Nothing if not thorough--for the moment--Lever heralded his assumption
of the editorial chair of ‘The Dublin University’ with a trumpet-blast.
In the April number of the Magazine there is published an “Editor’s
Address,” in which “Harry Lorrequer” informs his kind friends the public
that Ireland’s National Magazine has been entrusted to his guidance.
“For many long years,” continues Lorrequer, “this position has been the
object of my ambition.... In announcing the appearance of a new journal,
the editor enjoys the time-honoured privilege of informing the public
what literary miracles it is his intention to perform; how he shall fill
up all the deficiencies observable in other periodicals; how smart will
be his witty contributors, how deep his learned ones; what soundness
will characterise his political views; by what acumen and impartiality
his criticisms will be distinguished. In fact, to believe him, you would
say that until that moment journalism had been a poor, barren, and empty
performance, and that all the able and gifted writers of the day had,
by some strange fatality, suffered their wits to lie fallow. This is
the more singular, as such announcements usually appear once or twice
a-year, and the world seems never the wiser six months later. Happily
for our Magazine, happily for myself, I have no such power in my
hands.... Far be it from me to institute comparisons between myself and
that first of editors who moulds the destinies of ‘Blackwood’s’;
but this I will say, that if the coachman on the box be an inferior
whip--and this I honestly confess--his team is unsurpassed.”
This flamboyant piece of writing is dated Dublin, March 21,1842, but
in all probability it was written in Brussels when the fever of the
editorship first attacked him. He must have referred to the Address and
smiled at it a few months later, for in June he declared to a friend
that the unsurpassed team was “as groggy a set of screws as ever marched
in harness. God forgive me,” he ejaculated, “for my editorial puff of
them!”
‘Jack Hinton, the Guardsman,’ had reached its seventh chapter when Lever
took charge of the Magazine. Following the example of ‘Charles O’Malley’
and ‘Harry Lorrequer,’ ‘The Guardsman’ was issued in monthly parts, with
illustrations by Phiz. ‘Nuts and Nut-Crackers’ commenced in the March
number of the Magazine.
Lever’s Irish friends found it very difficult to procure the ideal
“cottage” for him. Stillorgan and Glenegary (near Kingstown) had power
to charm him only for a while. At length he found rest in Templeogue (or
Templeogue) House, an old mansion situated about four miles south-west
of Dublin city, in the midst of glorious scenery--hill and dale,
woodland and stream. The grounds of Templeogue House were picturesque.
Inside the high walls were spacious courtyards; there were extensive
gardens, terraced walks, “the remains of ambitious avenues,” and an
old Dutch waterfall. The dwelling-house itself was said to have been a
Knights Templars’ residence, and to have been occupied at a later period
by Lord Santry. It had a ghost-room* and subterraneous passages. In the
near neighbourhood stood Montpelier, a castellated building, at one time
the principal resort of the Hell-Fire Club.**
* It was supposed that the ghost was the shade of O’Loughlin
Murphy, who in the course of an eighteenth-century orgie had
been filled with whisky by Lord Santry. When the whisky
overflowed the noble lord put a light to Murphy’s mouth and
made a holocaust of him. Lord Santry was tried for the
murder, but it happened that a cousin of his owned the
water-supply of Dublin, and threatened to cut off the supply
if his relative was hanged. Incredible as it may seem, the
Viceroy yielded under the threat, and the life of Lord
Santry was spared.--E. D.
** Upon one occasion the members of this club set fire to
their club-room and (in order to show their contempt for
certain torments preached from the pulpit) endured the
flames until they were nearly roasted to death.--E. D.
In June 1842 Templeogue welcomed a distinguished visitor--the author
of ‘The Snob Papers.’ Thackeray’s object in voyaging in Ireland was
to collect material for his ‘Sketch-Book,’ and he expected to find a
congenial spirit in the author of ‘Charles O’Malley.’
