his abode, hoping to prosecute his studies, and to unite with them some few remunerating duties in the way of private teaching. This was the sort of thing which he had been led to understand was readily obtainable by "youths of merit.” But nothing of the kind was to be got. "From every one," said he, "I have heard that not very consolatory proverb, Lipsia vult expectari,'-Leipzig preferments must be waited for." This, to a man already straitened in his circumstances, is excessively unpleasant; more especially as he finds that that same expectari is so very undecided, that a man may remain fifty years in Leipzig, living all the time on expectation, and still they tell him he must wait! A friend writes him "a right good testimonium paupertatis" (testimonial of poverty), on presenting which at the colleges he expects to obtain assistance or employment; but this also turns out to be a broken reed on which it is dangerous to lean; "no free-table, no acquaintance with students,-in short, nothing," is thereby realised. "It is nowise easy," he says, "to obtain an introduction to the professors. The most renowned, whose esteem would be most useful to me, are oppressed with business, surrounded by a multitude of respectabilities, and a swarm of envious flatterers; so that those who are not distinguished by dress or rank approach them with the utmost difficulty." In such a state of things, Richter's outlook was manifestly gloomy. To study with much advantage seemed impossible; and, indeed, it is anything but clear what literary or scientific culture he derived through his residence at Leipzig. He attended certain courses of lectures, and read largely in the libraries, but beyond this he received but little benefit,-no adequate or useful guidance whatsoever. Agreeably to the desires of his family, he addressed himself at the outset to theology; but, soon perceiving that his lack of means would be an insurmountable obstacle to any practical success in that department, he abandoned whatever hopes he might have founded on it, and, along with them, every prospect of getting connected with any of the recognised professions. He now became a sort of general student, roaming at large over wide tracts of literature, and seizing with avidity upon everything that interested him. He instructed himself in the French and English languages,-read Voltaire, Rosseau, Pope, Swift, Young, and many other authors, excerpting choice passages from them into private note-books, which grew, in course of time, into a library. It was for a long time the only library he had. For, indeed, his remittances from Hof, which had all along been scanty, came at length to be unmercifully delayed, and eventually ceased coming altogether. Paul, on one occasion, writes to his mother, in great perplexity :-"I will not ask you for money to pay my victualler, to whom I owe twenty-four dollars, nor my landlord, to whom I am indebted ten dollars, nor for certain other necessary debts which amount to six dollars. I can let these rest till Michaelmas, when I shall undoubtedly be able to discharge them. But for the following you must not deny me some assistance. I must every week pay the washerwoman, who does not trust. I must drink some milk every morning. I must have my boots soled by the cobbler, who does not trust; my torn cap must be repaired by the tailor, who does not trust; and I must give something to the maid-servant, who, of course, does not trust. I know not, indeed, what I shall do if you do not lend me a helping hand for these things." Eight dollars of Saxon money, he says, will be sufficient, and, after that, he trusts he shall need no further help; nay, he even hints that by-and-by he shall be able to maintain them both. But in what way, now, is a young man of nineteen going to realise such a fabulous amount of ready money as will be required for the objects thus coolly undertaken? What singular mine of wealth does he fancy he has discovered? It is nothing less than the glittering, delusive one of authorship. With grim want staring him in the face, he has yet courage and liveliness enough to write a satire, which he whimsically entitles, "The Eulogy of Stupidity." With this he expects to gain a hundred dollars. And so, perhaps, he might, but for one unlucky obstacle: he could not find a publisher. Herr Professor Seidlitz had undertaken to assist him in the enterprise; but this worthy gentleman "so long and so kindly patronised the book, by letting it lie upon his desk," that he allowed the time when it should have been published to pass over. On receiving it back, Paul says: I read it through to quiet my ill-humour, and thanked God that I had not found a publisher. Lie there in a corner,' I said, with paternal expression, to the little Richter, 'together with school