2 8th, 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — Lest you should be uneasy at 
 my staying longer than I proposed, I write to say I am 
 well, and have only been delayed by the uninterrupted 
 interest of my route from Belfast. I walked a great 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 173 
 
 part of the way along the coast to this town ; having 
 forwarded all my baggage, trusting to Him who feeds 
 the sparrow and the raven, for a meal and a bed. My 
 adventures have been considerable in the way of living 
 alone. I sometimes slept in a sheebeen house, some- 
 times in a farmer’s house, and sometimes in a good inn ; 
 and only I thought myself too ill-dressed a fellow, I 
 might have shared the hospitality of a certain lady of 
 high rank. 
 
 “ But what scenery have I beheld — grand, exquisite : 
 the Causeway, from which I have just returned, the best 
 part of it. You may look out for me towards the end 
 of the next week. One thing is certain — I will meet 
 a hearty welcome at the old house where I first saw 
 the light.” 
 
 Back to “ the old house,” and to his mother, came 
 “ her own gram hawn” with love as warm and heart as 
 true as in the past-by days of childhood, when he stole 
 from his playmates to watch over her safety, fearing 
 that “ Farrell the Robber” might carry her away. And 
 here, the student of literary biography will, doubtless, 
 observe how beautifully this man’s nature shines, un- 
 chilled by adversity and pain, unspoiled — so unspoiled 
 — by success, and by the golden hopes of the brighter 
 future. 
 
 One can fancy this deep-hearted man returned to “the 
 old house ” where he “ first saw light,” and where he had 
 known such joys and sorrows, such real cares and such 
 cloud-land visions, as, happily, few men experience in 
 their darker phases : Joanna and Michael rush forth 
 to greet him, and the more sober, but not less intense 
 
174 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 joy of the father and mother need no word-painting. 
 It must have been the realization of a dream-vision, 
 one of those glimpses of paradise, fading as the morning 
 arises, ami leaving but a regretful memory of joys never 
 to return again. 
 
 Thinking thus, we addressed Michael Banim, and 
 added — “ Tell us how you all received John when he 
 came to you from his northern tour ; ” and Michael 
 answered us, “ You may be sure the absentee received 
 a hearty welcome in the old house. On a Sunday evening 
 he came amongst us, the evening of all others we could 
 best enjoy ourselves. There was the family board, with 
 something more choice even than the usual Sunday fare, 
 to mark the event. The well-known faces were all 
 around it once more. No one absent. There was the 
 new-comer, in the identical chair, and on the same spot, 
 he used to occupy. There was the dinner prolonged 
 unreasonably, by questions and answers, interruptive 
 of mastication. When the table was at length cleared, 
 there was the jerking of chairs into as close contact as 
 possible. And there was the cheerful glass, in which to 
 hob-nob with the restored straggler. Truth to tell, I 
 fear that three of the circle, the old man and his two 
 sons, dipped somewhat deeper than discretion or respect 
 for the Sabbath evening warranted. 
 
 “This meeting of kindred after separation, bore like- 
 ness to a gushing fountain, one of whose channels had 
 been interrupted ; the other insufficient to carry off the 
 waters ; the temporary obstacle removed, the whole 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 175 
 
 affluence came forth babbling and sparkling in the sun- 
 shine. There was no cloud that we could see, on that 
 Sunday evening, over us. There was frequent laughter, 
 ringing out, and without rhyme or reason. There was a 
 tautology of endearing epithets. There was the voluble 
 enjoyment that marked a jubilee.” 
 
 Banim did not continue long in “ the old house ; ” and 
 early in July he was back once more in London at his 
 desk, engaged in that ceaseless round of work ; truly 
 
 “ Twilight saw him at his folios, 
 
 Morning saw his fingers run, 
 
 Laboring ever, 
 
 Weary never 
 
 Of the task he had begun.” 
 
 His visit to Kilkenny had not been entirely one of 
 pleasure. He had planned, with Michael, the outlines of 
 future novels, plays and poems. He had now no doubts 
 or fears, and the great prizes of genius, that is, such 
 prizes as England gives, golden wreaths, were all, he 
 fancied, within his grasp, to be secured by industry. 
 Within three years he had made for himself a reputa- 
 tion by honorable, but unflinching work ; and he looked 
 upon it but as the stepping-place, the mound which 
 should be raised before his hopes could blossom in com- 
 plete fruition. 
 
 “ Time, the subtile thief of youth,” 
 had never yet affrighted him ; the past was but a 
 dead past ; all life, and the bliss of prosperity were 
 in the future — and that life and bliss were to be 
 wrought out of the life and labor of the present. 
 
176 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 A few days after liis return to London, lie wrote thus 
 to Michael : — 
 
 “ London, July 1 6th, 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I am stripped to the shirt- 
 sleeves, the weather is so hot, not scampering abroad, 
 but in my oven-like study, plying the skreeking pen 
 might and main, for it is a terrible atmosphere here : 
 the glass up to fever-heat, and, except the rabid, who 
 appear now and then, not a canine frequenter of the 
 streets visible. The race of dogs seemeth extinct.” 
 
 "Whilst “plying the skreeking pen, might and main,” 
 he learned from Mrs. Banim that she was now suf- 
 ficiently restored to health to bear the atmosphere of 
 England ; and accordingly, on the 24th of August, he 
 set out for France, and returned with her to his new 
 home in Mount Street ; and Gerald Griffin succeeded 
 him in the occupation of the old lodgings in Brompton 
 Grove. 
 
 All his unoccupied time was now devoted to the 
 completion of “ The Boyne Water.” Griffin visited 
 him frequently, and was fully acquainted with all the 
 details of the work. He wrote to his brother William : 
 “Banim has been all over the North of Ireland, and 
 has brought here the world and all of materials for his 
 new novel. He has spent an immense deal of labor 
 and study in acquiring a perfect knowledge of all the 
 historical records of the period, and procured a great 
 deal of original information, and other matters, during 
 his ramble.” In weaving these materials, so gathered, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 177 
 
 into his novel, Banim seemed to forget even the friends 
 in “the old house,” and Michael wrote anxiously to 
 Mrs. Banim, requesting that she would correspond with 
 him, as John seemed lost to all honesty in paying epis- 
 tolary debts. Mrs. Banim’s reply was as follows, and it 
 reminds one of Dora Copperfield’s experiences of the 
 “ pursuits of literature.” 
 
 “ London, September 307/i, 1825. 
 
 “Dear Michael, — John is so much occupied at pre- 
 sent that I scarcely ever see his face from nine o’clock in 
 the morning to six in the evening — when, after rapping 
 for some time at the ceiling — for he works overhead — I 
 go up to his door, put on the most hungry face I can, 
 and complain of my starving state : then only can I 
 get him to come down. When he issues forth, he is 
 the true picture of stupidity. He has himself denied 
 to all visitors since our arrival from France, and the 
 whole long, long day he is shut up with his plaguey 
 ‘ Boyne Water.’ ” 
 
 Nearly a month after the date of this letter, Michael 
 received the following from John, and in it we perceive 
 the first indication of doubt as to the politics of “ The 
 Boyne Water — 
 
 “London, October 2oth, 1825. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — You have made me shake 
 and shiver, by bringing before my eyes the ticklish 
 ground on which I stand, with respect to the present 
 novel : and you have almost driven me to despair, by 
 
 telling me to look for increased reputation — or . 
 
 I almost give up the hope of realizing the wishes you 
 
178 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 have formed, of what I ought to produce. No writer 
 can pronounce on his own realization of his conceptions. 
 Unfortunately we often value a production according 
 to the pains and care we bestow on it — hence we are 
 indifferent judges of ourselves. I have good materials, 
 if I can but use them to advantage. Your notes on 
 Limerick and the contiguous country have gone be- 
 yond my expectation. I return you my thanks for all 
 you have done. Apart from the matter I wanted, your 
 memoranda are rich, and suggestive to me of a contin- 
 uance of such things by both of us conjointly, to be 
 followed, some time or other, by the publication of 
 ‘ Walks through Ireland, by the O’Hara Family.’ ” 
 
 At length, as the novel advanced towards completion, 
 he seems to have become still more nervous on the sub- 
 ject of its probable success. Michael had warned him 
 that in adopting the political tone so strongly coloring 
 the tale, he was endangering its popularity with a large 
 section of readers : and truly it was most dangerous 
 ground. Gerald Griffin, however, did not participate in 
 or encourage these fears — but then he never feared an} r - 
 thing ; his soul was like a lark, always soaring. He 
 wrote to his brother Yfilliam thus: — “I dined with 
 Banim last week, and found him far gone in a new 
 novel, now just finished, ‘The Boyne Water/ ( good 
 name!) which is far superior, in my humble judgment, 
 to the ‘ O’Hara Family / ” that he spoke to Banim as he 
 wrote to his brother, there can be little doubt ; and John 
 seems to have regained his self-reliance, and to have 
 taken to himself the counsel he had offered to Michael, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 179 
 
 when he wrote — “Man alive! hold up your head and 
 have courage.” 
 
 The following letter, written a few days after that last 
 inserted, is most interesting : the anxiety that Michael 
 should correct freely; the humble confidence in his 
 brother’s judgment ; the holy spirit of belief, which, 
 however much, in one point, a worshipper of another 
 creed might dissent from it, yet none can refuse to 
 admire in the man, all render this letter worthy of the 
 true-hearted writer : — 
 
 “ London, November 6th, 1825. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — With this you will receive the 
 first volume of ‘The Boyne Water.’ I expect to go to 
 press in a month from this day, so read it immediately, 
 and return it as promptly as you can. 
 
 “Be very candid in your remarks, because I ought 
 to be made to know myself : and don’t you, at least, 
 through a false delicacy, let me lead myself astray — 
 every man’s vanity blinds himself, to himself, of himself. 
 
 “This morning (Sunday), accompanying Ellen to 
 Communion, I was delighted with the fair and beautiful 
 sight of a crowd of other communicants, of every rank 
 and age, clustering to the sanctuary. Some old Chelsea 
 pensioners were there. The lame, the blind, and the 
 tottering : and there were boys and girls of very tender 
 age mixed with these infirm old men. Leaning down 
 to minister the bread of comfort and of life to those 
 stumblers on the grave’s brink, and those young adven- 
 turers on a world of temptation, was a most reverend- 
 looking priest, with long white hairs, who, to my knowl- 
 edge, is one of the most zealous, virtuous, simple-minded 
 
180 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 men alive. My dear Michael, as I looked on, the recol- 
 lection of our first communion together side by side, 
 and of the devotion and holy awe that filled my heart 
 at the time ; and the remembrance of our aged and 
 benevolent parish priest bending down to us with the 
 sacrament in his fingers, came refreshingly to me, like 
 the draught from a pure spring ; and a long train of 
 innocent days and blissful times passed before me — 
 with my thoughts recurrent to boyhood.” 
 
 “The Boyne Water” was commenced in July, 1825, 
 and at Christmas of that year the three volumes were in 
 the hands of the printer ; and early in the year 1826 it 
 was before the critics, who gave it a very severe and 
 rough reception ; their criticisms, however, were directed 
 against its politics rather than its literary merit or its 
 structure of plot and scene. 
 
 It was published as a fiction “ By the O’Hara Family,” 
 but, writes Michael Banim to us — “ With the exception 
 of examining the locality of the Siege of Limerick (the 
 siege of the violated treaty, as it is called), and the trac- 
 ing of Sarsfield’s route from the beleaguered city to the 
 spot where he surprised and destroyed the reinforce- 
 ment of cannon on its way from Kilkenny, I had no 
 direct concern in this tale. It passed through my hands 
 during its progress, and I pruned, and added, and cor- 
 rected ad libitum .” 
 
 Boughly, however, as the critics used this book, the 
 reading public were its very warm admirers ; but, better 
 than all, to one wlo wanted money, Colburn offered 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 181 
 
 a very large sum for the next tale “By the O’Hara 
 Family;” and John, closing with the proposal, com- 
 menced writing his novel, “ The Nowlans.” 
 
 The northern tour of John Banim was but part of 
 that extended one required to be undertaken and com- 
 pleted before the entire scenery of the localities intro- 
 duced into “The Boyne Water” could be described from 
 actual observation. Time, however, did not permit him 
 to traverse this route himself, and Michael was enlisted 
 as the note-taker of the southern districts. From the 
 notes so taken the descriptions of Limerick and the 
 surrounding country in “The Boyne Water” were 
 written. 
 
 Michael’s tour, however, was remarkable, as an ad- 
 venture occurring in its progress suggested to John the 
 powerfully written, but painful novel, “ The Nowlans.” 
 Michael Banim has, with his usual kindness, written 
 for us the following account of this incident to which 
 we have referred, and it will be observed that John, 
 with consummate ability, wrought out the idea sug- 
 gested by Michael : — 
 
 “While pursuing the track of Sarsfield on his route 
 to intercept the reinforcements destined to strengthen 
 the besiegers of Limerick, I journeyed on foot through 
 the Slieve Bloom Mountains, tracing my w r ay principally 
 by the traditionary information given by the people. 
 I kept an itinerary as I went along, referable not only 
 to the purpose of my journey, but descriptive also of 
 the peculiar and impressive scenery around me, and 
 
182 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of the existing characteristics of a little known but, as 
 they appear to me, a very fine people. 
 
 “ My adventures during this excursion were not with- 
 out interest ; and, after it had been ascertained satis- 
 factorily that I was not a gauger, coming to spy after 
 potteen sellers and potteen stills, I found courtesy and 
 kindness, and disinterested assistance, all through the 
 mountain range. 
 
 “ It was my fate to seek shelter for the night at the 
 house of a farmer named Daniel Kennedy. His warm 
 and comfortable dwelling was in a mountain hollow, 
 known as Fail Dhuiv, or the Black Glen. The peculi- 
 arities of this out-of-the-way homestead, the appearance 
 of the dwellers therein, and the details of the unosten- 
 tatiously hospitable reception given to me w r ere faith- 
 fully reported in my note-book. Extracted thence, al- 
 most word for word, my veritable account forms the 
 introduction to the tale of ‘The Nowlans.’ There was a 
 sick son on the night of my visit occupying the stran- 
 ger’s bedroom, about whom the good woman of the 
 house and her daughters appeared to be most anxious. 
 I could not, for this reason, be accommodated in the 
 apartment usually reserved for guests, and my bed 
 was made up on the kitchen table. The home-made 
 sheets and blankets, white as snow, and redolent of 
 the sweet mountain breeze in which they had been 
 bleached, were most inviting to a weary pedestrian, as 
 I was ; and I slept luxuriously that night on the kitchen 
 table, under the roof of Daniel Kennedy of Fail Dhuiv. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM, 
 
 183 
 
 “The circumstance of the sick son, who, I could 
 learn, had been away, and who, in his illness, had come 
 home to seek the ministry of his affectionate kindred, 
 gave the idea, and no more than the idea, of John Now- 
 lan — the hero of the new tale. 5 ’* 
 
 Whilst John was engaged upon “The Nowlans,” 
 Michael paid him a long-promised visit in London, in 
 the summer of 1826 ; and then it appeared that John 
 had, in his letters, detailed only the good and cheering 
 
 * The broad humor of the following passage from Michael’s introductory 
 letter to “ The Nowlans,” we have always considered quite worthy of Smollett or 
 Fielding. “Abel O’Hara” has been drenched by a heavy shower in the moun- 
 tains, and returning to Nowlan’s house finds that — . 
 
 ‘ ‘ All the family stood at the threshold to receive me ; exclamations of condo- 
 lence came from every tongue ; and, almost by main force, the old' woman, her 
 daughters, and the robust maid-servant, forced me off to a bedchamber, where 
 I was commanded to doff every tack upon me, and cover myself up in a neat 
 little bed, until every tack should be well dried. In vain I remonstrated: Mrs. 
 Nowlan and her handmaid whisked off my coat and vest, even while I spoke ; 
 the latter, squatting herself on her haunches, then attacked my shoes and stock- 
 ings; Peggy appropriated my cravat; and I began to entertain some real alarm 
 as to the eventual Result of their proceedings, when away they went in a body, 
 each laden with a spoil, and all renewing their commands that I should instantly 
 peel off my Russia-ducks and my inner garment, drop them at the bed-side, and 
 then retiring between the sheets, call out to have them removed. 
 
 “I did even as I was bid; and when properly disposed to give the appointed 
 signal, Cauth Flannigan, the maid of all-work, speedily attended to it, re-enter- 
 ing with something on her arm, from which her eye occasionally wandered to 
 my half-seen face, in a struggle, as I thought— and I believe I was not wrong in 
 my reading — between most provoking merriment and a decent composure of 
 countenance: ‘The misthess sent this shirt, Sir — only it isn’t a shirt entirely, 
 but one belongin’ to the misthess, becase it’s the washin’ week, an’ the sick- 
 ness in the place, an’ all, an’ the misthess couldn’t make off a betther at a 
 pinch’ — and, laying it on the edge of the bed, Cauth strove to hide her giggle and 
 her blushes by stooping to take up the last of my drenched garments. When 
 she had again retired with them, I examined the nicely-folded article she had 
 left with me, and, truly, it was not * a shirt entirely ’ — but — what shall I call it, 
 Barnes? — a female shirt, haply; the personal property, as Cauth would have it, 
 of Mrs. Nowlan; yet, from the earnestness with which that zealous Abigail strove 
 to impress the fact upon me, as also from the hasty erasure of an initial near 
 its upper edge, I had my own doubts, while I put it on, concerning the identity 
 of its owner.” 
 
 
184 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 facts connected with his life, and had but too well con- 
 cealed the slow but certain progress of his malady. 
 Though only in his twenty-eighth, he seemed at least 
 in his fortieth year ; his hair was grizzled ; his face was 
 wrinkled ; his limbs were so weak that Michael feared 
 lest he should fall in the streets as they walked to- 
 gether ; and then, during Michael’s visit, he was witness 
 of one of his brother’s paroxysms of pain, and though 
 he had seen — had even been as his nurse during — his 
 
 first illness, after the death of Anne D , yet this 
 
 attack, though but of a few hours’ continuance, fright- 
 ened him by its violence, although when it passed away 
 John was gay and hopeful as ever. 
 
 "Whilst thus working and suffering, he once more, 
 through his anxiety to serve Gerald Griffin, became 
 estranged from him. It would appear that Banim had 
 induced him to write an operatic piece for the English 
 Opera House, which Arnold accepted through Banim’s 
 recommendation, agreeing to give £50 for it; and Gerald 
 wrote to his brother: “Much as I had known of Banim’s 
 kindness, I hardly looked for this great promptitude.” 
 This piece was entitled “ The Noyades but though 
 Griffin received every encouragement to write on from 
 Arnold, yet, fearing lest it might be supposed that 
 Banim was in any way his patron — for he had, as his 
 brother states, “an almost morbid horror of patron- 
 ige” — he sent two other pieces, under the nom de plume 
 C G. Joseph,” to the Manager. He had quite sufficient 
 influence with the latter to secure a favorable reception 
 
 i 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 185 
 
 for his pieces ; as, by liis essays on the Italian and Eng- 
 lish Operas, published in “ The Town,” and in which he 
 had endeavored to excite a taste for purely English mu- 
 sic, and characteristic English recitative, he had gained 
 considerable reputation. The facts of this misunder- 
 standing, within the scope of this portion of Banim’s 
 Memoir, are thus related by Griffin’s biographer : — 
 
 44 Gerald, though fully sensible of Mr. Banim’s kindness and friendly 
 solicitude about him, could not by any effort wholly divest himself 
 of the instinctive reluctance he felt to place himself under deep ob- 
 ligations to one upon whose good nature he had no other claim than 
 his own difficulties ; and his friend, conscious of this feeling, was 
 perhaps too observant of the least expression which betrayed it. The 
 consequence was — as soon as an opportunity of rendering Gerald a 
 service occurred — some unhappy misconception on both sides. After 
 the former misunderstanding, Mr. Banim, far from losing interest in 
 Gerald’s welfare, sought anxiously to render him services in the only 
 manner he saw they would be accepted, by procuring him a market 
 for his labors. Aware of his dramatic talent, he was continually 
 urging him to write for the theatres, and especially for the English 
 Opera House, where, from his own intimacy with Mr. Arnold, he was 
 sure any recommendation of his would meet with attention. He at 
 last obtained a piece from Gerald, to be presented at the English 
 Opera House, out of which, some time after, arose the following cor- 
 respondence : — 
 
 4 Thursday , August 1 8th, 1826. 
 
 4 Mr dear Sir, — Yesterday, I handed your piece to Mr. Arnold. 
 He read it instantly, and agreed with me in thinking it one of a high 
 order. Here and there, however, I suspect you will have to cut and 
 alter — and perhaps your songs must be re-written, and appear with 
 less poetry, and more se^-ableness about them. I conclude that your 
 little drama will be produced this season, and, some day soon, I’m to 
 have the pleasure of introducing you to Mr. Arnold, who thinks very 
 highly of your dramatic power, I assure you, and whom you will find 
 possessed of all the technical acquirements calculated to mature it. 
 
 4 My dear Sir, faithfully yours, 
 
 ‘John Banim.-' 
 
186 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 ‘ Thursday Evening, August 18 th, 1826. 
 
 i My dear Sir, — I shall be obliged to go into the city to-morrow, so 
 that I must take this opportunity of mentioning that I have just seen 
 Mr. Arnold. I gave him the piece with the alterations of which you 
 spoke to me, and he said he would read it again, and supposed he 
 should have the pleasure of seeing you in a day or two. Talking of 
 money matters — for he spoke of the mode of payment, though he 
 said nothing decisive — I’m such a stupid awkward fool, that I could 
 scarcely understand the business properly, but I thought there ap- 
 peared to be some feeling on his part of unwillingness to incur risk, or 
 some such thing. If this was at all the case, I certainly should not 
 take any remuneration previous to its being produced. My feeling 
 on this subject is a great deal that of indifference, but if the piece 
 were found profitable to the theatre, I should by no means be content 
 that it should be otherwise to me — and that is all I feel about it. I 
 should be perfectly satisfied to let the piece be played, and let Mr. 
 Arnold calculate its worth by its success. I trouble you with this, 
 my dear Sir, in the hope that you may make use of it, as far as you 
 think proper, in case Mr. Arnold should speak to you on the matter, 
 as he said he would. A far greater object than any payment in specie 
 to me would be the being enabled to take my trial soon. How can I 
 apologize to you for all this? 
 
 i I am, my dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 ‘ Gerald Griffin.’ 
 
 “ It is evident that the feeling of 1 indifference ’ which Gerald 
 expresses in this letter, related entirely to the mode of payment, as 
 to whether it should be absolute and unconditional, or dependent 
 upon the success of the piece. Mr. Banim, however, seems unfortu- 
 nately to have formed some misconception of the expression, as 
 appears by the following letter : — 
 
 ‘ Tuesday Morning, August 23 d, 1826. 
 
 ‘ My dear Sir, — Yesterday, after calling another day without 
 seeing him, Mr. Arnold spoke to me finally about your piece. He is 
 well disposed towards it, and, if you permit, will act it. I could see 
 none of the indecisiveness you mentioned in your last, nor did he 
 say a word that could make me believe he thought he ran any risk 
 in the matter. Perhaps you mistook him in your interview. He now 
 desires me to inform you that you may get paid in proportion to its 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM, 
 
 187 
 
 success on the established terms of his theatre, or sell your drama at 
 once for fifty pounds, including the publishing copyright. Should 
 you prefer the former mode of remuneration, it will be necessary for 
 you to ascertain, by calling on him, what are the usual terms of 
 paying authorship in his theatre by nights. I know nothing of it. I 
 invariably prefer a certainty beforehand ; indeed he got a piece of 
 mine for less than he offers for yours, and I believe I have not been 
 a loser. Mr. Howard Payne did not, I am informed, receive more 
 from Covent Garden, either for his Clare, or Charles II. 
 
 ‘Miss Kelly has been ill, and perhaps but for that your piece 
 would now be in progress. Mr. Arnold still thinks he will produce 
 it this season. You inform me that your feeling on that subject is 
 one of a great deal of indifference. This I must regret, particularly 
 as I have been the cause of giving you trouble in a matter which 
 does not interest you. I assure you, at the time I first wrote for the 
 English Opera House, and waited month after month even for an 
 answer, I would not have been indifferent to whatever chance might 
 have got my piece read and answered two hours after it had been 
 handed in, and the transaction finally brought to a close in a few days. 
 
 ‘ I am, my dear Sir, truly yours, 
 
 ‘ John Banim. 
 
 ‘ However you may decide, Mr. Arnold hopes to close with yourself.’ 
 
 6 Tuesday Evening, August 23 d, 1826. 
 
 * My dear Sir, — I have just received your letter, which I hasten to 
 answer. I am exceedingly obliged to you for all the trouble you 
 have taken with the play, and am most gratified with the conclu- 
 sion. I feel the entire extent of the obligation which you have con- 
 ferred upon me ; I always felt it, and I thought I said so in my first 
 letter, but a mistake you have fallen into with respect to my last, 
 renders it necessary for me to explain. 
 
 ‘ The indifference of which I spoke (as probably you will find by 
 referring to the letter) related entirely to Mr. Arnold’s mode of pay- 
 ment, or indeed payment at all in the first instance, as, from the 
 conversation I had with you on the subject, and the subsequent inter- 
 view with Mr. Arnold, I concluded that nothing worth being very 
 anxious about was to be done in the way of money, at a summer 
 theatre. It was far from an object of indifference to me, however, 
 that a play of mine should be produced. When you thought I meant 
 to say this, you gave me credit for a greater piece of coxcombry than 
 
188 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 I was conscious of. It has been the object of my life for many years; 
 I could not profess to be indifferent about it, still less could I be 
 indifferent to the nature or extent of the obligation when conferred. 
 Let me beg of you to take this general assurance in preference to any 
 construction which possibly may be put on casual words or sentences. 
 
 ‘ I am, my dear Sir, very truly yours, 
 
 1 Gerald Griffin. j 
 
 “ To this letter, which certainly seems sufficiently explanatory, Mr. 
 Banim unfortunately returned no answer, believing, as he afterwards 
 mentions, that both parties were content, and all cause of misunder- 
 standing removed. Gerald, however, very naturally expected some 
 acknowledgment of the fact, and not receiving it, ceased to urge any 
 renewal of an intimacy, the interruption of which he felt did not rest 
 with him. It would seem extraordinary that Mr. Banim, after having 
 always evinced such a kind interest in Gerald’s affairs, and received 
 so ample an explanation of the slight misconception which occurred, 
 did not evince some sign of returning confidence : but I believe the 
 fact to be, that before an opportunity occurred for declaring it, a new 
 and more annoying cause of jealousy arose. At the time that Mr. 
 Banim’s works were in the very highest estimation, and when, indeed, 
 the assistance of no new author could have added to their reputation, 
 he offered Gerald a place in the O’Hara Family, and urged him to 
 contribute a tale. To a person wholly unknown, and whose most 
 successful work could not have procured for him a third of the price 
 from the booksellers which could be obtained for it as one of the 
 O’Hara Tales, this was a very generous proposal. It was, however, 
 declined by Gerald, on the plea that he was unequal to the task. 
 Hollandtide appeared some months subsequent to this, and almost 
 immediately after the conclusion of the correspondence respecting 
 the drama accepted by Mr. Arnold. It w r as hardly surprising that, 
 under such circumstances, Mr. Banim should feel he was treated dis- 
 ingenuously, especially as he was convinced Gerald had Hollandtide 
 written at the time he declared his inability to write a tale for the 
 O’Hara collection. This, however, was really not the case. Most 
 of the tales in Hollandtide were written in an inconceivably short 
 space of time (not more than two or three months) before their pub- 
 lication, and entirely at my constant urging ; and I can testify from 
 the difficulty I had in inducing him to make the effort at all, how 
 very diffident and doubtful he was of success. I do not mean that he 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 189 
 
 exactly underrated his own powers, but I believe he did not think 
 that his engagements with the periodicals, which he could not give 
 up, would allow him sufficient time and consideration to attain the 
 success he was ambitious of, in a regular work of fiction. In any 
 event, indeed, I do not believe he would have joined an author of 
 established fame in his labors, however advantageous it might be in 
 a pecuniary point of view. If there was any one object dearer to 
 him than another in his literary career, it was the ambition of attain- 
 ing rank and fame by his own unaided efforts, or at least without 
 placing himself under obligations to those on whom he felt he had 
 no claim ; but independent of this, and highly as he must have ap- 
 preciated the kindness of Mr. Banim’s proposal, he might not unnatu- 
 rally conclude that the public would consider his own early efforts 
 as indebted for success more to the assistance of his eminent friend 
 than to any original or independent merit they possessed. He had 
 besides, on all occasions, an almost morbid horror of patronage, aris- 
 ing partly from a natural independence of mind, but yet more from 
 the depressing disappointments of his early literary life. When first 
 he came to London, he sought by a few introductions and the friendly 
 exertions of literary acquaintances to bring his productions favor- 
 ably before the public, but without the slightest success. His powers 
 seemed to be undervalued precisely in proportion as he made in- 
 terest to procure them consideration, until at length, disgusted by 
 repeated failure, he resolved in future to trust wholly to his own un- 
 friended exertions, and if they should not sustain him, to abandon 
 the struggle. It was soon after forming this resolution that success 
 first dawned upon his efforts, and that he was anxiously sought for as 
 an anonymous contributor by the editors of periodicals, who, when 
 he was previously introduced to them, would give him nothing to do. 
 In proportion as his success increased, the remembrance of the many 
 mortifying disappointments he had formerly experienced seemed to 
 sink more deeply into his mind, and he gradually acquired a degree 
 of sensitiveness with respect to patronage that made him recoil from 
 even the ordinary and necessary means of obtaining attention for his 
 pieces. This may have influenced him much less with respect to Mr. 
 Banim than others.” * 
 
 Matters rested thus, and we shall hereafter, at the 
 proper time, resume the history of th^s disagreement, 
 
 * Life of Gerald Griffin, Esq. By his Brother. 
 
190 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 and the happy, honest, ingenuous reconciliation of these 
 two excellent men. 
 
 Michael returned to Kilkenny in August, 1826 ; and 
 when he left London, “The Nowlans” was entirely 
 finished, and he had acted as the critic upon it ; but 
 in six weeks after he had reached his home, “ Peter of 
 the Castle ” was forwarded to him for his corrections. 
 This story is founded upon the character of one w£ll 
 known in the neighborhood of Kilkenny some few years 
 before the period of which we write. “ The Nowlans ” 
 and “Peter of the Castle” form the second series of 
 “ The Tales by the O’Hara Family,” which was pub- 
 lished in November, 1826. The series was thus dedi- 
 cated : — “ To Ireland’s True Son and First Poet, Thomas 
 Moore, Esq. With the Highest National Pride in his 
 Genius as an Irishman, these Tales are Inscribed.” It 
 would appear that Moore, although blundering in his 
 recollection of the words of the dedication, was pleased 
 with it ; and when, in the year 1830, he visited Kilkenny, 
 whilst staying with the late Mr. Bryan of Jenkinstown, 
 he made the following entry in his “ Diary,” under date 
 September 8th : — “Walked Avith Tom into Kilkenny, to 
 show it to him. Called at Mr. Banim’s (the father of 
 the author of the ‘ Tales of the O’Hara Family,’ who 
 keeps a little powder and shot shop in Kilkenny), and 
 not finding him at home, left a memorandum* to say 
 that I had called out of respect to his son. Took care 
 
 * The memorandum was as follows, and old Mr. Banim valued it most highly, 
 and always carried it about with him in his pocket-book : — “ Mr. Thomas Moore 
 called to pay his respects to the father of the author of ‘ The O’Hara Family.’ ” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 191 
 
 to impress upon Tom how great the merit of a young 
 man must be who, with not one hundredth part of the 
 advantages of education that he (Tom) had in his power, 
 could yet so distinguish himself as to cause this kind of 
 tribute of respect to be paid to his father. I have not, it 
 is true, read more than one of Banim’s stories myself, 
 but that one was good, and I take the rest upon credit. 
 Besides, he dedicated his second series to me, calling me 
 ‘ Ireland’s free son and true poet/ which was handsome 
 of him.’’ * 
 
 It would, perhaps, be almost impossible to suggest 
 any plot more powerfully conceived, and more vigorously 
 elaborated, than that of “ The Nowlans.” It is, in truth, 
 the analysis of passion : love in every phase — its pathos 
 and its rage ; and when we close the book, saddened by 
 the fate of poor Letty Nowlan and her misguided lover, 
 we feel how truly the epigraph which Banim selected 
 from Gray describes the lot of the hero and heroine : — 
 
 “ These shall the fury passions tear — 
 
 The,vultures of the mind. ” 
 
 The whole vigor of Banim’s genius was engaged in 
 the construction of this novel ; and it was, in its first 
 edition, disfigured by some passages which his more 
 sober judgment led him afterwards to omit. If, how- 
 ever, we take this novel solely as a specimen of what 
 Banim’s genius could enable him to achieve, and if we 
 compare all its parts, considering them as a whole, it 
 
 * “Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore.” Edited by 
 the Right Hon. Lord John RusselL Vol. VI. p. 136. 
 
1132 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 must be classed amongst the most powerful fictions of 
 the time, and if not the first, certainly of the first rank. 
 Doubtless if it be not taken as a whole*, the melodramatic 
 character appears too boldly, but this is an objection 
 which might, with equal force, be urged against “ The 
 Bride of Lammermoor ” and “ Eugene Aram.” Pos- 
 sibly it was through regarding particular characters only 
 that Miss Mitford was induced to write — “John Banim 
 was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, 
 always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles 
 the modern romantic French school, that, if it were 
 possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, 
 and Alexandre Dumas of reading the English, which 
 they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, 
 one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen 
 their peculiar inspiration from the ‘O’Hara Family.’ ”* 
 The success of “The Nowlans” was most satisfac- 
 tory indeed ; but as reputation and competence were 
 reached, disease and pain advanced with more violent 
 and confirmed tenacity. Still he wrote on ; none knew 
 how nobly and bravely he worked ; for, though it was 
 easy to measure his hours of toil, who could measure 
 that toil done in wringing, agonizing, burning pain ? 
 “ He looked forty,” says Michael, “ though not eight- 
 and-twenty his hair was grizzled, his face wrinkled, 
 and he tottered as he walked, if the distance were many 
 
 * “ Recollections of a Literary Life ; or. Books, Places, and People.” By Mary 
 Russell Mitford. Vol. I. chap. 2. “ Hardress Cregan,” in “The Collegians,” 
 
 appears to us much more French than either “Tresham”in “The Fetches,” 
 or “John Nowlan.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 193 
 
 doors off. During four months he never communicated 
 with his family in Kilkenny, because he would not tell 
 them of his illness ; and at length, when Christmas, 
 with its joys and sorrows, had come round once more, 
 and when he believed that his health was somewhat 
 improved, he wrote thus to Michael, in the old hopeful 
 tone, bowing before the will of the Almighty in that 
 same spirit in which Galileo said of his lost sight, “ it has 
 pleased God that it should be so, and it must please 
 me also.” In this letter nothing is omitted or forgotten, 
 and home is home still, and every memory of other days 
 is around his heart, as warmly cherished as if he had 
 known neither the elevation of success nor the depres- 
 sion of withering sickness and disappointment : — 
 
 “ London, Christmas Day , 182G. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I have just got your letter of the 
 21st. How could you suppose I should forget the hob- 
 nob at six this evening? We will chink our glasses to 
 you with hearty good will and fond remembrance. 
 
 <£ When you were with me you insisted on my promise 
 that I should be very candid with you in future regard- 
 ing the state of my health. It was an injudicious en- 
 gagement for me to make, or for you to exact. Why 
 should I afflict those who love me ? 
 
 “ I have been very ill, but, under good treatment, am 
 now much better. The pains came on with violence, 
 accompanied by numbness and chilliness in the limbs, 
 and general exhaustion. So I set to work for the best 
 advice. You were right in saying that the pains are not 
 at all rheumatic or gouty. My most excellent, as well 
 as eminent, medical friend, after a long examination 
 
 9 
 
 
194 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of me, touching my pursuits and mode of life for some 
 years, and a careful consideration of the symptoms, de- 
 cides that the brain pan, or my substitute for such, has 
 been overworked ; and that nervous debility, locally pro- 
 ducing my ailment, has been the result. His treatment 
 is preventive as well as stimulating. I am interdicted 
 from much study of any kind ; desired to take my ease ; 
 to live well, at the same time that I swallow tonics, and 
 submit my poor body to the shower bath. My dear 
 Michael, this is a hard sentence against me. If I am 
 not to study, what am I to do ? But let me not mur- 
 mur. Let me not forget the goodness of God to one 
 so unbefriended as I was, nor anticipate the withdrawal 
 of His guardianship. With His help I shall mend, and 
 the prospect will brighten again. 
 
 “By the way, I shall never forget the first morning 
 I took a shower bath. A shock I had reckoned on, but 
 for the tremendous one I felt, my mind had made no 
 provision. I had scarcely touched the string, and 
 brought down the first shower, when I manfully plunged 
 straight forward, bursting open the door of the bath, and 
 allowing the water to inundate the room. To heighten 
 the scene, Ellen and a favorite cat were slumbering in 
 bed in the next apartment, and when they heard the 
 mixed commotion, they repeatedly manifested, each in 
 her own way, their extreme astonishment and alarm 
 thereat. 
 
 “To return. I said I am much better, and but for 
 the diabolical London weather that surrounds me, — 
 enough to relax the system of the big metal Achilles 
 in Hyde Park, — I should be better still. 
 
 “ It is some time since I have written to you : I did 
 not care to annoy you when I was very ill, and I dare 
 not, after my engagement, misrepresent facts. As far 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANI1I. 
 
 195 
 
 as acute torture, sleepless nights, and total prostration of 
 frame could go, my worst enemies need not have wished 
 me to suffer more. 
 
 “ The second series go on right well ; but the pub- 
 lishers say they are too strongly written, too harrowing, 
 and, in parts, too warm and impure. The latter portion 
 of this judgment, I regret to say, is merited. I have 
 made a mistake, and must not again fall into the same 
 error. 
 
 “Nowa word or two as to yourself. I like the sketch 
 you have sent me extremely well. You tell me you have 
 read extensively, and that you have good materials for 
 a story, if you thought yourself able to turn them to 
 account. I tell you that you are able. One of your 
 greatest drawbacks is your mean opinion of yourself. 
 If we do not feel that we have power, we will not at- 
 tempt to exercise it. I saw and said from the beginning, 
 from my view of your first scrap of Crohoore, that you 
 had the requisite qualifications ; and now, when my 
 opinion has been strengthened by that of the public, I 
 urge you to think better of yourself — go on with your 
 intended tale — I will handle it as before — have confi- 
 dence in yourself, and, with God’s help, the result will 
 please you. 
 
 “Now — here goes for an effort : I will walk to the 
 next post-office as well as I can, to drop in this letter, 
 then home to a rib of beef, and then ‘the people over 
 the water ’ — hip, hip. hurra ! 
 
 “ This with best heart’s love from Ellen and from 
 
 “J. B.” 
 
 “The last paragrajoh of this letter,’’ writes Michael, 
 “may require explanation. 
 
 “ At home in Kilkenny, as the clock struck six on each 
 
196 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Christmas evening, all glasses were filled to the brim: 
 when the last vibration ceased, my father raised his 
 bumper, and gave the toast — 
 
 ‘ Health and long life to poor John and Ellen 
 
 FAR AWAY.’ 
 
 By agreement, as the clock struck the same hour in 
 London (we overlooked the difference of time) there 
 was the answering toast of — 
 
 ‘Health and happiness to all at home.’ 
 
 Even when our mother was no longer able to leave her 
 bed, her glass of wine was brought to her, and she 
 joined in the pledge from the inner room.” 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 ANXIETY FOB FAME AS A DRAMATIC POET COMPOSITION OF HIS 
 
 TRAGEDY “ SYLLA ” HISTORY OF THE TRAGEDY COMPARISON 
 
 OF IT WITH THE “ SYLLA ” OF DERRICK AND JOUY EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM IT LETTERS PROPOSED VISIT TO THE SOUTH OF ENG- 
 LAND RESTORED HEALTH — FRIENDSHIP OF JOHN STERLING 
 
 VISIT TO CAMBRIDGE RESTORED HEALTH OF MRS. BANIM 
 
 URGING MICHAEL BANIM TO CONTINUE JOINT AUTHORSHIP — 
 
 LETTERS BUOYANT SPIRITS AND NEW PROJECTS REMOVAL TO 
 
 EASTBOURNE OPINION OF MICHAEL’S TALE, “ THE CROPPY ” 
 
 ACCOUNT OF ITS COMPOSITION A DAUGHTER BORN TO JOHN 
 
 BANIM CORRESPONDENCE WITH GERALD GRIFFIN REMOVAL 
 
 TO SEVEN OAKS ADMIRABLE LETTER TO MICHAEL UPON THE 
 
 COMPOSITION OF A NOVEL AND THE SELECTION OF CHARACTERS 
 
 INCIDENTS SUGGESTED AND OLD STORIES RECALLED THE 
 
 BEAUTIES AND ART OF GREAT NOVELISTS DISPLAYED LETTER 
 
 FROM MICHAEL SHOWING RESULT OF THIS ADVICE IN THE PRO- 
 DUCTION OF “THE GHOST HUNTER ” ILLNESS LETTER TO 
 
 MICHAEL LITERARY OCCUPATIONS DESCRIBED BEAUTIFUL 
 
 ACCOUNT OF HIS HOME LIFE HIS CONDITION, THE BODY RACKED, 
 
 BUT THE MIND GLOWING DELIGHT AT RENEWED FRIENDSHIP 
 
 OF GERALD GRIFFIN THEIR LETTERS TO EACH OTHER RE- 
 MOVAL TO BLACKHEATH ILLNESS AND PROSTRATION OF 
 
 STRENGTH REMOVAL TO THE FRENCH COAST ADVISED BY PHY- 
 SICIANS ANOTHER SERIES OF “ TALES BY THE o’HARA FAMILY” 
 
 HURRIEDLY WRITTEN BY JOHN BANIM, AND PUBLISHED UNDER 
 THE TITLE OF “ THE DENOUNCED ” — REMOVAL TO FRANCE. 
 
 It will have been remarked by the attentive student of 
 Banim’s mind, as exhibited in his letters, that the old 
 love of poetry and of dramatic composition, recurs fre- 
 quently in evident forms. It was, indeed, never entirely 
 
198 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 lost, and lie seems to have cherished hopes of brilliant 
 and steady success in that most difficult of all literary 
 labors — the production of a really poetical, original 
 drama. 
 
 He was ever, in his leisure hours — and these, truly, 
 were few — engaged in poetic composition ; he had no 
 pleasures save those springing from literature. In 
 this he did not resemble Scott, or Byron, or Pope, or 
 Moore ; and he, more than any literary man of our 
 time, could declare, with the great Chancellor of France, 
 D’Aguesseau, “ le changement d’etude est toujours un 
 delassement pour moi.” The hero of his drama was 
 always selected from those historic names whose deeds, 
 and crimes or virtues, have afforded the fullest scope 
 for the display of the genius of the dramatist and the 
 art of the actor. It is also worthy of remark that, in 
 all his dramas, as in all his novels, Banim ever chooses 
 the portrayal of the wildest and fiercest passions, or 
 the most harrowing and striking situations. 
 
 Ancient history seems to have been the storehouse 
 whence he selected his plots ; “ Damon and Pythias ” 
 was one of these subjects thus drawn, and of its treat- 
 ment the reader has been already enabled to judge ; 
 but, in the latter months of 1826, Banim commenced 
 the composition of his tragedy entitled “ Sylla,” and it 
 was completed in the last week of January, 1827. He 
 appears to have supposed that his play was the first 
 attempt to paint the character of Sylla in the English 
 language ; and, doubtless, his was the first attempt 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 199 
 
 worthy the theme. A drama in three acts, and entitled 
 “ Sylla,” was, however, writ-ten by Derrick, and printed, 
 though never performed, in 1753 ; it grossly miscon- 
 ceives the character of the Dictator, and makes him, in 
 addition, sing three songs. 
 
 By a strange coincidence Derrick founded this drama 
 on, and in part translated it from, a French play of the 
 early part of the seventeenth century, and Banim formed 
 his tragedy upon, and in part translated it from, the 
 “Sylla” of M. Jouy : and thus it comes to pass that 
 the only dramatic authors who have taken Sylla for 
 their subject have had one common fountain of inspi- 
 ration — a French original. Of his own design, and of 
 his opinions of Sylla’s character as conceived by M. 
 Jouy, Banim thus wrote : — 
 
 “ The present is, so far as the writer is aware, the first attempt in 
 the English language to illustrate, by dramatic action, the character 
 of Sylla, and to account plausibly for the motives for his last astound- 
 ing act of power — namely, his laying down the dictatorship. That 
 the man, and the events of his public life, particularly the one speci- 
 fied, are strikingly dramatic, will not be denied ; and the previous 
 want of an English tragedy, built with such materials, is almost as 
 striking. Perhaps it may have been caused by the apparent difficulty 
 of the task. It is quite true that history supplies very little to make 
 such a task easy. Sylla’s heart and mind have been less unveiled to 
 us by old writers than have those of any other celebrated personage 
 of antiquity. His own reasons for some of his actions — actions, some- 
 times noble, sometimes atrocious, always startling — remain at best 
 but as matters of guess-work to us. The outline of his character is 
 blurred to our eyes. We do not understand him. Caesar, Antony, 
 Brutus, Catiline, and a score other citizens of old Rome, occur to our 
 thoughts like intimate, well-known acquaintances, while of Sylla our 
 notions are vague and unformed. As to what must have been truly 
 his state of mind, when he laid down the palm and purple, and dis- 
 
200 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 missed bis lictors in the Forum amid a crowd of people, from scarce 
 one of whom he had not good reason to dread a stern and dangerous 
 remonstrance regarding his reign as dictator — upon his reasons for 
 this prodigious and sublime act of hardihood, history is silent. And 
 hence indeed would seem to arise such a difficulty as had just been 
 conjectured. If you make a man the hero of a play, you must neces- 
 sarily make him speak in his own person ; and just as necessarily, 
 sooner or later, in the progress of your five acts, you must make him 
 account, out of his own lips, for what he does. But how is this to be 
 easily effected with an historical character of whose incentives to 
 what he does ancient historians seem to decline all explanation ? 
 
 “ In another country, however, a tragedy of ‘ Sylla’ has been pro- 
 duced, and its author, M. Jouy, of the French Academy, has, in his 
 own apprehension, found no obstacle in the way. Upon the authority 
 of Montesquieu, that gentleman refers to what can be nothing, or 
 little less than patriotism, not only Sylla’s abdication, but even his 
 usurpation of the dictatorship, thus (I quote from M. Jouy’s preface 
 to his tragedy): — 
 
 “‘Sous la plume de l’auteur de la Grandeur et Decadence des 
 Domains, Sylla devient le r^formateur de Rome ; et veut les ramener 
 & Famour de la liberte, par les horreurs de la tyrannie, et quand il 
 a suffisament abus6 du pouvoir dans 1’interGt de la republique, qu’il 
 ne separe pas de ses vengeances personnelles, satisfait de la legon 
 sanglante qu’il a donne k ses compatriots, il brise lui-m&me la palme 
 du dictateur qu’il a usurpe.’ 
 
 “ And therefore — 
 
 “ ‘ Ce n’est point Sylla si imparfaitement esquisse par Plutarque, 
 c’est ce Sylla si admirablement indique par Montesquieu, que je 
 veuille k reproduire sur la scene.’ 
 
 “ But there is no reason, notwithstanding M. Jouy’s preference, 
 why Montesquieu, who lived about seventeen hundred years after 
 Sylla, should be authority for his patriotism, when Plutarch, who 
 lived only about two hundred and twenty years after him, says noth- 
 ing on the subject ; nor Appian, who was a contemporary of Plutarch ; 
 nor Valerius Maximus, who lived very nearly a century still closer to 
 Sylla. And since Montesquieu could not have derived his reading of 
 Sylla’s motives from these authorities, where did he get it? 
 
 “ There is a point still more perilous to M. Jouy, and a curious and 
 rather astonishing one it is. What M. Jouy says for Montesquieu, 
 that writer does not say for himself. Nay, he says the very contrary. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 201 
 
 as follows : — ‘ La fantaisie qui lui fait quitter la dictature semble ren- 
 dre la vie a la republique, mais dans la fureur de ses sueces il avait 
 fait des choses qui mirent la Rome dans Pimpossibilitl de conserver 
 sa liberte.’ — And Montesquieu supplies a frightful list of the things 
 which Sylla did, tending to destroy the liberties of Rome. It will 
 further be noticed, from this last quotation, that instead of ascribing 
 to patriotism Sylla’s abdication of the dictatorship, Montesquieu, very 
 conveniently for the exercise of his own penetration, absolutely calls 
 his motive or impulse upon that occasion, ‘ whim,’ and nothing else. 
 But the fact is, M. Jouy, in presenting to a Paris audience a tragedy 
 of ‘Sylla,’ tried, in order to insure success for his drama, to paint in 
 its hero the character of Napoleon ; and, as history stood in the way 
 of such a project, he had very little hesitation in getting rid of it. 
 He hit his mark, however, with indeed considerable assistance from 
 Talma, who gave an imitation of the companion of his youth, even 
 to the adjustment of his own stage wig ; and the worthy Parisians 
 flocked night after night to enjoy, under the name of the old Roman 
 dictator, the political sentiments, allusions, and even personal pecu- 
 liarities of the great chief then uppermost in their thoughts — I was 
 going to say affections. M. Jouy could have written his tragedy in a 
 fitter view than this. 
 