The first dinner-party--a small one--given by Lever in honour of his
illustrious guest is graphically described by Major Dwyer:* “After the
ladies had retired the two protagonists began to skirmish. Neither knew
much of the other, except what could be gleaned from their published
works.... The conversation had been led by Lever to the subject of the
battle of Waterloo: he wished to afford Captain Siborne “**--one of the
guests--” an opportunity of saying a word; perhaps, too, he wanted to
show that he himself knew something of the matter.... Thackeray soon
joined in: he did not pretend to know anything about the great battle,
but he evidently wished to spur on Lever to identify himself with
Charles O’Malley.... Quickly perceiving his antagonist’s game, Lever
met his (Thackeray’s) feints with very quiet but perfectly efficacious
parries. It was highly interesting, and not a little amusing, to observe
how these two men played each a part seemingly belonging to the other:
Thackeray assuming what he judged to be a style of conversation suitable
for Lever, whilst the latter responded in the sarcastic and sceptical
tone proper to an English tourist in Ireland.”
* “Reminiscences of Lever and Thackeray,” by Major D------.
From “The Portfolio” (Appendix to ‘Life of Lever’ by Dr
Fitzpatrick). Frank Dwyer was one of Lever’s chums at
Trinity. Between the two men existed a bond of friendship
broken only by death.--E. D.
** Author of ‘A History of the War in France and Belgium in
1816.’--E. D.
According to Major Dwyer’s narrative, French and German literature were
next discussed, Thackeray expressing a preference for German books. And
then came the pleasantest moment of the evening. In complimenting Lever
on his skill in translating German _Lieder_t Thackeray declared that
he would be prouder to have written “The Pope he leads a Happy
Life”--Lever’s version of the student song--than anything he himself had
ever put into print. The host felt this was a large dose of flattery to
swallow, and he could hardly credit that Titmarsh was in earnest; but
finally he was convinced that his guest meant what he had said, and his
joy was intense and undisguised. Major Dwyer expresses the opinion
that it was during this happy quarter of an hour the first stone of
the foundation of the friendship between the two novelists was laid.
Whatever reserve had existed, or whatever desire each had displayed to
outshine the other, quickly vanished; and from that moment the master
of Templeogue and his _confrère_ vied with each other in cordiality,
and the table-talk ran without restraint or reserve. “Thackeray’s
conversation,” says Major Dwyer, “flowed more evenly on the whole,
like the deeper current of a river meandering through a cultivated
country.... Lever’s resembled a mountain torrent leaping over rocks and
precipices in clouds of sparkling spray.”
Continuing his account of the meeting between the two novelists, Major
Dwyer tells us that plans were discussed about sight-seeing. It was
suggested that Thackeray should take a peep at a grand review which was
to be held the following day in the Phoenix Park. Thackeray, Lever, and
Major Dwyer drove to the Chief Secretary’s Lodge, and then walked to the
review-ground. During the course of a cavalry charge Lever was separated
from his friends, and Thackeray grew very uneasy when he beheld horsemen
tearing wildly down towards him. The Major endeavoured to reassure the
English novelist, but after listening to a brief lecture on military
tactics, Thackeray said he preferred to review the ladies. The two men
strolled homewards after the field-day, Thackeray waxing enthusiastic
over Irish scenery. Then the conversation drifted to Waterloo, and
Thackeray told his companion that the after-dinner conversation of the
previous evening had caused him to think seriously of utilising in a
work of fiction some of the incidents of the famous battle. Lever’s
treatment of it in ‘O’Malley’ was much too imaginative--in fact, much
too audacious, according to Michael Angelo Titmarsh.
