How He Lived.
The story of Lever's life and adventures only wants telling to be as
irresistibly attractive as Lorrequer's or O'Malley's own. Born in
Dublin, of an English father and an Irish mother, he lived to be
essentially cosmopolitan and a _viveur_ of the first magnitude. At eight
he was master of his schoolmaster--a gentleman given to flogging but not
learned in Greek, and therefore a proper subject for a certain sort of
blackmailing. He was not an industrious boy; but he was apt and ready
with his tongue, he was an expert in fencing and the dance, he was good
at improvising and telling stories, it is on record that he pleaded and
won the cause of himself and certain of his schoolmates accused before a
magistrate of riot and outrage. At college he found work for his high
spirits in wild fun and the perpetration of practical jokes. He and his
chum Ottiwell, the original of Frank Webber, behaved to their governors,
teachers, and companions very much as Charles O'Malley and the
redoubtable Frank behave to theirs. Lever was excellent at a
street-ballad, and made and sang them in the rags of Rhoudlim, just as
Frank Webber does; and he personated Cusack the surgeon to Cusack's
class, just as Frank Webber personates the dean to _his_ class. On the
whole, indeed, he must have been as gamesome and volatile a nuisance as
even Dublin has endured. On leaving college he took charge of an
emigrant ship bound for Quebec. Arrived in Canada, he plunged into the
backwoods, was affiliated to a tribe of Indians, and had to escape like
Bagenal Daly at the risk of his life. Then he went to Germany, became a
student at Gottingen under Blumenbach, was heart and soul a Bursch, and
had the honour of seeing Goethe at Weimar. His diploma gained, he went
to Clare to do battle with the cholera and gather materials for _Harry
Lorrequer_. After this he was for some time dispensary doctor at
Portstewart, where he met Prebendary Maxwell, the wild parson who wrote
_Captain Blake_: so that here and now it is natural to find him leaping
turf-carts and running away from his creditors. At Brussels, where he
physicked the British Embassy and the British tourist, he knew all sorts
of people--among them Commissioner Meade, the original of Major Monsoon,
and Cardinal Pecci, the original of Leo XIII.--and saw all sorts of life,
and ran into all sorts of extravagance: until of a sudden, he is back
again in the capital, editing the _Dublin University Magazine_. Of
course he was the maddest editor ever seen. For him cards, horses, and
high living were not luxuries but necessaries of life; yet all the while
he believed devoutly in medicine, and with his family indulged with
freedom in the use of calomel and such agents. Presently he abandoned
Ireland for the Continent. He took his horses with him, and astonished
Europe with a four-in-hand of his own. Carlsruhe knew him well, as
Belgium and the Rhine had known him. He only left the Reider Schloss at
Bregenz to conquer Italy; and at Florence, Spezzia, and finally Trieste,
he shone like himself.
What He Was.
He was a born _poseur_. His vanity made him one of the worst--the most
excessive--of talkers; go where he would and do what he might, he was
unhappy if the first place were another's. In all he did he was greedy
to excel, and to excel incontestably. Like his own Bagenal Daly he would
have taken the big jump with the reins in his mouth and his hands tied,
'just to show the English Lord-Lieutenant how an Irish gentleman rides.'
He was all his life long confounding an English Lord-Lieutenant of some
sort; for without display he would have pined away and died. At
Templeogue he lived at the rate of 3,000 pounds a year on an income of
1,200 pounds; at Brussels he kept open house on little or nothing for all
the wandering grandees of Europe; at Florence they used to liken the
cavalcade from his house to a procession from Franconi's; he found living
in a castle and spending 10 pounds a day on his horses the finest fun in
the world. He existed but to bewilder and dazzle, and had he not been a
brilliant and distinguished novelist he would have been a brilliant and
distinguished something else. As he kept open house everywhere, as he
was fond of every sort of luxury, as he loved not less to lend money to
his intimates than to lose it to them at cards, and as he got but poor
prices for his novels and was not well paid for his consular services, it
is not easy to see how he managed to make ends meet.
How He Wrote.
Nor is it easy to see how he contrived to produce his novels. He was too
passionately addicted to society and the enjoyment of life to spare an
instant from them if he could help it; and the wonder is not that he
should have written so well but that he should have written at all.
Fortunately or the other thing, his books cost him no effort. He wrote
or dictated at a gallop and, his copy once produced, had finished his
work. He abhorred revision, and while keenly sensitive to blame and
greedy of praise he ceased to care for his books as soon as they had left
his desk. That he was not in scarce any sense an artist is but too
clear. He never worked on a definite plan nor was at any pains to
contrive a plot; he depended on the morning's impressions for the
evening's task, and wrote _Con Cregan_ under the immediate influence of a
travelled Austrian, who used to talk to him every night ere he sat down
to his story. But he was a wonderful improvisatore. He had
imagination--(even romantic imagination: as the episode of Menelaus Crick
in _Con Cregan_ will show)--a keen, sure eye for character, incomparable
facility in composition, an inexhaustible fund of shrewdness,
whimsicality, high spirits, an admirable knack of dialogue; and as consul
at Spezzia and at Trieste, as a fashionable practitioner at Brussels, as
dispensary doctor on the wild Ulster coast, he was excellently placed for
the kind of literature it was in him to produce. Writing at random and
always under the spur of necessity, he managed to inform his work with
extraordinary vitality and charm. His books were only made to sell, but
it is like enough that they will also live, for they are yet well nigh as
readable as at first, and Nina and Kate O'Donoghue--(for instance)--seem
destined to go down to posterity as typical and representative. Had
their author taken art seriously, and devoted all his energy to its
practice, he could scarce have done more than this. Perhaps, indeed, he
would not have done so much. It could never have been Lorrequer's to
'build the lofty rhyme.' It was an honest as well as a brilliant
creature; and I believe we should all have suffered if some avenging
chance had borne it in upon him that to be really lofty your rhyme must
of necessity be not blown upwards like a bubble but built in air like a
cathedral. He would, I take it, have experimentalised in repentance to
the extent of elaborating his creations and chastising his style; and, it
may be, he would have contrived but to beggar his work of interest and
correct himself of charm. A respectable ambition, no doubt; but how much
better to be the rough-and-ready artist of Darby the Beast and Micky
Free, the humane and charming rattlepate to whom we owe Paul Goslett and
the excellent and pleasing Potts!