 Having said so much in admission of the difficulties of the present 
 attempt, I hope I shall not incur the charge of temerity for having 
 engaged in it at all. With very little assistance certainly, I have had 
 to sit down, and, after careful study, venture a new solution of the 
 enigma of Sylla’s dark character, and, above all, of the last grand 
 act of his public existence. If I have failed, let me be judged only 
 as severely as the reader’s recollections of history will warrant. Nor 
 shall I attempt to conciliate in a preface his good-natured disposi- 
 tions towards my dramatic scenes, by a detailed account of why and 
 wherefore I constructed them as they are, for if they do not tell their 
 own story, so far at least, they tell nothing. It is useless trying to 
 argue a man into a conviction of the plausible.” 
 
 Banim did not, however, by the foregoing observations, 
 intend to depreciate the merit of M. Jouy’s tragedy : 
 Banim’s drama was one of action rather than of narra- 
 tion ; three years being substituted for the three hours 
 
202 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of M. Jouy, and nearly the whole of the non-historical 
 characters of the French tragedy being abandoned. The 
 two first acts of the tragedy, as written by Banim, have 
 no counterparts in that of Jouy : but the audience scene 
 in the third act is taken from his play, whilst its first 
 sixteen and six concluding lines are translated from 
 it: all the intermediate passages are original in Banim’s 
 tragedy. The scene between Julius and Sylla in the 
 fourth act is parallel to that between Claudius and 
 Sylla in the French play. The historical situation in 
 the fifth act was open to both, but the incident of 
 Julius attempting to stab Sylla is probably suggested 
 by the scene in the French play, in which the imaginary 
 heroine, Valeria, endeavors to accomplish the same 
 deed ; the chief identity, however, between the two 
 plays is the adoption by Banim of Jouy’s Catiline. 
 
 This tragedy, although completed in the year 1827, 
 was not offered for representation until the spring of 
 1837, and was performed at the Theatre Boyal, Hawkins 
 Street, Dublin, in the month of June, of the last-named 
 year. Of its cast and reception we shall write at the 
 proper time. 
 
 Whilst laboring in the old track, with hopes bright 
 and buoyant, amid pains and wants, he lived but in the 
 terrible battle against those ever-recurring illnesses of 
 which he so often writes, yet so seldom complains. 
 And now to his own woes was added that weak and 
 uncertain health which preyed upon his Ellen. “ Re- 
 pose, ’’ said the physician, “is necessary for both.” But 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 203 
 
 where Was repose for the deep heart that knew no joy 
 save that which sprang from honest, noble, mental 
 work? — what repose was there for one whose support 
 was wrung from energetic thought — from, as he wrote, 
 “teasing the brain as wool -combers tease wool, to 
 keep the fire in and the pot boiling ?” When they told 
 him of repose, of rest, of change of air and scene, and 
 when he marked his own worn and haggard face, whicfi 
 Michael describes as “making him look fully forty, 
 though little more than twenty,” how bitterly he must 
 have applied to himself the lines of the “Prisoner of 
 Chillon,” — 
 
 “ My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted by a vile repose,” — 
 
 for, be it remembered, whilst he could write, whilst 
 unthreatened by his physician, he had few regrets ; but 
 how sadly must he have felt whilst writing the follow- 
 ing letter to Michael : — 
 
 “ London, February 3 d, 1827. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — For the last week I have been 
 projecting a visit to the southern coast with Ellen, 
 for both our sakes, and under advice. In fact, we both 
 require good air, and everything else calculated to give 
 a new stock of health. Since my last, I have suffered 
 much in a relapse, and, though again relieved from abso- 
 lute pain, remain exhausted and feeble.” 
 
 This projected visit was not made, for, with some few 
 days of revived health, came new projects, and now, as 
 
204 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 in latter years, Banim ever longed to escape the thought 
 that his strength was broken. 
 
 In these times of which we write, John Sterling was 
 rising into that reputation so short-lived yet so bril- 
 liant, and of which Thomas Carlyle and the late Arch- 
 deacon Hare have given us such interesting memorials: 
 young, witty, earnest, and good-natured, Banim and 
 Sterling were formed to love each other ; and it is 
 worthy of notice, that amongst all the portraits made of 
 Sterling by his artist-friends, a little sketch by Banim 
 is considered the most spirited and truthful. The re- 
 gard of each for each was warm and open, and in the 
 following letter to Michael we gather some knowledge 
 of the sympathies by which they were mutually bound. 
 One can fancy John Sterling joining in a debate at the 
 famous Union on “ the Catholic Question,” and laugh- 
 ing more loudly than Peter Plymley at the arguments 
 of the anti-emancipationists : — 
 
 “ London, March 1 st , 1827. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — Soon after my last to you I 
 got so well that, instead of running down to Hastings 
 as I had intended, I accompanied, on a visit to Cam- 
 bridge, a young friend of mine, Mr. John Sterling, a 
 talented member of the University. I was present at 
 a debate on the Catholic Question at their Union. I 
 give this piece of intelligence, apprehensive that you 
 may be terrified at my silence. My excursion has 
 agreed with me ; I am now well, and so is Ellen. 
 
 “ The attention shown me at the Alma Mater of 
 Ungland, and the great interest they take in Ireland, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 205 
 
 were very gratifying, and, joined to the, pure air and 
 generous excitement, have made me a new man in point 
 of spirit and nerve. 
 
 “ Write instanter to 
 
 “ Abel O’Haka.” 
 
 Poor Abel O’Hara ! Just six weeks after the writing 
 of this buoyant-toned letter, bitter, bitter sorrows are 
 upon his noble heart. The terrible tortures of his 
 limbs have returned ; painful remedies have been pre- 
 scribed and endured, but with little effect. His wife 
 is sick ; his furniture has been taken in execution for 
 debts incurred during his former and present illness ; 
 his pen is idle ; his mother is ill ; and yet he can, 
 amidst all his many cares, show gleamings of the ever- 
 living love of literature — can urge Michael to renewed 
 exertion, and — most beautiful trait of all — he rejoices 
 that in the new edition of “ The Nowlans,” the too 
 highly colored scenes of ardent passion are altered and 
 amended. The letter is as follows : — 
 
 “ London, April 13th, 1827. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — After all my resolutions, I have 
 not been able to leave London hitherto, and I know you 
 will be sorry to hear the cause. Continued attacks of 
 my old complaint in the limbs, producing almost the 
 command of my medical advisers not to go to the 
 country till I had fully tried the effects of galvanic 
 operations : these are now ended, with, I hope, some 
 good result, and our seats taken to Hastings for to- 
 morrow morning. 
 
 “ I believe I before told you that I have not been 
 
206 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 allowed to exert myself since the commencement of 
 this attack. Now I have to inform you (God be 
 praised) that to the present day I have remained al- 
 most idle ; so that everything connected with our future 
 prospects depends on you — that is, if you have not a 
 new series of tales, ready to be transcribed by me 
 against the 1st of July, we must be out of the market. 
 
 “ After the loss of my furniture in Sloane Street, my 
 idleness ever since, and the joint expenses of Ellen’s 
 medical men and mine, and apothecaries, which is im- 
 mense, to say nothing of living meantime, my banker’s 
 account must be materially influenced. In fact, if I 
 had a bit of despondency in me, this heavy visitation 
 of sickness, with its consequences, would make me hang 
 my head. But be assured, I still keep a stout heart, 
 and a hope, not without reason, in the future. 
 
 “In the second edition of the second series of our 
 tales, just out, I have corrected some of the more glar- 
 ing improprieties of the first. Again, as to your contem- 
 plated three volumes, you have been turning the matter 
 long enough in your mind to be able to go to work, 
 and you must not conclude that everything which dis- 
 pleases you as bad, or vice versa, is so. No man ever 
 fully completed his own original thought. 
 
 “ Need I say how grieved I was to hear of my 
 mother’s attack. This weather will make her better ; 
 at all events, if I did not sympathize with her in spirit, 
 I did in body ; that is not much comfort to either of 
 us.” 
 
 To an appeal so touching, so pathetic as this, Michael 
 Banim could not be insensible. “ From time to time,” 
 he writes to us, “ during the year 1826, and in the first 
 months of 1827, I directed all my leisure hours to the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 207 
 
 composition of a three-volume novel, and the result of 
 my labors was the Third Series of £ Tales by the O’Hara 
 Family 5 — the novel known as c The Croppy. 5 This, like 
 my former tale, passed through my brother’s hands 
 previous to publication.” It was almost completed when 
 the last melancholy letter reached Michael ; the manu- 
 scipt was forthwith dispatched to London, and from 
 Eastbourne, whether, after the date of his last letter, he 
 had removed, John addressed the following letter to 
 his brother : — 
 
 “ 45 Sea Houses, Eastbourne, June 20 th. 1827. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — When last I wrote, I told you 
 I proposed being in town the 1st of June, and asked 
 you to send your manuscripts to Colburn. Accordingly, 
 on the 1st of June, I was in town, and I got the manu- 
 scripts the 2d ; such, it is worthy of remark, are the 
 blessings of punctuality — such the agreeable effect of 
 two people being able to rely on each other in their 
 arrangements. 
 
 “Days, after my return to Eastbourne, were exclu- 
 sively devoted to a careful perusal, or rather careful 
 perusals of your tale. Your anticipations of failure, 
 though they did not convince, put me on my guard 
 against deciding too partially, and precisely as I felt, 
 X now candidly assure you, that I think you need not 
 apprehend failure in this your trial.” 
 
 The opinion here expressed of “ The Croppy ” was 
 fully supported by the opinion of the public : it was, 
 and most justly, considered fully equal in merit to any 
 of the fictions written by “ The O’Hara Family.” 
 
208 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Rendered somewhat easy in mind by the assurance 
 that the reputation of “ The O’Hara Family ” was 
 secured for the present, Banim’s satisfaction was in- 
 creased at the same period by the birth of a daughter. 
 He thus announced the event to his mother : — 
 
 ‘‘Eastbourne, Sussex, July 22cZ, 1827. 
 
 “ My dearest Mother, — I have to inform you that 
 on Friday night last you became grandmother to a big 
 daughter — who gives such proof of lungs as to disturb 
 the whole village. Amongst the multitude of women 
 now congregated about me I go for very little indeed — 
 in fact I seem of no importance whatever in their eyes.” 
 
 Banim had been long anxious that Michael should 
 visit him, and now he urged the matter specially, and 
 claimed the visit as one due to him in honor of his 
 child, and as a welcome to her. Referring to this 
 period, Michael writes to us thus : — 
 
 “In fulfilment of a year-old promise, I joined the 
 father and mother of the ‘ big daughter,’ in the August 
 of 1827, at the sea-side village of Eastbourne, in Sussex. 
 When I visited him in 1825, I had observed a sad 
 change in his appearance : he now looked as if twenty 
 years had elapsed since we met. He stooped : his 
 face (all except the eye) was that of an elderly man, 
 and even with the aid of a stick, he could not walk 
 one hundred yards at a stretch. Notwithstanding, I 
 found him still hearty and joyous, and hoping against 
 all probability for recovery. Of course I did not act 
 so unfeelingly as to undeceive him by giving my own 
 conviction. He removed from Eastbourne to Seven 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 209 
 
 Oaks, in Kent, when the winter approached and the 
 sea breeze began too frequently to roar and lash the 
 waters ; his health seemed to improve with the change 
 of weather. 
 
 “ I remained as his guest from August to November, 
 and during this time I put the last volume of ‘ The 
 Croppy 5 out of my hands, reading for him every even- 
 ing the result of the day’s work, and adopting his 
 suggestions as I went on. 
 
 “ I read in MS. at the same time the rough copy of 
 a tale which he had put together between whiles, and 
 in the lapses between his attacks of pain. This was 
 done without the knowledge of the doctors. He could 
 not submit to the sentence of positive idleness. The 
 tale I allude to was published the year following, under 
 the title of £ The Anglo-Irish.’ It was of a different 
 character from the ‘ O’Hara Tales,’ and was not an- 
 nounced as proceeding from the same authors. 
 
 <e I cannot say how the 'Anglo-Irish ’ was received — - 
 I believe indifferently. The full power of the writer’s 
 mind was not brought to bear upon it ; unhappily, there 
 was a physical inability to strain the brain to its ten- 
 sion at the time it was written.” 
 
 The reader will remember that a coldness, arising 
 from misconception, had estranged Gerald Griffin and 
 Banim, in the year 1826, and that all correspondence 
 between them had ceased. However, in October, 1827, 
 the following letters were written, and which are here 
 quoted from Gerald Griffin’s Life by his brother. 
 
 “24 Northumberland Street. Regent’s Park. 
 
 “ October 1 9th. 1827. 
 
 “My dear Sir, — I have been endeavoring to find you in vain, since 
 my return to London. I inquired at Mount Street, at Mr. Colburn’s, 
 
210 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 and from Mr. Arnold, but I could only learn that you were then at 
 Hastings. In case I should not be able to see you before I leave 
 London, I wish to communicate in writing what could be done with 
 more satisfaction in person.' 
 
 “Had I had the pleasure of seeing you before I left England, this 
 letter might be unnecessary, and I am very sorry now that I did not. 
 I wish to explain to you more fully the cause of the long silence 
 which we both seemed to expect should be first broken by the other, 
 and the fault of which, I am ready to acknowledge, rested with my- 
 self. The fact was, I felt hurt by your letter, in which you charged 
 me with wanting a sense of the advantage I had derived from your 
 kindness (which charge, recollecting the temper of my previous 
 letter, I fear you were not without grounds for), and acting on that 
 feeling, I wrote again what I at the time thought ought to be a satis- 
 factory answer. I expected a few words to say whether it had been 
 so or not, but they never came, and thence that absence which you 
 say astonished you. It was an error, I acknowledge, but yet not 
 wholly without excuse. I never entered your house without reluc- 
 tance, even when you were most warm and kind ; excuse me if I 
 could not do so when you seemed to wear an altered face. That, and 
 that alone, was the cause of my absence. 
 
 “ For the rest, I have only to say, I owe you much, and I thank 
 you. If it has seemed otherwise to you, believe my present assur- 
 ance. It must have seemed otherwise, or you would not have left my 
 letter unanswered. Be a good Christian — forget and forgive. 
 
 “ I hope to leave a parcel directed for you at Mr. Colburn’s, of 
 which I request your acceptance, begging at the same time that you 
 will keep my secret, as it is not my concern alone. I take also this 
 opportunity of assuring you of the sincere delight with which I heard 
 of an event in your family which must have been a source of much 
 happiness to you. 
 
 “ I have another favor to beg of you, which I am sure you will not 
 hesitate to grant me. It is, that you will expunge from the play 
 which you presented for me, the passage in the scene between the 
 Irishman and the hero, comprising the few sentences just before ‘she 
 talks philosophy.’ You may laugh at my introducing this matter, 
 but I am unwilling to trouble Mr. Arnold myself, and the passage 
 may be objectionable. Once more wishing you all the health, happi- 
 ness, and peace which you can desire or deserve, I am, with sincere 
 esteem and gratitude, yours, “ Gerald Griffin. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 211 
 
 “My words bave so often failed to convey what I intended, that I 
 am not without apprehension lest by any possibility I should again 
 be misconceived. I wish, therefore, to say once more distinctly — 
 and to entreat you to understand and believe it —that the only feel- 
 ing at present on my mind, is that of sincere regret for what has 
 passed, and anxiety that you should be satisfied of it. Either in 
 vanity or in folly, or in whatever you please, I thought I filled too 
 humble a part in the whole transaction, and this made me fretted with 
 myself, and forward to anticipate a slight, where I am certain, on 
 proper reflection, none was intended. It was not what you deserved, 
 but it was my mistake ; your not answering my letter confirmed me 
 in this bad feeling, which, as I have learned to correct, I hope you 
 will no more remember. G. G.” 
 
 To this letter Mr. Banim at last sent the following reply, which led 
 to the subjoined correspondence, ending in a perfect renewal of their 
 former intimacy and good understanding. 
 
 “ Bath Hotel, Piccadilly, November , 1827. 
 
 “ My dear Sir, — l T ou mistake in thinking that I have ever had the 
 most remote notion of a misunderstanding with you. The last letter 
 we interchanged on the subject of your drama, a year and a half ago, 
 seemed to me quite satisfactory. When you were leavirg town, about 
 six months after, your note suggesting that some peculiarity (or a 
 word to that effect, or perhaps stronger) of your own mind must 
 have caused your previous doubts, I recognized as a most ample, 
 though unnecessary explanation. I became assured you were con- 
 tent, as I was, with our renewed good understanding, and sincerely in 
 this feeling, I desired, in a letter I wrote to Limerick, to your cousin 
 last April, to be kindly remembered to you. I do not know how I 
 shall make further answer to your letter of the 19th October, received 
 by me only two days since. One sentence alone — viz., ‘ I never 
 entered your house without reluctance, even when you were most 
 warm and kind’ — sounds somewhat strangely to my ear, because, 
 during our years of close intimacy, when your visits were always 
 welcome to me, I had never supposed such to be the case. I have 
 written to Mr. Arnold to the effect you wished. 
 
 “ The parcel you do me the favor to procure me has not appeared 
 at Mr. Colburn’s. 
 
 “ I am, my dear Sir, yours very truly, 
 
 “John Banim.” 
 
212 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 No date. 
 
 “Mr dear Sir, — W hen I received your last letter (late on Novem- 
 ber 6th), I hurried off to the Bath Hotel, in the hope of being able to 
 see you, but was much disappointed at finding you had left it that 
 morning. I am pleased to learn my mistake, but I was led into it by 
 your letter of last January, and, allow me to say, your long silence 
 after my former note on leaving London. Your remembrance I 
 never received. 
 
 “You will oblige me by accepting these volumes, which, though 
 faulty enough, may yet answer the purpose for which I send them. 
 I leave London to-morrow morning, and regret much that all my 
 efforts should have failed in endeavoring to see you, the more espe- 
 cially as I do not purpose returning for some considerable time. 
 
 “ The feeling which renders one reluctant in trespassing on the 
 kindness of a good friend. I can scarcely think so new or strange as 
 you seem to imagine. I should be very sorry it was so ; but I ought 
 to remember a conversation on this subject which showed me that 
 your opinions on this matter were different from those of, 
 
 “ My dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 “ Gerald Griffin.” 
 
 “ For 1 reluctance’ read ‘ diffidence,’ and perhaps we may agree.” 
 
 “ Seven Oaks, Kent, April 17 th, 1828. 
 
 “My dear Sir, — Not till the other day, when I ran up to town, 
 did I receive, at Mr. Colburn’s, the k Tales of the Munster Festivals,’ 
 with the accompanying note. How long they had previously lain 
 there I cannot tell, nor has a reference to your note enabled me to 
 decide, as it is without date ; but I feel very uneasy under the ap- 
 prehension that you may have sent them about the time of publication, 
 because if you reckoned on their speedy transmission to me, your not 
 hearing from me in the meantime, must have seemed to place me 
 before your eyes in a light very different indeed from that in which 
 I sincerely wish, as I ever have done, to be regarded by you. 
 
 u My best thanks for the volumes. I have read them with the 
 highest gratification, and warmly congratulate you on the talents 
 they display, as well as the success they have met with. That you 
 thus at last triumph in a great degree, as I hope, over the neglects 
 and annoyances of your first residence in London, is to me a matter 
 of some triumph also, to say nothing of the pleasure it affords me, 
 because, in common with all who were known to you, I claim the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 213 
 
 foresight of having long destined you to no common fortune in the 
 battle for literary fame. Accept my very best wishes for your con- 
 tinued and augmented success. 
 
 “ I am very sorry you did not see me at the Bath Hotel last au- 
 tumn, or that I did not soon after get something like the note that 
 accompanied your Tales. The simple explanation of one simple word 
 given in the postscript of that note, would have saved me ever since 
 the exceedingly painful feeling of thinking you unkind ; but I now 
 heartily rejoice at being undeceived, and the hand that you hold out 
 I take, ay, and shake, exploded as is the custom, not only with an 
 unalloyed feeling of, believe me, warm esteem and friendship, but 
 with a lightened bosom, and a mind more at rest, than the idea of our 
 estrangement would allow me to experience. 
 
 “I hope you will drop me a line very soon. I shall be very 
 uneasy till I know you have got this. Accept my most grateful 
 thanks for the handsome terms in which my Tales are mentioned in 
 certain printed pages. Mrs. Banim joins me in kindest remembrances 
 and good wishes, while I remain, 
 
 “ My dear Sir, 
 
 “ Yours, truly and affectionately, 
 
 “ John Banim.”* 
 
 As we shall presently find, this revived friendship 
 was a source of deep satisfaction ; and the following 
 letter increased this pleasure : how much it increased 
 it, the reader can judge who has marked the deep de- 
 votional spirit so frequently apparent in Banim’s letters. 
 Upon his first acquaintance with Griffin he had found 
 him embittered by sorrow and neglect, and almost hope- 
 less ; he had begun to doubt those divine truths of 
 which he had seldom thought, and, longing to escape 
 form life and sorrow, tried to fancy himself 
 
 “ A vapor eddying in the whirl of chance, 
 
 And soon to vanish everlastingly.” 
 
 * See Life of Gerald Griffin, Esq. By his Brother. P. 231. 
 
214 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 He was never a skeptic in the full meaning of the 
 term, but he exemplified a grave truth of Charles 
 Lamb’s — “Few men think, until forty, that they are 
 mortal and this was the secret of Gerald’s errors, from 
 which the following letter, for which w T e are again in- 
 debted to Gerald Griffin’s Life, declares his release : — 
 
 “ Pallas Kenry, Ireland, April 22 d , 1828 . 
 
 “My dear Sir, — I had the- happiness to receive late last night 
 your most acceptable and friendly letter, for which I return you my 
 warmest thanks. It ”was a pleasure indeed which I had almost de- 
 spaired of enjoying, but it was not on that account the less delightful. 
 It made amends, and ample amends, to me for a great deal of bitter 
 reflection — such as I shall be careful never to give occasion for while 
 I live — and it afforded me likewise the satisfaction of feeling that I 
 had not overrated the generosity of your character. Whatever faults 
 had been committed, whatever misconceptions had arisen I was con- 
 fident that when I had endeavored to explain the one, and freely 
 acknowledge the other, you would not continue to withhold from me 
 that friendship which was one of the most valued consolations of my 
 life, and the loss of which I could never have considered in any other 
 light than as a deep misfortune. 
 
 “ The books I sent to Mr. Colburn’s, when I was leaving England, 
 a few days after their publication ; knowing, however, that you were 
 not then residing in London, I could not be sure that you had re- 
 ceived them before I got your letter. I do not know whether I men- 
 tioned to you in the note that accompanied the volumes, that I had, 
 immediately on receiving your letter (about ten at night), run down 
 to Piccadilly in the hope of seeing you, but to my great disappoint- 
 ment, I found that you had that day left the hotel. I regretted the 
 circumstance extremely, as I was assured that a personal interview 
 would have done more to accomplish a clear understanding between 
 us than any written explanation. 
 
 “ And now, my friend, that we do fully understand one another — 
 now that you do so kindly and unreservedly admit me into your 
 friendship — a happiness of which I am prouder then I can easily ex- 
 press — will you permit me to offer one suggestion that may prevent 
 a recurrence of those unhappy mistakes by which I have suffered so 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 215 
 
 keenly. I am often, I see, unfortunate in the choice of my expres- 
 sions. I seem frequently to mean that which is farthest from my 
 intention, and to convey subject for offence, in terms that are only 
 designed to express esteem and attachment. Let us not, therefore, 
 in a world where we can hardly afford to throw away any rational 
 enjoyment, suffer the sentiment which we may entertain for one an- 
 other to be disturbed by any misconceptions to which a letter may 
 give occasion. If a sentence should occur to furnish a subject for 
 doubt, let' us meet and speak clearly ; and then, if either should be 
 found unworthy of the other’s confidence, let him be punished by 
 losing it. 
 
 “ I have seen, during the lo„st few weeks, an announcement of a 
 new work, from the author of the O’Hara Tales, ‘ The Croppy,’ the 
 action of which is fixed at a period of strong interest — a period wor- 
 thy of being celebrated by a writer who is not afraid to encounter a 
 stern and tumultuous subject. I am not familiar with the history of 
 those times, but I remember hearing* (indeed it must be known to you) 
 of the burning of a barn — in Wexford, I think — which would have 
 supplied the subject of a forcible episode. But you felt no want of 
 materials for such a work, neither did this circumstance, now I re- 
 member, reflect much honor on the insurgents. 
 
 “I have to return you my sincere thanks for the kind manner in 
 which you speak of my hasty volumes. I have been long since made 
 aware of their numerous faults, and am endeavoring, as all well- 
 disposed people ought, to profit by experience. But though I am 
 sensible that I should have acted more wisely by delaying their pub- 
 lication and devoting more time to their improvement, yet I do not 
 regret having put them forward, even if they should procure me no 
 other advantage than that of recovering an old and valued friend. 
 I remember your speaking to me on one occasion of a work which 
 is greatly wanted at the present moment — a History of Ireland. I 
 should be sorry to think that you had wholly relinquished the idea. 
 It is a subject, however, which affords a fairer field for the pursuit of 
 fume than that of fortune, and on that account is little likely to be 
 popular with writers who are able to accomplish both. I have seen 
 one lately announced — from the pen of some Colonel, I believe. 
 
 u Were we now to meet, you would, I dare say, find a considerable 
 alteration in many of my opinions. One I do not think it right to 
 withhold from you. You may remember some conversations we had 
 at a time when you lent me a little edition of ; Paley’s Evidences.’ 
 
216 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 The sentiments which you then expressed surprised me a little, when 
 I remembered some former remarks of yours with which they con- 
 trasted very strongly. This circumstance, joined with others, led me 
 to a course of study and reflection, which, with (I hope) the Divine 
 assistance, ended in the complete re-establishment of my early con- 
 victions. The works which I read were (after Paley’s) Milner’s ‘ End 
 of Controversy,’ and Massillon’s sermons — both very able works. I 
 mention my change of opinion on this great subject, because it is a 
 slight part of the great reparation that is due from me. and I men- 
 tion the occasion of that change to show how much good or how 
 much evil a person may do by the expression of his opinions in the 
 presence of others, and how very careful he ought to be in assuring 
 himself that his opinions are correct, before he ventures to communi- 
 cate them to those with whom his talents and his reputation may 
 give him an influence. An author, my dear friend, has a fearful card 
 to play in domestic society as well as before the public. But why 
 should I take the liberty of pursuing such a theme as this so far? 
 Forgive me for it this single time, as I waS tempted only by a deep 
 anxiety for your happiness. I thought, too, that the circumstance 
 above mentioned would give you a pleasure. 
 
 “If your brother should not be at present in England with you, 
 will you do me the kindness to present him my best remembrances 
 when next you write. One of those ‘ fair occasions gone for ever by,’ 
 — yet no, not for ever, I hope — which I regret to have lost during my 
 residence in London, is the opportunity I had of becoming better 
 acquainted with him. I had something more to say, but my paper 
 fails me. Is our correspondence to terminate here? I anticipate a 
 speedy and generous 4 No,’ — for though your time be precious, yet 
 you would not hesitate to devote a few moments to one secluded, as 
 I am here, if you knew the happiness that it would afford me. Pre- 
 sent my best remembrances to Mrs. Banim, whose health, I hope most 
 sincerely, is improved, and with the warmest esteem and affection, 
 believe me to be, “ My dear Sir, yours faithfully, 
 
 “ Gerald Griffin.” 
 
 To this letter Banim thus replied : — 
 
 “Seven Oaks, May 27th, 1828. 
 
 “My dear Griffin, — You see I lead the way. Be assured that 
 your last, of April 22d, gives me heartfelt pleasure. My old harp of 
 a heart has a string restored to it. I accept your invitation not to 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 217 
 
 allow anything that may occur in letters between us to start a doubt 
 in future of your friendship or character. Let me add my own cove- 
 nant. When we meet, treat me more bluntly, off-handedly, and talk- 
 atively than you have done. I now am sure that an unlucky diffi- 
 dence hitherto regulated (or rather disarranged) your social manner. 
 However, I shall be happier with you, if, amongst your other recent' 
 changes, you have acquired a knack of treating a friend differently, 
 and I close this topic by protesting against your supposing that I 
 here mean an iota which does not broadly meet your eyes. 
 
 “Your religious revolutions in opinion I shall not merely con- 
 gratulate you upon ; I do more by sympathizing with them ; yes, I 
 fear, when we first met, and for some time after, that my own re- 
 ligious creed was vague and profane, and I sincerely ask your pardon 
 for any word of mine which may have tended to set you astray. But 
 it is so remarkable that Paley should have been the first to call us 
 back to the right path. And perhaps more remarkable still, that, 
 although mixing up abuse of Popery with proofs of Christianity, he 
 should have helped to make us Catholics, as well as believers in 
 revelation. 
 
 “I envy you your life in poor Ireland. My health has been bad 
 since I saw you. I nearly lost the use of my limbs, but can now limp 
 about on a stick. 
 
 “ I write you a short and hasty letter. Till this day, since I had 
 the great pleasure of receiving your last, I have been very busy, and 
 ill enough into the bargain, and this morning I start with Mrs. Banim 
 to make a long-promised visit to the Rev. James Dunn (a man I wish 
 you knew, the same whom Sheil some time ago speeched praises of) 
 and his lady at Tunbridge Wells, but will not go till I answer your 
 letter, and this accounts, I hope, for the kind of one it is. Pray write 
 soon, and believe me your affectionate Friend, 
 
 “John Banim.”* 
 
 Not alone to Griffin did Banim thus express his satis- 
 faction. Addressing Michael a few days after the date 
 of the last to his friend, he writes : 
 
 “Another thing puts me into the best of humor — I 
 have recovered a friend. You by this time know my 
 
 * “ life of Gerald Griffin, Esq. By his Brother.” P. 238, &c. 
 
 10 
 
218 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 doctrine — that except the loss of health, or the loss of 
 a friend, there is nothing in the world worth fretting 
 for. Poor Gerald Griffin ! In answer to ours from the 
 Bath Hotel before we left London, he ran down there. 
 We were gone. Then he sent his books with a letter. 
 I got both only lately. His note was all I could wish. 
 I immediately answered him as I ought, recollecting 
 all his former sufferings and inexperience. This morn- 
 ing I have received from him a manly, dignified letter. 
 He tells me, among other things, that some talk of 
 mine with him has made him, or rather re-established 
 him, in his faith. I found him a skeptic. You may be 
 sure this does my poor head good.” 
 
 By the address of the letter last written to Gerald 
 Griffin, it appears that Banim had changed his resi- 
 dence from Eastbourne to Seven Oaks, and he thus 
 wrote to Michael, describing his condition. The refer- 
 ence here to his wife and child is characteristic ; as the 
 reader will hereafter perceive “ sunshine, and a garden 
 not overlooked,” were necessary to his perfect enjoy- 
 ment of the country. We have no more beautiful and 
 manly letter in all these of Banim’s now before us than 
 the following — which seems imbued by that spirit ex- 
 pressed by Tennyson — 
 
 “ All the land in flowery squares, 
 
 Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
 
 Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
 Drew downward ; but all else of heaven was pure 
 Up to the sun, and May from verge to verge, 
 
 And May with me from head to heel.” 
 
 The letter is as follows : — 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 219 
 
 " Seven Oaks, June 13 th , 1828. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — But come — my heart is lighter 
 certainly : when I wrote last, I was very ill, shattered 
 to pieces, and the clouds lying down on the roads and 
 fields around me. But I am now better ; my spirits 
 capital, my self-dependence (thanks to God Almighty 
 for his gracious protection and help) little abated, 
 several goodly patches of corn in the land, by dint of 
 contributions to the Annuals. Ellen running about in 
 our sunny garden, and little Mary shouting to her and 
 to the joy-bells, this beautiful summer day. In fact, 
 there is a delightful sense of existence — and of gratitude 
 to the Giver of it , and of the humble — no, the great 
 blessings, he vouchsafes with it, in all our hearts.” 
 
 In a former part of the Biography we inserted a 
 letter written to Michael Banim by John, and contain- 
 ing, in our opinion, the most admirable rules for the 
 construction and composition of a perfect novel. The 
 following letter is, if possible, more useful to the young 
 novelist, and, if read in connection with that before 
 inserted, will prove in the highest degree interesting : 
 indeed the outline tale here sketched is, in itself, a 
 highly-wrought incident, and, coupled with the recol- 
 lections of the fireside stories told by his mother of her 
 relatives, reminds one of the home-pictures in Robert 
 Southey’s Recollections of his Early Life.* 
 
 This letter has also a peculiar interest, as, from the 
 hints and directions contained in it, Michael Banim 
 
 * “ Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey,” edited by his Son, the Rev. 
 C. C. Southey. Vol. I., p. 1. 
 
220 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 was induced to write his well-known tale, “ The Ghost 
 Hunter and his Family.” 
 
 “Seven Oaks, November 10th, 1828. 
 
 “ Dear Michael, — No matter from what class of life 
 you take your future materials, seek as much as possi- 
 ble for the good and amiable in our national character 
 and habits ; as well as for the strong, the fierce, and, I 
 will say, the ungovernable. How valuable, for instance, 
 would be a simple dramatic tale, got through by old 
 Daniel Carroll, his wife, his sons, and his two daughters, 
 Here no necessity exists to rake your memory for the 
 great object, character. Every one of these I have men- 
 tioned, must, from your mother’s description of them, 
 live for you. Old Daniel Carroll her father, with his 
 grotesque sun-dials, his forked pendulums — his crude 
 system of philosophy ; and his reading, during long 
 evenings, Don Quixote and such books, although so 
 thoroughly pious. Then his wife Betty, you recollect 
 her defence when reprehended for some out-of-the-way 
 expression by her husband. Questioned by him where 
 she had heard the malediction uttered by her, she 
 paused and taxed her memory, and then affirmed she 
 could have heard it nowhere, except it issued from the 
 sinful books he was in the habit of reading. Betty’s 
 character is richly primitive. Then there is the son 
 Philip’s wild irregular one. The younger Daniel’s 
 petty, selfish cunning. Alley’s retaining her anxiety 
 to be thought very devout, not hiding her candle under 
 a bushel meanwhile — then the eldest daughter, our own 
 dear mother, such as she was in her maidenhood. Her 
 industry, her thrift, her mildness— her mother-wit and 
 natural good sense. Her lovers, her starling, her cana- 
 ries. My dear Michael, if health permitted, I could 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 221 
 
 use these people, and bring their real and unimagined 
 qualities into play, with credit to the Irish character, all 
 Papist as it is, sweetly, primitively, and amiably. 
 
 “ I remember, too, an old story of our mother’s, of a 
 gaunt stone-cutter killing a slight, delicate young man 
 in a fight, brought on by a quarrel in a churchyard 
 about the right of interment in a certain spot ; you 
 must recollect the occurrence, as it w^ described to us 
 one cold evening as we sat close together round the 
 fire. There was a man once in affluence, who had 
 been a tithe proctor, if I remember rightly. After 
 having spent a long life in acts of petty tyranny, the 
 ban fell upon his hoard, to this day supposed to be 
 inevitable. You and I have often heard that ban pro- 
 nounced — ‘ A proctor’s money never can have luck ; ’ 
 so it fell out with this man ; he became very poor, 
 there was no sympathy for him, and he committed 
 suicide — an act, in those days, of rare occurrence ; he 
 died, too, unrepentant and unsliriven. No one can be 
 got to inter the body ; nor will any of those whose 
 ‘people’s bones’ rest in consecrated ground permit 
 the corpse of the hardened self-murderer to rest in 
 contact with the relics of their kindred. The coffin is 
 laid on the public street, none will tolerate it near their 
 dwellings, and it is cruelly dragged along the pavement 
 from place to place, and finally brought back to the 
 door of the house wherein the act of suicide had been 
 committed. A compassionate young man enlists three 
 of his associates — they take off the outcast remains and 
 bear it to a neighboring graveyard. It is night, and 
 by the light of a single candle, fixed in a lump of 
 churchyard clay, and resting on a tombstone, the three 
 young men are hastily digging a receptacle for the be- 
 grimed coffin that lies near them. A gaunt stone-cutter 
 
222 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 surprises tlie men at their stealthy work. His father’s 
 remains are buried close to the spot where they are 
 delving, and he sternly interdicts further progress. The 
 charitable young man who had induced the others to as- 
 sist him, opposes the mandate ; he and the stone-cutter 
 contend fiercely over the graves ; the stone-cutter is a 
 strong and powerful man, the other is young and slight ; 
 he is struck dow# by his opponent, and blood gushes 
 from his mouth; recovered a little, he assists to inter the 
 suicide elsewhere. He has been hurt internally, and 
 when he reaches home he is obliged to keep his bed ; 
 then the sequel of our mother’s tale. Sarah, the proc- 
 tor’s daughter, had been, during the days of her father’s 
 prosperity, carefully brought up, and educated for a 
 rank beyond that she could now pretend to in her 
 poverty. While yet lamenting over the appalling ter- 
 mination of her parent’s life, she was compelled to 
 witness the cruel indignity practised towards his corpse ; 
 and her gratitude was overflowing to him who had 
 charitably borne it away and placed it beneath the clay. 
 She visited him in his illness, and nursed him to con- 
 valescence ; she taught him to love her, and she married 
 him. But consumption had fastened on the young man, 
 and his days were numbered. His young wife imbibed 
 the fatal malady from him ; they wasted away together 
 day by day ; she was the first to die, and he followed 
 her very quietly to the same grave.” 
 
 Beferring to this letter, Michael Banim writes to us 
 thus : — 
 
 “From the first of the hints given in this letter by 
 my brother, the tale of ‘The Ghost Hunter and his 
 Family’ had origin — the personages he indicates had 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 223 
 
 been more than once graphically drawn for us by our 
 mother. They were her own immediate parents, her 
 brothers and sister. They, as well as herself, are faith- 
 fully depicted in the tale under the above title. ‘ The 
 Ghost Hunter and his Family’ was originally written 
 by me, framed by my brother, and published in 1833, 
 in ‘ The Library of Romance/ edited by Leitch Ritchie. 
 No use was made of the second sketch. I did not like 
 the subject. I left it in the suggester’s hands, but he 
 never wrought upon it.” 
 
 In the autumn of 1828, Banim commenced writing 
 a new series of “The Tales by the O’Hara Family” — 
 the title adopted by him for the work was “The De- 
 nounced.” 
 
 It was written amidst pain, and the dread of still 
 greater suffering. He left his cottage at Seven Oaks, 
 and removed for change of air to Blackheath ; and 
 from his new residence, he thus, in 1829, wrote sorrow- 
 ingly to Michael : — 
 
 “ Blackiieath, April 3d, 1829. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I have been obliged to remove 
 hither. Seven Oaks was too far from London for busi- 
 ness, and I longed for change of air. For the last five 
 months scarcely three weeks’ work in me, and in con- 
 sequence, my tale has flagged. Had it been God’s will 
 to give me health, it would have been ready before 
 now.” 
 
 The volumes passed, as usual, through Michael’s 
 hands, and appeared in July, 1829, and are not worthy 
 the author of “ The Nowlans.” One does not, however, 
 
224 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 wonder that the tales are below the standard of Banim’s 
 reputation, when we recollect that they were put to- 
 gether hurriedly — while sickness was a frequent visitant, 
 while the working mental power was available only at 
 frequent and desultory intervals, and while compulsive 
 inactivity, and the inevitable heavy outlay consequent 
 on illness, together with the constant change of resi- 
 dence, in search of the health that was not to return, 
 were causing at the same time a necessity for funds, 
 and an incapacity to create them. 
 
 After the completion of the work, Banim’s health 
 became more feeble, and in change of air and scene lay 
 his only hope of restoration. On the 20th of August, 
 1829, he wrote thus from Blackheath to Michael : — 
 
 “My dear Michael, — We shall be obliged to remove 
 farther from you ; I am ordered to the French coast — 
 to a milder climate, and where constant baths can be 
 had at a cheap rate — these I am advised to use freely. 
 I must shift my place when there is a necessity. Any- 
 where in pursuit of health, for without that precious 
 blessing — I need not conclude the sentence.” 
 
 This resolution of removing to France was forthwith 
 carried out. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LIFE IN FRANCE ILLNESS LETTERS — DISPUTES WITH PUB- 
 LISHERS COMPOSITION OF “ THE SMUGGLER,” AND OF “ THE 
 
 DWARF BRIDE” WRITES DRAMATIC PIECES FOR THOMAS 
 
 ARNOLD “ THE DEATH FETCH, OR THE STUDENT OF GOTTIN- 
 
 GEN ” REPRESENTED AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE: STRIC- 
 TURES OF “ THE TIMES ” ON ITS PLOT LETTERS ILLNESS OF 
 
 BANIM’s MOTHER: BEAUTIFUL TRAITS OF HER LOVE FOR JOHN 
 LETTERS DEATH OF OLD MRS. BANIM LETTERS KIND- 
 NESS OF FRIENDS IN BOULOGNE TROUBLES OF AUTHORSHIP 
 
 DISPUTES WITH, AND LOSSES BY PUBLISHERS WRITES FOR 
 
 THE “ ANNUALS ” LETTERS ILL HEALTH AND PECUNIARY 
 
 EMBARRASSMENTS A SON BORN SICK OF THE CHOLERA; A 
 
 RELAPSE PUBLICATION OF “ THE CHAUNT OF THE CHOLERA ” 
 
 PUBLICATION OF “ THE MAYOR OF WINDGAP,” AND OF MISS 
 
 MARTIN’S “ CANVASSING,” IN NEW SERIES OF “ TALES BY THE 
 
 O’HARA FAMILY” LETTERS — VISIT OF MRS. BANIM TO LONDON 
 
 DEBT AND EMBARRASSMENT AFFECTING LETTER APPEAL 
 
 ON BANIM’S BEHALF IN “ THE SPECTATOR,” AND BY STERLING, 
 
 <£ THE THUNDERER,” IN <C THE TIMES ” LETTER FROM BANIM 
 
 TO “ THE TIMES ” MEETINGS IN DUBLIN, CORK, KILKENNY, 
 
 AND LIMERICK, IN AID OF BANIM REPORT OF THE DUBLIN 
 
 meeting: sheil’s speech: the resolutions, and names of 
 
 SUBSCRIBERS AND COMMITTEE COMMITTEE ROOM OPENED — • 
 
 LIBERALITY OF THE LATE SIR ROBERT PEEL LETTERS A 
 
 SECOND SON BORN REMOVAL TO PARIS LETTERS — LINES “ TO 
 
 THE COLOSSAL ELEPHANT ON THE SITE OF THE BASTILLE” 
 
 ILL HEALTH; COPY OF OPINION ON HIS CASE BY FRENCH 
 
 AND ENGLISH SURGEONS VIOLENT REMEDIES: THEIR UNHAPPY 
 
 RESULT LETTERS ANXIETY TO RETURN TO KILKENNY THE 
 
 JOURNEY FROM PARIS TO BOULOGNE; MISHAPS BY THE WAY — • 
 LINES, ££ THE CALL FROM HOME.” 
 
 “ Whether Hope and I shall ever become intimate 
 again in this v/orld, except on the pilgrimage to the 
 
226 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 next, is very doubtful,” wrote Robert Southey to Henry 
 Taylor, when grief and sickness w r ere upon him ; so 
 it was now with poor John Banim, praying, amidst 
 strange scenes and ways of life in his French home, 
 that he and Hope might once again “become inti- 
 mate.” Like Southey, he never ceased or paused in 
 his labor ; it was a sweet labor, which duty sanctified, 
 and thus hoping against liOpe, and working despite 
 physical pain, his first months of residence in Boulogne 
 were passed. And what months of suffering were these ! 
 Months in which the whole past of life, with all its 
 griefs and joys — with all its aspirations and longings 
 - — come to fruition or to failure — seemed but as the 
 dreams of a fevered sleep ; and nothing was but the 
 present with its woes — nothing to be but a future at 
 whose entrance frowned sickness, and want, and dis- 
 appointment. When hope seemed brightest — when fame 
 and fortune were about to bless him — sickness pros- 
 trated him, and, in all the bitterness of bitter grief, 
 he felt the truth of Tennyson’s thought, and knew 
 
 “ That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.” 
 
 Ill health was not, however, the only misfortune 
 darkening his life at this period. He had, whilst re- 
 siding at Eastbourne, commenced the composition of 
 a novels entitled “The Smuggler.” In this work he 
 entered upon new scenes of life, all the characters 
 being English, the action being placed in the neigh- 
 borhood of Eastbourne, and the scenery being de- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 227 
 
 scribed from the landscape around his residence.' The 
 manuscript of this novel was placed in the hands of 
 the publisher in the month of December, 1829, and 
 the book was to have appeared early in the following 
 year ; but Banim was sick and helpless in France ; 
 disputes as to terms arose between author and pub- 
 lisher ; wearying and violent letters passed between 
 them ; no progress as to final terms was made, and so, 
 for a time, the matter rested. 
 
 He was not, amidst all these troubles, idle ; but it 
 seemed as if Providence had ordered that all his efforts 
 to keep his name before the reading portion of the 
 nation should fail. Whilst the disputes relating to 
 S£ The Smuggler ” continued, Banim wrote another tale, 
 entitled “ The Dwarf Bride,” but the publisher in whose 
 hands it was placed for publication became bankrupt 
 before the printing had been commenced, and all efforts 
 to discover the manuscript amongst his papers were 
 vain. 
 
 Thus, twice baffied in the pursuit of fame, and in 
 neither instance through his own fault (and how he 
 felt this forced absence of his name from before the 
 public, the reader knows — he feared it as a step towards 
 oblivion), there was yet a deeper source of regret, and 
 one which neither money nor facile publishers could 
 remove — his mother was dying — dying, and her own 
 “graw bawn” far away, and never more in life was 
 she to see him. She had been ill during all the year 
 1829, and at the commencement of 1830, she was only 
 
228 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 able to move, with assistance, from her bedchamber to 
 a little sitting-room adjoining. She loved to linger in 
 this latter room, as in it John used to sit ; here he had 
 sketched for her a portrait of himself, which now hung 
 upon the wall, and was so placed that it was the first 
 object on which her eye could rest on entering the 
 apartment. And in this humble room, daily, there 
 might be witnessed one of the most touching scenes 
 that the fancy could form. Moving slowly from her 
 bedchamber, the mother tottered to a chair placed 
 before John's portrait ; she sat and gazed upon it, lost 
 in thoughts — in those thoughts which have been so 
 truly called “ bitter-sweet, ’’ — then she bent her head 
 as if in deep communion with God, and, gazing still 
 upon the picture, she “ blessed herself" and com- 
 menced her morning prayer, during which she never 
 moved her eyes from the portrait, and as she prayed 
 tears rolled down her face ; thus, she looked, and 
 prayed, and wept, and exemplified that exquisite re- 
 flection of Cowper — 
 
 “ And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 
 Thyself removed, thy pow’r to soothe me left.” 
 
 During the closing months of her life, Mrs. Banim 
 w T as unable to leave her bed, and then the portrait was 
 placed in her room, where she could look upon it con- 
 stantly. John longed to see her once more, but his 
 health was not sufficient to enable him to bear the 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 229 
 
 fatigue of the journey ; and he wrote to Michael as 
 follows : — 
 
 | “ Boulogne, May 2d, 1830. 
 
 “My dear Michael, — I am now a paralyzed man. 
 walking with much difficulty. I move slowly and cau- 
 tiously, assisted by a stick, and any good person’s arm 
 charitable enough to aid me. It is not to add to your 
 trouble that I thus describe myself ; I only tell you to 
 prepare you at home for the change. I look well, and 
 my spirit is yet uncrippled. Go to my mother’s bed-side 
 as soon as you receive this, and say what you can for 
 me. I think she need not know that I am so lame.” 
 
 In the month of June, 1830, just seven weeks after 
 the date of this letter, old Mrs. Banim died, and the 
 announcement of her death came with a crushing effect 
 upon the already weakened energies of her son — a son 
 who might most truly proclaim himself, “ tender and 
 only-beloved in the sight of my mother.” He declared 
 that he had never before known sorrow, and was quite 
 unmanned and prostrated by the crowd of calamities 
 which had gathered around and burst upon him, in 
 his time of sorest and most pressing need ; and in a 
 paroxysm of grief and disappointment, he thus wrote 
 to Michael 
 
 “Boulogne, July 4th., 1830. 
 
 “ My dear Brother, — You will naturally ask yourself, 
 ‘Why has not John written?’ Dear Michael, I could 
 not, and I have no explanation — only, I could not. And 
 now I have not a single word to the purpose to say, al- 
 though, after a fortnight’s silence, I do write. The blow 
 
230 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 has not yet left me master of myself. A blow indeed it 
 was. Your letter was suddenly thrust into my hand, 
 and the color of the wax told me, at a glance, that my 
 mother had left me. I fell to the ground, without 
 having opened it ; I anticipated the contents. You 
 tell me to be tranquil. It is in vain. I never felt 
 anguish before. Yet it is true that the certainty of 
 the spiritualized lot of our mother is a grand consola- 
 tion ; so also is the certainty that she died in the arms 
 of those she loved, and who loved her. 
 