This visit of Thackeray to Templeogue had a disturbing effect upon
Lever. The former professed not to be able to understand why the latter
should prefer Dublin to London as a place of residence. The Irish
capital had been drained of its literary life-blood, he argued. No
Irishman of ability remained at home except those who looked for
advancement in the learned professions or those who were patronised by
the Viceregal Court. Thackeray suggested that Lever should carry his
Magazine across the water and establish it in London, where he would be
in touch with numerous Irishmen of genuine ability. He would find that
nineteen shillings out of every pound which he received came from Great
Britain, and that his fame would travel faster and his purse would
be more readily replenished if he was in the thick of the scramble in
London rather than on the fringe of it in Dublin. Lever insisted that
duty as well as his inclination bound him to his country, and that he
would remain faithful to her as long as she would allow him to remain
faithful. But though he spoke bravely he was shaken by the arguments of
the author of ‘The Irish Sketch-Book.’
‘Tom Burke of Ours’ was now in hand. In the previous year Lever had
an idea of writing an exhaustive Life of Napoleon, and he had crammed
himself with information from various sources about the Napoleonic wars.
Major Dwyer recounts a dialogue between the author of ‘Tom Burke’ and
himself, as the pair walked along the eastern pier at Kingstown. Lever
asked the Major if he would write military tales, long or short, for his
Magazine. Dwyer declared that he should not know how to set about such
a task; and the other asserted that, to begin with, nothing was easier
than to depict a field of battle. A military man, or one who had been
associated with military people, could easily conjure up a vision of a
battlefield. “Then create a few actors and set them in motion--and
the remainder is easy enough,” suggested Lever naïvely. He added a
postscript to this recipe for the concoction of a novel of military
life: “You would want a woman or two.” Major Dwyer declared that it was
only a man who knew nothing at all about military operations who could
describe a whole battle in the heroic:sensational style. He then asked
Lever where he had obtained the material for his soldier stories. “For
what is in ‘O’Malley,’” replied his companion, “I am mainly indebted
to Napier; for the rest, to ‘Les Victoires et Conquêtes de l’Armée
Français.’”
Writing many years afterwards about ‘Tom Burke,’ its author mentions
that he was engaged upon it when Thackeray visited him at Templeogue,
intent upon gathering material for his ‘Sketch-Book.’ “And I believe,”
says Lever, “that though we discussed every other book and book-writer,
neither of us ever, even by chance, alluded to what the other was
doing.”
Though 1842 was a very busy year with him, the master of Templeogue
did not deny himself ample jollification. His house became a resort for
pleasant people. Brilliant men came to talk, to jest, to listen, or to
play cards. The host was an inveterate gambler. Whist was one of his
passions, but he could find enjoyment in any form of gambling, from
roulette to “push-pin.” There is an illuminating anecdote told of
a Templeogue whist-party which included Lord Muskerry. The vehicles
belonging to the visitors somehow got interlocked during the night,
and could not be disentangled until five o’clock in the morning, when a
local blacksmith operated upon them. Two of the guests accompanied Lord
Muskerry to his house in Merrion Square, and the door was opened for
them by Lady Muskerry attired in her night-gown. She is said to have
“pitched in” pretty heavily to his lordship.
Naturally enough, between the pressure of his literary work and his
editorial labours, and the filching of hours from the night,--in order
to lengthen the days,--Lever paid the penalty. He complained that he had
gone sadly to seed. He feared that the opening of ‘Tom Burke’ was flat.
It was fortunate that he had in Mortimer O’Sullivan a friend who was
able to stimulate him. O’Sullivan told him that ‘Tom Burke’ was anything
but flat, and that it promised to be his best book. Another of his
encouragers was Canon Hayman, who paid Templeogue an early visit,
and who has placed it on record that when Lever was not entertaining
distinguished visitors he led a quiet and healthy life, and that when
he was entertaining company his only desire was to make his guests
“happy--innocently happy.” Riding was his favourite out-of-door
exercise; and “never was he in better spirits than when far away on the
Wicklow hills, with a friend by his side and his children around him on
their ponies.”
‘Jack Hinton’ concluded its serial course in December, and it was
arranged that ‘Arthur O’Leary’ should follow it in the Magazine. Lever
submitted to Canon Hayman some of the manuscript of ‘Arthur O’Leary,’
declaring, in one of his petulant moods, that he “detested this
stuff,”--that it was easy to write it, but a labour to read it.