exercises, for thou art thyself no better. I will forget thee, for the world would certainly have forgotten thee. Thou art too young ever to have been old, and the milk-beard upon thy chin would never suffer us to believe that thou wouldst have grey hair.'" Twelve months had slipped away while he had been waiting for the issue, and now he awoke in dim bewilderment, and saw that his flattering project was a dream! The hounds of hunger hunted him; but, nevertheless, undaunted, he turned himself about, and, in six months, produced another book. This was the "Greenland Lawsuits" (Grönländische Prozesse), "a collection of satirical sketches, full of wild gay wit, and keen insight," on men and things in general. As before, the difficulty of realising anything by it lay with the publishers. Richter tried all the publishing houses in Leipzig, without success. But what of Leipzig? are there no publishers to be found elsewhere in Germany or the world? Richter, at any rate, will see what can be done in Berlin; and there, as it turns out, he meets with the respectable Herr Voss, who, after a little consideration, accepts the work, and pays the author sixteen louis d'or for it in hard cash. Here, then, it seems, the anxiously-wrought mine is beginning to show metal! The reader need not doubt that after this, Richter was excessively industrious, and that in nearly less than no time he was ready with another manuscript. Let the reading public take notice, that here is a "Selection from the Papers of the Devil," apparently well edited, and containing, perhaps, some singular disclosures from the remote invisible kingdoms. But the reading public cannot be made acquainted with this edifying work, for the old reason, that not a publisher in all Germany can be found willing to bring it out. For, behold, the "Greenland Lawsuits" does not sell; and who would knowingly encumber himself with stillborn stock? There is nothing for it but to let these diabolically-named documents lie by for one seven years, until, by other efforts, one can gain the popular attention. Let Richter try now some of the leading magazines; perhaps, in certain corners of those inclosures, he may be allowed to till some neglected bit of ground, and thereby gain a little bread. But the crop thus realised proves hardly worth the gathering; it is dependent on so many accidents, and liable to so many fluctuations. He determines, therefore, for the present, to trouble able editors no more; and, as his circumstances in Leipzig had at length grown unendurable, he appeared to have no alternative but to quit the place, and go down to his mother at Hof, and there "abide his time." It would seem that Richter was obliged to leave a few debts behind him, and that he actually departed from the city in disguise. This is to be regretted; but what, in such a case, was a poor man to do? The days of magic are gone by; no assiduous jin or demon will replenish the forlorn exchequer of insolvent mortals any more; and, until the philosopher's stone shall be discovered, nobody, except the Master of the Mint, can lawfully coin dollars. On reaching his mother's house he found her affairs as desperate as his own. "She was living with one or more of Paul's brothers, in a small tenement, containing but one apartment, where cooking, washing, cleaning, spinning, and all the beehive industry of domestic life, must go on together." Here, however, Paul set up his study; his sole stock of books being twelve manuscript volumes of extracts, and the unpublished "Papers of the Devil." He carried, it is true, a tolerable library in his head; and might, perhaps, have managed to have got on, waiting calmly for better times, had his circumstances been only a trifle less straitened. But the sole difficulty lay in waiting for Poverty was written on the door-posts; and that in characters so large, that whoever passed the house might read it as readily as if it had been the heading of a proclamation. Doubtless Paul suffered some depression on his mother's account especially; but for himself, he soon begins to ask, "What is poverty, that a man should murmur under it? is but as the pain of piercing a maiden's ears, and you hang precious jewels in the wound." Elsewhere, and at a later It period of life, he says:-" In my historical lectures, the business of hungering will in truth more and more make its appearance; with the hero it rises to a great height,-about as often as feasting in 'Thummel's Travels,' or tea-drinking in Richardson's "Clarissa; nevertheless, I cannot help saying to poverty, 'Welcome! so long as thou come not at too late a time!' Wealth bears heavier on talent than poverty; under gold-mountains and thrones, who knows how many a spiritual giant may be crushed down and buried! When among the flames of youth, and