 “ Not a very long time shall elapse, if I live, till we 
 meet in Kilkenny. My wanderings, with God’s leave, 
 must end there.” 
 
 Time healed this wound ; with some slight return 
 of health, liis spirits revived. The quarrel with the 
 publisher of “The Smuggler” was arranged, and it was 
 agreed that the book should appear early in the year 
 1832 ; employment as a contributor to the Annuals 
 and Magazines was obtained, and now, as ever, Thomas 
 Arnold was ready to accept Banina’s little pieces for 
 the English Opera House. 
 
 These pieces were light and ephemeral, and, though 
 generally successful, were not of a character to secure 
 a place amongst the stock plays of the theatre. One, 
 however, entitled “ The Death Fetch ; or, the Student 
 of Gottingen,” was very successful. It was an adapta- 
 tion of “ The Fetches,” in the first series of “ Tales by 
 the O’Hara Family,” and The Times thus commented 
 upon it. We must, however, bear in mind that these 
 strictures would now appear out of place, schooled as 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 231 
 
 we liave been by the diablerie and double -shuffling 
 of “The Corsican Brothers.” The critique is as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 “ It is a dramatic resurrection of the story of 1 The Fetches, 7 whic\> 
 is to be found in the ‘ Tales of the O’Hara Family, 7 and has been in 
 troduced to the stage by Mr. Banim, the author of those tales. Con 
 sidering that it is exceedingly difficult, through the medium of & 
 dramatic entertainment, to impress the minds of an audience wiU 
 those supernatural imaginings which each individual may indulge in 
 while reading a volume of the mysterious and wonderful, we think 
 Mr. Banim has manifested considerable adroitness in adapting hia 
 novel to the stage. We think, at the same time, that his abilities 
 might have been much better employed. The perpetuation of the 
 idea of such absurd phantasies as fetches and fairies — witches and 
 wizards — is not merely ridiculous, but it is mischievous. There was 
 scarcely a child (and we observed many present) who last night wit- 
 nessed the ‘fetch,’ or double of the Gottingen student and his mistress, 
 and who recollects the wild glare of Miss Kelly’s eye (fatuity itself, 
 much less childhood, would have marked it) that will not tremble 
 and shudder when the servant withdraws the light from the resting- 
 place of the infant. Such scenes cannot be useful to youth ; and, 
 leaving the skill of the actor out of the question, we know not how 
 they can give pleasure to age. This theatre was ostensibly instituted 
 as a sort of stay and support to legitimate ‘ English Opera ; 7 and we 
 feel convinced that one well-written English opera, upon the model 
 of the old school — that school so well described by General Bur- 
 goyne in his preface to his own excellent work, 1 The Lord of the 
 Manor, 7 would do more credit to the proprietor of this theatre, and 
 bring more money to his treasury, than ; a wilderness of Franken- 
 steins and Fetches. 7 77 * 
 
 The assistance derived from his pay as a playwright 
 and magazine contributor was not, as the reader may 
 readily understand, sufficient to support him in his ill- 
 ness ; and thus embarrassments became more involved. 
 
 * “ The Death Fetch” was performed in Boulogne during Banim’s residence 
 there. It was translated into French by a friend. During the performance of 
 the piece, all children were removed from the theatre. 
 
232 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 During the greater part of the year 1830, and during 
 the whole of 1831, his letters, though few, were entirely 
 occupied by statements of his sicknesses and of his 
 poverty. A son was born to him in 1831, and here he 
 found, mingled with his gladness at the event, a new 
 sorrow for his wants ; but still, as his child smiled, he 
 hoped that Heaven would smile with it, and, thus hope- 
 ful, he toiled onward until the commencement of the 
 year 1832, when he wrote these few brave, pitiable lines 
 to his brother : — 
 
 “Boulogne. January 20th, 1832. 
 
 “My dear Michael — My legs are quite gone, and 1 
 suffer agony in the extreme, yet I try to work for all 
 that. ,, 
 
 Michael, upon receipt of these lines, wrote to him 
 asking information as to his position in regard of money 
 matters, and this short note was the reply : — 
 
 “ Boulogne. February 2 5th, 1832. 
 
 “ My dear Michael — Yes, it is but too true, I am em- 
 barrassed, more so than I ever expected to be. By what 
 means ? By extravagance ? My receipts, and my living 
 since I left England, would contradict that. By castle 
 building ? No — ‘ The Visitation of God.’ ” 
 
 Whilst thus afflicted he could still serve Michael, and 
 at this same time in which these letters were written, 
 he was reading and correcting Michael’s tale, “The 
 Ghost Hunter and his Family,” and “ The Mayor of 
 Windgap.” The former was, as we have already shown, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 233 
 
 founded upon a dramatic sketch furnished by John 
 Banim, and was published in “The Library of Ro- 
 mance,” edited by Leitch Ritchie; the latter appeared 
 in the third series of “Tales by the O’Hara Family,” 
 to which Miss Martin contributed her admirable story 
 of Irish life, “ Canvassing.” 
 
 In this year (1832) the cholera was epidemic in Bou- 
 logne, and Banim was attacked by it. Weak and worn 
 though we know him to have been, he struggled through 
 the illness ; then he relapsed, but, after a fearful effort, 
 survived the second attack. Weak and shattered in 
 body for ever — weak and shattered for a time in mind — • 
 this noble-hearted man, who had so long fought against 
 sorrow, and pain, and disappointment, thus wrote to a 
 Dublin friend, then a political and literary leader, and 
 now discharging the duties of an important and onerous 
 post : — 
 
 “ November 28th, 1832. 
 “Sir, — Your generous letter to me on a former oc- 
 casion is my sole inducement to address you now upon, 
 literally, the question of my life or death. 
 
 “Friends, among whom were my physicians, have 
 kindly suggested some such application as the present 
 on their own part ; but there are certain avowals which 
 I prefer making in my own person. 
 
 “When I had last the honor of writing to you, I was 
 engaged on two works, from which I had been promised 
 results sufficient to re-establish my independence ; one, 
 a novel, the ‘Dwarf Bride;’ the other, a drama, the 'Con- 
 script’s Sister.’ When the first was nearly completed, 
 nay publisher, Mr. Cochrane, Waterloo Place, became 
 
234 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 a bankrupt, and legal advice induced me to lay it by, 
 and begin three other volumes ; of these I finished two 
 (one tale in two volumes), and was proceeding with 
 the third volume, when I took the cholera, and had a 
 relapse. The consequent loss of time and increased 
 expense pressed me to dispose of these two volumes. 
 No regular novel publisher would treat for less than 
 three volumes, and I was glad to dispose to Mr. Leitch 
 Ritchie, for his forthcoming ‘Library of Romance/ the 
 tale in question at a very low rate: meantime, my ‘Con- 
 script’s Sister ’ ran at the English Opera every night till 
 the close of the season ; but, owing to the necessities of 
 the manager, brought me nothing. 1 then set to work 
 at other things, until struck down in such a manner that 
 my medical advisers interdicted mental exertion for some 
 time, at the peril of loss of life (I refer to their certifi- 
 cates), though with very good hopes that, if allowed 
 rest, freedom from troubles, and change of climate, I 
 should rally, and be able to go on. The malady which 
 now so sorely afflicts me has been creeping on me the 
 last ten years, ever since I was twenty-three — (I am not 
 yet thirty-four) — the result of too much labor. In truth, 
 of more than twenty known volumes I have written, and 
 of treble their quantity of matter in periodicals, with- 
 in the ten years alluded to, no three pages have been 
 penned free of bodily torture ; which at last ends in 
 depriving me (temporarily, my physicians say, should 
 this application succeed) of the use of my limbs and 
 brains. 
 
 “Under these circumstances, with their inevitable 
 consequences, not only want of present and future 
 funds, but heavy debts, incurred from sheer necessity, 
 my literary friends, French and English, advise me to 
 solicit temporary aid from those favored individuals of 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 235 
 
 my country who are known (as you are) for literary 
 eminence, or as admirers and patrons of literature, and 
 to whom, at the same time, it has pleased God to afford 
 the means (without inconveniencing themselves) of 
 saving for his family the life of a man who is considered 
 by, perhaps, too partial friends, to have some claims on 
 national sympathy and protection. The grounds as- 
 sumed by those friends to justify so flattering an ex- 
 pectation are as follows : — 
 
 “The circulation of my books through the United 
 Kingdom ; their reprinting in America ; their having 
 been translated into French and German ; and their 
 uniform political tendency — viz., the formation of a good 
 and affectionate feeling between England and Ireland. 
 In my own name I add that, until the hand of Heaven 
 visited me, I am conscious of having passed from early 
 youth a life of industry, always with a view to indepen- 
 dence. For instance (I quote facts easily ascertainable), 
 that at seventeen I obtained the first prize as the first 
 draughtsman in the Dublin Academy of Arts ; that at 
 nineteen I wrote into wide circulation a Whig journal 
 (the Leinster Journal) in my native city of Kilkenny; 
 at twenty-one I received a vote of thanks from a general 
 meeting of the artists of Ireland, for my advocacy with 
 the Irish Government of their demands for an incor- 
 porated academy, which they now possess ; that at 
 twenty-two I produced a successful tragedy, ‘Damon 
 and Pythias/ at Covent Garden ; that at twenty-five I 
 was known, at least as a national novelist, even though 
 of a humble order, to European literature ; and that 
 since that period, I have written twenty successful 
 novels and five successful dramas. And I trust most 
 respectfully that you will not consider this mere idle 
 boast, but rather as a proof of my deep and conscien- 
 
236 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANItf. 
 
 tious anxiety to show that no habitual want of the pride 
 of independence forces me now before you. 
 
 “ My friends suggest to me to add, that they consider 
 me called on to make known my position, in order to 
 afford to the affluent protectors of literature the oppor- 
 tunity of saving me from death in poverty, from the 
 misfortune of not having known in time how much 
 might have been accomplished for my family and my- 
 self by a prompt appeal to their generosity. 
 
 “ It becomes necessary to explain within what time 
 my urgent necessities require effectual relief. During 
 the two years and a half of, I trust, unmerited disap- 
 pointment, I am in debt JS400 ; this I must settle 
 before Christmas, or, in my present state of health, go 
 to prison. A further sum will be required for traveling 
 hence, and living two years in a more favorable climate, 
 every step increasing the expenses of a helpless invalid ; 
 but this latter sum would not be absolutely necessary 
 till early next spring, before which time I am not ad- 
 vised to leave Boulogne. For immediate necessities 
 Mrs. Banim would now thankfully accept a part of the 
 first-named sum, as she leaves home without a franc 
 in the house, and borrowing the money for her journey. 
 And now, Sir, in conclusion, if I have not minutely de- 
 scribed my melancholy feelings on this occasion, or 
 sufficiently expressed my sense of the very great trouble 
 to which I expose you by this application, believe me it 
 is not from a want of understanding my own position, 
 or of duly estimating yours. 
 
 “ I have the honor to be, &c., 
 
 “ John Banim.” 
 
 The effects of the attacks of cholera on Banim’s 
 health were very and lamentably evident. He found 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 237 
 
 himself incapable of continued exertion; and at a time, 
 too, when the price of exertion was most needed ; for, 
 at the close of 1832, a second son was born to him. 
 But life, they told him, could only be preserved by a 
 total cessation from all occupation. This was a hard 
 sentence; and, much perplexed, he thus, announcing it, 
 wrote to Michael : — 
 
 “ Boulogne, December 30th, 1832. 
 
 “ It is impossible for me to go on. For the last six 
 months I am under the ban of the physicians, not to 
 work, at the risk of my life. The ban continues for a 
 year. In fact, the cholera so shook me, that the partial 
 paralysis of my limbs extended, and made free with my 
 head. Idleness has made me better, and they give me 
 hopes of health, and continuation of life, if I go on 
 idling, and going about in hired vehicles, and so forth. 
 How is all this to end ? ” 
 
 About three weeks after the date of this letter, Mrs. 
 Banim visited London, for the purpose of arranging 
 the payment of the bills which had been given in 
 part payment of the copyright of “ The Smuggler ” by 
 the publisher : and she took this opportunity of call- 
 ing upon some of Banim’s literary friends, chiefly his 
 fellow-countrymen, and represented to them her hus- 
 band’s state in health and fortune. All aided her by 
 placing the matter before the public; but her best and 
 most hearty advocate was the editor of The Times , 
 he whom Carlyle has nicknamed “ The Thunderer,” 
 the father of John Sterling. 
 
 The Sterlings, father and son, had, during Banim’s 
 
238 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 residence in London, been kind to him ; young Sterling 
 had, as we have seen, taken him down on a visit to 
 Cambridge, and had shown him its “ lions,” and intro- 
 duced him at the Union. Old Mrs. Sterling had stood 
 as godmother, with Michael Banim, for John’s first 
 child Mary ; and now, early in the month of January, 
 1833, Mr. Sterling crowned his kindness by writing, in 
 The Times , a brilliant and truthful appeal on behalf 
 of his sick and suffering friend. The appeal having 
 been at once supported by The Spectator , Banim thus 
 expressed his gratitude in a letter addressed to the 
 editor of The Times : — 
 
 “ Boulogne-sur-Mer, January 20th. 
 
 “ Sir, — Accept my grateful acknowledgments for the 
 feeling exertions made by The Times , and since by the 
 rest of the London press. Through you. Sir, I request 
 your kind fellow-laborers to receive my cordial thanks ; 
 and perhaps you will allow me to take this opportunity 
 of expressing my feelings on another subject. 
 
 “In a very beautiful article on my affairs, which I 
 have seen extracted in The Courier of the 14th from 
 The Spectator, there is one little phrase reflecting on 
 the character of the place in which I at present reside — 
 the only one penned by my generous though unknown 
 advocate that did not give me the sincerest grati- 
 fication ; for I am bound to declare that in every — the 
 most delicate — sense in which the noble word hospi- 
 tality can apply, I have experienced it in Boulogne, 
 from French as well as English ; that here I found 
 friends, the kindest, the truest, in adversity — in a word, 
 Sir, the day of my necessary departure from Boulogne 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 239 
 
 will be to me one of deep regret and affliction; and I 
 pray you to allow publicity to these true sentiments of 
 my heart. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your obliged, obedient Servant, 
 
 4 ‘John Banim.” 
 
 These appeals excited the humanity and generosity 
 of many distinguished persons. Liberal sums were 
 forwarded to Banim — through Dr. Bowring from the 
 late Earl Grey, and through Mr. Ashburnham from 
 that never - tiring friend of the struggling man of 
 genius, the late Sir Bobert Peel. 
 
 Ireland was not on this occasion inactive. Much as 
 we neglect the memory of our great dead — of those 
 Kings of Thought who 
 
 “ rule us from the page iu which they breathe,” 
 
 our people are generally willing to assist the needy 
 literary man who requires aid in misfortunes which 
 have come upon him neither by his own faults nor by 
 his own vices. After the appearance of Banim’s letter 
 to The Times , a subscription list was forthwith opened 
 in Dublin and in Clonmel ; and the names entered 
 during the first day in Dublin were these : — Matthew 
 Boyle, £2; E. B. H., £2; Bichard Barrett, £1; Michael 
 Staunton, £1; Charles Meara, £ 1 ; Samuel Lover, <£1; 
 A Beader of “The Nowlans,” £1; T. W., 5s. 
 
 Morrison’s Great Boom was offered, free of charge, 
 for the purpose of holding a public meeting in aid of 
 the Banim Fund, and such a meeting was accordingly 
 
240 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 held, on the 31st of January, 1833 — the Lord Mayor, 
 Alderman Archer, presiding. 
 
 The following is a report of the speeches made and 
 the resolutions adopted, with other particulars of this 
 interesting event : — • 
 
 SUBSCRIPTION FOR THE AUTHOR OF “ TALES BY 
 THE OHARA FAMILY.” 
 
 “Yesterday, there was a meeting of the friends and admirers of 
 John Banim, the author of ‘The Nowlans,’ and other Irish novels, 
 held in Morrison’s Tavern, Dawson Street. The attendance upon this 
 occasion was most respectable, and comprised men of all sects, par- 
 ties, and professions. Amongst those present we noticed the Lord 
 Mayor; the High Sheriff, Captain Lynar ; Richard Shiel, Esq., M.P. ; 
 Morgan John O’Connell, Esq.; J. W. Calcraft, Esq.; Isaac Weld, 
 Esq. ; Thomas J. Mulvany, Esq. ; Charles Meara, Esq. ; P. Costelloe, 
 Esq. ; J. Cumming, Esq. ; F. W. Wakeman, Esq. ; J. D. Logan, Esq. ; 
 P. Curtis, Esq. 
 
 “ The Right Hon. the Lord Mayor in the chair. 
 
 “ S. Lover and P. Costelloe, Esqs., were requested to act as secre- 
 taries to the meeting. 
 
 “ A letter was read from Mr. Howell, regretting that he was unable 
 to attend, and inclosing £1 as his subscription. 
 
 “ Mr. Sheil, M.P., moved the first resolution. The resolution con- 
 tained a statement of two facts which stood in a melancholy antithesis 
 to each other. It asserted the great eminence of Mr. Banim, as an 
 author who had reflected so much honor upon his country, and the 
 deplorable need to which that distinguished gentleman had been 
 reduced, not by any fault of his own, but by a visitation to which 
 genius and mediocrity were equally exposed. Read a word of Mr. 
 Banim’s, and you will see him in imagination placed on the summits 
 of literature ; look to the mournful realities, and you will behold him 
 stretched on a bed of pain, in loneliness and in sorrow, and without 
 any other solace than that which is derived from the consciousness 
 that his misfortunes have been the result of long-continued ailment, 
 and not of any violation of those rules of prudence to the infringe- 
 ment of which men of great abilities are erroneously supposed to be 
 habitually prone. That Mr. Banim was a man of high and surpass- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 241 
 
 ing talents was beyond dispute. His works were written with that 
 fidelity to nature which placed him at the head of the writers of 
 fiction of our time. Pathos, derived from the purest and most natu- 
 ral sources — the faculty of imparting a most tender interest to scenes 
 which in ordinary life are attended with incidents of rudeness and 
 vulgarity, which at first view would seem to render them unfit for 
 the excitement of that species of emotion which it is the great end 
 of the writers of romance to produce — a rare dominion over the im- 
 agination of his readers, by which he brings the events of his narra- 
 tive with such a vividness before them, that they almost appear to 
 belong to their own existence, and to be witnessed by themselves — a 
 great mastery of the picturesque — a vast command of diction, glow- 
 ing and illuminated with brilliant thoughts — these are among the 
 characteristics of Mr. Baninrs works. They have won the suffrages 
 of every man whose opinion is of any value in these countries. The 
 public, by far the best critic, has set a seal upon them which time 
 will not break. There is not a man that hears me — there are few 
 individuals in this great city who have not read, I might be justified 
 in saying, who have not wept over the admirable delineations by Mr. 
 Banim of those strange occurrences which arise in this island of ours, 
 which is so full at once of the materials of merriment and of woe, of 
 weeping and of laughter, and which it requires a mind with such a 
 knowledge of mirth and sorrow as Mr. Banim possesses to describe. 
 He is not inferior in his own province to Walter Scott, and if his 
 writings have not obtained as high and lucrative a celebrity, it was 
 perhaps to be ascribed to his having chosen Ireland (to use a profes- 
 sional phrase) for his venue. The English reader did not understand 
 Ireland, and was little qualified to estimate the truth of that likeness 
 whose original he had not witnessed ; but it was incumbent on every 
 man who loved letters — on every man who had the least sentiment of 
 literary patriotism — to come forward and raise a man, still young, 
 and capable of doing great things, from the calamitous posture in 
 which the illness of years had placed him. Let Ireland, his own 
 country, lift him up. In England, through the means of the great 
 journal of the empire, The Times , a knowledge of his misfortunes had 
 been circulated ; the effect, he (Mr. Sheil) thought, would be most 
 serviceable to Mr. Banim. But Ireland had a double office to per- 
 form— to relieve a gentleman who had done her honor from his diffi- 
 culties, and to vindicate her own character in rescuing one of those 
 who might be accounted among her chief ornaments from that ruin 
 
 11 
 
242 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 in which he was deeply, but not irretrievably, plunged. Let him 
 arise from the couch on which he is laid ; let him feel how much he 
 is appreciated ; let him drink of that best of all restoring draughts 
 which is to be found in the consciousness of a profound sympathy 
 among those whose kindly opinion is of the best value. Let Banim 
 say to himself, ‘ My country, from which I am far away, has not for- 
 gotten me.’ The thought will be a salubrious one. It will be full of 
 health, and confidence, and hope. His pen will fly again to those 
 hands which despair had almost palsied, and he will live to add still 
 more valuable contributions to those masterpieces from which we 
 have derived so much pleasure, but many pages of which were writ- 
 ten in anguish w r hich none but those familiar with the calamities of 
 literature can appreciate. (Loud cheers.) 
 
 “ Mr. Curtis seconded the resolution proposed hy Mr. Sheil. The 
 resolution passed unanimously. 
 
 “Mr. Weld, in proposing the second resolution, said that it would 
 be in vain to attempt pronouncing a panegyric upon the great merits 
 of Mr. Banim j these had been already touched upon by a masterly 
 hand — the gentleman who preceded him. It would not be required 
 to bestow any further praise upon Mr. Banim than by referring to one 
 of Mr. Banim’s novels or tales, for they sufficiently indicated his great 
 invention, and his wonderfully descriptive powers. (Hear.) Mr. 
 Weld then mentioned his first meeting with Mr. Banim, as he was 
 traveling in the North of Ireland, and Mr. Banim reminding him that 
 he (Mr. W.) had been the medium of bestowing upon him a prize for 
 one of his drawings. The consequence of that acquaintance was his 
 giving to Mr. Banim letters of introduction to literary friends in 
 London, not one of whom did not afterwards thank him (Mr. W.) for 
 his making them acquainted with such a man as Mr. Banim. Mr. 
 Banim’s career to prosperity was stopped short by illness, and his 
 afflictions were increased by the failure of booksellers by whom he 
 was engaged. When Irishmen saw how Washington Irving was 
 treated by the people of New York — when they beheld every part of 
 the world made tributary to the genius of Scott — he (Mr. W.) was 
 sure that the claims of Mr. Banim upon their gratitude would not be 
 disregarded. (Cheers.) 
 
 “ Mr. Morgan John O’Connell seconded the resolution proposed by 
 Mr. Weld. The resolution passed unanimously. 
 
 “ The next resolution was proposed by Mr. Norton, and seconded 
 by Mr. Meara. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 243 
 
 “Mr. Burke stated that there were many gentlemen who were, in 
 consequence of this being the last day of term, unable to attend 
 there, but who had promised him to give most substantial proofs of 
 their sympathy for Mr. Banim. 
 
 “ The Rev. Mr. Groves, in proposing a resolution, expressed a hope 
 that a new era was arising, as far as literary men were concerned, 
 and that the marks of public gratitude would be conferred upon them 
 while living, instead of being reserved to grace their monuments 
 when dead. 
 
 “Captain Lynar (High Sheriff of the city) felt, he said, great 
 pleasure in giving his aid to so excellent an object as that for which 
 they were that day assembled. (Hear, hear.) He was rejoiced to 
 find, too, that upon such an occasion there was a complete unanimity 
 of feeling and sentiment amongst all parties and all classes. (Cheers.) 
 
 “ Mr. J: S. Close proposed the appointment of the members of the 
 Committee. 
 
 “ Mr. Kertland said he felt honored in being allowed in an assem- 
 bly comparatively small, but one of distinguished talent, to second 
 the motion. He was glad his friend, the Rev. Mr. Groves, had ad- 
 verted to the fashion of allowing persons of genius to ‘ pine in want/ 
 and after their miserable demise, the raising of splendid monuments 
 to their memory. 
 
 1 The poet’s fate herein is shown, 
 
 He asks for bread, they give a stone . 1 
 
 It w T ould be impertinent, in such a meeting, to do more than remind 
 them of the fate of many a genius who perished by actual want — • 
 Otway, Butler, Chatterton, and many others, would arise before their 
 imaginations. Let Ireland begin, and let Mr. Banim and his family 
 feel the full effects of such beginning — 
 
 1 For few can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame’s proud temple shines afar, 
 
 Ah ! w r ho can tell how many a soul sublime 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 
 Check’d by the scoff of Pride — by Envy’s frown, 
 
 And Poverty’s unconquerable bar V 
 
 He had only further to say, that it gave him pleasure to find in the 
 meeting gentlemen differing on other matters, but unanimous to 
 
214 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 the call of suffering merit, and would, in conclusion, remind them 
 that 
 
 1 Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead, 
 
 Through which, when living, Homer begged his bread P 
 Mr. Lover pointed out the great advantages to be derived from 
 gentlemen taking upon themselves the office of collectors amongst 
 their friends. As an instance of the advantage to be derived from 
 doing so, he stated that he was now able to hand in £12 10s. subscrip- 
 tions to their treasurer. (Hear.) 
 
 “ Mr. P. Costelloe found, he said, men of all parties most anxious 
 to contribute to the relief of Mr. Banim. (Hear.) Mr. Banim he had 
 known from his childhood, and no man could be better in every rela- 
 tion of life. It would not be possible to know a kinder friend, a bet- 
 ter son, a warmer-hearted brother, a more affectionate husband, or a 
 fonder father than John Banim. (Cheers.) He had known Mr. Banim 
 to perform acts of the most disinterested benevolence, and to relieve 
 the wants of others when his own means were not very ample. 
 (Hear.) The people of Kilkenny felt honored by Mr. Banim belong- 
 ing to them, and they would, ere long, give their countryman the 
 best proof of their regard for him. He moved a vote of thanks to Mr. 
 Morrison, who had the kindness to give them his room upon that 
 occasion. (Cheers.) 
 
 “ Mr. J. D. Logan seconded the resolution, and stated that he had 
 corresponded with Mr. Morrison upon the subject, and could state the 
 alacrity with which Mr. Morrison had responded to the request for his 
 rooms. (Hear.) 
 
 “Richard Sheil, Esq., M.P., was then called to the chair, and thanks 
 having been returned to the Lord Mayor, the meeting adjourned. 
 
 “ Several subscriptions were paid by the gentlemen present. Ten 
 pounds w r ere given by Mr. Sheil. 
 
 “ The following resolutions were unanimously agreed to : — 
 
 “ Moved by Richard L. Sheil, Esq., and seconded by Patrick Curtis, 
 Esq. : 
 
 “ Resolved — That we have heard, with sentiments of the deepest 
 sympathy, an account of the state of destitution with which our 
 countryman, John Banim, author of 4 The Tales by the O'Hara 
 Family, 7 and of many other literary productions of distinguished 
 merit, has been reduced by the visitation of a painful and protracted 
 malady, which, prohibiting the exertion of his intellectual powers, 
 has deprived him of the means of support for himself and his family. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 245 
 
 “Moved by Isaac Weld, Esq., and seconded by Morgan John 
 O’Connell, Esq. : 
 
 “ Resolved — That we feel ourselves called upon, as Irishmen, and 
 admirers of genius, to use our best exertions towards the relief of an 
 author whose writings have contributed largely to our intellectual 
 enjoyments, and have elevated the character of our common country- 
 in the scale of literature. 
 
 “ Moved by Thomas Norton, Esq., and seconded by Charles Meara, 
 Esq. : 
 
 “ Resolved — That a subscription be forthwith opened towards form- 
 ing a fund to relieve Mr. Banim’s pecuniary privations ; and that a 
 Committee of the following gentlemen be now appointed to carry this 
 resolution into effect, and to superintend the management and dis- 
 posal of the sum contributed 
 
 “ The Right Hon. the Lord Mayor ; Mr. High Sheriff Lynar ; Rev. 
 Doctor Sadleir, F.T.C.D. ; Colonel D’Aguilar, Adjutant-General ; Rev. 
 Charles Boy ton, F.T.C.D.; Richard Lalor She'll, Esq., M.P. ; James 
 Semple, Esq. ; Morgan John O’Connell, Esq. ; Patrick Curtis, Esq. ; 
 Joseph Burke, Esq. ; Thomas Norton, Esq. ; Charles Meara, Esq. ; J. 
 W. Calcraft, Esq. ; George Howell, Esq. ; Pierse Mahony, Esq. ; Rev. 
 Edward Groves; Frederick Win. Conway, Esq.; R. Sheehan, Esq.; 
 Michael Staunton, Esq. ; Patrick Lavelle, Esq. ; Thomas Wright, 
 Esq., M.D. ; J. S. Close, Esq. ; H. F. Wakeman, Esq. ; Ross Cox, Esq. ; 
 William Cummin g, Esq. ; J. W. King, Esq. ; J. S. Coyne, Esq. ; W. 
 Carleton, Esq. ; Thomas Kennedy, Esq. 
 
 “ Moved by Joseph Burke, Esq., and seconded by the Rev. Edward 
 Groves : 
 
 “ Resolved — That Isaac Weld, Esq., be requested to act as treasurer 
 to this Committee. 
 
 “Moved by Sheriff Lynar, and seconded by J. W. Calcraft, Esq.: 
 
 “ Resolved — That our best thanks are due to the conductors of the 
 Times London newspaper, for having brought into public notice the 
 destitute situation of Mr. Banim, and for their continued exertions 
 to direct attention to the most appropriate means of affording him 
 relief. 
 
 “ Moved by J. S. Close, Esq., and seconded by William Kertland, 
 Esq.: 
 
 “ Resolved — That the thanks of this meeting be given to Mr. Mor- 
 rison, for his kindness in affording the accommodation of his rooms 
 on the present occasion. 
 
246 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ The Lord Mayor having left the chair, and Richard Lalor Shell, 
 Esq., M. P., having been called to it, it was 
 
 “ Moved by Thomas Norton, Esq., seconded by Joseph Burke, Esq., 
 and 
 
 Resolved — That the thanks of this meeting be given to the Lord 
 Mayor for his dignified conduct in the chair, and for the lively inter- 
 est he has taken in promoting the objects of this meeting.” 
 
 The committee rooms were at once opened at Morri- 
 son’s Hotel, and a Kilkenny man, Patrick Costelloe, 
 and Samuel Lover, were nominated honorary secretaries. 
 Referring to these efforts to relieve his brother’s wants, 
 Michael Banim writes to us thus : — 
 
 “ Public meetings took place, and subscriptions were 
 entered into, in London, Dublin, Kilkenny, and many 
 other places ; and from the result, the recipient was 
 enabled to pay heavy debts long outstanding, and I 
 believe unavoidably contracted ; and to remain in Paris 
 for two years, while under the care of the principal 
 members of the Faculty then practising. His malady 
 was, however, beyond the skill even of these. 
 
 “ Throughout the entire period of his embarrassment 
 and mental and bodily endurance, in France, no one 
 could meet with more sympathy than did my brother. 
 While resident in Boulogne, the English and Irish visit- 
 ants were most attentive to him. In Paris, he met 
 kindness and service from persons whom he was after- 
 wards vain perhaps of naming as visitants of the sick 
 couch ; for a while he was unable to rise without being 
 borne by others. Two only of his visitors I will par- 
 ticularise — the venerable La Fayette and the illustrious 
 Chateaubriand. Many distinguished English residents 
 of the French metropolis were his friends and sus- 
 tainers. One wealthy Irish lady in particular, he after- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 217 
 
 wards spoke of with gratitude and affection. I refrain 
 from giving names — those so marked out might not 
 relish the promulgation of their philanthropy. 
 
 By slow stages Banim proceeded, towards the end of 
 1833, from Boulogne to Paris. He had resolved to 
 reside in the latter city, in the hope that, amongst its 
 distinguished physicians, some one might be found who 
 could relieve his pain-racked and powerless limbs. He 
 did indeed consult the most skillful and famous of the 
 Faculty, but all their efforts to restore him were un- 
 availing, or worse, injurious. 
 
 That the reader may be enabled to comprehend 
 Banim’s condition at this period, we here subjoin a 
 written opinion of his case, drawn up, after a careful 
 personal examination of their patient, by two eminent 
 physicians (one French, the other English) whose names 
 the document bears. Banim preserved this opinion 
 most carefully to the hour of his death ; the painful 
 remedies and treatment recommended, and their woeful 
 results, seem to have had for him a terrible, gloomy 
 fascination. The opinion is as follows, but for obvious 
 reasons we omit the names with which it is signed : — 
 
 “The affection under which Mr. Banim labors appears 
 to be chronic inflammation of the lower extremity of the 
 spinal marrow. An attentive examination of its origin, 
 progress, and actual state, has suggested to us the pro- 
 priety of adopting the following treatment : — 
 
 “1st. Dry cupping, and scarifications with cupping, 
 on the lower part of the lumbar region, where the pain 
 
218 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 seems to originate. This treatment to be continued 
 gradually along the spine to the neck : after two or 
 three repetitions it is to be discontinued. 
 
 “2d. Small moxas, to the parts where the scarifi- 
 cations were made, and these moxas to be continued, 
 at proper intervals, up to the neck ; with the moxas 
 may be used frictions of tartar emetic ointment along 
 the spine until pimples appear ; the extremities to be 
 rubbed morning and evening with stimulating liniments. 
 
 “ 3d. An actual cautery, applied gently from the lower 
 part of the back to the neck, at the interval of two or 
 three inches, would even be perferable to the moxas. 
 
 “4th. When this treatment has been used for some 
 time, vapor baths, particularly sulphureous, will be of 
 the greatest possible service. 
 
 “ 5th. The cure will be tedious, but the good consti- 
 tution of Mr. Banim gives strong hope that he will 
 eventually triumph over his present malady. 
 
 (Signed) 
 
 “ Paris, le 25 me Avril, 1834 .- 1 
 
 Thus was he treated. “The cupping,” writes Michael 
 to us, “the moxas, the scarifications, the lubrications, 
 et csetera, were all performed, as I suppose, very scien- 
 tifically, and when the body thus experimentalized on 
 left the hands of the operators, the limbs hung useless 
 from the trunk from that time forward. Worse than 
 useless, I would say they were to their owner : their 
 appendage only felt, when they were nightly, and often 
 daily as well as nightly, set quivering by racking pains 
 that made the sufferer writhe and scream from excess 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 249 
 
 of agony. This constant endurance of torture continued 
 without alleviation to the period of his death.’’ 
 
 Thus, broken in body, and with one child dead in his 
 home, Banim was declared by his physicians incurable. 
 He was drawn in his bath-chair through the various 
 places of interest in Paris. His daily pleasures w T ere 
 few; and when the day was fortunately painless, the 
 night came on, and with it agony. Often, as he writhed 
 beneath his tortures, he thrust sharp -pointed pins 
 through his thighs, as if, by counter tortures, he hoped 
 to check the pangs that came involuntarily upon him. 
 
 Still he attempted, even whilst in this state, to con- 
 tribute to the newspapers and magazines, and he felt 
 now, as he had felt eleven years before, when he wrote 
 gayly and so bravely to Michael — “By the life of 
 Pharaoh, Sir, if I do not ply and tease the brain, as 
 wool-combers tease wool, the fire should go out, and 
 the spit could not turn.” 
 
 Of the various pieces, in verse and prose, contributed 
 by him at this period to the press, the following is a fair 
 specimen, and first appeared in The Times : — 
 
 TO THE COLOSSAL ELEPHANT 
 
 ON THE SITE OF THE BASTILLE. 
 
 I know not why they’ve based thee here— 
 
 But unto me thou art a thought 
 With pity, doubt, and sorrow fraught— 
 
 For now, and future, far and near, 
 
 Because no warning they are taught, 
 
 Can make the careless-cruel fear. 
 
250 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 O’erawing thought! of a giant strength, 
 
 Who out of love and reason took 
 From a pigmy keeper blows and spurns, 
 
 And slight that chills, and scorn that burns, 
 
 And bore all gently, till at length 
 
 Love died, and reason could not brook, 
 
 Uncharmed by love, one other day, 
 
 The baseness of a coward sway ; 
 
 And then uprose the giant Strength, 
 
 And round his keeper did enfold 
 The wreathings of his mind, and crushed 
 His body till the life-blood rushed 
 
 Thro’ joint and pore, and the stronghold 
 Of his weak power the giant Strength 
 Did trample down — and ’mid its stones 
 Trampled upon his tyrant’s bones ! 
 
 John Banim. 
 
 Pai% November 8th, 1834. 
 
 Friends gathered around him in Paris, and he was 
 happy as his state of health would permit ; but his 
 continued prostration alarmed Michael, who tells us — 
 “ In 1834, I wrote to the brother from whom I had 
 been so long separated, urging him to return home ; 
 and I did so with the hope that tranquillity, his na- 
 tive air, and the attentions of his kindred, might be 
 more beneficial than excitement and a foreign climate.” 
 When Banim received this letter to which Michael 
 here refers, he was happy in the society of some of the 
 most distinguished literary men, French and foreign, 
 resident in Paris ; but there was no certain rest or 
 ease from his bodily sufferings, and the “ si gravis, 
 brevis : si longus, levis ” of Cicero was not a true 
 axiom in his case. He felt his health becoming each 
 day more weak ; and thus he wrote to his brother, in 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 251 
 
 reply to the letter advising him to come home once 
 more to his native place : — • 
 
 “ Parts, January 19 th. 1835. 
 
 “ I got your letter, my dearest Michael, long enough 
 ago to have replied to it before now. Nothing but the 
 want of power has kept me so many weeks silent. 
 How could I be willingly silent to it ? 
 
 “ I will go home to you, and to the grave of — another ; 
 still, I cannot do so, so directly as you propose. 
 
 “ Besides, spring will be better than the present sea- 
 son, better than the biting January, for poor cold I.” 
 
 Poor fellow! he was not, however, to leave France 
 until he had passed through another and most bitter 
 sorrow. The death of one of his children, a boy, has 
 been already mentioned; he had now two, a girl and 
 a boy, surviving at the date of the last letter. He 
 loved them dearly, and none knew better than he the 
 tender, holy truth expressed in those lines of Martin 
 Tupper, which teach that — 
 
 “ A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace 
 and love ; 
 
 A talent of trust — a loan to be rendered back with interest 
 
 and the faces, the voices, the laughter of his boy and 
 girl had cheered him in many a weary hour, and now 
 his boy was about to be snatched from his arms for 
 ever. “ Tell us,” we said to Michael, “ of this death, 
 and how your brother withstood the shock and 
 Michael w T rote to us thus 
 
252 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 “ His daughter was now (1835) in her eighth year, 
 his son beyond four. That dreadful and dangerous 
 malady, the croup, attacked his boy, and he fell a 
 sacrifice to it. I have listened to him for hours of an 
 evening, after his return home, describing the noble 
 qualities, and the affection of this child to him. I have 
 heard him tell how the little fellow would come in 
 from his play, steal gently to the back of his father's 
 sick sofa, and press his soft lips on the hand that lay 
 listlessly hanging over. The first intimation of the 
 child's presence would be this affectionate salutation. 
 And when the father turned his eyes to greet the 
 saluter, then there was a spring into the parent’s arms, 
 and a fond, lengthened embrace between them. Other 
 and various excellences he would repeat, when he lay 
 helplessly and discoursed of his affections. Immediately 
 after the date of the last letter, this attached, fond boy 
 was taken from him. He did not write himself, his wife 
 announced to me the fatality. 
 
 11 1 January 27th, 1835. 
 
 “ ‘ Dearest Brother, — The first real sorrow I ever 
 experienced came on me this morning. I have lost my 
 noble little son ; noble, generous, and good-natured as 
 if he were grown up ; and no doubt, if the Lord had 
 spared him, he would have done honor to his father’s 
 name. He is, I hope, this moment communing with 
 your sainted mother. 
 
 “ * I know not what I write, but I had rather you 
 should learn this through me than through any other 
 channel. 
 
 “ £ When I am more composed I will tell you more 
 about him. The event has almost killed his father ; 
 their affection for each other was unbounded.' ” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 253 
 
 Residence in Paris, after the death of his boy, became 
 painful to him. His life there had been gloomy, and 
 he would now be at home, amidst old scenes and faces, 
 “with memories not all sad.” And yet what were 
 these memories not all sad ? The dream-land of those 
 
 days when he wandered with Anne T> ; the lost 
 
 love ; the dead mistress ; his own long sickness ; the 
 debts of the wild days ; a dead mother ; a broken, 
 ruined body; fame dimmed as it shone most brightly; 
 and now a forced return to all these scenes. Truly 
 might he exclaim of memory: — 
 
 “ To me she tells of bliss for ever lost ; 
 
 Of fair occasions, gone for ever by ; 
 
 Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely cross’d ; 
 
 Of many a cause to wish — yet fear to die.” 
 
 But to be at home, to be at Kilkenny, was henceforth 
 his constant longing. There was a beauty in the 
 scenery, a balm in the air, a charm in the Nore, 
 which no other place on earth could now supply to 
 him ; and he thus wrote to Michael, explaining his 
 wishes as to the house he desired to secure : — 
 
 “ Paris, April 30 th . 1835. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — What I require is this. I must 
 have a little garden, not overlooked, for with eyes on me 
 I could not enjoy it. Herein paths to be, or afterwards 
 so formed as to enable three persons to walk abreast. 
 If not paths, grass-plats formed out of its beds; for with 
 the help of your neck or arm, dear Michael, I want to 
 try and put my limbs under me. This is the reason for 
 my last, and to you, perhaps, strange request ; but 
 
254 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 indeed there is a reason, connected with my bodily and 
 mental state, for all the previous matters to be sought 
 for in my contemplated abode, and which I have so 
 minutely particularized. 
 
 “If possible, I would wish my little house to have 
 a sunny aspect ; sun into all possible windows every 
 day that the glorious material god shines. I am a 
 shivering being, and require, and rejoice in, his invigo- 
 rating rays as does the drooping sickly plant. 
 
 “ If this little house could be within view of our Nore 
 stream, along the banks of which you and I have so 
 often bounded, but along which I shall never bound 
 again, it would enhance my pleasure. 
 
 “I will begin to go home the 10th of the next 
 month (May). Traveling is to me a most expensive 
 and tedious process. Every league of the road will take 
 a shackle off, me. My mind is fixed on a little sunny 
 nook in Kilkenny, where I may set myself down and 
 die easily, or live a little longer as happily as I can.” * 
 
 * This description of the house in which he would pass his future 
 life is very beautiful, and it may interest some readers to mark the 
 similarity between it and that poet’s home which Tennyson has so 
 exquisitely described in “ The Gardener’s Daughter — 
 
 ‘•Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
 Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
 
 News from the humming city comes to it 
 In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
 
 And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
 The windy clanging of the minster-clock ; 
 
 Although between it and the garden lies 
 A league of grass, wash’d by a slow broad stream, 
 
 That, stirr’d with languid pulses of the oar, 
 
 Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
 
 Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
 Crown’d with the minster-towers.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 255 
 
 He was impatient, as we have stated, to leave Paris, 
 and commence his homeward journey; and so, to use 
 the words of Mrs. Banim, he “bundled everything,” 
 and started for Boulogne. Even here, on his journey, 
 his invariable attendant, sickness, pursued him — Mrs. 
 Banim was attacked by typhus fever. He thus an- 
 nounces his position to Michael : — 
 
 “ Boulogne-sur-Mer, May 20 Ih, 1835. 
 
 “ My dear Michael, — I left Paris the 10th, as I told 
 you I should do, although much weakened from a regi- 
 men to arrest throwing up blood, which happened to 
 me some weeks before. I arrived here the 13th, and 
 was about to cross to England the 16th, when my poor 
 Ellen was struck down by typhus fever, which, fastening 
 on a previous cold, has so inflamed her chest and side, 
 that I don’t yet know if she is to be spared to me. At 
 any rate, do as well as she can, I must not stir for a 
 month at least. God’s will be done. There is always 
 something to be grateful for. Had Ellen taken ill on 
 the road from Paris, amongst strangers, instead of here, 
 surrounded by real affection, how much more must I 
 have suffered. 
 
 “Indeed, from men and women, French and English, 
 and Irish, in Boulogne, we find nothing but great 
 kindness.” 
 
 “ May 24 th. 
 
 “ I am glad I did not send this yesterday. Ellen is 
 better to-day, and the chances are all in her favor.” 
 
 As “Ellen is better to-day, and the chances are all 
 in her favor,” and as he is on the road towards home — 
 towards Kilkenny, with the garden not overlooked, and 
 
25G 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 the flowers, and the sunshine, and the sparkling, winding, 
 shady Nore, and with the soft warm wind of summer 
 playing around him, and with kind English and French 
 friends smiling by him, and helping him to restore Ellen, 
 he must take up his pen, and he writes, and incloses, in 
 the last quoted letter to Michael — 
 
 “ THE CALL FROM HOME. 
 
 “ From home, and hearth, and garden it resounds, 
 
 From chamber, stair, and all the old house bounds, 
 
 And from our boyhood’s old play-grounds. 
 
 “And from my native skies and airs, which you 
 Tell me must nerve my wretched form anew, 
 
 Breathing forth hopes of life, alas ! how few. 
 
 “ And from the humble chapel path we’ve trod 
 So often morn and eve, to worship God, 
 
 Or kneel, boy penitents, beneath His rod. 
 
 “ And from its humble graveyard, where repose 
 Our grandsire’s ashes and our mother’s woes, 
 
 That saint, who suffered with a smile to life’s last close. 
 
 “ Brother, I come ; you summon, and I come : 
 
 From love like yours I never more will roam — 
 
 Yours is the call from brother and from home. 
 
 “ From the world’s glare and struggle, loving some 
 And hating none ; to share my mother’s tomb, 
 
 Hoping to share her bliss, brother, I come.’’ 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE RETURN HOME — LONDON: OLD FRIENDS LINES TO BANIM 
 
 BY THE LATE THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY DUBLIN : MICHAEL 
 
 BANIM’S DESCRIPTION OF JOHNS APPEARANCE AND SUFFERINGS 
 
 WONDERFUL CHEERFULNESS OF MIND: HEROIC COURAGE 
 
 KINDNESS OF IRISH FRIENDS “ DAMON AND PYTHIAS ” PLAYED 
 
 FOR BANIM’S BENEFIT AT HAWKINS* STREET THEATRE ARRIVAL 
 
 IN KILKENNY TAKES POSSESSION OF WINDGAP COTTAGE: LIFE 
 
 IN THE COTTAGE: THE “ SHANDERADAN ** “ THE MAYOR OF 
 
 WINDGAP ’* DRAMATIZED, AND PLAYED FOR BANIM*S BENEFIT, 
 IN KILKENNY, BY GARDINER’S COMPANY — -LITERARY LABOR — • 
 QUARREL WITH MESSRS. GUNN AND CAMERON, PROPRIETORS OF 
 “ THE DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL : ” EANIM’s INDIGNANT LETTER 
 
 TO THEM DISTINGUISHED VISITORS AT WINDGAP COTTAGE 
 
 banim’s ENTHUSIASM WHEN THE EARL OF MULGRAVE, THE 
 LORD LIEUTENANT, VISITED KILKENNY: THE “ SHANDERADAN ** 
 DECORATED, AND BEARING THE INSCRIPTION, “ MULGRAVE FOR 
 
 EVER !”■ A PENSION GRANTED DESCRIPTION OF A DAY WITH 
 
 BANIM “ FATHER CONNELL** COMMENCED VISIT FROM GERALD 
 
 GRIFFIN: HIS LETTER TO MICHAEL BANIM THE STAGE DARK- 
 
 ENING ERE THE CURTAIN FALLS: THE TREE DYING FROM THE 
 TOP. 
 
 When Mrs. Banim was pronounced by her physician 
 sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of traveling, 
 the poor, broken pilgrim of health commenced his home- 
 ward journey. 
 
 He rested some days in London, and the old familiar 
 faces, the friends of earlier, and, amidst all their sorrows. 
 
258 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 brighter days, gathered around his sofa. Amongst 
 these friends, the late Thomas Haynes Bayly was one 
 of Banim’s most attentive and constant visitors. 
 
 All through life, Bayly was on terms of intimacy or 
 friendship with most of the literary men of his time ; 
 and we find letters addressed to him from Moore, 
 Rogers, Theodore Hood, Crofton Croker, Galt, and 
 others ; but John Banim was his dearest friend. 
 
 It was after he had called to see his sick friend, thus 
 returning from France, that Bayly wrote the following 
 lines : — 
 
 i. 
 
 “I saw him on his couch of pain, 
 
 And when I heard him speak, 
 
 It was of Hope long nursed in vain, 
 And tears stole down his cheek. 
 He spoke of honors early won, 
 Which youth could rarely boast ; 
 Of high endeavors well begun, 
 
 But prematurely lost. 
 
 ir. 
 
 “ I saw him on a brighter day, 
 
 Among the first spring flowers ; 
 
 Despairing thoughts had pass’d away, 
 He spoke of future hours ; 
 
 He spoke of health, of spirits freed 
 To take a noble aim ; 
 
 Of efforts that were sure to lead 
 To fortune and to fame ! 
 
 in. 
 