But the Canon insisted that ‘O’Leary’ was excellent, and Lever retired
to his “snuggery”--an apartment of which he gives an amusing glimpse
in his Magazine*--prepared to work until the pen dropped from his tired
fingers. The smallest charge of tiresomeness could always sink him deep
in gloom; and, fortunately for himself the faintest echo of praise,
coming from the lips of any one whose opinion he valued, could elevate
him to the seventh heaven. He admits that “an impertinent paragraph or
some malicious sneer” would cause him to toss his manuscript aside and
to scribble caricatures on the sheets intended for the recording of
fictional adventures.
* “The Sub-editor’s Snuggery,” in the ‘D. U. Magazine’ for
July 1842.
Lever loved politics almost as ardently as he loved whist. He had an
idea that in Ireland he might be enabled to cut a considerable figure in
political life, but the party at whose side he was willing to serve--the
Tory party--was fearful of him,--not because of any suspicion of his
faithfulness or of any doubt about his ability, but because of his
reputation as a humourist of the devil-may-care order. He attended
occasional functions at the Viceregal Court, but he did not seem to make
much headway in this direction. It is said that he resented bitterly the
cold-shouldering to which the Viceroy, Lord de Grey, treated him.
The opening of 1843 found him as busy as the close of 1842 had left him;
and in the spring he began to feel sadly in need of some relaxation.
Moreover, he was growing anxious about ‘Tom Burke,’ dreading lest the
local colour might lack vividness. A glimpse of France would help him.
Moreover, he had an idea of enlisting the services of the famous French
artist, Tony Johannot, to illustrate ‘Tom Burke.’ In April he set out
from Templeogue. He made the acquaintance in Paris of Alfred de Vigny
and other men of letters, and he invited a number of them to visit him
at Templeogue. For some time he had been gradually weaning himself from
German literature and German proclivities, and he was fast becoming
Gallicised. He had an idea of introducing a large leaven of French
literature into ‘The Dublin University.’ On his way homewards he
remained a short time in London--all his visits to London were of
peculiarly brief duration,--and arrived in Dublin tired and miserable.
The condition of things at the office of the Magazine did not tend
to cheer him: every one was late or stupid. But he soon rallied; and,
writing many years later, he tells us that at this period he had drawn
round him a circle of men of great ability, and that their conversation
under his own roof took a range and assumed a brilliancy which might not
have been found in Holland House or Gore House. Thackeray assured him
that under no other roof had he met so many agreeable and interesting
people. One of the favoured guests at Templeogue House furnishes a
description of the host, his face beaming, every muscle trembling with
humour. “The sparkle in his merry eyes, the smile that expanded his
mouth and showed his fine white teeth, the musical laugh that stirred
every heart, the finely modulated voice uttering some witty _mot_,
telling some droll story or some tale of strange adventure,” were all
remembered when the Irish humourist was no longer a dweller in his
native land.
Some amusing stories of life at Templeogue House are told. One of these
concerns the novelist’s publisher and friend, James M’Glashan. It must
be remembered that it is a ‘Lorrequer’ tale. M’Glashan one night left
the dinner-table early, fearing that the guests, who doubtless
were exceedingly hilarious, were inclined to drink too deeply. Soon
afterwards there was heard in the dining-room a strange noise. The noise
continued persistently, and Lever could not at first locate it. Some of
the guests suggested that it was the Templeogue ghost. At last a descent
was made upon the kitchen. The kitchen was in darkness, but candle-light
disclosed the publisher lying on the floor. It turned out that he had
mistaken the pantry for a staircase, and he had been busy travelling up
the shelves and falling from the top.