above all, of hotter powers as well, the oil of riches is also poured in-little will remain of the Phoenix but his ashes; and only a Goethe has force to keep, even at the sun of good fortune, his Phoenix-wings unsinged. The Historical Propoor fessor, in this place, would not, for much money, have had much money in his youth." Thus, it will be seen, that even when his fortunes were at the worst, Richter did not sink into dejection or complaint. He learnt to "prize his existence more than his manner of existence," and resolutely prepared himself to front his destiny. From the mean environment in which he stood, he would struggle manfully to be delivered, but even there he could yet respect himself; knowing that the true respectability of a man lies not in his outward circumstances, but in his inward worth and dignity of soul. His lines had fallen in unpleasant places, but he felt himself not the less a man; not the less an authentic citizen of the universe, with capabilities to be exercised, with duties to be performed, with manly rights and interests to be claimed and conquered. With a gay heartiness of endeavour, and a proud indifference to the slings and hostilities of his lot, he girded himself up, and went steadily on the way before him, never doubting but that at last he should find therein the true shrine of his vocation. At this, the lowest point of his fortunes, we here leave him, trusting shortly to bring you tidings of the dawn of better days. (To be concluded in our next.) * Quoted from Carlyle's "Miscellanies." Art. "Richter." Vol. II. JOHN BANIM, Author of the "O'Hara Tales." Ir is not a little remarkable that, in an age when the biography of distinguished men has become, in many cases, almost as voluminous as their writings, no extended account of a man who acquired so brilliant a reputation as Banim should have appeared. We are aware, however, that such a work was long since contemplated, and, in part, executed by his brother, by whom some of the personal particulars, in the following notice, were communicated to the writer. John Banim, as most of the readers of his powerful works of fiction are probably aware, was a native of the ancient and not uncelebrated city of Kilkenny-a city possessing numerous and interesting historical associations, as well as local advantages; the seat of one of the most ancient and celebrated existing Colleges, or High Schools, in Ireland, the seminary where Swift, Harris, Berkeley, and other of the most distinguished names in Irish literature, pursued their early studies; and, also, of the ancient Catheral of St. Canice, the rival of Patrick's (with its adjoining round tower), which Cromwell, when he had with so much difficulty stormed the city, desecrated, by converting it into a stable for his troopers; situated amid some of the most delightful inland scenery in the country, that of Woodstock, which made the taciturn Prince of Orange, when he viewed it, exclaim in rapture, "This is a country worth fighting for;" and the noble Persian traveller, Mirza Abu, compare it to a paradise; overlooked by one of the most princely baronial residences in the kingdom, that of "the chief Butler of all Ireland; while round *There is an amusing story told of the most distinguished member of this ancient house, the famous Duke of Ormond, when Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, the outline only of which we can give from memory. On one occasion the duke, with some other company, was cast ashore by shipwreck, or some other casualty, on one of the Scottish islands, where he was most hospitably entertained by the minister, a poor man, named Joseph, with a large family. The duke, in gratitude for his kindness, promised to bear him in mind on his return to Ireland. The cares of State, however, during a very troubled period, drove the poor parson from his memory. The expectant of preferment, tired of waiting, made the base of the lofty rock, from the summit of which its lordly towers frown, wind the broad waters of the silver Nore; long distinguished for its brilliant private theatricals, where the illustrious Flood and Grattan had a foretaste of their subsequent rivalry upon another stage, in their impersonation of the characters of " Macbeth," and Macduff;" and where the poet, Moore, at a later period, was the delight of many a distinguished audience; add to all this its being literally paved with marble, and its claim to four things very rare in Ireland Fire without smoke, air without fog, Water without mud, and land without bogand you have a combination of celebrities and attractions such as few provincial cities, perhaps we might say in the empire, can boast. Yet to our mind the genius of Banim, delighting as it did to celebrate the scenes endeared by early association, of which we