 “ They bear him to a genial land, 
 
 The cradle of the weak ; 
 
 Oh may it nerve the feeble hand, 
 
 And animate the cheek ! 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 259 
 
 Oh may he, when we meet again, 
 
 Those flattering hopes recall, 
 
 And smiling say — ‘ They were not vain, 
 
 Fve realized them all V v 
 
 London, even with friends like Bayly, could now offer 
 nothing to the poor, broken, world-weary man, com- 
 parable to the quiet beauty of the humble resting-place 
 which his fancy had created, and which he hoped to 
 discover amidst the green and leafy scenes of his native 
 place. He quitted London for ever, and arrived in 
 Dublin at the close of July, 1835. 
 
 “When,” writes Michael Banim to us, “I hastened 
 up to Dublin in August, 1835, to meet my brother, I 
 could not at once recognize the companion of my boy- 
 hood ; the young man, who, thirteen years before, had 
 been in rude health, robust of body, and in full vigor, 
 could scarcely be identified with the remnant I beheld. 
 
 “ I entered his room unannounced. I found him laid 
 listlessly on a sofa, his useless limbs at full length — his 
 open hand was on the arm of the couch, and his sunken 
 cheek resting on his pillow. I looked down on a 
 meagre, attenuated, almost white-headed old man. I 
 spoke ; my voice told him I was near. He started, and 
 leaning on his elbow, he looked eagerly into my face. 
 His eyes were unlike what they had been ; there was 
 an appearance of effort in his fixed gaze I had not seen 
 before. I had been prepared to meet a change, but not 
 prepared for such a change as was now apparent. We 
 were not long, however, recognizing each other, and 
 renewing our old love. 
 
 “When we thus met, my brother was the wreck of his 
 former self. He was unable to change his position ; 
 
2G0 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 dependent altogether on extraneous help. To remove 
 from one place to another, he should clasp with both 
 his hands the neck of the person aiding him, and sitting 
 on the arms of his assistant, be carried wherever it was 
 necessary to bear him. He should be conveyed in this 
 manner from the bed to the sofa, and from the sofa 
 elsewhere. It required expertness more than strength 
 to convey him safely — and when one unaccustomed to 
 be his carrier undertook the task, his apprehension of 
 falling affected him strongly. His extremities hung 
 uselessly from the trunk, and were always cold ; it 
 appeared as if the vital warmth had no circulation 
 through them ; and when out of bed, his legs and 
 thighs should be wrapped closely in rugs and furs, or 
 the heat of the upper portion of the body would pass 
 away through them. 
 
 “No day passed without its term of suffering. For 
 two or at most three hours after retiring to bed, he 
 might, with the assistance of opiates, forget himself in 
 sleep. He was sure to awake, however, after a short 
 repose, screaming loud from the torture he suffered in 
 his limbs and along his spine — the attack continuing 
 until exhaustion followed, succeeded by, not sleep, but 
 a lethargy of some hours’ continuance. This was not 
 an occasional visitation, but was renewed night after 
 night. It was not during the hours of darkness only 
 that he suffered — frequently the pains came on in the 
 daytime — after he endured them all night long, if the 
 weather, lowered, or the atmosphere pressed heavily, 
 they were present in the day : to say nothing of his 
 decrepitude, few of his hours were free from agony. 
 
 “ The account of one day and night will answer for 
 every succeeding day and night ; the only difference, 
 a greater or less degree of torture On one occasion. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 261 
 
 after his establishment at Kilkenny, I visited him about 
 noon, and found him, as at the same hour was often the 
 case, languid and drooping after the night and morning. 
 With a melancholy smile he said, as he took my hand, 
 4 My dear Michael, I can be food for the worms any 
 time I please. If I wish for death, I need only stay 
 abed, and resign myself to what must inevitably fol- 
 low. If I make no effort against my malady, all will be 
 over in three or four days. I will not act thus, however, 
 — I will live as long as God pleases. But come, come, 
 my honest fellow, let us talk of something cheerful — • 
 cheerful conversation is a bairn to me. The sun is 
 banishing the clouds ; we will have a ride together in 
 the Shanderadan, and look about us, and talk of some- 
 thing else besides my crippled body. 5 
 
 44 In the intervals between one attack of pain and 
 another, and when recovered from the consequent ex- 
 haustion, the spirit of the enduring man seemed to 
 rebound, as it were, from its prostration. 
 
 44 He cheered up — his brow relaxed from its com- 
 pression, his eye brightened, and a smile displaced the 
 contortion of his lip ; and he enjoyed with a high relish 
 everything from which he could extract a temporary 
 gleam of pleasure : anything that could induce a forget- 
 fulness — the mere negative good — the absence of actual 
 suffering — was an enjoyment, and he became even 
 mirthful. 
 
 In the intermission of extreme illness, his conversation, 
 if I do not judge partially, was very attractive. His 
 youthful sense of nature's beauties would return, and he 
 would become enthusiastic as he pointed out favorite 
 bits of landscape. He would indulge in pleasant badin- 
 age, he would discourse of books and theories, or he 
 would sketch vividly the varieties of human character 
 
262 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 lie liad encountered through, life. It was a blessing to 
 him he had the power to forget, and to make his com- 
 panions forget also, that he was enjoying no more than a 
 short vacation.” 
 
 In Dublin, as in London, old and new friends gathered 
 around Banim. Literary friends — friends of the early 
 days of artist -life, came to him ; and the Viceroy, the 
 Earl of Mulgrave, was most attentive and thoughtful in 
 his endeavors to aid the poor, broken sufferer. 
 
 As a graceful means of increasing his resources, it was 
 resolved that Banim’s fellow-countrymen should be in- 
 vited to show their appreciation of his genius by attend- 
 ing a performance for his benefit, which it was proposed 
 should take place at the Theatre Boyal, Hawkins’ Street; 
 and accordingly the following announcement appeared 
 in all the Dublin newspapers of Thursday, July 16th, 
 1835 : — ■ 
 
 “ Theatre Boyal. — Under the immediate patronage of 
 His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant. Mr. John Banim, 
 the author of ‘Damon and Pythias,’ ‘Tales by the 
 O’Hara Family,’ and several other National Tales and 
 Dramas, being now in Dublin, his friends deem this a 
 fitting opportunity to call upon his fellow-countrymen to 
 testify the respect and admiration in which they hold his 
 talents. The Theatre will open for this purpose on 
 Tuesday Evening, July 21st, when will be performed, for 
 his benefit, ‘The Sergeant’s Wife,’ dramatized by Mr. 
 Banim from one of his own Tales, and ‘ The Sister of 
 Charity,’ also written by him. There will be a Comic 
 Interlude, with a variety of other Entertainments. The 
 particulars in the bills of the day. Tickets to be had at 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 203 
 
 all the Newspaper Offices ; of Mr. G. R. Mulvany, Secre- 
 tary to the Committee, 24 Upper Sackville Street ; and 
 of Mr. Eyre, at the Box Office, where places may be 
 secured.” 
 
 The entire press supported this attempt to assist our 
 sufferer, and the tone of all their appeals was as in the 
 following, from “ The Morning Register,” of Friday, 
 July 17th, 1835 — the day following that in which the 
 benefit was first advertised. 
 
 “Mr. Banim. 
 
 “ It does not surprise, but it affords us, nevertheless, infinite gratifi- 
 cation to find, that even already there is a stir, and a great one, for 
 our suffering, but, thank God! not forlorn countryman. High and 
 worthy names, in some number, were put upon the box sheet yester- 
 day. The press, of all colors, lends its willing and creditable aid. 
 We shall, then, have a bumper ; but let it be a bumper. Posterity 
 will weave garlands for the grave of John Banim, and while they pay 
 the merited tribute to his exalted genius, let there be in their memory 
 nothing giving them ground to cast the reproach of a base and un- 
 feeling niggardlyness on those who dwelt in one town with him, and 
 were aware of his misfortunes, in July, 1835.” 
 
 And the following day the same journal thus declares 
 for him : — 
 
 “ Mr. Banim— Debenture Tickets. 
 
 “ There are over one hundred debenture tickets on our theatre. 
 These, we understand, are for the most part sold — and their action, 
 night after night, on the profits of the concern, help to explain why 
 it is running fast to total ruin. It would be lamentable, we had 
 almost said scandalous, if they were suffered to interfere with the 
 receipts of Tuesday night. We are told that some of the ordinary 
 vendors of these tickets have come to the laudable resolution of sus- 
 pending their sale, at least on this sacred occasion. We hope an 
 observance, so deserving from its generosity of the highest commen- 
 
2G1 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 dation, will become general, or, if it do not, that there will, at least, 
 be few willing to go in a cheap, and sort of back-stairs way to poor 
 Banim’s benefit. « The prospects of a bumper are increasing ; but let 
 there be no relaxation in the efforts of the friends of genius. Much 
 must be done before that which is intended as an advantage is 
 secured from the risk of becoming a source of new embarrassment. 
 In plain words, to cover the very expenses will require an exertion 
 in the present state of the town.” 
 
 The performance took place on Tuesday, July 21st. 
 The Lord Lieutenant attended ; the house was filled 
 by a rapturous, overflowing audience ; Banim reclined 
 on a sofa in a private box, surrounded by a few of his 
 oldest and firmest friends ; and the following address, 
 written by George F. Mulvany, Esq., was spoken by 
 one of the performers : — 
 
 “ This night to welcome to his native land 
 A long-lost brother — and to grasp his hand, 
 
 In friendly brotherhood, as warm, as true, 
 
 As erst a ‘ Damon or a Pythias’ knew ; 
 
 To-night to cry caed milefailthe home, 
 
 I see bright eyes, and beating bosoms come ! 
 
 I see the fair, still ever first to breathe 
 
 Soft word of welcome, and still first to wreathe 
 
 For brows victorious in the field of fame — 
 
 Or warrior, or poet — still the same — 
 
 The laurel crown — the dearly, toil-won prize ; 
 
 Ever most treasured when their sunny eyes 
 Smile on its freshness. I behold around 
 The noble and the brave! who too have found 
 The while from state’s or war’s high trammels freed 
 A pleasing pride to win the author's meed, 
 
 And still a crowd — perchance to fame unknown, 
 
 But yet with hearts which Irish bosoms own — 
 
 All here assembled, with soul-beaming smile, 
 
 To welcome Banim to his own green isle. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 265 
 
 “What! though from country and from kindred forced, 
 
 From all the magic ties of home divorced, 
 
 In other realms the author’s lot be cast, 
 
 Where faithful still — true ‘patriot to the last, 
 
 To add new glories to his country’s name, 
 
 Has been his beacon on the path of fame. 
 
 What! though his course be one of anxious toil — 
 
 Though his lips fluid, like the fatal oil 
 That feeds the brightness of his midnight lamp, 
 
 When his brain burns — though his brow be damp ; 
 
 Exhale too oft — too swiftly in the bright 
 And rapt conceptions of its spirit’s light ; 
 
 Sapping the system, till the treacherous stealth 
 Drives him a pilgrim to the shrine of health — 
 
 Bidding him wander back renerved to be 
 At life’s true spring — the scenes of infancy ? 
 
 Though dark clouds low’r, must not the gladd’ning sight 
 Of friends assembled, as around to-night, 
 
 Repay in part the grateful tribute due, 
 
 And bid Hope’s flow’rets blossom forth anew ! 
 
 So may it prove to him, whose ev’ry hope 
 Hath been concentred in the patriot scope 
 Of country’s cause — whose labor to unfold 
 Th’ historic records of her days of old, 
 
 To draw oblivion’s dusky veil aside, 
 
 And paint his country’s claims with filial pride — 
 
 To him whom homeward now a soft voice calls, 
 
 Th’ awakened echo of O’Hara’s halls ; 
 
 There, in the magic of his native hearth, 
 
 To feel, fresh springing in Antean birth, 
 
 New strength to cope in Herculean strife 
 With toils and care that track the poet’s life, 
 
 To work afresh the unexhausted store 
 Of Irish character and Irish lore — 
 
 Rich mine of hidden wealth, of unwrought ore — 
 
 To dare new labors in his country’s cause, 
 
 And win reward — and impetus in your applause !” 
 
 Back lie went, in the month of September, to his 
 
 longed-for home. He was so worn and weak, that he 
 
 12 
 
266 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 could only travel by post-chaise, and the journey form 
 Dublin to Kilkenny required three days in its comple- 
 tion. He went first to the old house, where so many 
 years of hope, of dreaming, of love, of pain, and of 
 memories 44 bitter-sweet,” were passed. 
 
 The 44 little octagon table” in the “sanctum sancto- 
 rum” of his father, with the dear mother, and Michael, 
 and the schoolmaster, and the sister around it, reading 
 his praises, and weaving the laurel crown, were the 
 dreams of the dead, cold, forgotten past, — and now 
 he came to the grave of all those things, and even 
 hope itself was dead ; and nothing was in memory but 
 pain and woe — nothing in the future but rest which 
 was poverty, and life which was worse than death, in 
 its pains and its inutility. 
 
 Early in the month of September, 1835, John Banim, 
 accompanied by his wife and daughter, and by his 
 brother Michael, arrived in Kilkenny, and his fellow- 
 townsmen received him warmly and kindly. They 
 assembled to consider the best method of showing their 
 regard for him, and their appreciation of his genius ; 
 and after some debate, they resolved, unanimously, to 
 present to him the following address: — 
 
 “Address from the Citizens of Kilkenny 
 
 TO JOHN BANIM, ESQ., 
 
 AUTHOR OF 4 THE o’HARA TALES,’ ETC. 
 
 “ Sib, — Influenced by personal regard, and by that 
 esteem which your talents have won, even in far distant 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 267 
 
 lands, your fellow-citizens hail with sincere pleasure 
 your arrival amongst them, though that pleasure is ac- 
 companied by the regret that your health is not such as 
 the desires of your countrymen would have it ; but they 
 trust that native scenes and air shall tend to your res- 
 toration, and that, ere long, a fostering legislature shall 
 extend to you that liberal aid which a good and wise 
 government is ever ready to bestow upon distinguishd 
 literary worth. 
 
 “Your fellow-citizens have resolved to offer to you 
 some testimony of that respect which native and well- 
 directed talents ever merit — respect due from every 
 Irishman who recollects that your writings have por- 
 trayed his country in the colors of truth — delineated, 
 without concealment or exaggeration, its national char- 
 acter — sketched its peasantry as they really are, placing 
 their virtues in relief, and tracing their misfortunes and 
 their crimes to the true source whence both spring — 
 showing this country to the sister-kingdom as it really 
 is, and begetting there commiseration for its sufferings, 
 and esteem for its social virtues and ennobling qualities, 
 which centuries of wrong and bondage have shrouded, 
 but not entombed. 
 
 “ As citizens of Kilkenny, your claims come still more 
 forcibly upon their esteem. Your pen has preserved 
 many of the beautiful localities in and around this city — 
 given new charms to most of its popular legends, and 
 delineated, with truth and accuracy, many of its original 
 characters, blending the charms of truth with the crea- 
 tions of a powerful fancy, and directing all to the noble 
 purpose of elevating the national character, and vindi- 
 cating a too long neglected and oppressed land. 
 
 “ The citizens of Kilkenny, therefore, hope that you 
 will accept of the token of your countrymen’s regard 
 
268 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BAN1M. 
 
 which accompanies this address, and they venture to 
 express their ardent wish that you may live to use it 
 in an advanced and honorable old age, with bodily 
 powers then as vigorous as is that intellect which has 
 won you the proud distinction of fame, conferred an 
 honor on Kilkenny, and an important benefit upon 
 Ireland. 
 
 “ Signed, for their fellow-citizens, by 
 
 “C. James, Chairman , 
 
 “R. Cane, M.R.C.S., Secretary” 
 
 This address was written by Dr. Cane, and was en- 
 grossed on satin, and was presented to Banim with 
 a silver snuffbox, containing in it a subscription of £85. 
 The snuffbox bore the following inscription: — 
 
 “this box, containing a token of regard 
 
 AND ESTEEM FOR HIS TALENTS, 
 
 WAS PRESENTED TO 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 1 THE O’HARA TALES , * 
 
 BY HIS FELLOW-CITIZENS, 
 
 AT KILKENNY. — SEPTEMBER, 1835 .” 
 
 Banim thus replied to the address of his fellow-citi- 
 zens : — 
 
 “ My dear Sirs, — With a son’s deep affection I re- 
 turned to my mother-land — with a child’s delight I 
 re-entered my native city; and from the moment that 
 I touched Irish ground, after attentively regarding, 
 during many years, other countries, my mind has been 
 gradually and irresistibly impressed with the proud and 
 happy conviction, that among strangers Ireland is at 
 present ignorantly, and, I may add, presumptuously 
 underrated, and that to no country that I have seen is 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 269 
 
 she, in my humble opinion, inferior — except, alas! in 
 the disunion, and in the consequent poverty, misery, 
 and crime caused by the born-blindness of those who, 
 unfortunately, cannot perceive that their own proper 
 interests are naturally, derivatively, and inevitably iden- 
 tified with hers. Superior to any other country I am 
 not enthusiastic enough to wish to make her; but, in 
 some instances, she has made herself so; yes, in the 
 social and domestic relations — in that glorious quality 
 which we all agree to call heart ; and, taking one class 
 with another, in true urbanity of manners — and of good 
 manners, too — we may, although her sons, safely venture 
 such an assertion. 
 
 “ All this you may call the exaggerated glee of a boy 
 sent away to his school, and now asked home to spend 
 his holidays. I will, however, hazard another remark, 
 which perhaps may sound even more like flattery to 
 you, and more like home-prejudice on my part. No 
 matter, this it is: That of any city or town of Kilkenny’s 
 population and resources — considering it also as an 
 inland city — it has not yet been my chance to have 
 observed one equal in beauty of scenic appearance, in 
 the pervading intelligence of its citizens, in unostenta- 
 tious morality, and, above all, in public and private 
 charity, to my own dear native place. As to the flattering 
 mention made by you of my Tales, I beg to say that they 
 were inspired simply by a devoted love of our country, 
 and by an indignant wish to convince her slanderers, 
 and in some slight degree at least to soften the hearts of 
 her oppressors; although that, in writing in her cause to 
 other nations, I saw the necessity of endeavoring, cau- 
 tiously and laboriously, to make fiction the vehicle of 
 fact ; and while thus, for the first time, called upon to 
 reply to compliments paid to me as the writer of these 
 
270 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 volumes, I cannot hesitate to mention that a consider- 
 able portion of the success of some of the stories they 
 contain is attributable to the assistance of a dear and 
 respected brother. 
 
 “ My dear Sirs, — I return through you, to my fellow- 
 citizens, my proudly-grateful acknowledgments of their 
 tasteful as well as munificent present ; and for your 
 and their kind wishes for my continued possession of it, 
 I also beg leave to offer my heartfelt thanks, assured 
 that no spot on earth can so much contribute to the re- 
 establishment of my health as that of our unique 
 Kilkenny. 
 
 “ Allow me to subjoin that upon this, the earliest occa- 
 sion when I have had a fitting opportunity to express 
 my sense of national kindness, I hope I may avail myself 
 of it to remind you that, in the beautiful though half- 
 depopulated metropolis of our Ireland, I have, on my way 
 here to you, experienced friendships and services such 
 as even you could not have excelled, and that I now 
 anxiously request my numerous Dublin creditors, to 
 whom, one and all, I own myself a bankrupt in gratitude, 
 to accept this passing allusion as part-payment of my 
 deep debt to them. And again I pray you to allow me a 
 parting word. In Dublin, as well as here, flowers of 
 every tint of the political parterre have been conde- 
 scendingly wrought into a little holiday garland for a 
 very humble brow ; and may I not, therefore, take the 
 liberty of asking you, is not this a slight proof at least 
 that Irishmen of all opinions can unite in recogniz- 
 ing through the medium of no matter how unmeriting 
 an occasion, that principle, of the perfect and uni- 
 versal establishment of which we all stand so much 
 in need — namely, the great and glorious principle of 
 nationality ! 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 271 
 
 “ I remain, my dear Sirs, and my dear fellow-citizens, 
 with profound respect and esteem, your faithful humble 
 servant, “ John Banim. 
 
 To Christopher James, Esq., and Robert Cane, Esq., M.R.C.S,” 
 
 Thus was Banim received by the people amongst 
 whom he had passed his boyhood ; and as the words of 
 the address told him of their appreciation of his genius, 
 of their pride in his fame, of their sympathy in his sor- 
 rows, the brave, strong heart must have grown bright 
 once more, as in the old times when the battle of life 
 was as nothing but a thing to rouse every faculty, with 
 no doubt or pause — when hope was too weak a term to 
 express the knowledge of certain success — when to 
 secure success required but work and thought; and then, 
 with John Banim, work and thought made up the w T hole 
 sum of life, with all joys and griefs centred in them. 
 
 We asked Michael Banim to tell us the story of his 
 brother’s return ; and of John’s first months of the new 
 life in Kilkenny he writes thus : — 
 
 “ John was received, in the old house where he was 
 born, by the remaining members of his family — not now, 
 as on his last visit, to boast of his hopes and aspirations, 
 but to tell the tale of his wreck and failure. When I 
 saw him in the old room, where we had been all assem- 
 bled together thirteen years before, giving credit to the 
 bright visions of prosperity and distinction he then 
 described as in store for him, I could scarcely regret 
 that his mother was no longer with us to witness the 
 present contrast. 
 
272 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ After some preliminary arrangements, the object of 
 our solicitude was established in a suburban cottage 
 close by the road leading to and from Dublin. This 
 cottage was on a height above our river, at the outlet 
 called Windgap, and the scene of one of the tales by 
 ‘The O’Hara Family.* After a short residence here, 
 the neighbors knew him sotto voce as ‘the Mayor of 
 Windgap/ — the title of the tale I have referred to. 
 There were at this cottage dry air, as much sun as any 
 other spot was favored with, the view of green fields, 
 and from one of the windows a glimpse of our crystal 
 Nore, wending through a beautiful valley. These rec- 
 ommendations, joined to seclusion from observation, 
 were desirable, and guided the choice of ‘Windgap 
 Cottage* as the future abode of the ailing resident. 
 t “ There was a slight inconvenience, however, which to 
 another would have been trivial in the extreme, but 
 which annoyed my brother to some extent. 
 
 “In the spring of 1836, the occupant of Windgap 
 Cottage set to work at the formation of a flower gar- 
 den outside his parlor window ; and, when the 
 weather permitted, he sat without the doors, propped 
 in his Bath chair, superintending the operations of his 
 man -of -all -work as he planted shrubs and flowers, 
 laid down sods, and formed broad sanded walks, in con- 
 tact with which the invalid still hoped to place his 
 feet. The Dublin road ran outside the high boundary- 
 wall of the enclosure, and as the public coaches passed 
 to and from the metropolis, those seated on the outside 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 273 
 
 could look down into the little garden. My brother 
 soon discovered that he had become an object of curi- 
 osity and comment ; regarded as one of the shows of 
 the road, exhibited by the driver for the entertainment 
 of his fare. He could notice the coachman’s whip point- 
 ing him out — the exhibitor, at the same time, turning 
 his head from one passenger to another, as he an- 
 swered their queries ; and then there was the stretching 
 of necks for a view, and comments going the round of 
 the coach. 
 
 “ On one occasion he overheard a portion of the dia- 
 logue passing from the rear to the front of the vehicle. 
 
 “ £ He’ll never see the bushes an inch higher/ said 
 a rear passenger. ‘He’s booked for the whole way, 
 and no mistake/ responded the coachman, chirping to 
 his horses, and smacking his w T liip artistically, in satis- 
 factory appreciation of his own wit. A laugh went 
 round as the coach drove on. It showed a weakness 
 of mind in the subject of the jocularity to be so sensible 
 to ridicule; but, for the future, he never sat out in the 
 sun directing the plantation of his shrubs or flowers 
 when the passage of the coach was expected.” 
 
 Shortly after Banim had become the occupant of 
 Windgap Cottage, some strolling players* under the 
 management of Gardiner, who, about twenty -three 
 years ago, was a performer of Irish characters in 
 Power’s line, at the Abbey Street Theatre, Dublin, 
 happened to be on circuit at Kilkenny; and amongst 
 the company was an actor named De Yere, of very 
 
274 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 considerable ability, and who was also an excellent 
 scholar, and a man of cultivated taste. This De Yere 
 had been attracted by the admirable “ situations ” of the 
 tale by “ The O’Hara Family,” entitled “ The Mayor of 
 Windgap,” and had, at his leisure hours, dramatized it. 
 This circumstance became known to Banim’s Kilkenny 
 friends, and, after some consultation, it was arranged 
 “ The Mayor of Windgap ” and “ Damon and Pythias ” 
 should be performed by Gardiner’s company for Banim’s 
 benefit. The plan was speedily carried out, and a 
 crowded house and full treasury were the welcome 
 results. 
 
 But it may be asked, how did Banim pass his time? 
 how did he visit his friends ? how was he able to leave 
 his garden in search of changed scene, and other air? 
 We asked these questions, and Michael Banim thus 
 replied : — 
 
 “ Motion and air, fora portion of each day, were pre- 
 scribed as indispensable for the sufferer’s endurance of 
 life : a post-chaise and pair was the only vehicle he could 
 use, as he should be supported at his back to the height 
 of his shoulders, and have something to hold by with 
 his right hand. This mode of conveyance having been 
 indulged in for some months, was found too expensive, 
 and it became necessary to provide some kind of car- 
 riage for his own particular use. A gentleman having 
 an old four-wheeled chair lying by, presented it to him, 
 and it was gratefully accepted. On examination this 
 was found unsuitable ; but as it had been a gratuitous 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 275 
 
 offering, it was deemed worth remodelling, and much 
 consultation there was as to the mode of adaptation. 
 It was a low chair, in which two persons could sit 
 facing the horse, while the driver took his place imme- 
 diately in front ; there was no support for the back, no 
 grasp for the hand, and no defence against the weather. 
 All these defects were to be remedied. On a stout iron 
 frame, a roof of oilcloth was raised; projecting to the 
 front over the person, a lap of leather, or apron, was 
 contrived, folding over the occupant, nearly breast high ; 
 and a stout loop of leather was attached to the iron 
 stauncheon of the roof, through which the arm could be 
 passed. 
 
 “Thus added to ; the nuts, and bolts, and so forth 
 put into gear, and the whole newly painted, it was 
 tolerably convenient for use ; and being unique in 
 structure and appearance, it received from its owner, 
 in one of his lapses from pain, the title of the ‘Shan- 
 deradan ’ — a translation, he said, of its rattle and rumble 
 as it went along. After a little use the Shanderadan 
 gave way bit by bit ; the axle, the springs, the shafts, 
 the wheels, all of it, in fact, became disjointed and 
 broken, and a year had scarcely gone by, when my 
 brother would entertain his visitors with a humorous 
 description of its several dislocations, and his ‘hair- 
 breadths ’scapes 5 in consequence ; and he would enlarge 
 on the joint skill of himself and Geoffry Grady, the 
 neighboring carpenter, who had, the one by plan, the 
 other by operation, displaced, scrap by scrap, the entire 
 
276 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 vehicle, so as to leave scarcely any of the primary Shan- 
 deradan existing. 
 
 “ The conveyance held together, however, by constant 
 patching, longer than its occupier. For six years he 
 daily took his seat therein, in his little garden, when- 
 ever the weather and his ailment allowed him to be 
 abroad. Seated in this or in his Bath chair (should the 
 Shanderadan be under GeofTry Grady’s hands) he re- 
 ceived his visitors ; and almost daily, while his life 
 continued, he was to be met driving about on one or 
 other of the roads in the neighborhood of Kilkenny. 
 In the Shanderadan he frequently penetrated into the 
 demesnes of the gentry of our locality, and even into 
 their gardens, and he visited any of the contiguous 
 villages not too distant, to continue his acquaintance- 
 ship with the native resorts of his youth. He was 
 seldom without a companion as he went along ; at times 
 his wife, at times his brother, but most frequently his 
 daughter, a lovely and loveable child, bore him company. 
 Very frequently he invited any of his visitors whose con- 
 versational powers gave him pleasure, to sit with him 
 during his little excursions. Gerald Griffin was his 
 guest for a fortnight, shortly preceding the death of 
 that eminent writer. And during the term of the visit 
 the brother-authors drove out every day together. 
 Griffin was tall, and he was forced to bend his knees 
 uncomfortably to adapt himself to the inconvenient 
 mode of conveyance, that he might enjoy his friend’s 
 society.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 277 
 
 Poor Griffin! the old times were around him in 
 memory. Many a pleasant hour they had at this period. 
 And yet these were hours snatched from physical pain 
 by Banim, and from pangs of a tender conscience by 
 Griffin ; for he had begun to think of the past as a void 
 in life, and to look forward to the future years as a 
 period of expiation. He fancied that his novels might 
 be injurious, and, as he expressed it, he felt the horrors 
 of “ the terrible idea, that it might be possible he was 
 mis-spending his time,” or, as he wrote to a friend — 
 
 “ Because the veil for me is rent, 
 
 And youth’s illusive fervor spent, 
 
 And thoughts of deep eternity 
 Have paled the glow of earth for me, 
 
 Weaken’d the ties of time and place, 
 
 And stolen from life its worldly grace ; 
 
 Because my heart is lightly shaken 
 By haunts of early joy forsaken : 
 
 Because the sigh that Nature heaves, 
 
 For all that Nature loves and leaves, 
 
 Now to my ripening soul appears 
 All sweetly weak, like childhood’s tears. 
 
 Is friendship, too, like fancy, vain ? 
 
 Can I not feel my sister’s pain ? 
 
 Ay, it is past! where first we met, 
 
 Where Hope reviving thirsted yet, 
 
 Long draughts of blameless joy to drain, 
 
 We never now may meet again. 
 
 At Sabbath noon or evening late 
 I ne’er shall ope that latched gate. 
 
 And forward glancing catch the while 
 
 The ready door and L ’s smile ; 
 
 I ne’er shall mark that sunset now, 
 
 Gilding dark Cratloe’s heathy brow, 
 
 Blushing in Shannon’s distant bow’rs, 
 
 And lighting Canig’s broken tow’rs ; 
 
278 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 No more along that hedgy walk 
 
 Our hours shall pass in lingering talk ; — 
 
 For vanished is the poet-queen, 
 
 Who deck’d and graced that fairy scene. 
 
 And stranger hands shall tend her flow’rs, 
 
 And city faces own her bowers.” 
 
 However, with his “long shanks doubled up,” and 
 sitting in the Shanderadan beside John Banim, Gerald 
 Griffin was, as in the old days when he wrote to his 
 brother William, of Banim — “ What would I have done 
 if I had not found Banim ? I should never be tired of 
 talking about, and thinking of Banim. Mark me! he 
 is a man — the only one I have met since I have left 
 Ireland, almost.” 
 
 As they sat by Banim’s humble table, he gathered 
 there, to do honor to his guest, all in Kilkenny who 
 were likely to appreciate the mind-gleanings of himself 
 and his friend. 
 
 Amongst those thus invited to meet Griffin was an 
 artist, now distinguished in his profession in Dublin, 
 who tells us — “ I met them often during Griffin’s visit, 
 alone and with others ; and ’twas charming to mark 
 their love of each other ; Griffin’s buoyant spirit seemed 
 to make Banim forget his pains ; and he appeared, 
 when speaking of their London life, to fancy himself 
 once more in London. It was all — Don’t you remem- 
 ber, Gerald? — or, Griffin, my boy, do you recollect? 
 and then, when Griffin sang for him his (Banim’s) own 
 songs, he seemed happier than I ever knew him, even 
 in his best days.” 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 279 
 
 In fact, his love for Griffin was so tender and anxious, 
 and yet so proud of its being returned by Griffin, that 
 it took the hue of a kind man’s loving regard for a 
 woman : he loved him as Southey might have loved 
 poor Hartley Coleridge, had Hartley shunned the 
 enemy that stole away his life and brains. 
 
 Griffin returned to Pallas Kenry, and a few weeks 
 afterwards he thus wrote to Banim. The letter is now 
 first published, but one more creditable to the writer’s 
 heart we have never read : — 
 
 “ Pallas Kenry, October , 1836. 
 
 * “ My dear Banim, — It is with no little gratification I 
 find myself writing to you once more as of old, to ask 
 you how you are, and all who are about you. I have 
 often thought since I left Windgap, that it must have 
 been an ease to you to get rid of me, you kept such con- 
 tinual driving about while I was with you ; besides the 
 exhaustion of the evenings, which I fear must have been 
 too much for you in your present state of health. To 
 enable me to pass my time pleasantly, I am afraid you 
 made it more unpleasant to yourself than I ought to 
 have permitted; but I am a great hand at seeing what 
 I ought to have done when the occasion is passed. And 
 now, in the first place, I will ask you — How have you 
 been since ? and have you yet had any relief from those 
 terrible pains and sinkings, from which you used to 
 suffer so much and so continually while I was with 
 you? I believe you would think well of Munster folks, 
 if you knew how kind and general have been their 
 inquiries respeeting you since my return. How fer- 
 vently do I wish that time, and home, and patience, may 
 bring about in you the same happy change which they 
 
280 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 have often done in other invalids, and enable you again 
 to take, and long to hold, your rightful place at the head 
 of our national literature. This sounds mighty like a 
 fine speech, but let it pass. Would it be unreasonable 
 to ask you to send me that song — your song — when you 
 can conveniently do so. I would also wish to have that 
 beautiful little poem you read to me one evening — the 
 lines in a churchyard: some of them have been haunting 
 me ever since I heard you read them. It is time for me 
 to say something of the other members of your family, 
 and to make inquiries for Mrs. Banim and for your 
 sweet little daughter. It is a great blessing that Mrs. 
 Banim’s health has held out so well under the severe 
 trials and fatigues to which it has been so long subjected, 
 and most sincerely do I hope that her devotedness and 
 patience may ere long meet some reward, in seeing you 
 restored to at least a portion of the health you once 
 enjoyed. I would be most ungrateful, indeed very un- 
 grateful, if I could ever forget the attention I received 
 both from her and you in London, when friends were 
 less than few. In your present state, it must be a great 
 source of satisfaction to have your sweet little Mary near 
 friends who feel for her the interest which only, or almost 
 only, relatives can feel. Farewell, my dear friend: God 
 bless you, and all you feel an interest in. This is my 
 sincere and fervent prayer. Bemember me to your 
 father and brother (who, I find, was right about action 
 and re-action), also to your sister. Hoping that you 
 will find my ‘ shalls ’ and £ wills/ ‘ shoulds ’ and ‘ woulds/ 
 ‘weres’ and ‘have beens/ in tlje foregoing, orthodox, 
 and hoping far more ardently that they may find you 
 better in health and hope than when I left you, I re- 
 main, “ My dear Banim, your sincere friend, 
 
 “Gerald Griffin/* 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 281 
 
 About this period the Earl of Mulgrave, now Mar- 
 quis of Normanby, was Lord Lieutenant, and was hailed 
 by the populace as the greatest and truest friend of 
 Ireland that had ever held the Yiceroyalty. Banim 
 joined naturally in the popular opinion; and when the 
 Lord Lieutenant, in the course of his “progress” 
 through Ireland, was reported to approach Kilkenny, 
 Banini called, in the Shanderadan, upon his artist- 
 friend to whom we have already referred, and, having 
 been carried to the studio, said.— 
 
 “ I want you to paint something for me.” 
 
 “ Do you ?” said the artist ; “ only tell me what, and 
 I’ll go at it at once.” 
 
 “ Well,” replied Banim, “ you see there will be a pro- 
 cession to meet the Lord Lieutenant, and I want you 
 to give a touch to the Shanderadan.” 
 
 “ I was,” says our friend, “ rather taken aback by 
 being requested to make myself something between 
 a coach-decorator and a sign-painter; but, upon reflec- 
 tion, I could not refuse the poor fellow, so I inquired 
 what kind of ‘ touch ’ he wished me to give the Shan- 
 deradan. He said, ‘ I want you to paint the top and 
 front of it green , and to put on the front, in orange 
 letters, 
 
 Mulgrave for ever V ” 
 
 This wish was gratified ; and as John Banim, in the 
 Shanderadan, drove through the city, on the day of 
 Lord Mulgrave’s entrance, not a truer or more honest 
 
282 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 admirer of the Viceregal politics greeted the Viceroy 
 on his way. 
 
 Of his brother’s every-day life at Windgap Cottage, 
 Michael Banim thus writes to us: — 
 
 “ His habits or occupations could be but little varied. 
 Beviving from the exhaustion of the night, he arose 
 generally at a late hour; from his bed he was removed 
 to his sofa, and thence to the Shanderadan, or to his 
 chair in the open air. There was then his drive before 
 dinner, again to his sofa, and then to seek such rest 
 as he could find. He could accept of no invitations, 
 owing to his decrepitude; he was sometimes his father’s 
 guest, up to the old man’s death, which took place 
 before J ohn’s ; he dined now and then with his brother- 
 in-law, and his relatives partook in turn of his family 
 meal; chance guests might call on him of an evening, 
 and then, if not in pain, he was merry, and his spirits 
 cheerful. It will be easily credited, that, leading the life 
 I have particularized, it was impossible he could employ 
 himself with any continuity at his pen. He said to 
 me once — 
 
 “ ‘ Michael, I shall never be able to do anything worth 
 notice again ; I am now only fit for stringing a few 
 loose and pawky verses together — giving out the same 
 odor as the archbishop’s sermons in Gil Bias ; the 
 energy of my mind is gone with the health of my 
 body — neither of them ever to return.’ 
 
 “Yet he was not altogether idle; he sent a few con- 
 tributions to Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine — the manu- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 283 
 
 scripts prepared at his dictation by his devoted little 
 daughter; and he put together some songs — many of 
 them sweet and plaintive, but little of power about them. 
 I cannot point to the particular song or verses referred 
 to by Gerald Griffin. 
 
 “Before he had been a year residing at home, the wel- 
 come news came that the Queen had bestowed a pension 
 on him of £150 per annum. Never was the royal bounty 
 more needed, or bestowed on a more helpless claimant. 
 1 had hopes at the time that this certainty of the future 
 might tend, by easing his mind, to the abatement of 
 the disease; his own hopes were similar to mine — but 
 there was no amendment. 
 
 “ I have heard him say that, for this boon, which, by 
 removing pecuniary anxiety, lightened his sense of en- 
 durance, and helped to smooth his passage to the grave, 
 he was principally indebted to the present Earl of 
 Carlisle,* aided by his early friend, Mr. Sheil. 
 
 “Amongst other persons of distinction who came to 
 visit him, the Earl of Carlisle, then Lord Morpeth, 
 favored him more than once by calling at Windgap. 
 My little niece, then twelve years of age, attracted his 
 lordship’s observation. The father spoke about his 
 anxiety on her account, and a further pension of <£40 
 was granted for the child’s behoof. This was another 
 great cause of uneasiness removed. My brother never 
 spoke of this nobleman’s kindness and commiseration 
 without evincing the most lively gratitude.” 
 
 * Now, 1857, Lord Lieutenant. 
 
234 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM.' 
 
 Michael Banim here refers to the tales and poems 
 contributed by John Banim to the periodical literature 
 of the time. Indeed, these short pieces were his sole 
 means of subsistence previous to the grant of his pen- 
 sion ; and to the last hour of his life, literary compo- 
 sition was his best, and surest, and chiefest security 
 against the depressing effect of pain. 
 
 Amongst his poetic pieces written at this period are 
 two little poems suggested by his love for the memory 
 of his dead child, his son. How he loved this boy, 
 Michael has thus already told us : 
 
 “I have listened to him for hours of an eveining, 
 after his return home, describing the noble qualities, 
 and the affection of this child to him. I have heard him 
 tell how the little fellow would come in from his play, 
 steal gently to the back of the father’s sick sofa, and 
 press his soft lips on the hand that lay listlessly hanging 
 over. The first intimation of the child’s presence would 
 be this affectionate salutation. And when the father 
 turned his eyes to greet the saluter, then there was a 
 spring into the parent’s arms, and a fond, lengthened 
 embrace between them. Other and various excellences 
 he would repeat, when he lay helpless and discoursed 
 of his affections.” 
 
 It was a beautiful trait in the sick man’s character, 
 that frequently, during his bitterest pangs, his memory 
 bore him back to the child’s grave at Montmartre. 
 The following are the lines to which we have re- 
 ferred : — 
 
‘BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM, 
 
 285 
 
 TO MY CHILD. 
 
 By the quiverings of thine eye, my babe, so quick and sharp, they 
 seem 
 
 Revealings of meridian mind before thy time to gleam, 
 
 By thy knowledge of our words to thee, although the knowledge 
 come, 
 
 We know not by what promptings, for as yet, my babe, thou’rfe 
 dumb — 
 
 By thine answers to thine actions, babe, so rapid and so true, 
 
 Is all that by a word or look we want thee, babe, to do — 
 
 By signs like these ’tis whispered, babe, in moments as of fear, 
 
 That a spirit winged so early forth, not long can settle here. 
 
 In pride, alone, and humble thanks for promised gifts so rare, 
 
 That foolish whisper comes to me, of my little boy so fair, 
 
 Because by sickness only, I am sure God lets us know, 
 
 When he doth wish a living soul back to Himself to go. 
 
 And yet, my babe, while you and I this day communed alone, 
 
 A creeping of that vain surmise I inwardly did own, 
 
 There Was such meaning in thee, babe, so startling and intense— 
 
 A power in thine up-cast eyes, a pure intelligence — 
 
 In accents strange and primitive, in a language bold and strong, 
 
 Once spoken in the infant world, though now forgotten long, 
 
 I almost thought to hear thee shape the question of that look, 
 
 To which, as to a spirit’s glance, I for a moment shook. 
 
 My dreams ! my dreams, I also fear ! they do so picture thee, 
 
 A little corpse laid at my feet, in sage tranquillity, 
 
 And in the middle of the night, my own weak moans do start, 
 
 The desolating sorrow from my cramped and quailing heart t 
 
 AN INFANT’S BURIAL. 
 
 Little child ! for you 
 
 No passing bell was rung: 
 Little child! for you 
 No burial chant was sung. 
 
286 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Little child! for you, 
 
 Before your coffin head, 
 
 No priest led on the way 
 Unto your churchyard bed. 
 
 Little child! for you 
 No mourning weeds were on, 
 
 To show a double grief 
 That you to God had gone. 
 
 But people paced around 
 With grave and sober tread, 
 
 In awe, not tears, to heaven, 
 
 For a gracious infant, dead. 
 
 Behind, your father walked, 
 
 Linked with his brothers, two, 
 And alone, because infirm, 
 
 Another followed you. 
 
 And why tolled not the knell — 
 Why was the death-chant mute — 
 Why were the mourners there 
 Without a mourning suit ? 
 
 Why did no follower shed 
 A tear, sweet child, for you ; 
 
 Nay, father and his kin, 
 
 Why were they tearless, too ? 
 
 Although it taxed them sore, 
 
 And him, the mourner-chief, 
 Although he could have wept 
 Aloud, aloud in grief. 
 
 Because each well did know — 
 Priest, people, father, kin — 
 
 That for your loss to us, 
 
 Sorrow were almost sin. 
 
 That life is misery, 
 
 The more when life is long — 
 That life is weakness all, 
 
 When life should most be strong. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 287 
 
 And more than this they knew 
 That God had willed away 
 From earth a child of His, 
 
 Unsullied by earth’s clay— 
 
 As yet unstained by crime, 
 
 Before his Maker’s face — 
 
 And therefore sure to find 
 In heaven a resting-place. 
 
 The lines are not, we are well aware, either very 
 poetical or very striking ; but they show the phases of 
 a longing, loving mind ; of a soul all love and hope ; of 
 a heart young amidst care and grief — a heart that would 
 not be crushed. 
 
 A friend who visited Banim at this period thus de- 
 scribes his conversation and mode of life : — 
 
 “ I had left the town behind, and my route led along 
 the Dublin road, when a small dwelling overlooking the 
 path announced the author’s villa. A wooden door 
 opened to my summons, and admitted me into a small 
 court-yard, bordered by a trimly-kept plot of garden 
 ground. A lad was wheeling an invalid in a Bath chair 
 round the graveled walk. I needed not to ask ; I knew 
 it must be Banim. 
 
 “ Quickly I approached, and put my card into his 
 hand. c Mr. Banim,’ I said, f pardon this intrusion, but 
 I could not be a day in Kilkenny without paying my 
 homage to a genius to whom Ireland owes so much. 
 I have written a little myself, and therefore felt bound 
 to come and see you.’ 
 
 “ He took my hand, and pressed it warmly. c I have 
 
288 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 read your work with pleasure/ he said, ‘and am thank- 
 ful for your visit. Come in and rest after your walk.' 
 
 “‘Pardon me/ I replied, ‘if I decline just now. The 
 walk here is nothing, and you are enjoying this lovely 
 day. Continue your jaunt, and I will walk and talk 
 with you.’ 
 
 “ The boy resumed his propelling motion, and I chat- 
 ted with the gifted Banim. I had full leisure to observe 
 his features, which were long and delicately formed ; his 
 high forehead, denoting intellect, and soft eyes ever lit 
 with flashing thoughts. When he removed his hat, his 
 hair seemed grey, ‘but not with years/ for I do not 
 think he was much more than forty ; but with mental 
 excitement, and much privation and acute bodily suffer- 
 ing (he then labored under rheumatic paralysis, which 
 deprived him of the entire use of his lower limbs), had 
 told upon his brown tresses, and silvered his head. 
 
 “ We spoke chiefly on literary topics. He declaimed 
 powerfully against the low state of literature in this 
 unhappy country, which he attributed to the prohibi- 
 tion of learning in the time of the Penal Laws, from 
 the effects of which the great mass of the people were 
 but slowly recovering — how it was impossible to derive 
 any considerable pecuniary emolument from writings 
 in Ireland. ‘Moore told me/ he said, ‘if he had con- 
 fined his labors to Ireland, he would be a beggar/ He 
 spoke rather feelingly of the neglect of men who had 
 the means, but not the will, to make his sojourn in his 
 native place more agreeable, and hinted at the Marquis 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 289 
 
 of Ormond. Tears of gratitude sparkled in liis eyes as 
 he related a visit not long before paid liim by the Lord 
 Lieutenant, the Marquis of Normanby. If men of that 
 class only knew how prized a few kind words — some 
 pithy notices of judicious praise — are to the sensitive 
 minds of authors, methinks they would be less chary 
 in giving what, at ah events, costs nothing. 
 
 “I mentioned my regret at his invalid state, and 
 asked whether change of air might not be serviceable ? 
 
 ‘ Ah !’ he said, £ I have tried that, and it was of no use. 
 I was in France — at Boulogne and in Paris — and the 
 contrast between my reception at Paris and here is 
 painfully great. There I was made too much of. My 
 soirees, which, unlike the extravagant parties in this 
 country, I would give for about a dozen francs — lights, 
 cakes, cafe, and eau sucre forming the chief items in 
 our bill of fare — were attended by the elite of the French 
 capital. The nobles, by birth as by talents, took pleas- 
 ure in attending. I found my health rapidly declin- 
 ing, and indeed I came home to die. My God ! I shall 
 never forget the humiliation of feeling I experienced on 
 landing at Kingstown. Judging from the misery that 
 everywhere met my sight, I felt as if the Irish had 
 nothing to be proud of except their beggars.’ 
 
 “ I described my ramble over the city that forenoon, 
 and the interest which his tale of the Boman Merchant 
 gave to the churchyard of St. Canice. 
 
 £££ That is a singular incident,’ he replied, £ and well 
 
 worthy of being wrought into three volumes. I wrote 
 
 13 
 
290 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 that tale one evening between dinner-time and tea. It 
 is quite true. The stranger’s tomb is in the wall, near 
 the entrance.’ 
 
 “Banim now directed his servant to turn his steps 
 towards the door, and, by the help of crutches, entered 
 his dining-room. Here we were shortly joined by a 
 gentle little girl, with pale, thoughtful face, and auburn 
 hair, Banim’s only child ; she spoke but seldom during 
 my stay, but her remarks betokened an intellect far 
 beyond her years. She seemed a great pet of her 
 father’s, and no doubt the fervor of his genius com- 
 municated a warmth which caused hers to expand. 
 
 “Of those we love, unconsciously we learn. Mrs. 
 Banim also entered, and I was introduced to her. She 
 showed great solicitude about her husband, inquiring 
 how his drive agreed with him, and appeared obliged 
 for my visit. She was evidently proud of the renown 
 he had acquired, and felt every call the homage he had 
 a right to receive. She spoke rather reproachfully of 
 the conduct of his countrymen in general, who seemed 
 to take little interest in the declining health of one 
 who had done such honor to the soil. 
 
 “Banim soon resumed his literary conversation, and 
 we talked much of poets and poetry. He took down a 
 volume, and read part of Shelley’s £ Faust,’ and I sat by 
 entranced. Never was poetry more eloquently written, 
 and never was poetry more eloquently read. It was a 
 glorious thing to hear such strains so sung. 
 
 “ But Ireland was the theme most upon his lips, and 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 291 
 
 tlie love of country glowed in his bosom ever and 
 always. £ We have been sadly neglected/ he said, £ and 
 the works which are written on this country seldom give 
 a correct notion of the people. Mrs. Hall writes too 
 much like Miss Mitford, and therefore too English 
 to be correct. We want a cheap periodical.’ 
 
 “ I mentioned the ‘ Dublin University.’ 
 