Another tale of the period concerns Dr Whately. Amongst Lever’s
acquaintances at Brussels was the future Archbishop of Dublin. At first
when Lever took up the reins of ‘The Dublin University,’ the Archbishop
and the editor resumed the friendly relations which had existed
in Belgium, but possibly Whately fancied that the author of ‘Harry
Lorrequer’ was a somewhat dangerous acquaintance for an Archbishop in
his own diocese. Whately was a man of hobbies, and horticulture was one
of these. Soon after he was settled down in the County Dublin, Lever
invited the Archbishop to dinner, and took much pains to get the correct
kind of guests together. He was chagrined to find, when the dinner-hour
had arrived, that instead of putting in an appearance his lordship sent
a belated and lame apology. The chaplain who conveyed the apology
also conveyed (as a peace-offering) an enormous pumpkin grown in the
Archbishop’s hot-house. Lever gravely placed the pumpkin on the chair
reserved for his lordship, and during the dinner he addressed much of
his conversation to it. When the guests rose from the dinner-table the
host said: “In all my experience of the Archbishop, I never knew him to
be so agreeable as he has been this evening.”
The novelist did not forget the rebuffs he had endured at the hands
of Dr Whately, and he took a somewhat mean revenge at a convenient
opportunity. Whately, in addition to his love of horticulture, was
rather fond of surrounding himself with sycophants. Lever happened to
encounter him in Killarney. The Archbishop was rambling through some
shrubberies accompanied by two submissive and expectant clergymen, and
he was expatiating upon the merits of mushrooms--his most recent hobby.
Observing a large fungus under a tree, his lordship stooped and seized
it. Then he went on to say that it was merely prejudice on the part
of an ignorant peasantry which prevented the mushroom from becoming a
staple article of food. “Try a bit of it,” said he, offering the fungus
to one of his companions. The unfortunate clergyman nibbled at it, and
averred that it was truly delicious. The Archbishop obtained similar
glowing criticism from the other clergyman. “Try it, Mr Lever,” said
he. “No, thank you,” responded the novelist; “it would be useless.”
“Useless, Mr Lever! What do you mean?” “My brother is in the diocese of
Meath. If he was in your lordship’s diocese I’d gladly eat the whole of
it.” *
* This anecdote has been told by Dr Fitzpatrick and by Mr W.
B. Le Fanu. The above version is Lever’s, given in a
private letter.--E.D.
Yet another reminiscence of this period,--the scene, however, not being
Templeogue but Still-organ, where Lever rented a cottage (“Oatlands”)
for the season. Dr Fitzpatrick relates the anecdote.
“A fat German who acted as cook, valet, and sometimes as coachman,
served Lever at Oatlands. One evening the subsequent Sir W. Wilde
arrived in his green gig; and while he and other friends were sitting
together enjoying his sallies, another gig, driven by Kildahl, the
house-agent, came to the door. The Teutonic man-of-all-work was at once
deputed to mind his gig, while Kildahl joined the group within. In a
few minutes the fat German entered the room, and, making a profound
obeisance, said impassively, ‘Das Pferd ist durchgeganger’ [‘The
horse has run away’). Lever laughed immoderately, so did Wilde; and
so infectious was the merriment that Kildahl laughed immoderately too,
though without the remotest idea that the laugh had been at his own
expense. His dismay at discovering the real facts may be conceived. The
runaway horse and gig dashed down the steep hill of Stillorgan until
all came to a dead smash at Galloping Green, the fragments being there
gathered up and sent back to Dublin on a float.”
Towards the end of the year Mr Samuel Carter Hall was aggrieved at the
tone of a paper which appeared in the Magazine--“Modern Conciliation: Mr
Hall’s Letter to the Temperance Societies.” Lever was not the writer of
the objectionable article, but though he did not desire to stand by it
he accepted the responsibility of it. Hall then proceeded to attack the
novelist savagely in print. He charged him with slandering his native
country and its people. This stung Lever to the quick, and without
further ado he packed his valise, travelled over to London, and sent a
challenge in due form to Hall. A meeting was arranged to take place at
Chalk Farm, but before the principals arrived upon the ground, Hall was
asked if he would withdraw his offensive letter. He consented to do so,
and then Lever gave him his assurance that, personally, he had never
cast any imputation on Hall’s honour. Lord Ranelagh, who was the
arbitrator in this “affair,” said: “I suppose this is the first time
four Irishmen met to shoot an Englishman and didn’t do it.”