have some beautiful memorials in the "Fetches;" and the elegant little tale of "The Roman Merchant;" and the tenderly chaste Muse of the gentle author of "Psyche," who there so sweetly sung of the flowers which were too soon to garland her grave, have flung round Kilkenny an enchantment greater than them all. Amid these scenes and influences Banim drew his first breath about the opening of the present century. Like many an heir of fame, who "lisped in numbers," he was an early scribe, and, perhaps, penned many a youthful vision of poesy, or romance, which was designed only for the partial eye of friendship, perhaps only for his own. The profession to which he was destined was that of an artist; and he was, for some time, a student of the Hibernian Academy, in Dublin. We are told that his artistic style was characterised, as we may easily believe, rather by boldness of outline than elaborate finish. For some time he practised as a miniature or portrait painter; his way to Dublin; and having, by some means, procured an opportunity of preaching, either at the Castle Chapel, or where he knew the duke was to be present, took as his text that portion of the history of his namesake, Joseph, where he was treated with ingratitude during the period of his confinement:-"And the chief Butler forgot Joseph." He was at once recognised and not forgotten. but he early felt the stirrings of that within which soon induced him, like Hazlitt, to relinquish the pencil for the pen. In 1821, he made his literary début in the character of a poet; a fact not generally known even to those who are well acquainted with his prose writings, by the publication of "The Celt's Paradise;" a poem, in four duans, dedicated to Lord Cloncurry. Before its appearance it had been submitted to the perusal of Sir Walter Scott, and had the benefit of his friendly criticism and commendation. This first venture was, however, in Soon after it was issued from the press, the publisher, Warren, of London, became insolvent; and the little volume does not appear to have possessed sufficient interest, or, perhaps, even merit, to push it subsequently into much notice. It is a wild and fanciful narrative, founded on the ancient Irish mythology, and related in the manner of the old Fenian poems, in a dialogue between St. Patrick and the bard every way unfortunate. Ossian, who describes his visit to "The Paradise of the Celts." The subject was not the most fortunate; and, though vague in the extreme, there is yet a wild vigour and originality about it; and, when occasion offers, a characteristic burst of patriotic sentiment often breaks forth. The reader may be curious to see a specimen of the juvenile effusion (he had not yet attained his twentieth year) of one who afterwards acquired so brilliant a reputation. After a lengthened dialogue between the saint and the bard, the latter proceeds:— Man of prayers, I wish not 'Tis with the beautiful and brave But give it and the song tho' cold After the recital, at the beginning of the third duan, the saint, scandalised at the sensual nature of the bard's elysium, exclaims :-- Ossian, enough of this dotard theme, The highest places in Paradise are assigned to "the patriot and the patriot-bard:" All were happy; but some felt Who, for the good deeds he had done, On the utmost verge of his own shore, He met the invading foe,-his hand His heart, and, thro' it, bid them smite He fell, but in the light Honour and fame and praise,-the old And thousands rushed, * 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, But the bard caught up his harp, and woke HIS COUNTRY'S SONG! and as it broke It was over and round them on their way, And pride to his fallen country's name!" In the same year, 1821, Banim produced his first and principal essay in dramatic literature, the play of "Damon and Pythias," which was brought out before a London audience with great success, and highly lauded by the critics. In the preparation of this piece for representation, the author had the benefit of the patronage, and experience as a dramatic writer, of his distinguished countryman Mr. Shiel, the brilliant Parliamentary orator. We have here an example of the effect of patronage in smoothing the thorny path to fame. A few years later, Banim's youthful and enthusiastic friend, Gerald Griffin, who had planned a series of tragedies for the reformation of the drama, arrived in London on a similar mission. He submitted his play to one of those arbiters of dramatic merit, a manager, without bringing any influence to bear upon the decision. The consequence was, that, after a delay of some months, the manuscript was returned without note or comment, rolled up in a bit of paper without even the courtesy of a seal. The sensitive Griffin, whose spirit could not stoop to dangling |