 “ £ It is a good magazine for the hands into which it 
 falls/ he replied ; £ but too much devoted to party to 
 be national.’ 
 
 ££ He repeated some of his own poetry — very touching, 
 and intensely Irish. I remembered an incident which 
 occurred, as he thought, at the Clare election, when 
 two adverse factions were reconciled by the amicable 
 meeting of the leaders long at variance. Banim wrote 
 the following stanzas on the event, which he called £ The 
 Old Man at the Altar : ’ — 
 
 “An old man, he knelt at the altar, 
 
 His enemy’s hand to take, 
 
 And at first his weak voice did falter, 
 
 And his feeble limbs did shake ; 
 
 For his only brave boy, his glory, 
 
 Had been stretch’d at the old man’s feet, 
 
 A corpse, all so haggard and gory. 
 
 By the hand which he now must greet. 
 
 “ And soon the old man stopp’d speaking, 
 
 And rage which had not gone by, 
 
 From under his brows came breaking 
 Up into his enemy’s eye — 
 
 And now his limbs were not shaking. 
 
 But his clench’d hands his bosom cross’d ; 
 
 And he looked a fierce wish to be taking 
 Revenge for the boy he lost. 
 
292 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ But the old man he glanced around him, 
 
 And thought of the place he was in, 
 
 And thought of the promise that bound him, 
 
 And thought that revenge was sin — 
 
 And then, crying tears, like a woman, 
 
 ; Your hand V he cried. ‘ ay, that hand, 
 
 And I do forgive you, foeman, 
 
 For the sake of our bleeding land V ” 
 
 When Messrs. Gunn & Cameron resolved to pub- 
 lish “ The Irish Penny Journal/’ they were anxious to 
 engage the services of Banim as a contributor ; the 
 monetary differences too usual between author and pub- 
 lisher arose, and bitter complaints w r ere made by Banim, 
 answered by declarations of the publishers that he was 
 irregular in his promised assistance. 
 
 Sick, weary, and irritable, Banim became impatient, 
 and inclosed the following letters to his ever-faithful 
 friend, Michael Staunton, then the editor and proprietor 
 of “ The Dublin Morning Kegister — 
 
 “ Kilkenny, September \ Wi , 1840. 
 
 “My dear Staunton, — Should you consider the ac- 
 companying letters fair matter for the notice of the Irish 
 Press, I beg to leave them at your disposal. 
 
 “ Ever truly yours, John Banim. 
 
 “ M. Staunton, Esq.’ 7 
 
 “ Office of the General Advertiser, 
 
 “ Dublin, August 21 st, 1840. 
 
 “ Sir, — For anything new, and which will be suitable, 
 we shall, if it be first-rate, pay as high a price as any 
 one ; and more can hardly be expected from the pub- 
 lishers of such a work as ours. 
 
 “When we commenced the Penny Journal, we cer- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 293 
 
 tainly were foolish enough to suppose that ‘ patriotism ’ 
 (that is the word) might possibly induce some one 
 Irishman to aid us with his pen in our arduous under- 
 taking — not certainly gratuitously, but at a moderate 
 rate. We have, however, already lived long enough to 
 be undeceived. We have always, it is true, found Irish- 
 men exceedingly kind in their professions of patriotism, 
 and, verbally, very fervent in their hopes that every 
 Irishman capable of contributing to the Penny Journal 
 ought to aid us with his talents, and so forth. But we 
 are constrained to say, that we have always found these 
 loud professions coupled with an immediate demand for 
 not only the highest price for their contributions, but a 
 greedy desire to clutch as much as possible from those 
 who, if not more patriotic in reality than themselves, 
 have not had the disgusting hypocrisy to avow a feeling 
 they did not possess. It is not the demand for remu- 
 neration, for this 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 con- 
 tributor would assist us in launching 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 & Cameron. 
 
 To John Banim, Esq. : 
 
294 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “ Kilkenny, September \lih, 1840. 
 
 “ Messrs. Gunn & 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 for- 
 bearance — 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 half John "Banim’s genius, and afflicted 
 with not one hundredth part of his- sufferings and his 
 sorrows, would have become misanthropic, and cold, 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 295 
 
 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 vigor- 
 ous 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 as strong 
 as ever; and he, like Johnson, had prayed that his intel- 
 lect might continue vigorous to the last ; like Swift, 
 that he might not die 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 breakdown 
 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* on his 
 own part all hope of being able to take up anything 
 requiring continuous application, he urged me to re- 
 sume my occupation, under his immediate supervision. 
 
296 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 “I had, some time before, filled a note-book with 
 materials referable to the latest agrarian confederacy 
 that had disturbed our neighborhood, the actor3 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 
 considerable intercourse; I had gained a knowledge of 
 their signs and passwords, and obtained an insight into 
 their views and proceedings. I proposed a tale where- 
 in my materials could be used ; my adviser differed 
 with me. 
 
 “ ‘ 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 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 life-like, he must be 
 reverenced and loved, as we used to love and reverence 
 him/ 
 
 “I sat down as proposed, wiien time, not indispen- 
 sably engaged otherwise, enabled me to do so. I read 
 for my brother each chapter as the tale progressed. 
 When I had put it out of hand, he took it up for 
 revision and amendment. I have ever since regretted 
 having allowed him to do this. According to his con- 
 ception, the tale required extensive alterations as to 
 style and management : I may have differed with him ; 
 but, adhering to our original mode of proceeding, I did 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 297 
 
 not object either to substitution or condensation. Tho 
 task was too continuous for his disorganized 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 con- 
 densed ; 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, inas- 
 much as the character of the old priest who governed 
 the parish of St. John, in Kilkenny, w r hen my brother 
 and I attended in our muslin surplices at his vesper 
 choir, and partook of his twelfth-night feast of cakes 
 and ale, is attempted to be faithfully portrayed. 
 No matter how meagre may be the coloring, 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 e Father Connell ’ was our 
 parish priest, the Kev. Bichard O’Donnell, Koman 
 Catholic Dean of Ossory, when the writers of the 
 tale were young.” 
 
298 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 From tlie period of tlie publication of “ Father 
 Connell,” 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 now relate. 
 
CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 CLOSING DAYS OF LIFE DEATH PENSION GRANTED TO HIS 
 
 DAUGHTER DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER PENSION GRANTED 
 
 TO MRS. BANIM MEETING CALLED IN KILKENNY TO ERECT A 
 
 PUBLIC TESTIMONIAL TO BANIM RESOLUTIONS AND NAMES OF 
 
 COMMITTEE TESTIMONIAL ERECTED — CONCLUSION. 
 
 We left Jolin Banim with the shadow of death around 
 him. The mind was w r aning — the tree was dying from 
 the top — the stage was darkening as the curtain fell. 
 Yet life was about him, and he longed for life. Those 
 who watched by his bed in these days tell us of the 
 time, in memories bright and gloomy — recollections 
 which have in them as many smiles as tears. 
 
 One friend, not his brother, who lived in daily inti- 
 macy with Banim during these times — who knew his 
 phases of thought, his modes of* composition — who 
 watched the clouds and sunshine of his mind — has 
 written, at our earnest request, the following narrative 
 of Banim’s last months of life 
 
 11 February, 1857. 
 
 “My dear Sir, — In consenting to your request that 
 I would supply you with some written recollections of 
 the late John Banim, I have had to overcome a great 
 deal of reluctance, which I very naturally felt when 
 
300 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 reflecting on the extreme delicacy of such a task, and 
 the readiness with which many people take offence in 
 matters of biography, where none is even remotely in- 
 tended. Your urgent importunity and my own desire 
 to oblige you, however, have prevailed in the present 
 instance ; but I must observe in limine, that I greatly 
 fear you will be disappointed, if you calculate on find- 
 ing much, or any at all, of what I have to say worthy 
 of being transferred to your pages. 
 
 “ I had some notion of putting what I had to say into 
 the shape of a consecutive narrative ; but considering 
 there was so very little incident in the life of Mr. Banim, 
 after his return to his native city, and during the period 
 of my intimacy with him, that the history of one day 
 might well be regarded as embracing this whole term, 
 I feared I should produce a rather dull chapter, and 
 therefore, concluded it would be better to throw the 
 substance of my recollections and observations under 
 the headings suggested by a reference to your first note 
 to me respecting the points on which you were desirous 
 of obtaining information. 
 
 “First, then, as to his 
 
 MODE OF LIFE AND HABITS. 
 
 “My acquaintance with the author of ‘The O’Hara 
 Tales ’ began in the latter months of 1836, about a year 
 after his return to Ireland. He was then residing in 
 Windgap Cottage, which does not require to be de- 
 scribed by me ; if I rightly remember, it has been fully 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 301 
 
 noticed in a former chapter. Here, sheltered from the 
 public gaze, and safe from intrusion, he received only 
 such visitors as he chose, and at such times as he 
 thought proper to admit them. Though his limbs had 
 now, for some time, refused to obey his desire to move, 
 his mind was still vigorous and active, and enabled him, 
 under an incredible amount of bodily suffering, to con- 
 tinue his literary pursuits, indulge his natural tastes, 
 and labor to form those of his daughter. 
 
 “ He seldom rose in the morning earlier than eleven 
 o’clock, and, if the weather at all permitted, had him- 
 self conveyed from his bedchamber to a Bath chair in 
 the little enclosure that fronted the drawing-room win- 
 dow. The chair was provided with pillows and cushions, 
 which it was Mrs. Banim’s or Mary’s special duty to see 
 properly arranged, as the organization of his poor frame 
 had become so sensitive that even a crumple was suffi- 
 cient to cause a momentary agony. After a few turns 
 round the circular bed of flowers which occupied the 
 centre of the garden, he would order breakfast — a morsel 
 of thin, dry toast, a rare egg, and a cup of tea. This 
 dispatched, the chair would be again put in motion, and 
 the exercise continued for an hour or so, when he would 
 have himself placed under the shade of either of the two 
 trees which stood at opposite points of the enclosure, 
 and devote the intermediate hours between that and 
 three o’clock to writing or the care of his flowers, of 
 which he was so passionately fond that he frequently 
 insisted on being carried out at night to ascertain, by 
 
302 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 the light of a lantern, what progress his favorites were 
 making. He bestowed particular pains on the culture 
 of a rose unique, which was afterwards affectionately 
 transferred, by his daughter’s hand, to the turf under 
 which he rested, and, when last I visited his grave, w r as 
 the only mark by which it could be distinguished from 
 the narrow dwellings of the humbler dead around. 
 
 “ When three o’clock approached, the business occu- 
 pying him, whatever it might be, was immediately laid 
 aside, orders given to have the horse put to a little 
 ‘ machine ’ in which the pillows and cushions had been 
 previously arranged with the same care as the adjust- 
 ing of the chair required in the morning, and, accom- 
 panied by his wife or daughter, or some other esteemed 
 friend, for he feared going out alone, he would proceed 
 on the drive which, at this period of the day, he never 
 under possible circumstances failed to take. This exer- 
 cise seemed to be essential to his existence, for, if any- 
 thing occurred to debar him from its enjoyment, he 
 could not resume ‘his occupation for the remainder of 
 that day, but became dull, peevish, and uncomfortable, 
 making every one about him share more or less in his 
 unhappiness. On returning from his drive, another 
 process was to be gone through before undertaking the 
 labor of dining — the table had but little pleasures for 
 him for years before. An extraordinary chilliness in- 
 variably seized his whole body, particularly his lower 
 extremities, on the cessation of the rapid motion of the 
 carriage. To get rid of this disagreeable sensation he 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 303 
 
 used to submit himself to a particular operation which 
 he humorously termed ‘shampooing/ A field-laborer 
 who lived close by was generally called in, by whose 
 rough, horny hand he had himself briskly pinched 
 from head to foot for a full half-hour, when his natural 
 warmth would begin to return, and the business of the 
 dinner become practicable. The shampooing was regu- 
 larly repeated before retiring to bed at night, and 
 before leaving it in the morning. 
 
 “Whenever the little carriage was disabled, which 
 was a circumstance of frequent occurrence, or that a 
 horse could not be procured — he had not always one 
 of his own — recourse was had to the Bath chair as a 
 substitute for the drive, and, accompanied by Mrs. 
 Banim and Mary, who occasionally lent it an impulse 
 from behind, some friend of the other sex having gen- 
 erally volunteered to place himself at the front, the 
 scheme sometimes succeeded exceedingly well, while it 
 almost as often involved its peculiar difficulties and 
 even perils. When once equipped, if there was any 
 spot sufficiently near commanding a prospect which he 
 once admired, or presenting a natural beauty with 
 which in youth he had been familiar, an endeavor 
 was made to reach it — every practicable route being 
 sought, and none considered too circuitous to avoid the 
 public road, and escape the public gaze. Many were 
 the obstructions which the unfortunate chair had, in 
 such excursions, to encounter; many an intricate way 
 was entered without ever reflecting on the possibility 
 
304 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 of effecting a return; and often and often the limbs of 
 the poor invalid had to repose on the grass till the 
 chair had been carried over obstacles there were no 
 other means of surmounting. His eagerness on one of 
 these occasions to reach a spot on the banks of the 
 Nore, endeared to him by some early recollection, was 
 near having a fatal termination. The spot alluded to 
 was to be gained by descending a gentle slope, as it 
 appeared to him, at the base of which the stream 
 flowed smooth and deep; none of the party present 
 apprehended the slightest danger in gratifying his 
 desire, and the chair was at once, and without reflec- 
 tion, turned in the direction indicated. But a very 
 little progress, however, had been made when the 
 motion of the little hand-carriage became too rapid 
 for the control of the ladies who were to act as a drag 
 in the rear ; and had not the gentleman in front, by a 
 sudden twist of the guiding-wheel, and by dexterously 
 placing his own person right in its way, succeeded in 
 arresting its onward movement before it had acquired 
 its full impetus, no human power could have pre- 
 vented his being precipitated into the river, whereby 
 the ‘ stubborn Nore 5 would have obtained with pos- 
 terity the melancholy interest of having afforded Banim 
 a grave. It would be impossible to describe the terror 
 that, for the moment, took possession of him, heightened 
 as it was by the consciousness of his inability to help 
 himself; but the arrangements for effecting a return 
 were no sooner completed than he commenced jesting 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 305 
 
 at the probable catastrophe from which he had escaped, 
 and ridiculing Mrs. Banim and Mary for their weakness 
 in having yielded to womanly fears on the occasion. 
 
 “ There was another circumstance, too, connected 
 with his excursions, productive of no small inconvenience 
 to Mrs. Banim in the way of domestic arrangements, 
 but which her c hereditary generosity ’ enabled her 
 patiently to support. The roads and green lanes in 
 the neighborhood of Kilkenny, in the latter of which 
 the little carriage of our poet was frequently seen to 
 pause on summer evenings, abounded at that time, at 
 all events, in specimens of human misery whioL a sensi- 
 tive heart, however well acquainted with the devices of 
 mendicant hypocrisy — a species of knowledge in which 
 he considered himself deeply skilled — could scarcely 
 help commiserating. Whenever anything in the ap- 
 pearance or the story of one of these unfortunates 
 seemed to speak of better days, or deserve a better 
 fortune, he or she, or they — sometimes the case would 
 comprise a whole family — had orders to follow the 
 carriage or the chair home to Windgap, where, when 
 their comforts had been attended to, lodgings would be 
 procured, and, if the subject was a fitting one, an effort 
 made to procure a service, or some kind of permanent 
 employment. Some act of theft or ingratitude was 
 generally the return for his excessive kindness; still, the 
 very next day, a tale of woe would find as ready en- 
 trance to his heart as if he had never erred in his 
 judgment of the narrator of one. Amongst the guests 
 
306 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 here alluded to was a deaf and dumb boy, of about 
 fifteen years of age, who had been discharged, or else 
 had made his escape, from the Glasnevin Institution. 
 Picked up one summer evening in the usual way, as 
 Banim was enjoying his customary exercise, he was, 
 of course, directed to come to Windgap, where his 
 quick intelligence, docility, and eagerness to make him- 
 self useful, soon rendered him a general favorite. For 
 nearly a month he presented himself regularly at the 
 cottage, at the hour its master was wont to make his 
 appearance in the garden. His face would beam with 
 pleasure whenever Banim began to interrogate him, or 
 invited him, by means of slate and pencil or the tele- 
 graphic movement of his fingers, to draw the chair or 
 water the flowers. He disappeared, however, like a 
 young wolf, when he was thought to be quite domesti- 
 cated, and without any apparent reason. He is men- 
 tioned here merely as an instance of the changes men’s 
 opinions often undergo with respect to the theories of 
 their earlier days. The c Kevelations of the Dead-Alive ’ 
 shows what a skeptic Banim was in the doctrines of 
 phrenology, and his sincerity in the ridicule of that 
 science at the time the above-mentioned work was 
 published; at this period, however, so firm was his 
 creed in the soundness of its principles, that he never 
 left this boy at the cottage, when going out to drive, 
 without placing him in charge of the man who was 
 employed to do the ‘ shampooing/ as he apprehended 
 some dreadful consequences might result from an op- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 807 
 
 portunity being presented for gratifying the animal 
 propensities which he fancied were indicated by his 
 cerebral conformation. Here are facts to illustrate his 
 
 LOVE OF KIND 3 
 
 which, far from being confined to his own immediate 
 friends, was for ever displaying itself in some one or 
 other species of action, haying for its object the moral 
 or social improvement of so much of the humbler 
 classes, collectively or individually, as came within the 
 scope of his influence. 
 
 “ In close proximity to Windgap Cottage stood a 
 newly-erected school-house, a fine spacious building, 
 and at the time, perhaps, superior to any provincial 
 structure of the kind in the kingdom ; it was the work 
 of Michael Banim’s untiring zeal in the cause of educa- 
 tion. He spared neither time nor labor in collecting 
 subscriptions, soliciting donations, or superintending the 
 tradesmen engaged in the work. Indeed, in his eager- 
 ness to complete the undertaking, he made considerable 
 advances from his private means, which were never 
 repaid him. The national system was then in its infancy, 
 and by no means popular ; Michael Banim was, however, 
 amongst the first to perceive its advantages, and he 
 entertained sanguine expectations of achieving the hap- 
 piest results for the children of the poor of his native 
 city from a combination of those advantages with the 
 free character of ‘Father Connell’s ? charitable institu- 
 tion. With this view the idea of a National Free School, 
 
308 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 to supersede the theatre of ‘Mick Dempsey’s* labors, 
 to be still governed by a committee of the Society which 
 had been founded for the support of the honored sem- 
 inary, which, it is hoped, Banim’s pages have now im- 
 mortalized, the members whereof (comprising every 
 respectable individual in the community) still met oc- 
 casionally and paid their small quarterly subscriptions ; 
 and to differ only from its predecessor in the enjoyment 
 of a Government grant, was conceived and executed. 
 
 “ The result of Michael Banim’s labors was not what 
 he expected. The building being pronounced fit for 
 occupation, the committee met, and, through improper 
 interference, from private motives, an incompetent per- 
 son was elected to take charge of the new school, in 
 opposition to the wishes and advice of the gentleman 
 who had originated the plan, and done so much to carry 
 it out and secure its success. Michael Banim, of course, 
 ceased to take further part in the proceedings of the 
 committee ; the members of the Society began to refuse 
 subscription, on the ground of the support to be derived 
 from the Board of Education, and to declare off alto- 
 gether ; few or no pupils made their appearance, on 
 account ©f the prejudice that existed regarding the Na- 
 tional system, and finally the Board of Education with- 
 drew the gratuity, not recognizing the claims of a school 
 in which no effort was made to promote the objects for 
 w T hich the Board was instituted. Such was the condi- 
 tion to which ‘ Mick Dempsey’s ’ once flourishing realm 
 was reduced on Banim’s return to Kilkenny. He re- 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 309 
 
 gretted the disappearance of the old thatched roof under 
 which the shivering limbs of so many poor children were 
 made to experience annually the blessings of Father 
 Connell’s charity, and that of many another benevolent 
 spirit, long after the pulse of that commiserating heart 
 had ceased to beat. The handsome edifice which re- 
 placed it was but a poor compensation, in Banim’s 
 opinion, for the good that had departed with it; and in 
 the general apathy that prevailed with regard to the 
 matter, he resolved to take upon himself the task of 
 reviving the Society, and of turning the fine new school- 
 house to some practical account at least, if the ancient 
 utility of the old one could not be restored. For this 
 purpose he put himself at once in communication with 
 the Board of Education, to request a renewal of the 
 connection, and with the local clergy, to secure an 
 attendance of pupils. Both these objects attained, he 
 succeeded in interesting Mr. Iveoglian — one of the 
 Catholic curates of the parish, and a gentleman for 
 whose zeal as a minister, and acquirements as a scholar, 
 he had the greatest esteem — so much in the further- 
 ance of his views, that the latter readily consented to 
 accompany him on a questing excursion amongst the 
 quondam subscribers. On a fixed day, accordingly, the 
 carriage was ready at an hour much earlier than usual ; 
 and Mr. Keoghan being punctual to his appointment, 
 both gentlemen proceeded on their mission ; the fol- 
 lowing day was devoted to the same object, and a sum 
 was collected far exceeding all expectation. Banim’s 
 
310 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 glee was great on the evenings of both these days — he 
 and the clergyman congratulating themselves over a 
 glass of sherry (which, being plentifully diluted with 
 water, formed his favorite beverage) on their eminent 
 success, and laughingly relating how, by judiciously flat- 
 tering the wives, they succeeded in obtaining both ar- 
 rears and current subscriptions, when the surly husbands 
 would persist in obstinately refusing payment of either. 
 Alas for the mutability of human things! the good 
 Father Keoghan was carried away in a few months 
 after by a malignant fever, caught in his attendance on 
 a patient at the County Fever Hospital; Banim is 
 scarcely remembered in his native city; while few, if 
 any, know there ever existed such a body as the once 
 famous ‘St. John’s Parochial Society.’ But to return. 
 One week after Banim had formed his resolution, the 
 school was in efficient working order, and had an im- 
 petus communicated to it which bore it beyond the 
 chance of again sinking into the condition from which 
 his efforts had raised it. Nor did his solicitude in 
 regard to it stop here ; many an hour was snatched 
 from other important business in order to pay a visit 
 to the school. On these occasions it was necessary 
 that the chair and cushions which he used at home 
 should be sent before him, by which there was given 
 timely intimation of his approach — a circumstance 
 which frequently caused him to allude to his infirmity 
 in terms of mingled pleasantry and sadness, and to ob- 
 serve how lucky it was for both teachers and pupils 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 311 
 
 that they need be in no apprehension of ever being 
 taken by surprise. And yet he would sometimes 
 express himself on these and other occasions so as to 
 lead one to think that he did not, at least at that time, 
 quite despair that such might one day be the case. 
 
 “ Having taken possession of his chair in the school- 
 room he would summon before him the various classes 
 in turn, explain the subjects of the different lessons, 
 lecture on the elements of grammar and geography, in 
 the latter of which he would use his clenched hand 
 with great effect as a substitute for a globe, when it 
 was necessary to explain why the figure of the earth 
 was usually represented by two circular pictures, etc., 
 and communicate all sorts of knowledge in such popu- 
 lar language, and in a manner so fascinating, that the 
 little students were always sorry when his visit ter- 
 minated. He bestowed many marks of favor and 
 encouragement, too, on such of the boys as exhibited 
 marks of talent. There was one in particular for whose 
 future way in the world he was resolved to interest 
 himself ; but chancing, during an evening drive, to 
 surprise him in the act of lighting a collection of straw 
 which he had heaped on an unfortunate hedgehog, for 
 the purpose of forcing the poor animal into a state of 
 activity, and thereby furnishing pastime to a crowd of 
 associates, he abandoned all his kind intentions towards 
 him, and, save reading him a severe lecture on his 
 cruelty, never again noticed him in any of his subse- 
 quent visits to the school, which were only given up 
 
312 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 when increasing feebleness rendered it impossible to 
 continue them longer. 
 
 Besides the improved system of education which he 
 was the means of introducing into the school, he had 
 in contemplation another project for still further ele- 
 vating the taste of the generation then springing up 
 around Windgap Cottage. It was the establishment, 
 if possible, of light theatrical performances, in connec- 
 tion with the school, somewhat after the fashion of 
 educational institutions of loftier pretensions. The 
 practicability of the scheme was often gravely dis- 
 cussed, and its success considered certain. The musical 
 and dramatic talents of the artisans of the ‘ faire citie ’ 
 had been celebrated even before the time of Moore’s 
 theatricals there, and I may safely add were sufficiently 
 noticeable at the time, at least, to be considered charac- 
 teristic. From those, in conjunction with the pupils 
 attending the school, he reckoned on being able to 
 form a tolerably efficient company ; the school-room 
 he pronounced admirably adapted for the purpose of 
 a theatre ; and one of his own short pieces, which 
 required but simple scenery and moderate artistic skill, 
 would afford suitable material for a first attempt. The 
 rehearsals and other details were to be an affair of 
 personal superintendence, and the recovery of a little 
 even of his former strength was all that was required 
 to put the design in immediate execution. This he 
 kept fondly promising himself was some time or other 
 to return; the hope of renewed health, as long as he 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 313 
 
 was capable of hoping, never completely deserted him ; 
 it was a vain expectation, however, and so the experi- 
 ment was destined to remain untested. The same 
 cause prevented him from giving the world a work, 
 the plan of which had been conceived some years be- 
 fore, and for which considerable materials had been 
 collected; it was to have been entitled the ‘Lies of 
 History/ and dedicated to his daughter. 
 
 “When discussing his theatrical project, he would 
 lay it down as a maxim, that a high moral style of 
 drama was a test of a country’s greatness ; that it fos- 
 tered the seeds of nationality, and matured its fruits ; 
 that it should be regarded as amongst the most power- 
 ful instruments of refinement and order ; and that to 
 cultivate and spread a taste for it was a task becoming 
 every man truly desirous of regenerating his country 
 or protecting her independence. His impressions in 
 this respect seemed founded on grounds furnished by 
 his own special case ; for, questioning his daughter one 
 day on the subject of her school exercises, and looking 
 through the little pile of books from which she had 
 been preparing her various lessons, he expressed some 
 surprise at not being able to discover amongst them 
 the one which of all others he most wished to see in 
 her hands ; and to her request to be informed to what 
 particular book he alluded, he replied that it was the 
 old ‘ Scott’s Lessons,’ or ‘ Speaker,’ as that once popular 
 treatise on Elocution was more generally called, adding, 
 that — taking into view the whole circle of his youthful 
 
314 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 discipline — the study of the dramatic selections com- 
 prised in it had had by far the largest share in the 
 process which formed his mind. Indeed, the c rival near 
 the throne’ of the realm of theatrical recitation, whom 
 James Charles Bucmahon (Buchanan, for he was a real 
 character, as I need scarcely say almost all Banim’s 
 were), the master of the English Academy, suspected 
 he was one day to encounter in the person of the young 
 hero of ‘Father Connell/ was no other than little John 
 Banim himself. It was little John Banim’s forefinger 
 of the right hand that used to define with such exacti- 
 tude the orb of Norval’s shield; his little head that 
 w T as wont to drop as naturally asleep on the form in the 
 old school-room, as if it were the genuine royal couch 
 on Bosworth field, and then express by such unmis- 
 takable signs the mortal terror that had disturbed his 
 slumber ; and it was from his little fist, when person- 
 ating Will Boniface, that c the imaginary ale’ was quaffed 
 with the smack and relish that were accustomed to 
 draw tears of laughter from the good old priest, and 
 throw the rough but warm-hearted housekeeper, who 
 had never in the course of her life seen anything 
 approaching a veritable actor, into a fever of delight, 
 forcing her to vent her approval in terms so near the 
 line in Shakespeare, ‘ He doth it as like one of those har- 
 lory players as ever I see !’ that a listener unacquainted 
 with her unromantic nature might easily be betrayed 
 into the belief that she actually meant a quotation 
 from the bard. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 315 
 
 “ He was not, however, by any means so much of a 
 visionary as to allow a theory, no matter what it might 
 have for its object, or how large a share of his atten- 
 tion it might claim, to interfere materially with his 
 serious occupations ; indeed, it was only under the most 
 favorable circumstances as to health and leisure, that 
 he purposed his present plan should be worked out. 
 Whilst the chance of such a happy state of things was 
 becoming every day more unlikely, though not so as 
 to assume the appearance of an utter impossibility, 
 a portion of a company, just then disengaged by the 
 periodical closing of one of the Dublin theatres, arrived 
 in Kilkenny, and the local newspapers were requested 
 to acquaint the public that a series of performances 
 would be forthwith given in the c Assembly Rooms’ of 
 the ‘Tholsel,’ under the management of Mr. Gardiner, 
 a comedian of established reputation, assisted by some 
 of the most distinguished names in the profession. 
 Amongst other great feasts to which the citizens were 
 to be treated, there appeared announced in very promi- 
 nent characters, ‘ Banim’s “ Mayor of Windgap,” dra- 
 matized for the occasion by a member of the company.’ 
 Mr. Banim regarded the announcement with pleasure ; 
 believing that the story could be effectively used in 
 that way by a skillful hand, and that the thing would 
 not be attempted in his immediate presence unless 
 executed in commendable fashion. He awaited the 
 performance, therefore, with some interest, hoping that 
 the result would prove creditable both to himself and 
 
316 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 tlie dramatizer. It was evident, however, from the 
 first scene, tliat the gentleman who undertook the task 
 was possessed of more temerity than talent. Mr. 
 Gardiner’s humor, indeed, secured him some applause 
 in his personation of the Mayor’s Bailiff, a character 
 which had been sketched with such fidelity in the 
 original, that, much of its individuality as it had lost 
 in its transmutation, it was still easily recognized, and 
 ‘Bryan Sweeny’ resounded from all directions of the 
 house each time he made his appearance. Bryan 
 Sweeny was the real name of the worthy who sat for 
 this portrait to Banim, and, though some years had 
 elapsed since the decease of himself and the corrupt 
 old corporation of which he had been an officer, the 
 identity was at once admitted by all who had been 
 familiar with that model official. In the remainder of 
 the details the piece bore so little resemblance to the 
 original, that it would seem the title of ‘Mayor of 
 Windgap ’ was bestowed on it only as the best means 
 that could be resorted to for the purpose of ‘filling 
 the house.’ This report of the affair annoyed Mr. 
 Banim, and for a time he felt almost as mortified as 
 if the failure could be attributed to his own production. 
 He bitterly observed that he believed there never yet 
 was a scribbling fool who did not fancy he could write 
 a play, and who, failing to give the world some ridicu- 
 lous production of his own, did not disfigure somebody 
 else’s. Anxious to impress his fellow-citizens with a 
 more favorable opinion as to his powers as a dramatic 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 317 
 
 writer than what they could be expected to entertain 
 from witnessing the performance just alluded to, and 
 ambitious of having one of his own pieces represented 
 in his native city, he proposed to Mr. Gardiner to bring 
 out ‘ The Conscript Sisters/ which had been written for 
 Arnold’s Theatre, and acted there with eminent success. 
 Gardiner perused it, but finding it did not come quite 
 within the range of his own or his company’s talents, 
 he returned it to the author, who was thus debarred the 
 only remedy that presented itself for the outrage com- 
 mitted on one of the most exquisite of his O’Hara 
 Tales.” 
 
 Taking up the narrative from this point, Michael 
 Banim writes to us : — 
 
 “ Late in July, 1842, I left home to spend a fort- 
 night with some friends forty miles from Kilkenny. 
 When parting from my brother, I could perceive no 
 change for the worse in his symptoms or appearance. 
 I was suddenly summoned home in consequence of his 
 dangerous illness. I returned at once. I found him 
 barely able to recognize me — only able to take my hand 
 and look in my face, but incapable of speaking. I saw 
 at a glance that his time of suffering was nearly over. I 
 attended on him until I closed his eyes. His struggle 
 against death was an enduring one. His chest and 
 lungs were sound and healthy, and he continued to 
 breathe strongly, but not painfully, for a day and night 
 after all consciousness had left him. Death was rather 
 the extreme of exhaustion than a violent separation of 
 
318 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 the spirit from its prison. Life passed from him almost 
 unperceived. 
 
 “ Frequently, during the last six years of his life my 
 brother and I had been together, he engaged my prom- 
 ise that I would stand by while his grave was digging, 
 that I would see the side of his mother’s coffin laid bare, 
 and that, when his body was lowered to its last resting- 
 place, I should be certain the side of his coffin was in 
 close contact with that of his beloved parent. His in- 
 structions were religiously observed. 
 
 “ There are two portraits extant of the subject of 
 your memoir ; one, in my possession, painted by him- 
 self * when in his nineteenth, or approching to his 
 twentieth year ; the other remaining with the talented 
 artist of whose pencil it is the production, Mr. George 
 Mulvany, of Dublin — the last mentioned taken after the 
 total failure of health. Both these pictures are excellent 
 likenesses of the original at the different periods of life 
 when they were painted. Placing them side by side, 
 if would require almost a stretch of the imagination 
 to trace a resemblance between them, or to acknowledge 
 them as representations of the same person. 
 
 “ I have not attempted, in any of my notes furnished 
 you, to measure my brother’s claims to literary dis- 
 tinction. His merit as a poet or novelist I have not 
 sought to weigh or to decide on. I have contented 
 myself with giving a faithful account of his early and 
 
 * This is the portrait of “ her own graw bawn,” before which old Mrs. Banim, 
 John’s mother, used to pray. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 319 
 
 more mature endeavors to establish the reputation he 
 thirsted to attain. The range and quality of his genius 
 as a writer I leave to more disinterested parties than 
 myself to ascertain and define. I think I may claim 
 for him, however, numerous amiable qualities, springing 
 directly from the heart, the seat of the affections ; and 
 many valuable qualities emanating from the head, the 
 formator of character. 
 
 “His affections were ardent, impulsive, and uncal- 
 culating. He was industrious, persevering, and self- 
 reliant, so long as his physical capabilities enabled him 
 to be so. 
 
 “ It will be borne in mind that he died while yet 
 young, and that, for fully thirteen years preceding his 
 demise, the physique of his mental power was not in 
 health, nor the full force of his mind at his command. 
 Ad forty-four, his age when he died, men of genius 
 begin to train the flights of imagination and fancy with- 
 in the scope of reason, to prune* exuberances, and to con- 
 trast with judgment. 
 
 “ I think I may affirm that, had it pleased Providence 
 to have given him health during the thirteen years he 
 was an ailing and incapable aspirant for fame and inde- 
 pendence, and to have prolonged his life until he had 
 descended even but little from the summit of existence 
 which he had not reached, he would have made good 
 way towards the goal he had marked out ultimately to 
 reach. I am confident that, had health and life been 
 his, he would have advanced much closer than he did 
 
320 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 to c Fame’s Magnetic Altar ’ — the bourne to be attained, 
 as expressed in one of his early rhymes. 
 
 “ About to close my subject, I will here reiterate the 
 opinion I mentioned to you when relating the termin- 
 ation of his boyish passion. I still think that the 
 peculiar ailment causing death, and which for some 
 time baffled the skill of the most eminent medical men, 
 had its origin at the period of this early calamity. I 
 judge that his brain was then injured, and that the 
 subsequent overworking of the seat of thought brought 
 on the spinal disease, which first paralyzed his limbs, 
 and finally extinguished life. 
 
 “My brother left behind him a widow and an only 
 child, his daughter Mary. I have stated that this 
 beloved daughter had been, through the kind inter- 
 ference of the present Earl of Carlisle, placed on the 
 pension-list at J£40 a year. Shortly after her father’s 
 death she was placed at the convent school of Water- 
 ford, under the special care of the sister of Mr. Sheil— 
 Mr. Sheil himself being one of her guardians. In the 
 October of 1843 I visited her there, and spent the day 
 in private discourse with her. She was then a very 
 lovely girl, full of talent, full of endearing affection, 
 giving promise of doing credit to her parent’s name. 
 The February following, I received notice that she was 
 very ill. She had shown symptoms of chest disease 
 at Christmas, at first thought lightly of. When I visited 
 her, in February, consumption had painted two vivid 
 spots of dazzling red upon her cheeks, and given a 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 321 
 
 flaring lustre to her dark eyes. The June following 
 she died, in her eighteenth year, and her coffin was 
 placed on the yet sound timber encasing her father’s 
 remains.” 
 
 When John Banim’s daughter, his only surviving 
 child, thus died, his fellow-countrymen feared that his 
 widow might not be considered a fit object for the 
 bounty of the State. Such fear, however, owing to the 
 active interposition of the late Sir Bobert Peel, was 
 not well founded. The following paragraph, from “ The 
 Nation” of Saturday, May 10th, 1845, describes all the 
 matters of interest connected with the case ; and the 
 names appended show how warmly and how generally, 
 despite opposite feelings of politics and religion, the 
 memory of John Banim, the Scott of Ireland, was 
 cherished : — 
 
 “ Mrs. Banim. 
 
 “ Sir Robert Peel has acted most kindly and creditably 
 with reference to this lady. A Committee of twenty- 
 one, including the most active of the Conservative and 
 Repeal writers and speakers, undertook to procure sub- 
 scriptions for the purchase of a small annuity for her ; 
 but at an early meeting it w~as agreed to make one more 
 application to Government for the re-grant to the widow 
 of that pension so freely and so worthily given to the 
 orphan of John Banim. The application was made 
 
322 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 through. Mr. E. B. Roche,* the Member for Cork County, 
 and Sir Robert Peel has answered by saying that 
 the pension-list applicable to such a purpose is full, 
 but that he will give £50 from the Royal bounty now to 
 Mrs. Banim, and will guarantee her £40. a year on the 
 first vacancy. 
 
 “ Such acts, so done, introduce an amenity and gener- 
 osity into public life ; and whether Peel did this from 
 feeling or policy, he deserves equal credit, and we thank 
 him for it. Nor are we less pleased at another instance 
 of the successful co-operation of Irishmen, differing in 
 creeds and minor politics, when a matter of national 
 duty or sentiment is involved. 
 
 “ This was the Committee that took up Mrs. Banim’s 
 case, and carried it to this fortunate issue : — . 
 
 Daniel O’Connell, Esq., M.P. 
 
 John Anster, Esq., LL.D. 
 
 Smith O’Brien, Esq., M.P. 
 
 Isaac Butt, Esq., LL.D. 
 
 Dr. Kane, M.R.I.A. 
 
 John O’Connell, Esq., M.P. 
 Charles Lever, Esq. 
 
 Torrens M‘Cullagh, LL.B. 
 Thomas Davis, Esq., M.R.I.A. 
 Samuel Ferguson, Esq., M.R.I.A. 
 Thomas O’ Hagan, Esq. 
 
 William Carleton, Esq. 
 
 E. B. Roche, Esq., M.P. 
 
 Joseph Lefanu, Esq. 
 
 Charles Gavan Duffy, Esq. 
 
 J. Huband Smith, Esq., M.R.I.A. 
 Thomas MacNevin, Esq. 
 
 Dr. Maunsell. 
 
 J. Grey Porter, Esq. 
 
 James M‘Glashan, Esq. 
 
 M. J. Barry, Esq.” 
 
 The county being, after its fashion, grateful, the 
 fellow-townsmen of John Banim resolved to manifest 
 their belief in the fact that Kilkenny, the College, 
 
 * Now Lord Fermoy. 
 
BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 328 
 
 Windgap, and some other places existed, and t*hat 
 John Banim had done a little to make them stand 
 before the world as something more than names in an 
 atlas. Accordingly, in the Kilkenny and other Irish 
 papers of December, 1852, the following announcement 
 appeared : — 
 
 “ Banim Testimonial. 
 
 “ At a Public Meeting of the friends and admirers of 
 the genius of the late John Banim, held in the Tholsel, 
 Kilkenny, on Wednesday, 15th December, 1852, the 
 Mayor of Kilkenny in the Chair, the following resolu- 
 tions were unanimously adopted : — 
 
 “ Proposed by the Bev. Dr. Browne, Kilkenny College, 
 and seconded by J. M Tidmarsh, Esq., T.C. — 
 
 “ 1. That it is the opinion of this meeting, that a suit- 
 able Testimonial to the memory of the late John Banim 
 be erected in this his native City. 
 
 “ Proposed by Robert Cane, Esq., M.D., and seconded 
 by the Rev. James Graves — 
 
 “2. That the best mode of evincing our respect for 
 the name of John Banim, would be to erect (if the funds 
 admit thereof) a Public Testimonial, which would be, 
 at the same time, ornamental to the City, and prove 
 of use and convenience to the Public at large. 
 
324 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM, 
 
 Committee. 
 
 The Most Noble the Marquis of 
 Ormonde, Kilkenny Castle. 
 
 Right Hon. W. F. Tiglie, D.L., 
 Woodstock, Co. Kilkenny. 
 
 John Potter, Mayor of Kilkenny. 
 
 Daniel Cullen, Ex-Mayor of Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 Rev. Dr. Browne, Kilkenny Col- 
 lege. 
 
 Rev. James Graves, Kilkenny. 
 
 M. Sullivan, M.P., Kilkenny City, 
 Inch House, Kilkenny. 
 
 John Greene, M.P., Kilkenny Co. 
 
 William Shee, Sergeant-at-Law, 
 M.P., Kilkenny County. 
 
 J. St. John, LL.D., Nore-View 
 House, Kilkenny. 
 
 H. Potter, J.P., High Sheriff of 
 the City of Kilkenny. 
 
 Thomas Hart, J.P., Windgap Cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Richard Smith wick, J.P., Birch- 
 field, County Kilkenny. 
 
 Abraham Whyte Baker, Ballyto- 
 bin, County Kilkenny. 
 
 Robert Cane, M.D., Kilkenny. 
 
 Captain Helsham, Kilkenny. 
 
 John James, M. R. C. S. I., Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 Z. Johnson, M.D., &c., Kilkenny. 
 
 John Kearns, M. R. C. S., Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 James Tidmarsh, T.C., Kilkenny. 
 
 C. O’ Callaghan, Kilkenny. 
 
 John Lawson, Solicitor, Kilken- 
 ny* 
 
 Michael Shortall, Solicitor, Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 Thomas Power, Kilkenny. 
 
 M. Davis, Kilkenny. 
 
 A. Colies, Kilkenny. 
 
 R. Molyneux, Y.S., Kilkenny. 
 
 P. Watters, Town Clerk, Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 J. Poe, Solicitor, Kilkenny. 
 
 T. Dumphy, Kilkenny. 
 
 F. Devereux, Ringville, County 
 Kilkenny. 
 
 J. M‘Creery, St. John’s Place, 
 Kilkenny. 
 
 James O’Neill, John Street, Kil- 
 kenny. 
 
 John Campion, Patrick Street, 
 Kilkenny. 
 
 Thomas Hewetson, T.C., Rose Inn 
 Street, Kilkenny. 
 
 Thomas Cody, T.C., Rose Inn 
 Street, Kilkenny. 
 
 11 Treasurer — Daniel Cullen, Ex-Mayor of Kilkenny. 
 
 “ Secretaries — John Thomas Campion, John’s Bridge; John G. A. 
 Prim, Editor of ‘ Kilkenny Moderator ;’ John Reville, Editor of 
 * Kilkenny Journal.’ 
 
 “ Subscriptions will be received by the Treasurer, Secretaries, or by 
 any of the gentlemen of the Committee 
 
BIOGRAPHY OF JOHN BANIM. 
 
 325 
 
 The Testimonial selected was a bust in marble, 
 executed by Hogan, the resemblance being caught, for 
 the most part, from Mulvany’s picture, and in the year 
 1854 it was placed in the Tholsel of Kilkenny. 
 
 We lately visited the burial-place of this noble-hearted 
 Irishman, and we with difficulty discovered it. He is 
 buried in the grave-yard of the Homan Catholic Chapel 
 of St. John, Kilkenny, where also are interred Dr. 
 Burgo, the ecclesiastical historian, and the Hev. Mr. 
 O’Donnell, the “ Father Connell” who gave the title 
 to Banim’s last novel. 
 
 When Banim was dying, he said to Michael, “ I have 
 only one request now ; lay me so that I may be nearest 
 to my mother, with my left side next her.” And so 
 they buried him, more than fifteen years ago, and so 
 for fifteen years and some months he has lain without 
 stone or monument to mark his grave. Thomas Hood 
 died in 1845 ; he has a public monument : Moir, Black- 
 wood’s “ Delta,” died in 1851 ; he has a public monu- 
 ment. Have these examples of public gratitude no 
 teaching for Irishmen? Is the only memorial of John 
 Banim to be a bust, quite unlike him, in the Tholsel 
 of Kilkenny ? Must Michael Banim drag, from his own 
 small funds, the money to purchase a tombstone for 
 John Banim’s Grave? 
 
 Michael Banim is now, after many struggles with 
 care, the Postmaster of Kilkenny ; and the gay roamer, 
 by mountain and stream, for whom, as Barnes O’Hara, 
 
32G 
 
 BIOGRAPHY OP JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Cautli Flannigan and Peggy Nowlan selected that shirt 
 which “ was not a shirt entirely,” is the grave official, 
 looking back upon the bright scenes of golden youth 
 as the pleasant dream-land which can be traversed 
 never more. Patiently has he borne his lot in life ; his 
 mind was ever impressed with that truth contained in 
 the motto, Levin est verse ; il faut le boire ; and so he 
 passes on to the quiet of a happy old age, looking 
 backward with a smile, and expecting the future with 
 the hope and faith of a Christian. 
 
APPENDIX I 
 
 KILKENNY COLLEGE. 
 
 Of its most famous pupils, the present master of Kilkenny College, 
 the Reverend John Browne, LL.D., names the following : — 
 
 “The famous men who have received their education in this foun- 
 dation have been most numerous. On this subject I may quote a 
 passage from Stanihurst, who, in his historical work, “De Rebus in 
 Hibernia Gestis Libri Quatuor, ’ ’ p. 25, again gratefully blazons the 
 achievements of his old master : — 
 
 “ ‘Hie ludum aperuit, nostra, aetate, Petrus Whitus, cujus in totam 
 Rempuhlicam summa constant merita. Ex illius enim schola., tam- 
 quam ex equo Troico, homines litteratissimi in reipublicae lucem pro- 
 dierunt. Quos ego hie Whiteos, quos Quemefordos, quos Walsheos, 
 quos Waddingos, quos Dormeros, quos Shethos, quos Garueos, quos 
 Butleros, quos Archeros, quos Strongos, quos Lumbardos, excellentes 
 ingenio et doctrine viros, commemorare potuissem, qui primis tem- 
 porihus aetatis in ejus disciplinam se tradiderunt. ’ Amongst this array 
 of names, comprising those of most of the old gentry of the Pale, 
 many hold a distinguished place in the annals of literature and of the 
 state — Lombard, the historian and Roman Catholic Archbishop of 
 Armagh; Wadding, the annalist; Dormer, the poet (author of ‘The 
 Decay of Ross,’ in ballad-royal); Walsh, the translator of Camhrensis ; 
 and White, whose refutation of that author’s statements regarding 
 Ireland has lately been brought to light by the labors of the Rev. M. 
 Kelly; Gerald Comerford, an eminent lawyer, Queen Elizabeth’s 
 Attorney for Connaught, and second Baron of the Irish Exchequer ; 
 Elias Shee, ‘ a gentleman of passing good wit, a pleasing, conceited 
 
328 
 
 APPENDIX I. 
 
 companion, full of mirth without gall, who wrote in English divers 
 Sonnets ;’ Butler, who translated Corderius’ 1 Book of Phrases’ in 
 1562 ; Archer the Jesuit, for whose actions the ‘ Pacata Hibernia’ may 
 be referred to ; and, not the least notable amongst these distinguished 
 individuals, Stanihurst himself, who, besides his celebrity as a man 
 of letters, may also be mentioned as the uncle of Archbishop Ussher. 
 Amongst the names entered on the Kegister of the School, as re- 
 founded by the first Duke of Ormonde, I find those of Baldwin, after- 
 wards Provost, and a benefactor of Trinity College, Dublin ; Bishop 
 Berkeley, with regard to whom it is difficult to decide whether his 
 fame as a man of letters, or as a Christian philanthropist, stands 
 highest ; his friend and correspondent, the patriot Pryor ; Armaker, 
 Archdeacon of Armagh in 1690, and author of several works ; Con- 
 greve, the dramatist ; and Harris, the historian. As we draw nearer 
 our own day, many a famous name also stands out proudly from the 
 throng of less distinguished alumni of Kilkenny College — Harry Flood, 
 the orator of his day; Yelverton Lord Avonmore, and Sir Hercules 
 Langrishe, also luminaries of the Irish House of Commons ; Michael 
 Cox, Archbishop of Cashel ; Hugh Carlton, Solicitor - General ; and, 
 though last, not least, John Banim. Scions of the noble Houses of 
 Desart, Inchiquin, Colooney, De Yesci, Waterford, Llandaff, Morning- 
 ton, Lismore, Charlemont, Haw^arden, Ashbrook, Bosse, Howth, 
 Tliomond, Clifden, Boyle (ancestor to the Duke of Devonshire), Ban- 
 don, Shannon, &c., appear amongst the names entered on the Regis- 
 ter ; in which also will be found frequent mention of the families of 
 note and mark in this and the surrounding counties — viz. , Cavanagh, 
 Staples, Cuffe, Cooley, Penefather, Vandeleur, Wemys, Flood, Lang- 
 rishe, Bryan, Le Hunte, Butler, Cramer -Coghill, Wheeler, Izod, 
 Barker, Greene, Warburton, St. George, & c. Whilst amongst the 
 names by some chance omitted therefrom, may be enumerated the 
 far-famed Dean Swift, and Farquhar, the dramatist, who are known 
 to have received their education at Kilkenny College. Sir Richard 
 Steele, the friend and compeer of Addison, whose father was private 
 secretary to the Duke of Ormonde, it is likely, also spent his early 
 
APPENDIX I. 
 
 329 
 
 years at this School. The names now enumerated fully justify the 
 remark of Banim, that it was after the restoration of its original 
 charter ‘ this seminary rose to the height of its fame, and that young 
 Irish noblemen and gentlemen crowded its classes for the most ap- 
 proved preparation for University honors. It might be called the 
 then Eton of the sister-country.’ Dr. Ledwich, in his History of Kil- 
 kenny, says of the institution — ‘This School has had a succession of 
 eminent masters, has produced men of great learning, and is justly 
 esteemed the first School for the education of youth in this kingdom.’ 
 The names of the masters since the Duke of Ormonde’s foundation 
 are as follow : — 
 
 1670. Edward Jones, D.D. 
 1680. Henry Byder, D.D. 
 1684. Edward Hinton, D.D. 
 1702. William Andrews, D.D. 
 1714. Edward Lewis, A.M. 
 1743. Thos. Hewetson, LL.D. 
 
 1776. Richard Pack, A.M. 
 1781. John Ellison, D.D. 
 1793. Antony Pack, D.D. 
 1810. A. O’ Callaghan, A.M. 
 1820. William Baillie, LL.D. 
 1842. John Browne, LL.D. 
 
 “Amongst these, Dr. Edward Jones was afterwards made Bishop 
 of Cloyne, and Dr. Ryder, Bishop of Killaloe ; but alas ! ‘ tempora 
 mutantur’ — the masters are no longer made Bishops ; our great men 
 and our little men are not satisfied with education in Ireland, and the 
 lamentable consequence, obvious to all, is an unlearned and mentally 
 dwindled race, instead of the giants of those days when Ireland edu- 
 cated her own sons. The earlier portion of the Register, which I have 
 caused to be transcribed for the library of the Society, commences 
 with October, 1684, and ends with July 27th, 1688; after this occurs 
 a lacuna of nearly three years — an omission which is explained by the 
 heading prefixed to the next entries — viz., ‘The names of such as 
 were admitted into His Grace the Duke of Ormonde’s Schoole at Kil- 
 kenny since the Warre ended in Ireland in the year 1691.’ The first 
 entry of this portion is dated January 20th, 1691-2, and the series is 
 complete up to August 6th, 1716, from which date no entry occurs 
 until the year 1743, from whence the Register is continued in regular 
 
330 
 
 APPENDIX I. 
 
 series up to the present day. There are also some notices of the 
 pupils who left the School for College, or to enter into various profes- 
 sions, &c. , which are very curious. These entries commence with the 
 date 1684, and end with the year 1704; since which period, with the 
 exception of a few entries commencing 1743, this portion of the Regis- 
 ter has been discontinued. We learn, on the authority of Ledwich, 
 that there formerly existed, in Primate Marsh’s Library, Dublin, a 
 book of poems, entitled ‘ Sacri Lusus,’ by the young gentlemen of the 
 College of Kilkenny, which, I am sorry to say, is not now to be found 
 there. I may also mention, in conclusion, that I have heard from 
 Mr. B. Scott, Sr., of this city, an interesting anecdote connecting 
 Dean Swift’s name with Kilkenny College, which is as follows : — 
 When the old College was pulled down, Dr. Ellison was master of the 
 School. The oak timber -work was purchased by his (Mr. Scott’s) 
 uncle, the father of the late Mr. Martin Scott, of Kilkenny, who 
 therewith erected his tenement in High Street. After the work was 
 finished, it came to Dr. Ellison’s knowledge that the name of ‘Jona- 
 than Swift’ existed, carved, in school-boy fashion, on some part of 
 the woodwork. Anxious to obtain this treasure, Dr. Ellison obtained 
 permission from Mr. Scott to pull down that part of the work in 
 which the particular board had been used; but after considerable 
 progress in the work of demolition, Mrs. Scott declared that she could 
 no longer suffer the business of the establishment to be interrupted, 
 and put a stop to the search. I understand that the timber- work of 
 the house erected at that period remains, the frontage only having 
 been rebuilt within a few years back. If such prove to be the case, 
 I will use every exertion towards the recovery of this interesting 
 relic.” ® 
 
 * See a most interesting paper entitled ‘‘Kilkenny College.” By the Rev. 
 John Browne, LL. D., in the “Transactions of the Kilkenny Archaeological 
 Society” for the year 1851. Vol. I., part ii. ( p. 221. 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 DAMON AND PYTHIAS. 
 
 To many of our readers this tragedy and its plot must be quite a3 
 little known as “The Celt’s Paradise.” It is as follows : — • 
 
 The Senate of Syracuse chooses as its President, Philistias , a tool 
 of Dionysius, an ambitious soldier. Dionysius directs another of his 
 creatures, Procles, to induce the populace, by divination, to name him 
 ruler, and he succeeds. Damocles , another tool, urges Dionysius to re- 
 venge himself upon Damon, who is a friend to the old laws of Syra- 
 cuse, and a foe of the Dictator ; and as the soldiers return from storm- 
 ing and plundering the citadel, they encounter Damon, who, incited 
 by a love of country, calls them “obstreperous traitors,” and re- 
 proaches Procles, as — • 
 
 1 1 Thou most contemptible and meanest tool 
 That ever tyrant used.” 
 
 The soldiers are about to kill Damon for this bold speaking, when 
 his friend, the warrior Pythias, rushes in and saves him, crying — • 
 
 Pyth. Back, on your lives ! 
 
 Cowards, damn’d, treacherous cowards, back, I say ! 
 
 Do you know me ? Look upon me : Do you know 
 This honest sword I brandish ? You have seen it 
 Among the ranks of Carthage. Would you now 
 Taste its shrewd coldness in your quaking selves ! 
 
 Back ! back ! I say. He hath his armor on — 
 
 I am his sword, shield, helm ; I but enclose 
 Myself, and my own heart, and heart’s blood, when 
 I thus encompass him — 
 
 Damon. False-hearted cravens ! 
 
 We are but two — my Pythias, my halved heart ! — 
 
332 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 My Pythias, and myself ; hut dare come on, 
 
 Ye hirelings of a tyrant ! dare advance 
 A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a brow, 
 
 And ye shall learn what two such arms can do 
 Among a thousand of ye. My good friend, 
 
 The gods have sent thee to me — Who had deem’d 
 
 To find thee here from Agrigentum ! [Soldiers advance . 
 
 Pyth. Off! 
 
 Off, villains, off ! — Each for the other thus, 
 
 And in that other, for his dearer self. 
 
 Why, Procles, art thou not ashamed, — for I 
 Have seen thee do good work in battle time — 
 
 Art not ashamed, here on a single man 
 To rush in coward numbers ? Fie upon thee ! 
 
 I took thee for a soldier. 
 
 Pro. For thy sake, 
 
 Who art a warrior like ourselves, we spare him. 
 
 ’Twas a good star of his that led thee hither 
 From Agrigentum, to lift up thine arm 
 In the defence of that long robe of peace 
 Wherein he wraps his stern philosophy. 
 
 Come, teach him better manners. Soldiers, on. 
 
 Pythias has come to Syracuse for the purpose of wedding Calanthe ; 
 he informs Damon of this circumstance, and it is agreed that he shall 
 attend the nuptials of his friend. 
 
 The Senate debate as to the guilt of Dionysius , and the punishment 
 to he inflicted for his attack on the citadel. The faction in the 
 assembly devoted to the traitor’s interests declare that, for his great 
 services to the State on former occasions, he shall be pardoned ; and, 
 proceeding yet more boldly, it is proposed to the Senate, and agreed 
 by them, that he shall be King. Dionysius had surrounded the build- 
 ing with his most trusted soldiers ; he knew that Damon would oppose 
 his election, and this was to be the great day of his triumph. He had 
 wrought out the triumph — • 
 
 1 1 In all that biting bitterness of heart 
 Which clings, and gnaws, by inches, to its object, 
 
 More keen, because a first essay hath failed, 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 333 
 
 In shame and suffering, failed, thus have I sped 
 My work, in silence, on. It did become 
 A thought inwoven with my inmost being. * * 
 
 Damon had been his chiefest opponent in all his schemes, and 
 against him were the most strict precautions taken. When the 
 Senate are upon the point of decreeing that Dionysius shall be King, a 
 noise is heard without the Senate-house, and Damon , having broken 
 through the guards, rushes in and cries, referring to the proposed 
 decree — 
 
 Damon. And all ! are all content ? 
 
 A nation’s rights betray’d, 
 
 And all content ! 0 slaves ! 0 parricides ! 
 
 Oh, by the brightest hope a just man has, 
 
 I blush to look around and call you men. 
 
 What ! with your own free willing hands yield up 
 The ancient fabric of your constitution, 
 
 To be a garrison, a common barrack, 
 
 A common guard-house, and for common cut-throats ! 
 
 What ! will ye all combine to tie a sjtone 
 
 Each to each others’ necks, and drown like dogs 
 
 Within the tide of time, and never float 
 
 To after ages, or, at best, but float 
 
 A buoyant pestilence ? Can ye but dig 
 
 Your own dark graves, creep into them, and die ? 
 
 Third S. I have not sanction’d it. 
 
 Fourth S. Nor I. 
 
 Fifth S. Nor I. 
 
 Damon. Oh ! thanks for these few voices ! But, alas ! 
 
 How lonely do they sound ! Do you not all 
 Start up at once, and cry out liberty ? 
 
 Are you so bound in fetters of the mind, 
 
 That there you sit as if you were yourselves 
 
 Incorporate with the marble ? Syracusans ! 
 
 But no ! I will not rail, nor chide, nor curse ye ! 
 
 I will implore you, fellow-countrymen, 
 
 With blinded eyes, and weak and broken speech, 
 
 I will implore you — Oh, I am weak in words ! 
 
 But I could bring such advocates before you ! — 
 
334 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Your fathers’ sacred images ; old men 
 
 That have been grandsires ; women with their children, 
 
 Caught up in fear and hurry, in their arms — 
 
 And those old men should lift their shivering voices, 
 
 And palsied hands — and those affrighted mothers 
 Should hold their innocent infants forth, and ask, 
 
 Could you make slaves of them ! 
 
 All these appeals are vain ; the Senate kneel to the usurper, and 
 salute him King. Enraged by this act, Damon runs upon him, at- 
 tempts to stab him, is baffled in the deed, and is condemned to die. 
 ImcuIIus flies to the Temple of Hymen, where the marriage of Pythias 
 and Calantlie is being celebrated. He whispers in the bridegroom’s ear 
 the fate of his friend, and, pale with terror, Pythias abandons Calanthe 
 even at the altar, and hastens to the rescue or assistance of Damon. 
 
 Damon had entreated that Dionysius would liberate him but for six 
 hours, that he might bid his wife and child farewell. The entreaty 
 was refused ; but at the request of Pythias , and upon his offering to 
 take the place of his friend, as a hostage for his return within the six 
 hours, Damon is permitted to go forth ; and it is agreed that if he re- 
 turn not before the expiration of the sixth hour, Pythias shall die. 
 Pythias is chained and placed in the dungeon, and Damon hastens to 
 his villa, accompanied by Lucullus. Whilst he is bidding adieu to his 
 wife and child, Lucullus , hoping to delay his return beyond the six 
 hours prescribed, kills his horse. Damon, committing his wife and 
 child to the care of the gods, rushes forth from the house, eager to 
 mount his steed, and hasten to release his friend from chains and 
 prison. He cries : — 
 
 'Tis o’er, Lucullus. Bring thou forth my horse. 
 
 I have stayed too long, Lucullus, and my speed 
 Must leave the winds behind me. By the gods, 
 
 The sun is rushing down the west ! 
 
 Luc. My Lord — 
 
 Damon. Why dost thou tremble ? Fetch the color back 
 Into thy cheek, man, nor let thy weak knees 
 Knock on each other in their cowardice ! 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 335 
 
 Time flies — be brief — go bring my horse to me ! 
 
 Be thou as swift as speech, or as my heart is ! 
 
 Luc. My Lord — 
 
 Damon . Why, slave, dost hear me ? Bring him here — 
 
 My horse, I say ! The hour is past already 
 Whereon I bade old Neucles summon me. 
 
 Luc. My generous master, do not slay me ! 
 
 Damon. Slave ! 
 
 Art mad ? or dost thou mock me in the last 
 And fearfullest extremity ? — Yet you speak not ! 
 
 Luc. You were ever kind and merciful, nor yet 
 Commended me unto the cruel whip, 
 
 And I did love you for it ! 
 
 Damon. Where’s my horse ? 
 
 Luc. When I beheld the means of saving you, 
 
 I could not hold my hand — my heart was in it, 
 
 And in my heart, the hope of giving life 
 
 And liberty to Damon ; and 
 
 Damon. Go on ! I am listening to thee ! 
 
 Luc. And in the hope to save you, I slew your steed ! 
 
 Damon. Almighty heavens ! 
 
 Luc. Forgive me ! 
 
 Damon. I am standing here to see if the great gods 
 Will with their lightning execute my prayer 
 Upon thee ! But thy punishment be thine ! 
 
 I’ll tear thee into pieces ! [ Seizes him. 
 
 Luc. Spare me ! spare me ! 
 
 I saved thy life — oh do not thou take mine ! 
 
 Damon. My friend ! my friend ! Oh that the word would kill 
 thee ! 
 
 Pythias is slain ! — his blood is on my soul ! 
 
 He cries, Where art thou, Damon ? Damon, where art thou ? 
 
 And Damon’s here ! — The axe is o’er his neck, — 
 
 And in his blood I’m deluged ! 
 
 Luc. Spare me ! spare me ! 
 
 Damon, A spirit cries, “ Kevenge and Sacrifice V* 
 
 I’ll do it ! I’ll do it !— Come ! 
 
 Imc. Where should I go ? 
 
 Damon. To the eternal river of the dead ! 
 
 The way is shorter than to Syracuse — 
 
336 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 'Tis only far as yonder yawning gulf. 
 
 I’ll throw tliee with one swing to Tartarus, 
 
 And follow after thee ! — Nay, slave, no struggling ! 
 
 Pythias is grown impatient ! His red ghost 
 Starts from the ground, and with a bloody hand 
 Waves to the precipice ! 
 
 Luc. Have mercy ! 
 
 Damon. Call for mercy on the furies — not on me ! 
 
 [Exit Damon dragging Lucullus with him. 
 
 During the six hours, Dionysius, disguised, visits Pythias in his dun- 
 geon, and tells him that soldiers have been sent forward to stay tlia 
 return of Damon , and endeavors to induce him to escape from tha 
 prison ; Nidas , the father of Pythias, and his own Calanthe are intro- 
 duced, each imploring him to go forth, but he is firm to his trust in 
 Damon's honor. The following is the closing scene of the fifth and 
 concluding act, and is extremely effective ; the characters are Calanthe , 
 Dionysius, Pythias : — 
 
 The gales of the prison are flung open , and Pythias is discovered. lie 
 advances. 
 
 Cal. Pythias ! 
 
 Pyth. Calanthe here ! — My poor fond girl ! 
 
 Thou art the first to meet me here at the block, 
 
 Thou wilt be the last to leave me at the grave ! 
 
 How strangely things go on in this bad world ! 
 
 This was my wedding-day : but for the bride, 
 
 I did not think of such a one as death ! 
 
 I deemed I should have gone to sleep to-night, 
 
 This very night — not on the earth’s cold lap, 
 
 But with as soft a bosom for my pillow, 
 
 And with as true and fond a heart throb in it, 
 
 To lull me to my slumber, as e’er yet 
 Couch’d the repose of love. — It was, indeed, 
 
 A blissful sleep to wish for ! 
 
 Cal. Oh, my Pythias, he yet may come ! 
 
 Pyth. Calanthe, no ! — Remember 
 That Dionysius hath prevented it. 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 337 
 
 Cal. That was an idle tale of this old man, 
 
 And he may yet return. 
 
 Pyth. May yet return ! 
 
 Speak ! — how is this ? Keturn ! — Oh life ! how strong 
 Thy love is in the hearts of dying men ! 
 
 Thou art true, he did’st say the tyrant would prevent 
 His coming hack to Syracuse. 
 
 Dion. I wrong’d him. 
 
 Pyth. Ha ! were it possible ! — may he yet come ! 
 
 Cal. Into the sinews of the horse that hears him 
 Put swiftness, gods ! — let him outrace and shame « 
 The galloping of clouds upon the storm ! 
 
 Blow breezes with him ; lend every feeble aid 
 Unto his motion ! — and thou, thrice-solid earth, 
 
 Forget thy immutable fixedness — become 
 Under his feet like flowing water, and 
 Hither flow with him ! 
 
 Pyth. I have taken in 
 All the horizon’s vast circumference 
 That in the glory of the setting sun 
 Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see 
 No signal of his coming ! — Nay, ’tis likely — 
 
 Oh, no — he could not ! it is impossible ! 
 
 Cal. I say, he is false ! He is a murderer ! 
 
 He will not come ! The traitor doth prefer 
 Life — ignominious, dastard life ! — Thou minister 
 Of light, and measurer of eternity, 
 
 In this great purpose, stay thy going down, 
 
 Great sun ! behind the confines of the world ! 
 
 On yonder purple mountains make thy stand ; 
 
 For while thine eye is opened on mankind, 
 
 Hope will abide within thy blessed beams. 
 
 They dare not do the murder in thy presence ! 
 
 Alas ! all heedless of my frantic cry, 
 
 He plunges down the precipice of heaven ! 
 
 Pythias ! — oh, Pythias ! 
 
 Pyth. I could have borne to die, 
 
 Unmoved, by Dionysius — but to be torn 
 Green from existence by the friend I loved — 
 
 Thus from the blossoming and beauteous tree 
 
338 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Bent by the treachery of him I trusted ! 
 
 No, no ! I wrong thee, Damon, by that half thought. 
 Shame on the foul suspicion ! He hath a wife 
 And ohild, who cannot live on earth without him, 
 
 And Heaven has flung some obstacle in his way 
 To keep him back, and lets me die, who am 
 Less worthy, and the fitter. 
 
 Pro. Pythias, advance! 
 
 Cal. No, no ! Why should he yet ? It is not yet — 
 By all the gods, there are two minutes only ! 
 
 Pro. Take a last farewell of your mistress, Sir, 
 
 And look your last upon the setting sun — 
 
 And do both quickly, for your hour comes on ! 
 
 Pyth. Come here, Calanthe ! closer to me yet !— 
 
 Ah ! what a cold transition it will be 
 
 From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty, 
 
 Unto the clammy mould of the deep grave ! 
 
 I pr’ythee, my Calanthe, when I am gone, 
 
 If thou should’ st e’er behold my hapless friend, 
 
 Do not upbraid him ! This, my lovely one ! 
 
 Is my last wish. Bemember it ! 
 
 Cal. Hush ! hush ! Stand back there ! 
 
 Pyth. Take her, ye eternal gods ! 
 
 Out of my arms into your own. Befriend her ; 
 
 And let life glide on in gentleness, 
 
 For she is gentle, and doth merit it. 
 
 Cal. I think I see it 
 
 Pro. Lead her from the scaffold ! 
 
 Pyth. Arria, receive her ! Yet, one kiss. Farewell ! 
 Thrice — thrice — farewell ! I am ready, Sir. 
 
 Cal. Forbear ! 
 
 There is a minute left. Look there ! — look there ! 
 
 But ’tis so far off, and the evening shades 
 
 Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes 
 
 But mine can catch it. Yet, ’tis there ! I see it — 
 
 A shape as yet so vague and questionable 
 ’Tis nothing — just about to change and take 
 The faintest form of something ! 
 
 Pyth. Sweetest love ! 
 
 Damo. Your duty, officer. 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 339 
 
 Cal. I will not quit him 
 Until ye prove I see it not ! No force 
 Till then shall separate us. 
 
 Damo. Tear them asunder ! 
 
 Arria, conduct your daughter to her home. 
 
 Cal. Oh send me not away ! Pythias, thine arms ! — 
 
 Stretch out thine arms, and keep me ! See ! it comes ! 
 Barbarians ! — murderers ! — oh ! yet a moment — 
 
 Yet but one pulse — one heave of breath ! 0 Heavens ! 
 
 [*$7^ swoons , and is carried away by Arria and Guards. 
 Pyth. [To the Executioner.] There is no pang in thy deep 
 wedge of steel 
 
 After that parting. Nay, Sir, you may spare 
 Yourself the pains to fit me for the block. 
 
 Damon, I do forgive thee ! I but ask 
 Some tears unto my ashes. 
 
 [A distant shout heard — Pythias leaps upon the scaffold. 
 By the gods ! 
 
 A horse and horseman ! Far upon the hill 
 They w T ave their hats, and he returns it ; yet 
 I know him not. His horse is at the stretch. 
 
 Why should they shout as he comes on ? It is — 
 
 No ! that was too unlike — But there, now — there ! 
 
 Oh, life ! I scarcely dare to wish for thee ; 
 
 And yet — That jutting rock has hid him from me. 
 
 No ! — Let it not be Damop. ! He has a wife 
 And child. Gods ! keep him back. 
 
 Damon. Where is he ? 
 
 [He rushes in , and stands for a moment looking round . 
 Ha ! He is alive ! untouched ! [Laughing hysterically . 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Falls upon the scaffold. 
 Fyth. The gods do know I could have died for him ! 
 
 And yet I dared to doubt ! — I dared to breathe 
 The half-utter’ d blasphemy" ! 
 
 He faints ! How thick 
 
 This wreath of burning moisture on his brow ! 
 
 His face is black with toil ; his swelling bulk 
 Heaves with swift pantings. Damon ! my dear friend. 
 
 Damon. Where am I ? Have I fallen from my horse 
 That I am stunn’d, and on my head I feel 
 
340 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 A weight of thickening blood. What has befallen me ? 
 
 The horrible confusion of a dream 
 Is yet upon my sight. For mercy’s sake, 
 
 Stay me not back. He is about to die — 
 
 Pythias ! my friend. Unloose me, villains ! or 
 You will find the might of madness in mine arm ! 
 
 [Seeing Pytiiias.] Speak to me — let me hear thy voice ! 
 
 Pyth. My friend ! 
 
 Damon. It pierced my brain, and rushed into my heart ! 
 There’s lightning in it ! That’s the scaffold — there 
 The block, the axe, the executioner ! 
 
 And here he lives ! I have him in my soul l 
 [Embracing Pythias.] Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Pyth. Damon 1 
 Damon. Ha ! ha 1 
 
 I can but laugh ! — I cannot speak to thee l 
 I can but play the maniac, and laugh 1 
 Thy hand ! Oh let me grasp thy manly hand ! 
 
 It is an honest one, and so is mine l 
 
 They are fit to clasp each other ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Pyth. Would that my death could have preserved thee ! 
 Damon. Pythias ! 
 
 Even in the very crisis to have come — • 
 
 To have hit the very forehead of Old Time ! 
 
 By heavens ! had I arrived an hour before, 
 
 I should not feel this agony of joy — 
 
 This triumph over Dionysius ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! — But did’st thou doubt me ? Come, thou did’st— 
 Own it, and I’ll forgive. 
 
 Pyth. For a moment. 
 
 Damon. Oh that false slave ! — Pythias, he slew my horse, 
 In the base thought to save me ! — I would have killed him, 
 And to a precipice was dragging him, 
 
 When, from the very brink of the abyss, 
 
 I did behold a traveler afar, 
 
 Bestriding a good steed. I rushed upon him, 
 
 Choking with desperation, and yet, loud 
 In shrieking anguish, I commanded him 
 Down from his saddle. He denied me — but 
 Would I then be denied ? As hungry tigers 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 341 
 
 Clutch their poor prey, I sprung upon his throat. 
 
 Thus, thus I had him, Pythias. “Come, your horse ! 
 
 Your horse ! your horse l” I cried. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Dion. Damon! 
 
 Damon. I am here upon the scaffold ! Look at me ! 
 
 I am standing on my throne — as proud a one 
 As yon illumined mountain, where the sun 
 Makes his last stand. Let him look on me too ; 
 
 He never did behold a spectacle 
 
 More full of natural glory. Death is — Ha ! 
 
 All Syracuse starts up upon her hills, 
 
 And lifts her hundred thousand hands ! She shouts ! 
 
 Hark ! how she shouts. Oh, Dionysius ! 
 
 When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal 
 Of hearts and hands like that one ? Shout again ! 
 
 Again ! until the mountains echo you, 
 
 And the great sea joins in that mighty voice, 
 
 And old Enceladus, the son of Earth, 
 
 Stirs in his mighty caverns ! Tell me, slaves ! 
 
 Where is your tyrant ? Let me see him now ! 
 
 Why stands he hence aloof ? Where is your master ? 
 
 What has become of Dionysius ? 
 
 I would behold and laugh at him ! 
 
 [Dionysius advances between Damon and Pythias, 
 and throws off his disguise. 
 
 Dion. Behold me ! 
 
 Damon and Pyth. How ! 
 
 Dion. Stay your admiration for awhile, 
 
 Till I have spoken my commandment here. — 
 
 Go, Damocles, and bid a herald cry 
 
 Wide through the city, from the eastern gate 
 
 Unto the most remote extremity, 
 
 That Dionysius, tyrant as he is, 
 
 Gives back his life to Damon ! 
 
 The parting scenes between Damon and his wife Hmnione and his 
 child are exquisitely wrought up, and have ever told upon even the 
 most fastidious audiences. The power is not alone that of situation ; 
 the language is poetical, and in no point strained or affected. The 
 
342 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 scenes between the lovers, Pythias and Calanlhe , are very poetical, and 
 marked by that intensity of passion so powerfully employed in “The 
 Fetches" and in “The Nowlans." The following passages may be 
 placed beside Claude Melnotte' s description of the imaginary “ vale" to 
 which he would convey his mistress. Could Bulwer Lytton have 
 had this half-forgotten tragedy in mind when writing 1 ‘ The Lady of 
 Lyons?" 
 
 A Chamber in Arria’s House. 
 
 Enter Pythias and Calanthe. 
 
 Pyth. So, my Calanthe, you would waste the moon of Hymen 
 in this lonely spot ? 
 
 Cal. In sooth 
 
 I would, for ’tis the fairest place in Sicily — 
 
 A dell, made of green beauty ; with its shrubs, 
 
 Of aromatic sweetness, growing up 
 
 The rugged mountain’s sides, as cunningly 
 
 As the nice structure of a little nest 
 
 Built by two loving nightingales. The wind 
 
 That comes there, full of rudeness from the sea, 
 
 Is lulled into a balmy breath of peace 
 The moment that it enters ; and ’ tis said 
 By our Sicilian shepherds that their songs 
 Have in this place a wilder melody. 
 
 The mountains all about it are the haunts 
 Of many a fine romantic memory ! 
 
 High towers old iEtna, with his feet deep clad 
 In the green sandals of the freshful spring — 
 
 His sides arrayed in winter, and his front 
 Shooting aloft the everlasting flame. 
 
 On the right hand is that great cave in which 
 Huge Polyphemus dwelt, between whose v.ast 
 Colossal limbs the artful Grecian stole. 
 
 On the other side 
 
 Is Galatea’ s dainty dressing-room, 
 
 Wrought in the living marble ; and within 
 Is seen the fountain where she used to twine 
 The ringlets on her neck that did ensnare 
 The melancholy Cyclop. — But what care you, 
 
APPENDIX II. 
 
 348 
 
 A soldier, for such fantasies ? I know 
 A way that better shall persuade you to 
 That place for our sweet marriage residence. 
 
 There Damon hath his villa. Ha ! you seem 
 
 Determined by the fast proximity 
 
 Of such a friendship, more than all my love. 
 
 Pyth. Does Damon dwell there ? 
 
 Cal . No ; his Hermione 
 
 And his young hoy — oh ! ’tis a beauteous child !— 
 Are sent there from the city’s noxious air, 
 
 And he doth visit them whene’er the state 
 Gives him brief respite. Tell me, Pythias, 
 
 Shall we not see the Hymeneal moon 
 Glide through the blue heavens there ? 
 
 Pyth. My own adored one ! 
 
 If thou shouldst bid me sail away with thee 
 To seek the isles of the Hesperides, 
 
 I would, with such a pilot, spread my sail 
 Beyond the trophies of great Hercules, 
 
 Making thine eyes my cynosure ! 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 SYLLA. 
 
 This tragedy, “Sylla,” is neither is poetic nor so well adapted fot 
 representation as the earlier composition, “ Damon and Pythias.” 
 Indeed its chief interest is the situation in the fifth act, in which 
 Sylla abandons his dignity and power. He discovers that his daugh- 
 ter, Phryne, is secretly wedded to his enemy, young Julius Marius, 
 and with this enemy — yet the husband of his child — in chains, power- 
 less, and his prisoner, Sylla is thus, at the conclusion of the fourth 
 act, represented soliloquizing in the hall of his palace : — 
 
 Slaves, crawling slaves ! what would they do, which they 
 Might not have left undone ? Eradicate ? 
 
 Why plant and nurture ? — with their proper hands ? 
 
 They wait a time ! what time ? on Sylla ? No — 
 
 By Mars, they dare not ! and it shall be shown. 
 
 [Sits, and writes in his tablets. 
 
 Nor is the thought new horn. Thro’ days of surfeit, 
 
 And nights of haggard slumber, it hath risen — 
 
 The only promise of the only conquest, 
 
 Change, vengeance, yet to grasp : o’er hate, o’er treason 
 A quashing, hushing vengeance — and enjoyment, 
 
 Because a change. A safety too — if, that, 
 
 I did not utterly scorn. [He rises . 
 
 Gods ! ye do know the very wrestling with it, 
 
 Were a young life to me ! The thought mounts up, 
 
 And Sylla feels he is their master still ! 
 
 And thou, young Marius ! revenge on thee, 
 
 Thou didst not meditate ! Phryne ? she is his wife. [Sits again 
 I am very desolate. I knew, before, 
 
 The common mass of being cursed or hated, 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 345 
 
 Yet hoped there was one creature of my blood 
 Who trusted — loved. She said it was in ignorance. 
 
 Perhaps. I’ll try her awfully. Catiline ! 
 
 Re-enter Catiline. 
 
 Hearken. At the first hour of morning, summon 
 Unto the Forum, in my sovereign name, 
 
 The people and the senators. While all rest there, 
 
 Metellus shall surround them with a force 
 Of soldiers. Lepidus and Julius Marius, 
 
 Guarded, lead thither too. And let all wait 
 My presence and my will. Leave me. It shall he ! 
 
 [Exit Catiline. 
 
 For every cause it shall. A new, last glory ! 
 
 My last audacious triumph ! certainty ! 
 
 Vengeance ! a mystery still ! a blazing wonder 
 And echo to all nations and all time ! 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I . — In Sylla’s Palace. Enter hastily Phryne, followed by a female 
 attendant . 
 
 Phry. After my watchings all the live-long night, 
 
 A hateful, leaden sleep, uncalled, unwilled, 
 
 Unfelt, came o’er me — and how long I slept 
 I know not — and I fear to ask or know — 
 
 Till, in the fierce ray of the summer sun, 
 
 Which, brightly angry, flashed, methought, to rouse me— 
 
 I woke and screamed. No voice replied to mine. 
 
 No creature came to me. I started up. 
 
 I have traversed all the chambers, one by one — 
 
 They are all empty, and upon the walls 
 
 And marble floors, I have looked for gouts of blood. 
 
 Speak, thou ! who here at last dost wait on me— 
 
 My father and his prisoner — speak ! 
 
 Att. At dawn, 
 
 A prisoner, with Catiline, left the palace. 
 
 Your father, lady — 
 
346 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 Thry. At the dawn ! How old 
 Is the day now ? 
 
 Att. Yet morning tide. 
 
 Thry. Yet morning ! 
 
 Time lapsed to win, or lose, or wreck a world. 
 
 Oh, I have been accursed in my sleep. 
 
 Oh, morbid, traitor sleep ! from your death-thrall 
 
 And heavy blandishment I do divorce 
 
 Mine eyes for ever ! Or the hideous things 
 
 Which may have happened — may ? — which must ! which have ! 
 
 Can well effect it ! Spake you of my father ? 
 
 Att. ’Tis but some minutes since he parted, too. 
 
 Thry. Whither ? You know not ? 
 
 AU. Lady, no. 
 
 Thry. Said he 
 
 No parting word for Phryne ? for his daughter ? 
 
 Att. No word. 
 
 Thry. How looked he ? sternly ? and 
 The prisoner ? seemed he sad ? — Hush ! — Thro’ the streets, 
 Deserted by the people, bands of soldiers [At a urindoio, 
 
 Troop onward, heavily — returning now 
 Perhaps ! — What is to happen, or has happened ? 
 
 Heard you ? — or any of my women ? Speak 
 The very truth ! 
 
 Att. Nor they, nor I, can answer. 
 
 Thry. I will go forth ! whither I know not — but 
 O’er all the spreading city — and fall down 
 Before whatever living things I meet, 
 
 Praying a guidance to the mystery 
 Or explanation of it. Household gods ! 
 
 House of my sires ! farewell. I go — oh ! when— 
 
 And how, if ever — to return ? Fate knoweth. [ Exeun 4 
 
 Scene II . — The Forum. L^enas, Aufidius, Senators, Crassus, 
 Cethegus, People. 
 
 Auf. Know ye the cause or motive of this summons ? 
 Oras. Unless as an example to the people, 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 347 
 
 To punish, in their presence, the last son 
 Of their old butcher, Marius, we know not. 
 
 Auf. Such circumstantial show is not his fashion. 
 
 Lam. It never was. 
 
 Auf. The people quake in terror, 
 
 And boding ignorance, as hither led 
 By their weak Tribunes. See how silently 
 They follow hither the accused. 
 
 Enter Catiline, Julius, and Lepidus guarded , First Tribune and People. 
 Cat. His air, 
 
 His brow defeat me. Could I see him wince 
 In look or limb, it were my dearest triumph, 
 
 And for my purpose, opportunity. [Aside. 
 
 Young Julius Marius. [To him. 
 
 Jul. Lucius Catiline ? 
 
 Cat. I grieve to see you thus. 
 
 Jul. False as thou ’rt foul. 
 
 Cat. No, Julius Marius, no. On public grounds 
 Your enemy, my heart can pity still 
 The doomed sufferings of all your race, 
 
 Now in your own to be so sadly ended. 
 
 Jul. Leave me. 
 
 Cat. And if by my poor agency 
 It might be otherwise — if your young life 
 Might from this too untimely stroke be snatched, 
 
 Here do I plainly stand, your friend, to try it. 
 
 [Julius does not notice him . 
 1$£ Trih. The noble senators may answer us. 
 
 Auf. We, and those good knights with us, uninformed 
 As Tribunes or as people, hither come 
 For Sylla’s pleasure. 
 
 Cat. Julius, hearken to me. 
 
 You are a man — a young one — from whose eyes 
 The world is fading fast, with all its changes 
 Of wondrous, promising, and beautiful. 
 
 ’Tis hard to look upon a man so young, 
 
 Standing so near the verge — encompassed, 
 
 Already, with the shadow and the silence 
 
348 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 Of death — ’tis hard to see yon, Julius, thus, 
 
 And feel no wish to succor. — I cannot 
 Regard it passively ; and altho’ fate 
 Frown on the very dawning of the thought, 
 
 I may he bribed to zeal. [Julius is still contemptuous . 
 
 lsZ Trib. Friends ! Citizens ! 
 
 Behold ! 
 
 Is2 Citz. Metellus leading on his soldiers. 
 
 1st Trib. They crowd upon us ! 
 
 Is* Citz. Yes, and hem us in ! 
 
 [Enter Metellus, with Soldiers, who surround the Forum . 
 Lcen. Aufidius, note you that ? 
 
 Auf. I do, and tremble. 
 
 ls< Trib. ’Tis the last day of Sylla’s tyranny. 
 
 ls£ Citz. Rome’s lost. We are to perish ! 
 
 1st Trib. Comes he yet ? [Looking off . 
 
 Cat. Julius, look round you. Of the shades of doom 
 It is the denser gathering — the deepest — 
 
 For next comes doom itself. Rethink you, and 
 Now answer me. There is a lady — 
 
 Jut. Ha! 
 
 Cat. Start not — but hear — * 
 
 Jul. Villain ! excelling villain ! 
 
 Why is that — here, prisoner as I stand, 
 
 I do not, from the bosom which could plot 
 That insult for me, tear the fetid heart out, 
 
 And — 
 
 Cat. Traitor ! unhand me ! 
 
 Jul. But — live. You are the fitter for this world, 
 
 Which now — the gods do see it — is no world 
 For any honest man. Go— thrive together. 
 
 In its decrepitude and worthlessness 
 I need bequeath to it no better curse. 
 
 Live and revenge me ! 
 
 Romans ! you look pale 
 And stare upon each other, asking, in whispers, 
 
 Why this and this ? or, what will happen now ? 
 
 Or what shall save us ? Romans ! — no, not Romans ! — 
 
 That name no more — slaves then, and slaves of slaves ! 
 
 But I’ll speak calmer. On the day he robbed you 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 349 
 
 Of your last liberties, I met you here — 
 
 Here, in this very Forum, and— 
 
 lst Tnh - {■ Hush. ! Back ! [Looking off. 
 
 Citzs. ) 
 
 Jul. Pshaw ! They’re not worth the breath it costs — a flock 
 Of sheep do not cringe closer from the growl 
 Of the shepherd’s dog. Down with your necks, brave Romans ! 
 That he may step on them ! 
 
 Enter Second Tribune, with People. 
 
 2 d Trib. Sylla ! back, back ! 
 
 Enter slowly , Sylla, with Lictors. 
 
 Syl. Senators, citizens, all men of Rome ! 
 
 A day hath risen whose progress shall proclaim 
 Unto the breathing and the unborn world, 
 
 How worthy or unworthy of his place 
 Has Sylla proved, and in your turn, of him, 
 
 Yourselves, how worthy. A peculiar question, 
 
 Which to this great one tends, we first examine. 
 
 In me, the awful dignity of Rome 
 Has by assassin league been violated. 
 
 There stand the plotters. Julius Marius, and 
 His colleague, Lepidus. More from the Rostrum. 
 
 Jul. [As Sylla walks towards the Rostrum. ] 
 
 Now, Lepidus, your secret dagger. 
 
 Enter Phryne, behind Julius. 
 
 Lep. Take it. 
 
 Phry. [Having observed Julius.] Turn, Sylla ! turn ! 
 
 Jul. [Breaking through the Guards.] Villains ! make way. 
 
 Die ! monster. 
 
 Phry. [Intercepting and catching his arm.] 
 
 Hold, parricide ! — infanticide ! 
 
 Cat. Guards ! — Lictors ! 
 
 Down with him — slay ! 
 
 Syl. Lictors ! disarm that boy. 
 
 If I had wanted proof for your assurance, 
 
 Himself, the head and spirit of this treason, 
 
 Doth here supply it. Ye have seen his hand 
 
350 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 Raised against tlie life of the republic — and, 
 
 P>y every law, civil and natural, 
 
 The days of the last Marius are now numbered. 
 
 Phry. Against all nature — against all the laws 
 Of natural hearts. Romans ! he is my husband. [. Embracing him. 
 
 Jul. 0 Phryne ! I was nerved for fate ; but this — 
 
 Phry. And, Romans, plead for him, with me. Ye know, 
 Great as his crime hath been unto your eyes 
 And mine, this day, the youngest and the last 
 Of all the Marians must, if he be a man, 
 
 Hoard in his heart, even against his will, 
 
 Griefs, recollections, bitterness, and anger, 
 
 Which madden him, at times, to say and do 
 He knows not what ! Oh think ye, Roman husbands ! 
 
 Were he not made, by suffering, moment-mad, 
 
 He who doth love his wife as never wife 
 Was loved, would raise his boyish arm upon 
 The sacred person of that wife's dear parent — 
 
 A parent by that wife beloved as well — 
 
 And she will say no more — as she by him, 
 
 Her chosen husband ? Romans ! plead for me. 
 
 Your hands and voices here with mine. My father ! 
 
 [. Kneels to Sylla. 
 
 Syl. I am Dictator. Senators ! no word. 
 
 Tribunes ! beware. Lictors ! control the people. 
 
 Phryne ! retire. 
 
 Phry. No ! bid them strike me here ! 
 
 It is the fitter place for me to fall, 
 
 Even at the feet of the unnatural father 
 Who spurns me here ! Perish I must — I will — 
 
 If— 
 
 Syl. Lead the wife of Marius from the Forum. 
 
 [ Ascends the Rostrum. 
 
 Phry. Off, abject slaves ! I stand by him again ! 
 
 [Rushes to Julius, who is again guarded. 
 My arm around him ! to be silent now, 
 
 Since, if I am so, I have equal right, 
 
 With any citizen, to tarry here — 
 
 Silent until I catch a word to harm him— 
 
 My Julius, fear not ! 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 351 
 
 Jul. I but fear for you. 
 
 Syl. Young Julius Marius may tell you, Romans, 
 
 He strikes but at an absolute Dictator. [From the Rostrum . 
 
 Wherefore, in justice ? Let the people answer. 
 
 Freely they chose me — nor unworthily, 
 
 For, ere I was Dictator, I was a hero. 
 
 Deep, distant waters ye shall never see 
 I bade flow round your empire, and they flowed 
 Rejoicingly. Kings I uncrowned and crowned ; 
 
 Avenged your wrongs ; enforced your rights ; unfurled 
 Your glory to earth’s limits. This, abroad. 
 
 At home, I brought you peace — by any means, 
 
 Peace, still. Proscriptions, confiscations, blood — 
 
 These were the means. On whom ? and blood of whom ? 
 
 On those who plundered ye, and first shed yours. 
 
 Who perished ? Romans — but the foes of Rome. — 
 
 What was her loss ? Citizens ? Rebels. — Sons ? 
 
 Parricides. 
 
 Jul. Friends ! oh, friends ! 
 
 Phry. Julius, for my sake, 
 
 Patience — forbearance ! 
 
 Jul. Childless fathers ! answer. 
 
 Fatherless sons ! lorn brothers ! answer him. 
 
 Rome’s loss ? Oh, let her women raise their voices. 
 
 And, Romans, tell him, too, Rome’s loss is freedom — • 
 
 The freedom a perpetual Dictator 
 
 Hath in his life shut up, and which his life 
 
 Alone may render. 
 
 [At the commencement of Julius’ speech , Sylla had beckoned 
 Cethegus to his side; during it he has conferred with him; 
 now he resumes , without having seemed to notice it. 
 
 Syl. Thus, the means were desperate. 
 
 Who used them? Sylla? No. Your sovereign. — 
 
 In person? No. In Rome’s great majesty. — 
 
 In personal anger ? No. In her assertion. — 
 
 For his revenge ? No. For her great salvation. 
 
 What father whose child’s treason leaves him childless — 
 
 What sireless son whose father’s treason shamed him — 
 
 What brother whose bad brother shamed their sire — 
 
 Will now stand up for such against his country ? 
 
352 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 If I do speak unto a Roman patriot 
 So circumstantial and conditional, 
 
 Let him stand forth and front — not punishment, 
 
 But the deep, broad, indelible disgrace 
 Of that avowal in this public forum. 
 
 Let him stand forth, I say ! 
 
 1^ Trib. How should we answer ? 
 
 la Citz. Out of our own admissions he would judge us. 
 
 1st Trib. Let no man speak ! 
 
 Syl. Your silence I do thus interpret, friends. 
 
 ’Twere just to punish any who, with cause 
 Of private suffering the most peculiar, 
 
 Dares, in my sovereign person, touch the state — 
 
 Behold young Marius, who hath so dared. 
 
 Jul. Tyrant ! [Addressing Syiia. 
 
 Pliry. My Julius ! 
 
 Syl. Yet— 
 
 Phry. Hush ! Hear him on ! 
 
 Syl. Yet, as the offence to Sylla is, at once, 
 
 Public and personal, I do waive the right 
 Of judging him, referring it unto 
 The Senate and the people. 
 
 Phry. Hear you that ? 
 
 Jul. I do — in deepest wonder. If he mean it, 
 
 I am no longer Sylla’ s enemy. 
 
 Syl. But more than my permission here is urgent. 
 
 Jul. Hark ! — some deep subtlety which cheats us all. 
 
 Syl. For this you must be, once again, a people, 
 
 United to your Senate, sovereign — • 
 
 Without an absolute dictatorship, 
 
 Or any intervention from the presence 
 Of civil or of military force. 
 
 Wherefore, observe me. Lictors ! yield your fasces ; 
 
 Soldiers ! lay down your arms ; and all draw off, 
 
 Or, here, as citizens, with your fellows mingle. 
 
 [Lictors and Soldiers obey him. 
 
 Phry. Oh, joy ! my Julius, joy ! 
 
 Jul. Let me observe him — 
 
 Syl. This, the first step to leave your councils free, 
 
 Is the last act of my authority. 
 
APPENDIX III, 
 
 353 
 
 My servants powerless, myself I now 
 Command from power — Sylla, o’er Sylla still. 
 
 The only master. Yon have heard it said 
 That, in dictatorship perpetual, 
 
 I had shut up your freedom. Well ! Attend. 
 
 My place I now do abdicate for ever ; 
 
 My palm and purple I renounce for ever ; 
 
 And, once again a simple citizen, 
 
 Unarmed, unsymbolled, thus advance to greet you. 
 
 [Takes off the golden palm and the purple cloak , and 
 descends from the Rostrum. 
 
 Phry. Well, Julius ? well ! 
 
 Jul. I am astounded — thrilled ! 
 ls£ Trib. Now, countrymen ! 
 
 2 d Trib. Hush ! hush ! he would speak still. 
 
 Syl. More. As Rome’s magistrate, I have freely dealt 
 Upon the people, and the Senate too. 
 
 For that , yourselves have righteously admitted 
 I am not privately responsible. 
 
 Yet, lest my single judgment may have pushed 
 Authority beyond its sovereign limit, 
 
 Hear me. What I have done in Rome’s great name 
 I will account for in mine own. I ask 
 A trial from the people. I invite it. 
 
 Silent ? I dare it ! 
 
 Jul. Oh, amazing courage ! 
 
 Majestic boldness ! 
 
 Phry. Terrible! 
 
 Jul. But how grand ! 
 
 God-despot ! His sublimity hath conquered ! 
 
 Syl. I am not answered, friends. Would the coward dagger 
 A course of virtuous justice intercept ? 
 
 I have heard, I know not well how many thousands, 
 
 Of those whose kindred, but contaminate, blood 
 Flowed at their country’s doom, pronounced by me, 
 
 Waited but time and opportunity. 
 
 The time is come, if ever to come ; I yield 
 The opportunity. That, too, I dare. 
 
 My countrymen, about the forum, here, 
 
 I now shall walk. You see I am unarmed. 
 
354 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 My life upon a blow. To plot and poignard 
 I oppose my genius only ! Chaeronea, 
 
 Orchomenus, and the terror of my name ! 
 
 Behold, I walk among ye. 
 
 Let that man 
 
 Who deems he has a private vengeance, take it ! 
 
 Again, young Marius, strike ! [Walks to Julius. 
 
 Jul. Her breast, as soon ! 
 
 Phry. My father ! 
 
 Syl. Well? I cannot punish now. 
 
 Phry. My father ! take this hand. 
 
 [Falls on Sylla’s neck , holding try one of Julius’ hands. 
 Syl. Tush — tush — 
 
 Freely I may depart then ? all unquestioned ? 
 
 [Re-addressing the people while Piiryne still clings to him. 
 Phry. Father ! [Endeavoring to join his hand with that of Julius. 
 Syl. [Grasping Julius’ hand almost mthout regarding him. 
 
 Well, well ? He is pardoned, is he not ? 
 
 Or must I plead for him unto the people 
 
 And the grave Senate ? And — tush, Sir ; support her — 
 
 She is now more yours than mine — tho’ I say not 
 More in the heart. There — free me of your wife, Sir — 
 
 My child — that was — 
 
 Phry. [Embracing him.'] And is — is — Glorious father ! 
 
 Say — is — 
 
 Syl. Is, then, is — is — Will that content you ? 
 
 Go to your husband. 
 
 Phry. Yes— when you call him so. [Embracing Julius. 
 
 Syl. Freely I may depart ? and all unquestioned ? 
 
 Take my last word, though. Over all my battles, 
 Proscriptions, decimations, hear ye, Homans, 
 
 How I’ve served Home. I found the old republic 
 A shadow — scorned, insulted, braved ; I leave it 
 A substance — feared, respected, trembled at — • 
 
 A threat to foes — to rebels, terrible ! 
 
 I found ye slaves ! I leave ye free ! By what 
 Inducement, ye do know, and will remember. 
 
 For myself, Homans, I give thanks for nought. 
 
 My own hand won me power. A sovereign crown 
 In the street-mire I found — thence caught it up, 
 
APPENDIX III. 
 
 355 
 
 Cleansed, placed it on my brow — and was your master ! 
 
 Home, Phryne — he — does he walk homeward with you ? 
 
 Fhry. He does ! 
 
 Jul. I do. 
 
 Syl. For a great ambition it was little, then — 
 
 Now, to be less or greater, I renounce it. 
 
 Whether in public or private feeling — 
 
 In patriotism, humility, or scorn — 
 
 Yourselves, your generations, ages, times 
 
 May leisurely resolve. Farewell. Come, daughter — 
 
 Julius, attend her at the other side. [ Takes her hand. 
 
 Farewell ! The reign of Sylla hath not passed. 
 
 [Exeunt Sylla, Julius, and Phryne : Sylla’ s arm round 
 Phryne. Curtain falls while all the rest gaze after him. 
 


 

 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 

 * 
 
 
THE 
 
 CELT’S PARADISE, 
 
 IN FOUR DUANS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN BANXM, 
 
 AUTHOR OF “DAMON AND PYTHIAS,” ETC. 
 
 “What dreams may cornel ” 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 NEW YORK, 
 
 D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET, 
 
 MONTREAL l 
 
 COR NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STS. 
 
 1 8 6 9. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Metrical Dialogues, purporting to have occurred 
 between Ossian (or Ossin) and St. Patrick, are, to this 
 day, recited by the old peasantry of the North and 
 South of Ireland ; and specimens of them have been 
 for some time before the public, in Miss Brooks’ trans- 
 lation of “Reliques of Irish Poetry.” A recollection 
 of one or other, or both of these circumstances, 
 unconsciously suggested the opening situation of the 
 following poem. 
 
 An illustrious Scots poet, who condescended to 
 bestow some flattering and advantageous criticism on 
 the first manuscript of the “ Celt’s Paradise,” thought 
 the tale like “a tradition of the amour between the 
 prophetic poet, Thomas the Rhymer, and the Queen 
 of the Fairies.” Such similarity will, of course, be 
 apparent to the general reader ; and the Author takes 
 leave to mention it only for the purpose of saying, 
 that the “ Celt’s Paradise” was written before he had 
 
IV 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 ever heard of the story to which that illustrious poet 
 has done him the honor of alluding. He begs to 
 add that, though in the following pages Ossian ap- 
 pears surrounded with Irish connections exclusively, 
 and though the “ hall of Allen ” is substituted for that 
 of “ woody Morven,” these and other accompaniments 
 were adopted, rather for the sake of poetical consist- 
 ency, than with any reference to the justice of their 
 appropriation in a local or national point of view. 
 
THE RIGHT HON. LORD CLONCURRY, 
 
 AS A SMALL TRIBUTE OP 
 
 THE AUTHOR’S ADMIRATION 
 
 OF 
 
 HIS LORDSHIP’S 
 
 PUBLIC SPIRIT AND LOVE OE COUNTRY, 
 
 P 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM 
 
 IS MOST RESPECTFULLY 
 
 INSCRIBED. 
 

THE 
 
 CELT’S PARADISE 
 
 FIKST DU AN. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Man of prayers, lead me forth 
 From our silent cell of care, 
 
 The morning-breeze to me is worth 
 All thy hymns and all thy prayer — 
 
 For dark and lonely have we prayed — 
 
 Our psalms are sung, our penance said — 
 Thou hast told me, I am forgiven, 
 
 And I long to live in the smile of heaven. 
 
 I cannot see the holy light, 
 
 But I feel it on my brow of white — 
 
 I cannot see the young bird soaring, 
 
 But I hear the song his pride is pouring — - 
 I cannot see the laughing water, 
 
 Nor the fresh beauty the sun has brought her 
 I only hear the moan she is making, 
 
 Over her bed of pebbles breaking. 
 
8 
 
 THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 Man of prayers, lead me on — 
 
 Lead the son of Comhal’s son, 
 
 To the hill where his early deeds were done — 
 Lead me to Slieve Gullian’s breast, 
 
 And give me there my mournful rest. 
 
 Ossian longs to he alone 
 
 And think of days and dangers gone — 
 
 The darkened soul of Ossian longs 
 To float on the stream of other songs 
 Than those thy altar bells are ringing, 
 
 And thy white-robed Culdees singing. 
 
 This is the place — I know it now, 
 
 I feel its freshness on my brow ! 
 
 Lead me where the sun is brightest, 
 
 Where the storm-w^ashed stone is whitest, 
 
 And there in solitude let me sit 
 As silent and as lorn as it ! 
 
 Yield me now my sad request, 
 
 Leave me — leave me to my rest. 
 
 Dark and dread King ! Euler alone ! 
 
 Deep stream that we think not is passing on, 
 
 And yet it goes forward and is gone, 
 
 Where, O Time ! is thy hidden source, 
 
 When wilt thou rest thee from thy course ? 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 9 
 
 A pilgrim art thou on thy path. 
 
 And thou hast the solitude he hath ; 
 
 Thy step is alone by the dark deep river. 
 
 And forward thou walkest ever and ever ! 
 
 But art thou of thyself — Alone 
 From thine own power ? — Or has one 
 More awful still the staff supplied, 
 
 That props thee in thy walk of pride, 
 
 And bade thy stream for ever flow, 
 
 And pointed thee the way to go ? — 
 
 Stern and relentless is thy sway !— 
 
 And withering as the worms of the clay 
 Thy kisses are ! — At thy dark coming 
 The waters of the heart grow chill — 
 
 Thy breath her wildest wish benumbing, 
 
 And bidding her proudest throb be still !— 
 
 Thou walkest forth into the wild 
 And at thy touch the forest-king 
 Bows his wreathed head ! — She who hath smiled 
 In beauty’s blush, the loveliest thing 
 Of all — thy finger passeth over 
 
 Her cheek, and what remains behind ! 
 
 Thou shroudest in thy mantle’s cover 
 The highest hero of his kind — 
 
 In his last house thou hid’st him then, 
 
 And why should we say he lived ? Thou changest 
 To wilds the fair abodes of men, 
 
 And in the wilderness once again 
 A pile of palaces thou rangest 
 
10 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Where chiefs among their thousands trod, 
 
 And thousands worshipped at their nod, 
 
 There hast thou spread the stagnant waters — 
 There hast thou sent the creeping thing 
 
 To hiss, and the heron to flap his wing 
 
 And once where Beauty’s laughing daughters 
 Had their bright bower, there hast thou made 
 For the lone fox a hiding-shade — 
 
 A solitude no prayer may bless — 
 
 A place of fear and loneliness ! 
 
 The solid earth and roaring ocean 
 Obey the biddings of thy voice ! — 
 
 Where valleys smiled the river is in motion, 
 And his dimpling waters all rejoice ! 
 
 And where the proud sea often broke 
 His swelling waves in ceaseless shock, 
 
 There hast thou bade the green grass shoot, 
 And the tall tree settle and get root ! 
 
 And more than this thou hast to do ! — 
 The rugged rocks and the mountains blue 
 Must crumble and fall ! — 
 
 The stars must fade as words from a page, 
 And the light of the world wander in age ! — - 
 He must end his proud career on high, 
 
 And fail — and, gathered in thy pall, 
 
 He must shut for ever his radiant eye ! 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 11 
 
 Link after link thy chain creeps fast 
 Around the world ; it will close at last : 
 
 And all things then will be fettered by tliee, 
 And lonely and stern will thy triumph be ! 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 Ossian, then too our triumphs come 
 Over death, and time, and the tomb — 
 
 Then shall we win with effort free, 
 
 Over the victors, victory. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Man of prayers, why return 
 To quench the thought that fain would burn ? 
 I am old and most forlorn, 
 
 And my only rapture is to mourn. 
 
 I know the grave is dark and deep, 
 
 Yet I wish I had its pleasant sleep. 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 Ossian, the grave is only dark 
 For him whose spirit feels no spark 
 Of Christian sorrow for the sin 
 He long has lived and wantoned in : 
 
 But he who prays, and hopes, and fears, 
 
 And for his life sheds bitter tears, 
 
 In other worlds shall win more bliss 
 Than he may think or dream in this. 
 
12 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 I know as well as thou, the brave 
 Have endless pleasures past the grave. 
 Good chiefs and warriors dwell for ever 
 On the banks of a pleasant river, 
 
 Or walk with ever-blushing maids 
 Thro’ flowery fields and scented shades, 
 Or hunt the hart o’er dale and hill, 
 
 Or in their bowers sit calm and still. 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 The joys of heaven thou hast not told ; 
 Nor is it for the brave and bold 
 Its golden gates of love unfold : 
 
 The good alone, or weak, or strong, 
 
 May sing in heaven their holy song, 
 
 And good can only come to thee 
 From Christian creed and charity. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 And for this, must prayers be read, 
 And beads be told, and matins said ? 
 
 And he that doth not this, and more, 
 Must he never touch that shining shore 
 Of joy thou preachest ? — And where then 
 Are all those stern and mighty men, 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 IB 
 
 Whose steps were on their own green hills, 
 
 In their own strength ? — And where are they, 
 The sources of the blood that fills, 
 
 Or once has filled, in manhood’s day, 
 
 My swelling veins ? — Say, Psalmist, say, 
 Where are Finn and Comhal now ? 
 
 And thou, the darling of my lay — 
 
 The child of all my love ! whose brow 
 Was bright and beautiful as day, — 
 
 Osgur — my son ! — where, where art thou ? 
 
 Man of prayers, would’st teach me this ? 
 
 And think’st thou I could share a bliss 
 Unshared with them ? To be alone 
 In a strange heaven, unloved, unknown, 
 
 As I am now, and have no breast 
 To slumber on and give me rest — 
 
 This may be joy, old man, to thee — 
 
 But, oh ! it were dreary and dark for me ! 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 God hath his mercies. They who went 
 Down to the grave before he sent 
 His word to warn them of the way, — 
 
 For them he doth not bid me say 
 Exclusion from eternal day. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Man of prayers, I wish not 
 The raptures of thy cloudless lot. 
 
14 
 
 THE CELT ? S PARADISE. 
 
 Enjoy thy heaven. I know where lies 
 Old Ossian’s only paradise ! — 
 
 ’Tis with the beautiful and brave, 
 Beyond the wild and wailing wave 
 Of this cold world. The summer there 
 Is cloudless, calm, and ever fair. 
 
 I saw it once ! — My ’wakened blood 
 At that one thought rolls back the flood 
 Of age and sorrow, and swells up 
 Like old wine sparkling o’er its cup. 
 
 I’ll tell thee of the time I spent 
 Beneath that cloudless firmament, 
 
 And thou shalt judge if aught could be 
 So pure a paradise to me — 
 
 If by my own frail spirit led 
 
 Its smile I had not forfeited. 
 
 Give me the old Clarseech I hung 
 On my loved tree ; so long unstrung, 
 Even to its master’s measure free 
 It may refuse its minstrelsy : 
 
 But give it — and the song, tho’ cold, 
 May kindle at a thought of old — - 
 Of younger days ; and now and then 
 It may be strong and bright again. 
 
 Hear a song of age’s daring — 
 
 The sighings of the harp of Erin ! 
 Waken, thou warbler of the West ! 
 Waken from thy long, long rest ! 
 
 K 
 
THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 15 
 
 All day we chased the dark-brown deer 
 Thro’ woods and wilds and waters clear: 
 
 We broke the dew on Allen’s breast, 
 
 And we met the evening on his crest. 
 
 Like that weak beam, I was alone 
 
 With the whispering breeze and the whitened stone ; 
 
 It was an hour of doubtful light — 
 
 Half was sunshine, half was night ; 
 
 And the moon, like maiden young and coy, 
 
 Half struggling with a bashful boy, 
 
 Was flickering over the calm clear stream 
 That yet blushed red in the evening beam. 
 
 I heard upon the echoes borne, 
 
 A faint and far-off hunting-horn. 
 
 At the shrill sound my steed, though spent, 
 
 Pricked up his ears and forward went, 
 
 Hoping with me once more to gain 
 A party of our hunting train. 
 
 Forward we went. The horn grew shrill 
 And shriller. See ! — from yonder hill 
 What floating form of virgin fair — 
 
 So delicate, it looks like air — 
 
 Comes sweeping on at utmost speed, 
 
 Low bending to her snowy steed? 
 
 The dogs are straining on before her— 
 
 Her train is descending the mountain o’er her— 
 
 In her wild flight no echo wakes 
 To tell the bound her courser takes — 
 
16 
 
 THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 The winter’s wind when it is high, 
 
 The fire flash glancing thro’ the sky, 
 
 Or the torrent in his rudest race, 
 
 Are not so rapid as that chase ! 
 
 ' Aghast I stood ! The dogs dashed by — 
 The lady-huntress next swept nigh — 
 
 A moment in her magic speed 
 She slightly curbed her milky steed, 
 
 And looked upon me. Oh that look 
 Into my heart of hearts I took ! 
 
 Nay, scoff not Psalmist — for by the light 
 That now for Ossian no more is bright, 
 
 I tell thee that one look of her’s 
 Would make thy saints idolaters ! — 
 
 When April’s evening sky is fair, 
 
 If its golden folds uncurtained were, 
 
 All but a misty veil unriven 
 Between thee and thy own bright heaven — 
 And if thro’ it young angel eyes 
 Beamed o’er thee in thy ecstacies, 
 
 To tell of pardon for thy sin, 
 
 And give thee peace and smile thee in— 
 
 It would be like the glance she sent 
 On me in my astonishment ! 
 
 And ’twas enough ! I gave the rein — 
 My steed forgot his toil and pain, 
 
 And on we swept o’er hill and plain ! — 
 
THE CELT ? S PARADISE. 
 
 17 
 
 On, on — thro’ heath, and stream, and wood — 
 We climbed the bank — we broke the flood — 
 But all was mockery to the flight 
 Of the lady on her steed of white ! 
 
 I see her on the steep hill’s brow — 
 
 I gain it — she sweeps thro’ the valley now — 
 Over the valley’s breast I strain, 
 
 But she has ascended the hill again ! 
 
 Like winding rivers quick and bright, 
 
 She glanced and faded on my sight : 
 
 At last within a brown wood’s shade 
 A headlong plunge her courser made, 
 
 And I, far off, was left to gaze 
 In mute distraction and amaze. 
 
 • 
 
 Even then her train — a fearful crowd — 
 Came rushing on ; looks strange and proud 
 Flashed for a moment on my face — 
 
 Then turned to track that noiseless chase — 
 For as I looked no echoing sound 
 Gave answer to their coursers’ bound, 
 
 And the rushing of the winds alone 
 Told that a hunter had passed on. 
 
 I feared them not, tho’ well I knew 
 They were not things of earth ! I drew 
 And firmly clutched my own good blade ; 
 One last wild race my courser made, 
 
18 
 
 'THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Tho’ spent and reeling. On, still on, 
 
 Thro’ tangled shades and wilds unknown 
 He bore me well — nor sigh, nor groan, 
 
 When down he softly sunk at last, 
 
 From the proud beast lamenting past. 
 
 I made him a couch of the branches green, 
 And he had for his shelter the forest screen — 
 I brought him fresh grass gathered near, 
 
 And in my helmet water clear — 
 
 I smoothed and bathed his drooping crest, 
 And left him to his soothing rest. 
 
 I sat in the tall tree’s trembling shade, 
 
 And the moss of its trunk my pillow made. 
 My eyes could not their watching keep, 
 
 My soul was sinking in its sleep, 
 
 And wild and wavering thoughts came on 
 Of deeds imagined, actions done, 
 
 And vain hopes mingling with the true, 
 
 And real things a man may do. 
 
 A sigh came o’er me soft and warm ! 
 
 I started ! — but nor shade nor form 
 Appeared thro’ the half-seen gloom around 
 To utter such a silver sound. 
 
 It might be the sob of the summer air 
 Which glowed so rich and sultry there. 
 
 Again I slumbered — again the sigh 
 Of woman’s fondness fluttered nigh — 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 19 
 
 And while I listened, gentle lips 
 
 Gently met mine, — and touched, and trembled, — 
 As if beneath the moon’s eclipse 
 Alone, love’s feeling long dissembled, 
 
 Might dare to own in bashful kisses 
 Its maiden flame and modest blisses. 
 
 Fondly I raised my arms and press’d, — 
 
 They closed upon my lonely breast. 
 
 Back from their kiss the young lips started — 
 Sighed one rich sigh — and touched, and parted — 
 
 I thought of the huntress young and fair, 
 
 Whose gifted glance had led me there, 
 
 And I said in the strength of my young heart’s sigh, 
 While the tear of passion brimmed mine eye— 
 
 “ Lady of kisses ! Lip of love ! 
 
 From the air around, or sky above, 
 
 Come and bless my desolate arms 
 With the richness of thy charms.” 
 
 “ Son of Earth !” a small voice said, 
 
 So soft it might be the west wind 
 Murmuring thro’ a garden bed, 
 
 And fraught with feeling, heart and mind, 
 
 And lip, and language, to declare 
 Its love for any floweret fair — 
 
 “ Son of Earth ! thy sigh is vain, 
 
 ’Till thou can’st join our hunting train, 
 
 Free from earthly touch or stain. 
 
20 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 And if thou hast wish to hunt with me, 
 
 Three days shalt thou silent be — 
 
 Three days and nights thou shalt not sleep— 
 Nor sigh, nor smile — nor laugh, nor weep — 
 
 Nor warm thy wish with earthly food — 
 
 Nor slake thy thirst with earthly flood. 
 
 When thou dost this for love of me, 
 
 Again sleep under the wild-wood tree, 
 
 And pleasant shall thy waking be.” 
 
 <c Child of the breeze ! — where — who art thou ? 
 Let me see thy lovely brow !” 
 
 “ Viewless I am, and must be, till 
 Thy three days’ task thou dost fulfil. 
 
 I am of the people of the hill — 
 
 A Sidh^ spirit, pure and free 
 From all the cares that ’cumber thee. 
 
 I live in a land where the blushing light 
 Is always constant, calm, and bright ; 
 Grief is not there, nor age, nor death, 
 
 But evergreen youth, and endless breath, 
 And life that tires not with the living, 
 And love that loathes not with the giving. 
 Stern sons of men who struggling die 
 In Virtue’s cause, or Freedom’s high, 
 Come there across the waste of water, 
 Guided by a Sidhd^’s daughter, 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE, 
 
 21 
 
 And live at leisure calm and free, 
 
 To follow what their wish may be. 
 
 Son of Finn ! could’st thou forsake 
 The hills that now thy pleasure make, 
 Defying death, and the care and pain 
 That here for thy old white hairs remain, 
 
 And come to live with love and me, 
 
 In such a land of liberty ?” 
 
 “ Voice of softness ! Cans’t thou love me ? 
 Thou art a beam too far above me. 
 
 I’d fly with thee thro’ the waste of water, 
 
 The raging flame, or the field of slaughter, 
 Thro’ deserts where man no footing finds — 
 Thro’ all the waves and all the winds ! 
 
 Dost thou love me, child of light ? — 
 
 Is Ossian pleasant in thy sight ?” 
 
 “ The sigh that broke thy gentle sleep 
 Might teach thy tongue its word to keep. 
 Return, fair Ossian, to thy hill ; 
 
 I will be here to love thee still.” 
 
SECOND DUAN. 
 
 I went and came. The wild- wood tree 
 Again spread out my canopy. 
 
 I could not sleep. I sat in grief 
 And listen’d to the rustling leaf. 
 
 She came not o’er me as before — 
 
 No murmuring breeze her whispers bore— 
 No timid touch of her soft lip 
 From mine its kisses now would sip. 
 
 A far-off sigh alone I heard, 
 
 Like the night-wind thro’ the thistle’s beard, 
 “ Why wilt thou shun me, child of bliss ? — 
 
 I come to claim thy promised kiss.” 
 
 “ Thou comest to claim, but hast not done 
 Thy promise like a faithful one. 
 
 This morn thy sister, who hath wept 
 Because thy soft sleep was un slept, 
 
 In Allen’s stately hall held up, 
 
 With sighs and smiles, the parting-cup, 
 
 And thou didst taste the blushing wine, 
 
 And therefore art no love of mine. 
 
 Come back again, and with thee bring 
 A lip unstain’d by earthly thing.” 
 
THE CELTS PARADISE. 
 
 23 
 
 Sad I returned. That night I slept. 
 
 And eat and drank, and wildly wept ; 
 
 But thence three days and nights I waked — 
 My feast untouched, my thirst unslaked — 
 And again beneath the wild tree’s shade 
 I call’d in sighs my aerial maid. 
 
 And farther off her voice replied — 
 
 “ Tho’ thou hast neither smiled nor sigh’d, 
 Nor furled in sleep thy sorrow’s wing, 
 
 Nor eat nor drank of earthly thing, 
 
 Yet, as this morning at the gate 
 Thy sister stood all desolate, 
 
 And prayed of thee a parting kiss, 
 
 Thou, all unmindful of the bliss 
 That warms a purer cheek and breast, 
 
 Didst yield the girl her fond request. 
 
 Come back again, and with thee bring 
 A lip unstain’d by earthly thing.” 
 
 I did return, and with me brought 
 The unstain’d lip the spirit sought. 
 
 I sat in sleep beneath that tree — 
 
 Sweet sleep that came on suddenly — 
 
 Her warm wild sigh stole o’er me then, 
 
 And woo’d me to my thought again ; — 
 
 I felt a cheek of tenderest touch 
 Laid gently to the burning blush 
 That mantled mine ; — I felt young arms 
 Steal round and round me, and all the charms 
 
 < 
 
24 
 
 THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 Of a fond, flattering, loving breast 
 To mine in murmuring raptures press’d. 
 
 “ From this fond and free caress, 
 
 Wake, Son of Earth, thy sleep to bless,— 
 Wake to the joy of breathing free — 
 
 The breath of immortality !” 
 
 It was too much — too keen a pleasure 
 For a mere mortal heart to measure ! 
 
 My sinews thrilled — my breathing went — 
 My laboring pulse its throbbings spent, 
 And my soul faded into night, 
 
 Darkening in its own delight. 
 
 I woke as men from doubtful dre^ s 
 In the broad sun’s real beams 
 Oft waken to look back with fright 
 Upon their phantoms of the night. 
 
 The life I led, the days gone by, 
 
 I thought of, dark and doubtingly. 
 
 It was not an action or a scene 
 In which I felt I might have been — 
 Father some unsubstantial play 
 Of fancy in her holiday. 
 
 A brighter thought came to my tongue—® 
 A livelier life within me sprung — 
 
 A fresher current of young blood 
 Sent to my heart its thrilling flood, 
 
THE CELT 7 S PARADISE. 
 
 25 
 
 And my lightened limbs disdained to rest 
 On the cold earth’s cloddy breast. 
 
 I woke upon a wild sea-shore — • 
 
 The waste was round the sky was o’er : 
 My head was cradled on her knee. 
 
 And there she watched me silently, 
 Like the sun shining on a flower 
 That all alone lives thro’ its hour 
 In some forsaken wilderness. 
 
 I woke and woo’d her heart’s caress. 
 And she did give it wild and free 
 As her kiss beneath the forest tree. 
 
 And I felt with her and she with me — 
 My thoughts were hers, and mutually 
 I had her thinkings — heart in heart 
 And mind in mind together blended, 
 Like streams that cannot live apart, 
 But in one glassy lake have ended. 
 
 And shining and soft was her virgin form, 
 In full-blown beauty wild and warm. 
 
 I know not if aught of earthly blood 
 Mingled with the magic flood 
 That feeds her veins ; but you might see 
 A rich vein wandering sportively 
 Beneath the bright transparent skin, 
 
 That kept its sparkling essence in. 
 
26 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 ’Twas an eartlily shape, but polish’d too high 
 For an earthly touch or an earthly eye. 
 
 ; Twas an earthly shape ! What else could be 
 Moulded or made to rapture me ? 
 
 What other form could loveliness take 
 To bid my doating eye-balls ache, 
 
 And boil my blood, and fire my brain 
 In agonies of blissful pain ? 
 
 Nay, Saint, I pass thy word of scorn — 
 Thyself hath sung this very morn 
 Of beautiful and blushing things, 
 
 With golden hair and snowy wings — 
 
 Fair beyond minstrel’s fancyings — 
 
 Who, moulded like to forms of earth 
 Even in thy own heaven have birth, 
 
 Tho’ basking in such holy light 
 
 Hath made them look more soft and white. 
 
 I tell thee, there she sat with me, 
 
 Fairer than earthly woman may be ; 
 
 And she floated before my fainting glance, 
 Like the shapes of air that softly dance 
 Bound the glorious evening sun, 
 
 In joy that his daily task is done. 
 
 Her eye was large, and soft, and dark, 
 Floating in fondness ; often a spark 
 Of mild and chasten’d light shone thro’; 
 And it was even as a drop of dew 
 
THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 27 
 
 Half seen within a darken’d bower, 
 
 In the morning misty hour ; 
 
 And yon might know that underneath 
 All of her that did look or breathe 
 There was a spirit pure and chaste 
 As ice upon the unsunned waste, 
 
 Or silver waters underground 
 
 That the searching day has never found. 
 
 And she looked on me, and I on her — 
 
 Each glance the other’s worshipper — 
 
 A long, long look — an endless stream 
 Of ever-gushing love — a beam 
 Unbroken as the lonely one 
 For ever flowing from the sun. 
 
 And I know not how — for years come on, 
 
 And mind and memory half are gone, 
 
 And things that in our morning youth 
 Seem’d strong and durable as truth 
 In age’s twilight fade away 
 To shapeless shades, and will not stay. 
 
 I know not how — but we have broke 
 The chains of that dear dream, and woke 
 And left that solitary shore 
 To laugh amid the billow’s roar! 
 
 Yes ! swift as the wild wind that gives it its motion, 
 We traveled the waste of the desolate ocean — 
 
28 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 And liow proudly I rode on the back of the billow, 
 With her lip for my kiss and her breast for my pillow! 
 
 We came to a land where the light of the world 
 Hath brightest hi^ standard of summer unfurled. 
 
 We touch it — we pass it — we traverse its scope 
 Like the glancing of thought or the gleamings of hope ! 
 
 I have no memory of the things 
 I saw or met in that fearful flight — 
 
 They only make strange visitings 
 To my sleeping thoughts in a dream of night. 
 
 Yet half I remember, as we pass’d 
 A desert of sand outstripping its blast, 
 
 Of savage shapes and forms of fear 
 That came to look on us too near ; 
 
 And the hungry glaring of their eyes 
 Half yielded to a stern surprise 
 To see such rapid travelers there, 
 
 Or hear us hurrying thro’ the air. 
 
 And on ! The blue hills backward fly — 
 
 Trees, rocks, and the world and all glance by ! 
 
 And once, as I gave a farewell look 
 To the old sun I had forsook, 
 
 He seem’d as if rushing down the sky 
 To drink the depths of the ocean dry, 
 
 And finish his long and lonely reign, 
 
 And never light up the world again. 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 On, on ! And we came to the last cold shore 
 That aged snn is shining o’er. 
 
 It was a scene of feature wild — 
 
 Its rocks in random ruin piled — 
 
 And towers of ice and hills of snow, 
 
 Mocking the wither’d waste below. 
 
 Yet there, all beautiful and bright, 
 
 The sun was shedding his chasten’d light. 
 
 It seem’d as if faithless trees and flo'wers, 
 
 That vary with the varying hours, 
 
 And eyes and cheeks that change at will, 
 
 And worldly hearts, more fickle still, 
 
 Had tired him with their dull deceit, 
 
 And he no more would lend them heat, 
 
 Or light, or life — but thither came 
 To shine on things that, cold and tame, 
 
 And shapeless, and strange as they might be, 
 Smiled always in white constancy. 
 
 And there, away from house and tower, 
 
 He spent his silent noon-tide hour 
 ALL sportively : his soft beam fell 
 On many a glancing icicle, 
 
 And kindled up each crystal height 
 With rainbow hue and chequer’d light. 
 
 And I thought he wished no other eye 
 To gladden at a scene so high, 
 
 But all in solitude smiled to see 
 The play of his own pleasantry. 
 
30 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 On, on ! That spangling scene is pass’d, 
 And we have left the world at last ! 
 
 I cannot tell you if we went 
 Upward or down — thro’ firmament, 
 
 Or wind or water — air or light ; 
 
 It was even as a vision of night, 
 
 When youthful hearts that pant for heaven 
 Dream of some rich and rosy even. 
 
 Upon whose perfumed breeze they rise. 
 
 Like the mist of the hill in summer skies. 
 
 I saw not, touch’d not aught but her 
 Who was my bosom’s comforter 
 In that rash flight. Enough for me 
 To feel her clasp me tenderly, 
 
 And with her kisses call from death 
 The flutterings of my failing breath. 
 
 Oh then ! in what a keen delight 
 We shot upon our airy flight — 
 
 Like the lone comet, calm and fair, 
 
 Cleaving the silent realms of the air ! 
 
 I said I knew not aught was there — 
 
 Nor saw a shape, nor heard a sound 
 In all the voiceless space around — 
 
 Yet have I thought — a half-dreamt thought — 
 That far and doubtingly I caught, 
 
 While in our rush of silence hurled, 
 
 A parting glance of my native world. 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 31 
 
 The stars were up, and, weak and small, 
 
 They twinkled round a darken'd ball ; 
 
 I strove to fix them on my sight, 
 
 And, as I looked, their points of light 
 Lengthen’d to lines, that quick and slight 
 Traversed each other, and entwined 
 Like a maiden’s tresses in the wind — 
 
 And still I look, and still they glance, 
 
 And mingle in their misty dance — 
 
 And faint and fainter, and now they fly — 
 
 And now they fail, and now they die — 
 
 And they and the spot they woke to light 
 Have melted from my swimming sight ! 
 
 One earthly sigh I gave to part 
 
 From the world that warmed my youthful heart. 
 
 And on, and on ! — But how or where ? 
 
 I felt no motion in the air, 
 
 And I think no breeze was busy there- 
 
 But I was swathed as in a mist 
 
 That the morning sunbeam has not kiss’d — 
 
 And I was hurled as in a wind 
 
 That all but leaves a thought behind. 
 
 On, on ! And have we not touch’d at last 
 Some gentle substance as we pass’d? 
 
 I thought our flight less fearful now. 
 
 And I looked upon my Spirit’s brow 
 
32 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 To read its smile. Oh well I knew 
 My own heart’s thought reflected true ! 
 And smoother still we glide along — 
 Smooth as the gushing flow of song. 
 The velvet sod we press at last — 
 
 The gathered mist aside is cast — 
 
 And arm in arm, and hand in hand, 
 
 We wander thro’ her own bright land ! 
 
THIED D UAN. 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 Ossian, enough of this dotard theme, 
 Lit up at the meteor-blaze of a dream, 
 Wanton and vain as ever was fann’d 
 By the deadly zeal of the evil one’s hand. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Man of prayers, and dost thou dare 
 To say to Ossian he was not there ? 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 I tell thee, Ossian, it was a vain 
 And wicked vision of thy brain, 
 
 Coming in sleep from thoughts of sin, 
 That wantoned thy waking soul within ; 
 And dark and aged as thou art, 
 
 And withered as is thy wayward heart, 
 
 € 
 
34 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Fitter were it, olcTman, for tliee 
 To pray on bare and bended knee. 
 
 And tell thy blessdd rosary, 
 
 Than here upon this blasted hill 
 To sing thy song of weakness still. 
 
 Arise and walk ! The sloping sun 
 Hath half his daily business done, 
 
 And we are warned of penance unsped, 
 And psalms unsung, and prayers unread. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Away ! and leave me to my wrath ; 
 
 No other vengeance Ossian hath 
 For all the slanders of thy tongue, 
 
 And the tears of shame thy words have rung 
 From his old heart. Away — away ! 
 
 And were it but an earlier day, 
 
 That word, false Saint, thou durst not say ! 
 Oh, Osgur ! my heart’s darling son, 
 
 Thy father’s deeds are all undone ! 
 
 He is in darkness, and must hear 
 The word of shame come on his ear, 
 
 And he may not raise a sword or spear ! 
 
 The last of all the Fenian race 
 Sits on his own hill in disgrace ! 
 
 But were he here, or were there one 
 Of all my heroes that are gone, 
 
the celt ? s paradise. 
 
 35 
 
 Thou lying slanderer of the brave, 
 
 The sod thou stand ’st on were thy grave ! 
 And did’st thou, darest thou talk to me 
 Of speaking — thinking falsity ? 
 
 And speak I of Osgur ? Man of prayers, 
 
 I care not for these old white hairs. 
 
 Roll off the cloud that closes o’er me — 
 
 Let me but see thee stand before me — 
 Break this staff, and in my hand 
 Let me feel my father’s brand — 
 
 Then might’st thou wish thy prayers read, 
 Thy shriving o’er, and thy penance sped ! 
 
 THE SAINT. 
 
 A wayward penitent to me, 
 
 I fear me, Ossian, thou wilt be. 
 
 I said not, I wished not to say 
 A word to steal thy fame away. 
 
 I must believe that for thy race 
 There is but one pure dwelling-place — 
 I must believe that soul or spirit 
 No sense of mortal touch inherit — 
 And this I must, if I have faith 
 In Him who died to conquer death, 
 And hope, with Him, in light to be, 
 
 A measureless eternity. 
 
 Thou hast thy creed, and I have mine ; 
 And if I will not bow to thine, 
 
36 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 How do I err to them or tliee 
 But as thyself hath erred to me ? 
 
 Ossian, the Fenii’s fame is high, 
 
 Their deeds are sung, and can never die ; 
 Strong were they on their hills of power, 
 
 And happy was their peaceful hour. 
 
 They have failed on earth as the sun goes down 
 Over Slieve Gullian’s craggy crown, 
 
 When he leaves the world he smiled upon, 
 Warm with the light of his glories gone. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Free be thy faith ; and I rejoice 
 To hear in peace thy harmless voice. 
 
 Well hast thou spoken. Man of age ! 
 
 Our whole race was one spreading page 
 Of truth and whiteness — free from stains 
 As the bounding blood within their veins. 
 
 Nay, rest we here. ’Tis very long 
 Since Ossian gave his soul to song. 
 
 I know the sun hath soared his fling, 
 
 Now pointing to earth his golden wing ; 
 
 Yet, if thou wilt but list my lay, 
 
 A double penance will I say 
 For this upon my shriving day. 
 
 A dream it was not. Well I know 
 How short a way our visions go, 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 37 
 
 To give us half the living bliss, 
 
 I quaffed upon her virgin kiss ! 
 
 And now we are in her land of love, 
 
 With a light below and a sky above, 
 
 And such a breathing life around, 
 
 And such a mingling of soft sound, 
 
 I have no words to tell the thought 
 With which my fainting soul is fraught ! 
 
 And if I had, what pulse could beat — 
 
 What bright’ning brow could flush with heat, 
 And give the smile to the bard so dear, 
 
 And only age and coldness here ? 
 
 Ask me if the flowers were fair — 
 
 Ask me if the sighing air 
 
 Was soft and pleasant — I will say 
 
 Thou think’st but of an earthly day, 
 
 And earthly flowers, and air, and skies, 
 
 And makest with them my Paradise. 
 
 But seek not on cold and earthly things 
 To fetter thy imaginings, 
 
 If thou would’st wish one glimpse to win 
 Of that pure heaven I have been in. 
 
 Lie on the green hill’s sunny side, 
 
 And listen to the dashing tide — 
 
 Let the flowers be blushing nigh thee, 
 And lay thy harp in slumbers by thee, 
 
38 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Save that, now and then, thy finger 
 On some small chord will love to linger, 
 
 Which, chance and fancy half inspiring, 
 
 Thy softened sonl is gently firing — 
 
 Then, while the evening-beam blushes red, 
 
 And the high grass is waving o’er thy head, 
 And thine eyes are half closed in the rosy light, 
 And thy thoughts within are sparkling bright — 
 Then may’st thou image some floating scene 
 Like that lovely land where I have been ! 
 
 Yet it wanted not its own wild hill, 
 
 The spreading tree, and the silver rill — 
 
 The silent lake, the stretching shore, 
 
 And the hoarseness of the torrent’s roar — 
 Scenes which the true bard loves to see, 
 Whether on earth or in heaven he be. 
 
 And ever its gentle rivers glided 
 Thro’ fields of flowers, which they divided 
 As the minstrel-measure parts in song 
 The flowers his fancy strays among. 
 
 And its small flowers were always fair, 
 
 And soft to the touch as summer air ; 
 
 Their only business was to live, 
 
 And to the breeze their perfumes give, 
 
 And in return the breezes crept 
 Into their bosoms while they slept, 
 
 And left them all the sweets they found 
 In their flight the world around. 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 89 
 
 I know not whence the day-beam came, 
 But it was ever and ever the same — 
 
 A living light that streamed for ever ^ 
 On hill and mountain, lake and river : 
 Without a burst, without a shade, 
 
 One mild and virgin day it made — 
 
 In which on sultry breeze could blast, 
 
 Nor cloud nor tempest overcast, 
 
 Nor sullen mist its damp distill, 
 
 Nor wild wind rave, nor winter chill. 
 
 I say not that the young eyes there 
 Made that modest light less fair. 
 
 It might be that one roving ray 
 First called a love-look into day, 
 
 And from two starry eyes drew forth 
 A freshened glow and added worth — 
 
 And these eyes looked on other eyes, 
 
 And kindled up new brilliances — 
 
 And other eyes still woke each other. 
 
 And every soft beam had a brother, 
 
 ’Till, mingling quick and flashing wide, 
 
 The gathered radiance gave its tide — 
 
 And blushing cheeks, and blushing flowers 
 Bichly mellowed its dazzling powers, 
 
 And lake and river, air and sky, 
 
 For ever made it multiply. 
 
40 
 
 THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 I think such might be the mingled ray 
 That there gave out its pleasant day, 
 
 For it sqemed to glitter a little less 
 When my loved one slept in gentleness ; 
 
 And the only faint fading of that light, 
 
 Which gave but the calmness of earthly night, 
 Was when a thousand eyes were sleeping 
 Unearthly sleep, that had been keeping 
 The day so fresh and fair about them, 
 
 It could not be day or light without them. 
 
 There was a voice throughout the air 
 That spoke of soul and spirit there — 
 
 And ever as you breathed its sigh, 
 
 I may not name the thinkings high 
 That o'er your mind in freshness stole, 
 
 And wildly woke the startled soul. 
 
 And it made minstrelsy, and spoke 
 Language that bards all vainly invoke 
 When they would tell of words half broken, 
 With the river-spirit spoken, 
 
 Or catch from the careering breeze 
 Its darkly-whispered mysteries. 
 
 And all was music — air and sky 
 And water — and the harmony 
 Of what was spoken — and the song 
 Of shining birds, that in a throng 
 Their distant warblings would prolong. 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 41 
 
 Then it was most pleasant to see 
 The innocent creatures there that be, 
 
 Sitting or walking joyously 
 
 In their bower or thro’ their shade — 
 
 Bard and warrior, youth and maid, 
 
 Each happy as he wished to be 
 In all the range of liberty. 
 
 Young eyes were ever glancing round— 
 
 Eyes that never wept or frowned — 
 
 And the laugh of those happy hearts was like 
 Strains that enraptured minstrels strike, 
 
 In one full and bursting measure, 
 
 When they give their souls to sound and pleasure. 
 
 All were happy — but some felt 
 A holier joy, and others dwelt 
 In higher glory. I saw one 
 Who, for the good deeds he had done 
 On earth, was here a worshipped king, 
 Triumphant o’er all suffering. 
 
 On the utmost edge of his own shore, 
 
 One foot amid the breaker’s roar, 
 
 Another on the rocky strand, 
 
 He met the invading foe — his hand 
 Grasp’d its good sword. He was alone, 
 And they were thousands ; and when flown 
 His strength at last, he could but throw 
 Between his country and the foe 
 
42 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 His heart, and thro’ it bid them smite 
 At her’s. 
 
 He fell ; but in the light 
 Of Paradise the hero’s deed 
 Found fittest eulogy and meed ; 
 
 The gaping deatli-gash on his side 
 Was turned to glory — far and wide 
 As a bright star it beamed — and he 
 Walked on in immortality, 
 
 Worshipped and wondered at — the brave, 
 
 Unenvious to his virtue, gave 
 Honor and fame, and praise — the old, 
 
 Blessed him as he walked by, and told 
 His name in reverence — beauty’s tongue, 
 
 Her laugh of love, and her soft song 
 Ever at his approach were hushed 
 Unconsciously — and thousands rushed, 
 
 Forgetful of themselves, to gaze 
 And give in looking their heart’s praise 
 To him, of heroes the highest and best, 
 
 Whose death-wound was turned to a star on his breast 
 
 With him walked one in converse high, 
 
 Of lesser shape, but whose quick eye 
 Sent inspiration round — the rush 
 Of bright thoughts in a dazzling blush 
 Spread o’er his face. Music and song 
 At his birth informed his tongue 
 
THE CELTS PARADISE. 
 
 43 
 
 And fired his soul ; and with them came 
 The throb for freedom ; but the name 
 Of his own land had passed away, 
 
 And, fettered, amid her waves she lay, 
 
 Like a strong man on his hill. The bard 
 In all her breezes only heard 
 The sigh of her past fame. No strain 
 Lose o’er her desolated plain 
 To mourn her glories gone, or call 
 The blush of shame for her early fall 
 Up to her cold destroyer’s cheek, 
 
 Or on his heart in thunders break. 
 
 But the bard caught up his harp, and woke 
 His Country’s Song ! And as it broke 
 Forth in its pride, unmoved he met 
 From despot tongues their chide or threat — 
 The lordly frown or luring smile 
 That strove to silence, or beguile 
 To silence, a song so high and bold, 
 
 So true and fearless — for it told 
 Her tale in every strain ! The wrong 
 And outrage she had suffered long 
 Went forth among the nations, ’till 
 The eyes of men began to fill 
 With sorrow for her sorrows ; and 
 Even in that cold and careless land 
 That wrought her woe, one manly sigh 
 Was heard at last in sympathy 
 
41 
 
 THE CELT ? S PARADISE. 
 
 With all her suffering ; and for this 
 Thro’ our world of light and bliss 
 lie walked immortal — side by side 
 With him, the hero, who had died 
 The highest death a hero can die — 
 
 For his native land and her liberty ! 
 
 And equal reverence to the bard 
 All creatures gave ; and his reward 
 Was equal glory ; a blessed song 
 Went with them as they walked along ; 
 
 It was over and round them on their way, 
 And ever it said thro’ the cloudless day — 
 
 “ Joy to the hero who dared and died 
 For his country’s honor, and fame, and pride ; 
 And joy to the bard whose song brought fame 
 And pride to his fallen country’s name !” 
 
 And I saw such scenes of joy and love 
 In Paradise, that I could rove 
 Its holy bowers for ever, and be 
 For ever blessed such joy to see. 
 
 I saw an old man sitting alone : 
 
 On earth he left a darling one, 
 
 And for her coming waited here : 
 
 Without, her Paradise was not dear ! 
 
 In pain and sickness, want and woe, 
 
 She had soothed or shared his bosom’s throe ; 
 
THE CELT*S PARADISE. 
 
 45 
 
 He had no pillow but her breast, 
 
 No song but her’s to sing him to rest, 
 No tear but her’s to meet his grief, 
 
 No smile but her’s to beam relief, 
 
 No hand but her’s to bring him food— 
 She was his only earthly good ! 
 
 Her youth and loveliness she forgot : 
 
 To shield his years, and share his lot, 
 
 The red rose withered on her cheek 
 Uncared for. §he could only seek 
 Her father’s heart by every wile 
 And every care ; and if a smile 
 Dawned o’er his languid brow, to her 
 ’Twas a more blessed comforter 
 Than morning’s mildest promise when 
 It smiles on hopeless, sea- wrecked men. 
 
 Oft as she watched his fitful sleep, 
 
 And wished, and longed, but feared to weep, 
 The old man in his dreams would press 
 Her hand. She would feel his caress, 
 
 And his fond and murmured blessing hear 
 With bounding heart and raptured ear, 
 
 And every nerve upon the spring 
 To pay his love with answering cling — 
 
 But fear to break his sleep would check 
 Her natural instinct. Round his neck 
 
46 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Her innocent arms she then would steal. 
 That he their pressure might not feel. 
 And to his wan and wasted brow 
 Her lovely head in reverence bow, 
 
 And breathe upon it her meek kiss 
 Of duteous love and holy bliss. 
 
 Alas ! in earlier, happier hours, 
 
 Hope had entwined some blushing flowers 
 F or her young heart ; yes, there was one 
 She loved, and could have doted % on 
 Thro’ weal and woe. F ain would he take 
 Her heart to his to still its ache ; 
 
 And she that true heart would have given. 
 If sorrow for herself had riven 
 Its tender core. But now she said 
 She would watch by her father’s bed 
 In his old age, and have no thought 
 But for his good. And well she wrought 
 Her blessed task, until at last 
 The old man’s struggling spirit passed, 
 And her young cheek was worn and wan 
 As his from which the life had gone ! 
 
 She sought him soon. Even as I spoke 
 With him, beneath his spreading oak, 
 
 In solitude, that holy maid 
 
 Came on to meet him. She was arrayed 
 
THE CELTS PARADISE. 
 
 4 
 
 In whitest glory ; and as a beam 
 Of moonlight, or a morning dream 
 Dreamt by a saint, she came. He saw 
 And knew her coming. Love and awe, 
 Rapture and thankfulness, were in his look, 
 And up he rose ; and first he took 
 Her innocent hand, and fixed his eye 
 Ecstatic on her, and then nigh 
 And nigher to his old heart he drew 
 Its only darling ! — And they grew 
 Together in a long caress 
 Of wordless love and happiness. 
 
 I met some blissful children playing 
 Thro’ the fair fields ; and they were straying 
 Wherever their innocent fancy sent 
 A wish before them. But I bent 
 My eye on one, a glorious boy, 
 
 Who in this life had been the joy 
 Of a widowed mother — no second child 
 She had ; and when he laughed or smiled, 
 Her eyes in happy tears would swim, 
 
 And her very heart laugh out with him. 
 
 They walked together : it was o’er 
 A craggy, steep, and sea-washed shore. 
 
 The boy ran on to snatch a flower 
 From the rock’s edge. Alas ! no power 
 
43 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 The wretched mother had to say, 
 Or shriek her fear. Away, away — 
 Down, down he fell ! 
 
 A night and day. 
 Insensible of life, she lay, 
 
 And then her shuddering soul had rest, 
 
 And here she came among the blessed 
 To meet her loved one. As she came, 
 Instinctively she named his name 
 In tenderest accents. The boy turned 
 And knew his mother ! His cheek burned 
 With rosier brightness. From among 
 His wondering playmates up he sprung, 
 And round her neck like ivy clung ! 
 
 And she, in the embrace she gave, 
 
 Seemed as for ever she would save 
 Her child from harm, and make him one 
 With her own essence. “ My son ! my son 
 She said, “ live here upon my heart ! 
 
 Now we shall never, never part.” 
 
 A father walked in silent ways 
 With his two children. Full ripe days 
 Of manhood he had known ; and they, 
 
 A boy and girl, died in the May 
 Of earthly life, and took their way 
 To him in Paradise. As they walked. 
 
 The father to his children talked 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 49 
 
 Of their good mother, wlio on earth 
 Still lived, and of a coming birth 
 Which would give them, in after years, 
 Another playmate. 
 
 In her tears 
 
 On earth the widow dwelt. She knew, 
 And anguish on that knowledge grew, 
 That when her husband died, he left 
 An unborn orphan with her. ’Heft 
 In him of all that could give life 
 To life itself, now it was strife 
 To breathe or walk the earth. The child 
 She carried, if it ever smiled 
 In this cold world, would be forlorn 
 As ever was infant-orphan born ; 
 
 For she was hopeless, helpless, low, 
 
 And she only wished to die, and go 
 Where he had gone, whose early heart 
 Was hers ; whose life in every part, 
 
 Since their first union, had been spent 
 In chastened love and meek content 
 For her and with her. 
 
 Her hour came on, 
 And she was made mother of a son. 
 
 Into her feeble arms she took 
 Her feebler infant. One fond look, 
 
 One mother’s kiss, she gave, then shook 
 
50 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Convulsively, and died — and deatli 
 Came on her babe in the same breath. 
 
 I saw the happy, happy greeting 
 Of this fond family at their meeting. 
 
 With his children hand in hand, 
 
 By a lone lake’s spreading strand 
 The father walked. To its far shore 
 The fair girl looked and pointed. More 
 She could not say, but turned and ran 
 To meet her mother. Then began 
 A scene of Paradise ! The boy 
 Followed his sister, in such joy 
 As youth and natural love, refined 
 And made immortal, to his mind 
 Might bring, impulsive. 
 
 With freshened brow, 
 The mother moved majestic now ; 
 
 And her young infant to her breast 
 So fondly, yet so gently, pressed ; 
 
 Her arms crossed o’er it like a braid 
 Of white flowers on a lambkin. Led 
 By equal love, she rushed to meet 
 Her happy children ; and quick feet 
 Soon find each other. The boy clung 
 First to his mother’s breast, and hung 
 As a garland there ; the girl had ta’en, 
 
 To kiss it o’er and o’er again, 
 
THE CELTS PARADISE. 
 
 51 
 
 The infant to herself ; and when 
 Her brother gave his welcome, then 
 He took her lovely load, that she 
 Might also, at full liberty, 
 
 Go to her mother’s arms. Meanwhile 
 The father, with a fond, fond smile 
 Shining o’er all his face, came on 
 At gentle speed. His glance hath gone 
 Before him with its welcome. Her’s 
 Hath met it. Oh the thrill that stirs 
 In two such hearts when two such eyes 
 Meet once again in Paradise ! 
 
 She shrieked her joy ; and to the child 
 Yet clinging to her gave a wild 
 And hasty kiss ; and being free 
 From that embrace, all eagerly 
 Out of the young boy’s arms she took 
 Her rosy infant, and with a look 
 I felt and feel, but may not speak, 
 
 Ban forward and held forth its cheek 
 To tempt its father’s kiss ; and then 
 She gave it to the boy again. 
 
 And the fond wife and husband pressed 
 Each other to each other’s breast 
 In such chaste rapture as is known 
 In bowers of blessedness alone ! 
 
 On his hill old Comhal dwelt. 
 
 I saw him, and in awe I knelt. 
 
52 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 He raised me with his agdd hand, 
 And asked of his own lovely land, 
 And spoke of Finn ; and when I told 
 The fields of fight of that hero bold, 
 He wept in joy for the fame he won, 
 And often blessed his only son. 
 
 And there he dwelt upon his hill, 
 
 And thought of his deeds of danger still, 
 
 Or, mounted on his cloudy steed, 
 
 Hunted the stag in pleasant speed. 
 
 Sometimes my gentle love and I 
 Such wild unearthly sport would try ; 
 
 And it was ecstacy to chase, 
 
 That brown stag in his mimic race ! 
 
 My horse was of the darkened air, 
 
 My dogs were made of the breezes there, 
 
 And the bounding stag was born of light 
 Made visible like the rainbow bright ! 
 
 And together we sat in her house of flowers, 
 And laughed at the careering hours. 
 
 Silence was round us, except the sigh 
 Of the love-sick breezes floating by, 
 
 Or the small sweet song of the beautiful birds 
 That, like us, lived on loving. Words 
 We wanted not — our hearts and eyes 
 Shone through each other — thoughts and sighs 
 
THE CELT’S PAKADISE. 
 
 Were mutual — and for our nuptial bed 
 The tenderest flowers tlieir softness shed, 
 And burned in blushes ripe and red, 
 
 Such lovely limbs as her’s to press 
 In all their modest nakedness. 
 
 Our’s was not earthly love. To sit 
 A little parted and opposite, 
 
 And gently hold each other’s hand, 
 
 While the vassal-breeze our sighings fanned 
 Backward and forward — and to look 
 Long in each other’s eyes, that took 
 Our thinkings to the heart, and then 
 Gave them out in light again ; 
 
 Thus to be, without motion or stir, 
 
 Each the other’s idolater, 
 
 Alone, and long, and wordless, till 
 Our eyes began with tears to fill, 
 
 Our frames with faintness, and our sighs 
 With choaked and broken ecstacies ; 
 
 And we at last sunk gently — folded 
 In holy fondness — thus to be, 
 
 And thus to feel ! — No creature moulded 
 In feelings of mere mortality 
 May ever think or ever bring 
 Such bliss to his imagining. 
 
 Or we wandered among shining streams, 
 That, like the bard’s delicious dreams, 
 
THE CELT’S PAEADISE. 
 
 Ever flow thro’ beds of flowers, 
 
 And golden vales, and blushing bowers. 
 
 And all in playfulness we gaze 
 With sportive and well feigned amaze 
 On the water — and start and blush 
 To see ourselves there ; and we rush 
 And plunge together, as if to save 
 Each other from that innocent wave ; 
 
 Then with it go and glide along 
 In echoing laughter, mirth, and song. 
 
 Or alone we sat by the foamy fountain. 
 
 In the solitude of the silent mountain, 
 
 And I plucked a water-flower from its flow, 
 
 And wreathed it with leaves on the mountain that 
 grow. 
 
 And when on her head it was a crown, 
 
 At her feet I knelt me down, 
 
 And called her the lady and the queen 
 Of that wild and desolate scene. 
 
 Or often — for our pure nature gave 
 That triumph over the gloomy grave — 
 
 Often our spirits winged away, 
 
 Disembodied through the day, 
 
 And into aught they w T ould possess, 
 
 Breathed themselves in gentleness; 
 
 And so became the breeze or dew, 
 
 Or shrub or flower of any hue. 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Then sometimes my love was the tall young tree 
 That grows on the mountain lonelily, 
 
 And I was the wooing eglantine, 
 
 Around her slender shape to twine, 
 
 And climb till I kissed the topmost bough 
 That blossomed on her fragrant brow. 
 
 Or she was the softly opening flower, 
 
 Among a thousand in her bower, 
 
 And I was the bee that passed all by, 
 
 Till I saw my own flower blushing nigh, 
 
 And then in her bleeding bosom I lay, 
 
 And sipped its sweets, and flew away. 
 
 Or still she was that rose, and I 
 Came down as a soft wind from the sky, 
 And sadly I sighed thro’ fields and bowers, 
 Till I found at last my flower of flowers, 
 And then beneath her folds I crept, 
 
 And there in perfumed sweetness slept. 
 
 Or a crystal drop was on her leaf, 
 
 And I playfully called it the tear of grief, 
 And then I was the loving light 
 To kiss away its essence bright ! 
 
 Or she kept her own immortal form, 
 
 And I came as the breezes wild and warm 
 Of which she breathed. I was a sigh 
 Within her heart, alternately 
 
56 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Coming and going. Or as slie lay 
 Eeclining, I stole in amorous play, 
 
 And fluttered all over her gentle frame, 
 As if to fan its virgin flame ! 
 
FOURTH DUAN. 
 
 And yet beneath that happy sky 
 Was heard one ever-during sigh ; 
 
 One heart of sadness there was known, 
 One voice of sorrow wept alone, 
 
 And o’er that Paradise it would break, 
 Like a single tear on a sunny cheek. 
 
 And it named a name m ah its weeping 
 The sighing heart was sick with keeping ; 
 It named a name whose very sound, 
 
 On such a lip, in such holy ground, 
 Proved all enough that name to sever 
 From it and Paradise for ever. 
 
 Minona ! The sad voice was thine, 
 
 And the oft-whispered name was mine. 
 
 Silent I sat in my Spirit’s bower ; 
 
 It was her gentle slumbering hour ; 
 
 Her head was cradled on my breast, 
 
 And she had sighed herself to rest : 
 
58 
 
 THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 xlncl all around, tlie clustering trees, 
 
 Had closed on love’s long mysteries, 
 
 Making a modest twilight, such 
 As love itself deemed not too much. 
 
 I heard amongst the bushes round 
 A sobbing sigh, a moaning sound — 
 
 And then I saw blue weeping eyes 
 Gaze on me in my mute surprise — 
 
 And they streamed thro’ the dark bower’s leafy shroud 
 Like azure thro’ a thunder cloud. 
 
 A feeble recollection came 
 Of looks like these and eyes the same — 
 And more intense my gazings grew ; 
 
 But the young eyes faded from my view, 
 And I only heard a whispering song 
 Its mournful music thus prolong. 
 
 My life on earth was a long, long sigh 
 Of hopes and fears, of hopes and fears ; 
 My life on earth was a long, long shower 
 Of silent tears, of silent tears ; 
 
 And the sudden smile that sometimes came 
 O’er all my woe, o’er all my woe, 
 
 Was the tempest-flash that breaks upon 
 The void below, the void below 
 
THE CELT*S PARADISE. 
 
 59 
 
 I could not live on earth to love, 
 
 And love in vain, and love in vain, 
 
 And I died to seek some other land, 
 
 To soothe my pain, to soothe my pain. 
 The flowers were bright, the sky was fair, 
 Morn and even, morn and even, 
 
 But Ossian was on earth behind, 
 
 And it was not heaven, it was not heaven. 
 
 I often wept and wished him dead, 
 
 And here with me, and here with me ; 
 
 He might forget his greatness then, 
 
 And kinder be, and kinder be. 
 
 He came at last, but not alone, 
 
 My wish to bless, my wish to bless ; 
 
 Another heart has made for him 
 His happiness, his happiness. 
 
 I wish I was on earth again, 
 
 In rougher skies, in rougher skies ; 
 
 Their tears and darkness would be like 
 My agonies, my agonies. 
 
 Oh ! it is comfortless to live 
 
 In lonely sighs, in lonely sighs — 
 
 The only weeping thing that walks 
 Thro’ Paradise, thro’ Paradise. 
 
60 
 
 THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 The sighing song has ceased around, 
 So gentle in its whispering sound, 
 
 On her soft ear who yet is sleeping, 
 
 It came unheard ; but sobs and weeping 
 Yet linger round me, and I listened 
 Till the trembling tear of pity glistened— 
 
 “Who art thou, mourner all alone? 
 And how was Ossian loved or known ?’’ 
 
 “When happier eyes have holy rest, 
 And every heart but mine is blessed, 
 
 Oh meet me in my silent vale, 
 
 And listen to my weeping tale. 
 
 Ossian, I hope not for thy kiss, — 
 
 But, give thy tear — it would be bliss 
 I never had to see thee weep, 
 
 And hear thee wish my woes asleep.” 
 
 I met her in her silent vale, 
 
 And listened to her weeping tale. 
 
 I listened — we were there alone — 
 
 In sorrow ; and I looked upon 
 A face and form whose fresh, fair youth, 
 So full of tenderness and truth, 
 
 Was wet with tears for love of me, 
 
 And if I smiled, not doom to be 
 For ever fading. And she spoke 
 In sighings wild, that, fluttering, broke 
 
THE CELT*S PARADISE. 
 
 61 
 
 From the heart’s prison, where they had slept 
 A long, sad slumber — and she wept 
 Warm, streaming tears, and knew not whether 
 In love or grief, or both together, 
 
 Their gushings wandered. Needs there more 
 To tell a tale oft told before ? 
 
 I braved the sea, and was tempest-tossed ; 
 
 I looked, and listened, and was lost ! 
 
 Beauty ! — The bard’s eternal theme — 
 His long, long sigh, his ceaseless dream — 
 His hope, his virtue, and his sin — 
 
 The breath that brings him life within ! — 
 To bask an hour, bright beam ! in thee, 
 How have I darkened my destiny, 
 
 When it was shining clear and calm, 
 
 And dared to be the thing I am ! 
 
 With thee, my life wove all its flowers ; 
 For thee, my eyes shed all their showers ; 
 For thee, I left my field of fame, 
 
 And risked a dear and deathless name ; 
 For thee, I gave up my world to brave 
 The rushing wind and roaring wave ; 
 
 In my Paradise I forgot 
 
 Its flowers for thee, and loved them not ; 
 
 For thee, my sin was unforgiven, 
 
 And I left my earth, and lost my heaven ! 
 
62 
 
 THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 What was her story ? Hear it flow 
 In her own wild words of woe. 
 
 “Ossian, thou wert my soul’s first sigh, 
 My virgin heart’s idolatry! 
 
 I saw thee in thy father’s hall, 
 
 The fairest there, the first of all — 
 
 The softest voice of sounding song, 
 
 The bravest in the battle throng, 
 
 The rosiest cheek, the richest smile 
 That lighted up our own green isle. 
 
 I saw thee, but alone I stood 
 In my young heart’s widowhood ; 
 
 I was too lowly ever to be 
 A beam of loveliness to thee ; 
 
 Yet, like the flower, I looked upon 
 My own loved light where’er it shone, 
 
 Till it had scorched my leaves at last, 
 
 And left them withering in the blast! 
 
 “ It was my spring — my budding hour— 
 And in thy smile my heart was born, 
 
 And for thy sake it got the power 
 Of loving in that maiden morn. 
 
 But when it loved too long and lone, 
 
 And had no hope of love from thee, 
 
 Still, like the flower, when the light is gone, 
 It shut its leaves, and would not be. 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 No colder smile, no moonshine glow, 
 Might ever waken it from its woe ! 
 
 “I was the most forsaken one 
 That walked and wept beneath the sun ! 
 The virgin stream, the first fond gush 
 My young heart gave ; it could not rush 
 Forth and rejoice, but backward crept, 
 And in the poor heart’s silence slept — 
 Sickening in its own repose, 
 
 Like dull deep water that never flows. 
 My youth was joyless — and my fate, 
 
 I thought it dark and desolate, 
 
 As if thy own harp, all forsaken, 
 
 Lay silent and untouched by thee, 
 
 For no other hand could waken 
 Its neglected harmony ! 
 
 “ One wish I had. It was to take 
 My death from him I loved so well. 
 
 My heart was breaking, and would break, 
 Ere words or sighs its tale might tell ; 
 But rather than live till it grew dark 
 In its own helplessness, I sought 
 His shining sword, to strike one spark 
 Of feeling thro’ it. I recked not 
 If pain or pleasure ; and in the flame 
 Which from that spark all quickly came, 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 I thought it would be bliss to burn, 
 
 And into dull cold ashes turn ! 
 
 4< I thought from him who bade me cease 
 To love, such recompense were due — 
 
 I thought that he who killed my peace 
 Should kill my mind and memory too ! 
 
 “ I had my wish ! The battle came — 
 
 The blazing sun flung forth its flame — 
 
 The Fenii went to quell the pride 
 Of Morni’s host. That evening tide 
 I grasped a spear — thy foeman’s crest 
 My flushed and throbbing forehead pressed, 
 And I felt no fear ! A warrior boy, 
 
 So young thou scarcely couldst destroy, 
 Came out to brave thee from the crowd ; 
 Like a faint flash from a tempest-cloud, 
 
 Thy sword descended on my breast, 
 
 And I thought I had my pleasant rest. 
 
 “But here on this bright shore I woke, 
 
 To weep for thee and love thee still ; 
 
 Thy sword my young life’s vision broke, 
 My memory it could not kill ! 
 
 I sate alone by the bubbling stream, 
 
 And sang a song of fondness to it — 
 
 But it gushed on ; and in my dream, 
 
 Often I would wildly woo it ; 
 
THE CELT S PARADISE. 
 
 65 
 
 And ever as it stole away, 
 
 I wept and sighed, ‘ False Ossian stay !’ 
 It took my tear, it heard me sigh, 
 
 And smiled in scorn, and passed me by. 
 
 “ Go, Ossian, go. Thy sleeping flower 
 Hath wakened in her happy bower. 
 
 My tale is told. But art thou here, 
 Breathing the same soft air with me ; 
 And must I weep my widowed tear, 
 
 And never, never blissful be? 
 
 “Go, Ossian, go. I wish for thee 
 A life of love eternally, 
 
 Tlio’ thou hast been to me the blast 
 
 That chilled my dream of one world’s bliss, 
 And from that triumph now hath passed 
 To wither up my hopes in this. 
 
 Oh kill me, Ossian, once again, 
 
 And my sleep may be eternal then I” 
 
 Her soft voice sunk in broken sighs, 
 
 Half rapture and half agonies ; 
 
 Her soft blue eyes were shut in tears, 
 
 And they bathed her lips, and the red and white 
 Of her rich cheek — and thus appears, 
 
 Ere the sun comes to lend them light, 
 
6G 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 A cluster of three fairest flowers, 
 
 Lily, violet, and rose, 
 
 Sorrowing in the dewy showers 
 The night has wept on their repose. 
 
 And one white arm she tossed on high, 
 And it fell against a green bank nigh, 
 Resting there unconsciously — 
 
 And over it her head was drooping 
 So hopelessly! And she was stooping, 
 Half-turned from my enraptured look 
 That now in all its glancings took 
 Abundant love. Oh who could pause 
 For the cold, pitiful applause 
 Of prudence then! Nay, had I stood 
 On the bare edge of a rock, 
 
 And saw her thus beneath a flood 
 The wildest of the wild, its shock 
 I could despise, and brave, and mock — 
 Plunging,- tho’ to my early grave, 
 
 To clasp and kiss her under its wave ! 
 
 And forward I have bent and sighed 
 A sigh that her’s have multiplied — 
 
 And now my wooing arms are stealing 
 Round her — and now I am unveiling 
 Her young cheek from the wild bright hair 
 That strove to hide its blushings fair, 
 
 Like a golden sunburst streaming proud 
 O’er summer evening’s crimson cloud — 
 
THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 67 
 
 And gentle strife I have to turn 
 Her lips to mine that madly burn — 
 
 And half an effort she would make 
 My fond embraces not to take. 
 
 At last she paused, and in my eyes 
 Looked up in questioning surprise ; 
 
 And chilling doubts, and hopes and fears, 
 And wishings wild, and smiles and tears, 
 
 On her cheek, and in her eye, 
 
 Mingled and fought for mastery. 
 
 And love can read the look it loves 
 So true, the reading never proves 
 Doubtful or false ; and when she dwelt 
 Long, long on mine, and knew and felt 
 My heart was her’s, that happy maid 
 One step drew back, while laughter played 
 Convulsive on her lip, then flung 
 Herself around me, warm and young, 
 
 And, blushing bright, and wildly weeping, 
 Crept close into my bosom’s keeping. 
 
 “ By the smooth lake’s silver wave 
 A bower of loveliness I have — 
 
 Over the mountain, away and far, 
 
 "Where nothing but flowers and breezes are. 
 I wove it in that pathless wild, 
 
 To weep alone, when others smiled — 
 
 And its friendly shade my secret kept, 
 
 And no laugh was round me when I wept — • 
 
08 
 
 THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 AncT not a leaf its wildness wears 
 But has been nurtured in my tears. 
 
 “ Oh ! we will go together there, 
 
 And give the drooping flowers one smile, 
 And they will look more fresh and fair, 
 Than any in this blessed isle! 
 
 No sound or voice will ever come 
 On our silence to intrude, 
 
 And thou shalt have my flowery home 
 And faithful heart in solitude !” 
 
 The kiss was given ! — and a wind 
 Came rushing o’er the rocks behind — 
 
 Too rude to be the breeze that fanned 
 The roses of that happy land ; 
 
 And as it hurried by, the air 
 Darkened, and made a shadow there, 
 
 "Which feebly and confusedly took 
 My Spirit’s form ; her cloudy look 
 Glanced anger on me, and she passed 
 Careering on the wrathful blast. 
 
 Then I was in a place all light 
 
 And silence. Shapes more chastely white 
 
 Than I had seen stood in a throng 
 
 Entranced, as list’ning to some song 
 
 Of holy power, which they alone 
 
 Might hear and worship. And there was one, 
 
THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 Tlironed in the midst — a radiant form 
 Of unveiled glory, but not warm 
 And scorching like the sun’s ; his light, 
 Tho’ it dazzled more, was silvery bright 
 And awful ; and he was the king 
 Of Paradise — and every thing 
 That lives or breathes. 
 
 A creature knelt 
 
 Weeping beneath his smile, which dwelt 
 Pleasantly on her. Then I felt 
 The fear of crime ; for well I knew 
 Her to whose love I was untrue. 
 
 She motioned at me ; and that high 
 
 And awful being on my eye 
 
 Plashed frowning terrors — a frown ; but aught 
 
 Of earthly anger it had not ; 
 
 There was no shade in it, nor less 
 Of glory ; rather it did compress 
 Into one self-assuming glance 
 The rays of his whole countenance ; 
 
 And it was a frown of gathered light, 
 
 More dreadful than the glooms of night. 
 
 Then all things faded. From my soul 
 Its pure immortal Spirit stole, 
 
 And human terrors filled my brain, 
 
 And, curdling, ran thro’ every vein ; 
 
70 
 
 TIIE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 And either the land receded fast, 
 And shook me from its edge at last, 
 Or some strong invisible arm 
 Bound me in its chilly charm, 
 
 And, unresisting, I was hurled 
 Into a cold and darkened world. 
 
 I stood alone in thickened gloom. 
 
 I thought it might be one spreading tomb 
 For the whole earth, and that around 
 All things their sepulchre had found 
 Under the broad vault of the sky, 
 
 Which closed on them too suddenly 
 While yet they lived. Feeble and far 
 A blood-red, half-distinguished star 
 Lent sullen light. One lurid streak 
 Fell from it on the raven cheek 
 Of utter darkness ; and around, 
 
 Terrific forms in silence frowned, 
 Shapeless and nameless ; and to mine eye, 
 Sometimes they rolled off cloudily, 
 Wedding themselves with gloom, or grew 
 Gigantic on my troubled view, 
 
 And seemed to gather round me. Few 
 And fearful were the thoughts that came 
 Upon me in that hour. The same 
 Might be his thinkings who hath stood, 
 Dizzy amid the dashing flood, 
 
THE CELT'S PAHADISE. 
 
 71 
 
 On a poor plank, hopeless to save 
 One breathing moment from that wave ; 
 
 Or it was as if within the womb, 
 
 While yet in uncreated gloom, 
 
 The embryo-soul could faintly feel 
 A little while its promised zeal, 
 
 Then, darkening in its own essay, 
 
 Melt once again to night away. 
 
 And I looked toward that far, far light, 
 And suddenly upon my sight 
 It swelled and parted ; and as a spark 
 Shook from it, but now quenched and dark, 
 I saw a dim and dusky form, 
 
 Like any our fancy’s dream may warm 
 With life, come forward ; and I thought, 
 Far off, with clouds and gloom it fought, 
 And traversed hills and deserts, set 
 Even in remotest distance yet. 
 
 But quick and dark it came, and swelled 
 To giant size ; and I beheld 
 Its cloudy face. On me it bent 
 A look of dark and dread intent. 
 
 I strove to flee it ; but my blood 
 Curdled, and there, unnerved, I stood, 
 Helpless and hopeless. Nearer still 
 The giant came. Intent to kill, 
 
 His cloudy arm he raised on high, 
 
 And again I feebly strove to fly, 
 
72 
 
 THE CELT'S PARADISE. 
 
 And backward fell. Oh! Then I stepped 
 On a loose rock, that trembling kept 
 Unfaithful watch o’er a gulf below 
 Of depth unfathomed. I slide ! I go ! 
 
 But in my fall I madly grasp 
 
 And cling to something! — and I gasp, 
 
 Suspended there, in sick’ning dread — 
 
 Bum below, and overhead 
 Darkness — and that terrific form 
 My heart’s blood shrinks from. 
 
 Breathings warm 
 
 Are near me. Mighty God! I see 
 That maid so well beloved of me. 
 
 In fainting weakness, clinging there, 
 
 Like a white mist, hung in morning air. 
 
 O’er the hill’s brow. Her only stay 
 Is a loose ledge of rock and clay, 
 
 That cannot give her rest. It shakes!— 
 
 It yields ! — it crumbles ! — ha ! it breaks ! 
 
 Oh, horror! horror! — And she falls 
 Thro’ depths of darkness ! — and she calls 
 On Ossian still ! Her frenzied shriek 
 Still upward thro’ that gloom will break 
 On my pierced ear. Again, again 
 It thrills my heart and stabs my brain, 
 
 And I am sick with fear and pain. 
 
 I fail ! — I faint ! — I sink ! — I fall ! 
 
 Down, down thro’ darkness, rocks and all ! 
 
THE CELT ? S PARADISE. 
 
 73 
 
 This was my punishment. I woke, 
 
 I know not how, as the morning broke, 
 And again sat under the wild-wood tree, 
 An earthly sun once more to see — 
 
 And thro’ the leaves his beamings glanced, 
 And on the green turf gayly danced 
 In chequered radiance, quick and fair, 
 Like laughing eyes thro’ parted hair. 
 
NOTES TO THE CELT’S PARADISE. 
 
 NOTES TO THE FIRST DUAN. 
 
 Page 8, line 4. 
 
 “ Lead me to Slieve Guttian’s breast." 
 
 Slieye Gullian is a mountain in the County of Armagh, often men* 
 tioned in our old Irish poems as the scene of many gallant and chiv- 
 alrous exploits of Finn Mac Comhal, his sons Ossian and Firgus, and 
 his grandson Osgur. Its scenery, and the traditions connected with 
 it, render this celebrated mountain an object of classic interest to all 
 lovers of national legend and antiquity. The following description of 
 it (for which the author is indebted to Miss Brooks, and that lady to 
 a correspondent) may not be amiss in this place : 
 
 “I am a tenant to a lady for Slieve Gullian, and often visit it during 
 the summer season to see my cattle. In July last (1788) I went over 
 the extent of this mountain. From bottom to top it is reckoned two 
 miles ; on the summit there is a large heap of stones, which is called 
 Cailbach Birnn’s House, in which, it is said, Finn Mac Comhal lies 
 buried ; and at a hundred paces distant, in nearly the same line, there 
 is a circular lake, the diameter of which is about one hundred feet, 
 and is about twenty deep ; on one side of this lake another heap of 
 stones is piled ; and round it, at all seasons, is a beaten path leading to 
 the old lady’s or witch’s house. Lately some peasants, expecting to 
 find the old woman (who, however, has at no time thought proper to 
 
76 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 appear), threw clown her house, and came to a large cave, about twenty- 
 feet long, ten broad, and five deep, covered with flags, in which either 
 the dame or money was expected, but only a few human bones were 
 found. From the summit of this mountain, if the day happens to be 
 fine, you command an extensive view of Lough Neagh, and all the 
 circumjacent country. ’ ’ 
 
 The lake here described is rendered famous on account of an old 
 poetical romance which details an interview on its margin between 
 the then resident enchantress of the place and the redoubtable Finn 
 Mac Comhal, which terminated all but fatally for (notwithstanding 
 Messrs. Blair and Macpherson) that flower of Irish chivalry. The 
 enchantress was encountered by Finn in the shape of a beautiful 
 •woman, bewailing the loss of her favorite ring, which, as she avowed, 
 had just dropped into the lake. Half urged by the lady’s solicitude, 
 half by his own gallantry, the hero dived after the ring, and owing to 
 the supernatural influence of the enchanted waters, became imme- 
 diately transformed from a hale, blooming chevalier into a wrinkled, 
 tottering old man. Finn’s myrmidons, however, coming soon after 
 in pursuit of their chief, and justly suspecting that the enchantress 
 of Slieve Gullian had something to do with his sudden disappearance, 
 obliged her by threat and main force to restore him to his original 
 shape. The cave which has been described by Miss Brooks' corre- 
 spondent, was at that time the known residence of the enchantress, 
 and out of it she is made to issue, in the romance alluded to, at the 
 command of Finn’s companions in arms. 
 
 Page 8, line 10. 
 
 u Than those thy altar hells are ringing .* ’ 
 
 Large bells to toll for church service are not here meant, but the 
 little tinkling bells, at all times, as well as now, made use of in Homan 
 Catholic churches during the celebration of the Mass. They are 
 alluded to by Ossian in many old poems with much contempt. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 77 
 
 '‘Small bells (such, we mean, as were appended to the tunic of the 
 Jewish High Priest, and afterwards employed by the Greeks and Pvo- 
 mans for various religious purposes, but particularly to frighten ghosts 
 and demons from their temples) were undoubtedly introduced with 
 Christianity into this kingdom (Ireland). Their use among the Chris- 
 tian clergy is supposed to be coeval with their religion ; and the mis- 
 sionaries who were sent to convert the Pagan Irish would not omit 
 bringing with them an appendage of their profession, which is still 
 thought so necessary.” — Walker s Hist. Mem. of the Irish Bards , p. 93. 
 
 Page 8, line 11. 
 
 ‘ ‘ And thy white-robed Caldees singing. ’ 1 
 Culdus, the ancient Irish name for priest ; originally, perhaps, 
 synonymous with Druid. 
 
 Page 12, lines 16 and 17. 
 
 “ And for this , must prayers be read , 
 
 And beads be told , and matins said T 1 
 
 It is hoped that little ^apology will be necessary for the wayward 
 reasoning of the old bard in this and similar passages. Ossian, as the 
 legend goes, was found by St. Patrick in a state of utter Paganism. 
 He is represented in many old rhymes, as well as in the present in- 
 stance, but half convinced of, half converted to, Christianity; and 
 this may extenuate the crime of his indulging, now and then, in a 
 preference for the convenient heaven of his own wild mythology. 
 But in Miss Brooks’ translation of “ Reliques of Irish Poetry,” he is 
 made to speak more positive impiety than one would be induced to 
 imitate or hazard for him at present — thus, 
 
 “ Where was thy God in that sad day, 
 
 When o’er Sioni’s wave, 
 
 Two heroes ploughed the watery way 
 Their beauteous prize to save ? 
 
78 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 “Or on that day when Jailk’s proud might 
 Invaded Erin’s coast — 
 
 Where was thy Godhead in that fight, 
 
 And where thy empty boast?" 
 
 Perhaps no printed poem or legend extant affords hope of the 
 emancipation of the old poet from these dangerous prejudices. A 
 tradition, however, which I recollect to have heard in early childhood, 
 would appear to give him the credit and advantage of a full and per- 
 fect conversion. According to it, Ossian, at some period or other, 
 was absolutely baptized by St. Patrick. During the ceremony, the 
 saint, to prove his penitent’s humility and self-command, transfixed 
 his foot to the ground by striking the spike of his crosier through it. 
 The tradition adds — This rather severe trial of his Christian docility 
 w'as not met even by an expostulation on the part of the reformed 
 Free-thinker. 
 
 It may be proper to remark that the same circumstance is told as 
 an historical fact by Keating, O’Halloran, and others, of St. Patrick, 
 and the first Irish king who embraced Christianity. 
 
 Page 14, lines 17 and 18. 
 
 “ Give me the old Clarseech I hung 
 On my loved tree” 
 
 Clarseech , the old Irish name for harp. Perhaps this title is not 
 meant to designate the national harp, as used by the bards in princely 
 halls, or on important occasions. It would rather seem to apply to a 
 modification of the latter, corresponding, in point of lightness and 
 partiality, to the Grecian lyre. The small one exhibited in the mu- 
 seum of Trinity College is that used by Brian Borseme, and certainly 
 gives no adequate idea of a musical instrument so celebrated as the 
 Irish harp has been for the compass and power of its melody; and 
 probably a distinction either has been or could be made between the 
 Clarseech, with which the interesting relic just mentioned would 
 
NOTES. 
 
 79 
 
 appear to class, and a larger and more important instrument, all 
 authentic models of which are, at this remote day, extinct. 
 
 Page 15, line 1. 
 
 u All day we chased the dark-brown deer.” 
 
 These hunting-matches continued several days, and in some seasons 
 several months. At night they encamped in woods, and reposed in 
 booths covered with the skins of animals they hunted down. 
 
 The chase was to them (the ancient Irish) “a sort of military 
 school, which rendered toil easy, and annexed a pleasure to the 
 rudest fatigue. It gave them great muscular strength, and great agility 
 and firmness against the severity of the most rigorous seasons. It 
 besides taught them vigilance, skill in archery, and great patience 
 under long abstinence from food. They came out of the forest expert 
 soldiers ; and no nation could excel them in rapid marches, quick retreats , 
 and sudden sallies.” — O'Connor s Dissertations , p. 77, 101. 
 
 This quotation is made, principally, to support the admission of a 
 liberty into which the author makes little doubt he has fallen — namely, 
 that of giving to Ossian the accompaniment of a horse on the partic- 
 ular occasion to which he here alludes. It is evident that O’Connor 
 means to describe a chase pursued on foot, as the words marked in 
 italics in the quotation will sufficiently show ; and he must further be 
 understood to speak of the very time in which Ossian is, according to 
 the poem, supposed to have lived. But the impropriety of making 
 Ossian a cavalier will more strongly appear when we come to observe 
 on the national military body of which our Irish authorities would 
 make him a distinguished member. 
 
 Page 15, line 3. 
 
 “ We broke the dew on Allen's breast .” 
 
 A hill in the County of Kildare, whose identity cannot now be as- 
 certained, was at the real or imaginary era to which we could refer, 
 
80 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 called 11 the Hill of Allen,” from the palace of Allen built on its top, 
 much celebrated as the seat of Finn Mac Comhal. Of this, more in 
 another place. 
 
 Page 18, line 9. 
 
 ‘ * And in my helmet water dear. ’ ' 
 
 It would have been taking rather a hazardous liberty to have 
 given Ossian any body-armor except the helmet. In describing Fitz- 
 Stephen’s first disastrous attack on the town of Wexford in 1169, 
 Gerald Barry, Champion, Stanihurst, Zeanmer, and later writers, affirm 
 that among other appalling accompaniments, the shining armor of 
 the English knights was a terrifying spectacle to the natives. Taking 
 leave to form our own opinion as to the passions excited on the occa- 
 sion, we must infer from these authorities that the native Irish did 
 not at that time wear armor. Our own writers almost concur in this 
 opinion. 
 
 4 ‘ It should seem that body-armor of any kind was unknown to the 
 Irish previous to the tenth century, as we find King Murkertach, in 
 that century, obtaining the ascititious name of Muirkentach na goechall 
 croceann for so obvious an invention as that of the leathern jacket. 
 Yet coats of mail are mentioned in the Brehon Laws, and the word 
 mail is supposed to be derived from mala in Irish. Though the poets 
 of the Middle Ages describe the heroes of Ossian as shining in polished 
 steel, no relic of that kind of armor has escaped the wreck of time in 
 Ireland ; nor has there even a specimen of the brass armor, in which, 
 it is said, the Danes so often met the Irish, fallen under my observa- 
 tion. Smith, indeed, tells us that corselets of pure gold were dis- 
 covered on the lands of Clonties, in the County of Kerry ; but these 
 might have been left there by the Spaniards, who had a fortification 
 called Fort del Ore adjoining those lands. 
 
 “That the bodies of Irishmen should have been totally defenceless 
 with respect to armor during their several bloody contests with the 
 Danes, I am neither prepared to admit nor deny ; but I confess myself 
 
NOTES. 
 
 81 
 
 inclined to think that their inflexible attachment to their civil dress 
 would not yield to the fashion of the martial garb of their enemies, 
 though it gave those people an evident advantage over them in the 
 field of battle. It is, however, certain that the English did not find 
 them cased in armor.” — Walker s Hist. Essay on the Dress and Armor of 
 the Irish , p. 106. * 
 
 But that helmets, at least, were worn in Ireland previous to the 
 tenth century, is certain from some Irish coins found (according to 
 Simon’s Essay on Irish Coins and Trans, of the K. S. Acad.) in the 
 Queen’s County, in the year 1786. 
 
 Page 20, line 15. 
 
 11 A Sidhee spirit .” 
 
 1 1 Saint Patrick happened to be chanting his matins with three of 
 his bishops, and a great number of his clergy, very early on a morn- 
 ing, at a fountain called Clabach, to the east of Cruachan, when the 
 two princesses, daughters of Laogar, the then King of Ireland, at sun- 
 rise, came forth to wash their faces and view themselves in that foun- 
 tain, as in a mirror. 
 
 “When the princesses saw these venerable gentlemen, clothed in 
 white surplices, and holding hooks in their hands, astonished at their 
 unusual dress and attitudes, they looked upon them to be the people 
 Sidhee. The Irish call these Sidhee aerial spirits or phantoms, because 
 they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the common people 
 imagine they reside ; which fictitious habitations are called by us 
 Sidhee or Siodha. 
 
 “From whence we may infer that the divinities of the Irish were 
 local ones — that is, residing in mountains, plains, and such places.” — 
 O’ Flaherty’ s Ogygia. 
 
 It will be seen that one liberty has been taken with these continent 
 divinities. O’ Flaherty would appear to limit their residence to the 
 
82 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 hills and plains of this earth : in the foregoing poem they are assumed 
 to have lived and breathed in a world and atmosphere peculiar to 
 themselves. 
 
 NOTES TO THE SECOND DEAN. 
 
 Page 22, line 17. 
 
 44 Allen's stately hall ” 
 
 The palace of Almhain, Almhuin, Alwin, or Allen, alluded to in a 
 former note as built on the top of the Hill of Allen, in the County of 
 Kildare, and much celebrated as the principal residence of Finn Mac 
 Comhal. According to Keating (p. 271), Moona, or Muirne (the be- 
 loved maid of the fascinating wiles), was the mother of Finn, and he 
 possessed this palace in her right. 
 
 In the rhapsody of Ossian, which gives an account of the seven 
 redoubtable battalions of the Finii, there is a passage descriptive of 
 the palace of Allen, its economy, feasts, &c. , in English, as follows : 
 
 ‘ 4 1 have seen when I banqueted in the halls of Finn, at every 
 banquet a thousand cups, bound with wreaths of wrought gold. 
 
 “ There were twelve palaces, filled with the troops of the son of the 
 daughter of Tagus, at Almhain, of the noble Finii. 
 
 4 4 Twelve constant fires flamed in each princely house : and each 
 fire was surrounded by an hundred of the mighty Finii.’ * 
 
 'This description reminds us of the good old times in 4 4 Branksome 
 Hall.” 
 
 Page 31, line 1 and 2. 
 
 44 The stars were up, and , weak and small, 
 
 They twinkled round a darken'd hall." 
 
 In partial excuse for Ossian’ s unscientific description of this ap- 
 pearance of the earth among the other heavenly bodies, it may be 
 
NOTES. 
 
 83 
 
 considered that the flood of ages and revolutions had swept away all 
 trace of the astronomical acquirement which his Phoenician and Egyp- 
 tian ancestors, Heber and Heremon, might be supposed to have trans- 
 planted into Ireland at (according to our devoted lovers of extreme 
 antiquity) their first descent on the country, a. m. 2240. 
 
 NOTES TO THE THIRD DUAN. 
 
 Page 34, line 10. 
 
 ‘ 1 Away , and leave me to my wrath. ’ ’ 
 
 In many of the old Irish poems before alluded to, misunderstand 
 ings and bickerings often occur between Ossian and St. Patrick, of 
 which this passage would presume to be no more then a very humble 
 imitation. One or two specimens from Miss Brooks’ devoted trans- 
 lation will give a pretty fair idea of the whole. 
 
 “ Patrick. 
 
 4 ‘Drop we our speech on either side, 
 
 Thou bald and senseless fool ! 
 
 In torments all thy race abide, 
 
 While God in heaven shall rule.” 
 ft ft e o ft ft ft 
 
 “ Ossian. 
 
 “Now, Patrick of the scanty store 
 And meagre-making face ! 
 
 Say, didst thou ever meet before 
 This memorable chase?” 
 
84 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 34, line 17. 
 
 “ Oh, Osgur ! my heart's darling son.” 
 
 Scotch and Irish hards and antiquarians agree tolerably well in 
 their pedigree of Ossian’ s family : the former only differing from the 
 latter by going a little further back. Thus : Tagus had a daughter 
 who was married and had Comhal, who was married (to Moona) and 
 had Finn, who was married and had Ossian and Fergus ; Ossian had 
 Osgur : Fergus appears to have died unmarried. Fergus is much 
 famed for gentleness of character in all our old rhymes, and esteemed 
 a poet scarcely inferior to Ossian. He was, in fact, the official bard of 
 his father, Finn Mac Comhal, and supplied the place of the “spirit- 
 stirring ’ ’ trumpet, by rushing among his ranks during the deathful 
 conflict, and exciting the courage and energies of the heroes by the 
 delivering of extemporaneous odes. Among the originals given by 
 Miss Brooks of her 1 1 Beliques, ’ ’ there are some pieces attributed to 
 Fergus, which, if we may be allowed to judge of them through the 
 medium of that lady’s translation, appear to possess many fine and 
 daring passages. 
 
 Again : we meet in our national poems almost all the names, in- 
 dependent of Ossian’ s family, to which Mr. Macpherson has familiar- 
 ized the literary world. We find Cuchullin, “mighty chief,” Cairbre, 
 Morni and his son Gall or Gaul : the latter regarded as a warrior of 
 formidable powers, not yielding even to Finn in the terrors of his 
 arm. 
 
 Page 84, line 22. 
 
 1 1 The last of all the Fenian race. ’ ’ 
 
 “The Irish in general were called Fenians or Phenians, from theit 
 great ancestor Phinius-Tarsa, or perhaps in allusion to their Phoeni- 
 cian descent. But the Leinster legions proudly arrogated that name 
 entirely to themselves, and called their celebrated body exclusively 
 Fenii , or Fiana Eireann .” — Miss Brooks, p. 158. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 85 
 
 Of this body Finn Mac Comhal was commander- in- chief ; and hence 
 his appellation of King of the Fenii. ^ 
 
 “ The constant number of this standing army in times of peace, and 
 when there was no disturbances at home, nor any want of their assist- 
 ance to their allies abroad, were nine thousand men, divided equally 
 into three battalions. But in case of any apprehension of a conspiracy, 
 or a rebellion against the monarch, or if there was any necessity of 
 transporting a body of troops to Scotland, in order to defend their 
 allies, the Dalriades, it was in the power of Finn to increase his forces 
 to seven battalions of three thousand each. Every battalion was com- 
 manded by a colonel ; every hundred men by a captain ; an officer in 
 the nature of a lieutenant was set over every fifty ; and a serjeant, 
 resembling the Decurio of the Romans, was at the head of every five- 
 and-twenty. When they were drawn out for action, every hundred 
 men were distributed into ten files, with ten (of course) in each ; and 
 the leader of the file gave the word to the other nine. As it was 
 thought a great honor to belong to this invincible body of troops, 
 their general was very strict in insisting on the qualifications neces- 
 sary for admission into it. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The parents (or near relations) of every candidate for the militia 
 were to give security that they would not attempt to revenge his 
 death, but leave it to his fellow- soldiers to do him justice. He must 
 have a poetical genius, and be well acquainted with the twelve books 
 of poetry. He was to stand at the distance of nine ridges of land, 
 with only a stick and a target, and nine soldiers were to throw their 
 javelins at him at once, from which he was to defend himself unhurt, 
 or be rejected. He was to run through a wood with his hair plaited, 
 pursued by a company of the militia, the breadth of a tree only being 
 allowed between them at setting out, without being overtaken, or his 
 hair falling loose about him. He was to leap over a tree as high as 
 his forehead, and easily stoop under another that was as low as his 
 knee. These qualifications being proved, he was then to take an oath 
 of allegiance to the king, and of fidelity to Finn, his commander-in- 
 chief. 
 
86 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 “ The reader will judge of the propriety of most of these qualifica- 
 tions ; hut this was not everything that was required. Every soldier, 
 before he was enrolled, was obliged to subscribe to the following 
 articles : That if ever he was disposed to marry, he would not conform, 
 to the mercenary custom of requiring a portion with his wife ; but, 
 without regard to her fortune, he would choose a woman for her virtue 
 and courteous manners. That he would not offer violence to any 
 woman. That he would be charitable to the poor, as far as his abili- 
 ties would permit. And that he would not turn his back nor refuse 
 to fight with ten men of any other nation. 
 
 ‘ ‘ In the times of peace they were required to defend the inhabitants 
 against the attempts of thieves or robbers ; to quell riots or insurrec-, 
 tions ; to levy fines, and secure estates that were confiscated to the 
 crown ; in short, to suppress all seditious and traitorous practices in 
 the beginning, and to appear under arms when any breach of faith 
 required it. They had no subsistence-money from the monarchs, but 
 during the winter half year, when they were billetted on the country, 
 and dispersed in different quarters. During the other half of the year 
 they were encamped about the fields, and obliged to fish and hunt for 
 their support. This was not only a great ease to the monarch and his 
 subjects, but it inured the troops to fatigue, preserved them in health 
 and vigor, and accustomed them to lie abroad in the field ; and in a 
 country which abounded so much with venison, fish, and fowl, as 
 Ireland did, it was no other hardship than what was proper to the life 
 of soldiers, to be obliged to draw their subsistence in the summer sea- 
 son from those articles. 
 
 “ They made but one meal in the four-and-twenty hours, -which was 
 always in the evening ; and besides the common method of roasting 
 their meat before the fire, they had another very remarkable. The 
 places which they chose to encamp in were always in the neighbor- 
 hood of water, when great fires were made in order to heat some large 
 stones for soddening their meat. Here large pits were dug, into which 
 they threw a layer of stones when they were hot, and then a layer of 
 flesh, till the pit was full, or their quantity of meat was finished. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 87 
 
 1 ‘If tlieir exercise led them, as it often did, to too great a distance 
 to return to their camp, as soon as dinner was ended, they erected 
 little temporary tents or booths, in which their beds were laid out and 
 constructed with great exactness. Next the ground were placed the 
 small branches of trees, upon which was strewed a large quantity of 
 moss, and over all were laid bundles of rushes, which made a very 
 commodious lodging, and which, in the old manuscripts, are called 
 ‘the three beds of the Irish Militia.’ The marks of their fires con- 
 tinue deep in the earth, in many parts of the island, to this day ; and 
 when the husbandman turns up the black burnt clay with his plough, 
 he immediately knows the occasion of it ; and even now that soil is 
 called by the name of ‘Fullacht Finn.’ The Militia were as much 
 under discipline when encamped thus in the summer as when they 
 were at quarters, and they were at stated times obliged to perform 
 their military exercise. Besides these regulations for the army, the 
 celebrated Finn, who was as great a philosopher as a general, drew up 
 several axioms of jurisprudence, which were incorporated into the 
 celestial judgments of the state.” — Dr. Warner's History of Ireland , 
 p. 289. 
 
 From Miss Brooks’ translation of parts of the “Rhapsody of Ossian,” 
 before alluded to, it may not be uninteresting to subjoin here a de- 
 scription of the character of the Irish Fingall. 
 
 “Finn of the large and liberal soul of bounty : exceeding all his 
 countrymen in the prowess and accomplishments of a warrior. King 
 of mild majesty and numerous bards. 
 
 “The ever-open house of kindness was his heart: the seat of 
 undaunted courage ; great was the chief of the mighty Finii ! — Finn 
 of the perfect soul, the consummate wisdom ; whose knowledge pene- 
 trated events, and pierced through the veil of futurity. Finn of the 
 splendid and ever-during glories. 
 
 “ Bright were his blue rolling eyes, and his hair like flowing gold ! 
 Lovely were the charms of his unaltered beauty, and his cheeks like 
 the glowing rose. 
 
88 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 “Each female heart overflowed with affection for the hero whose 
 bosom was like the whiteness of the chalky cliff ; for the mild son of 
 Morni : Finn, the king of the glittering blades of war.” 
 
 Page 31, lines 24 and 23. 
 
 . . . . ‘ ‘ Were there one 
 
 Of all my heroes that are gone.” 
 
 Invincible as the prowess of the Finii was deemed, they met with 
 a signal defeat at the battle of Gabhra, fought between them and 
 Gairbre, the monarch of Ireland. Finn and his grandson Osgur, with 
 their most famous chiefs, fell on the field : and Ossian 5 - seems to have 
 been the only member of his family left to mourn over their extinc- 
 tion, which he often does, or is made to do, in “old Irish composi- 
 tions’ ’ attributed to him. 
 
 The annals of Innispaclm, and other ancient records and poems, in- 
 form us that the battle of Gabhra was fought in the year of our Lord 
 296. f The cause of this battle (as well as I can collect from various 
 accounts) was pretty nearly as follows. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The celebrated body of the Finii had grown to a formidable de- 
 gree of. power. Conscious of the defence they afforded their country, 
 and the glory they reflected on it, they became overbearing and inso- 
 lent, esteeming too highly of their merits, and too meanly of their re- 
 wards : and this the more as they perceived the monarch disposed to 
 slight their services and envy their fame. 
 
 “It would be tedious here to relate the various causes assigned 
 by different writers for the discontents which occasioned this battle. 
 Historians, in general, lay the blame upon the Finii : and the poets, 
 taking part with their favorite heroes, cast the whole odium upon 
 
 * According to the book of Hoath. 
 
 t The author is aware of the gross anachronism committed by making St. 
 Patrick, who came to Ireland toward the end of the fourth century, a cotempo- 
 rary with Ossian, who fought in the battle of Gabhra in 296. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 89 
 
 Cairbre, the monarch of Ireland. The fault most likely was mutual, 
 and both parties suffered for it. Cairbre himself was killed in the 
 action, and a dreadful slaughter ensued among his troops : but those 
 of the Finii were almost totally destroyed, for, relying upon that valor 
 which they fondly deemed invincible, they rushed into the field 
 against odds that madmen alone would have encountered .” — Miss 
 Brooks , pp. 146-7. 
 
 Page 54, lines 17 and 18. 
 
 1 1 And called her the lady and the queen 
 Of that wild and desolate scene. ’ * 
 
 When the above lines were written, the author had never seen Mr. 
 Barry Cornwall’s beautiful poem, “The Sicilian Story,” to the follow- 
 ing passage of which the quotation may be supposed to have a gen- 
 eral resemblance. 
 
 ‘ ‘ He bound 
 
 The fillets like a coronet around 
 
 Her brows, and bade her smile and be a queen/ 
 
90 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 NOTES TO THE FOURTH DUAN. 
 
 Page 64, line 8. 
 ‘ 1 The blazing sun . 
 
 The standard of the Finii. 
 
 Page 64, line 10. 
 
 * 1 Morni s host * ’ 
 
 Much contention existed at one period between the Finii and the 
 tribe of Morni. Cumhal or Comhal was killed in a battle fought be- 
 tween them; a subsequent reconciliation, however, took place, and 
 ever after the tiibe of Morni was subservient to the Finii, both parties 
 living in the utmost concord, and the former experiencing much 
 kindness and attention from Finn Mac Comhal. 
 

 
 

 
 

 
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