This trip to London in the month of December did not do any service to
Lever’s health or spirits. He complained on his return of being fagged
and sea-sick, and “railroaded” nigh unto death, and of suffering from
crushing headaches.
At the close of 1843 the novelist is to be found making one of his queer
confessions--half-jest, half-earnest--to Canon Hayman. “No man, barring
a dog, could live under the heap of abuse the daily post opens upon me,
every letter of the alphabet indignantly asking why I haven’t published
this or that tale, essay, poem, puff, song, review, or satire, and why
I haven’t had the common politeness to reply,... while I labour on with
fruitless apologies to rejected addresses. I have no time to write to my
friends and disarm their disgust of the atrocities of my silent system.
If I were an industrious fellow all would be well; but my rule of
never doing to-day what can possibly be deferred till to-morrow is
occasionally the source of some confusion. Latterly I have taken a fit
of dining out, chiefly because I happen to have a new coat; and I really
do nothing but grumble over the work before me, and wonder what I am to
do for a new plot. I believe, however, that books write themselves; and
that sitting down with a title before me and a well-nibbed pen are the
only essentials. And on this I rely for the performance of my pledges
for the year of grace 1844.”
The strain of writing, the increasing worries of editorship, and the
attacks made upon him by writers politically opposed to him, were
affecting Lever so much that he feared he would break down completely.
Thackeray’s dedication to him of ‘The Irish Sketch-Book’ did not tend
to advance his popularity in his own land. It was rashly assumed that
he had prompted or suggested many things in the ‘Sketch-Book’ which gave
offence to Lorrequer’s sensitive fellow-countrymen. He had always been
a heavy sleeper, but he was beginning to feel that one may have too much
of a good thing. Early in 1843 he complained that he slept for twenty
hours a-day and yawned through the remaining four. As the summer
approached he could neither write nor read. His doctor ordered him to
take a trip on the Continent--not a business visit. Still uneasy,
he called in Surgeon Cusack, who warned him against railroads and
steamboats. This physician informed Lever that he was suffering from
apoplectic threatenings. The diagnosis caused him horrible dismay, but
he begged that his wife should not be told. As August approached he
found himself unable to fill a space in a proof, and he made up his
mind that, as a holiday was essential, and as he had been warned against
railroads, he would take a driving tour through Ireland. Accompanied by
his wife, and acting as his own coachman, he drove through the counties
of Wicklow and Wexford. At New Ross he ignored his friend Cusack’s
advice, and putting his horse and vehicle on board, he travelled to
Waterford by steamboat. The journey agreed with him, and by the time he
reached Lismore he imagined that he was fit for work again. In Lismore
he made an effort to finish ‘Tom Burke,’ but the effort was a failure.
He was fond of ‘Tom Burke,’ but he feared that there was a vast gulf
between his conception of the story and the manner of his working it
out. “I intended,” he says, “to have exhibited a picture of France at a
period when the prestige of a monarch had given way to the feudalism of
a military state, and where the great prizes, long limited to birth and
station, were thrown open for the competition of all. To depict this,
and to show the lights and shadows of French military life and the
contrast of our own, was also my object. I forgot my plan sometimes;
sometimes my characters had a will of their own, and would go their own
way.” And oftener again, he modestly adds, he found himself endeavouring
to accomplish something beyond his powers. He continued the journey
through Cork to Killarney, and here he was able to complete ‘Tom Burke’
and to project a new novel, ‘The O’Donoghue.’ His spirits were now
reviving rapidly. Chickens and salmon were the staple fare at the
various inns at which he put up; and he declared his wife and he had
consumed so much fowl and fish, that they found it difficult to prevent
themselves from flying and swimming. It afforded him intense delight to
revisit Clare and Galway. Here he describes himself “climbing mountains,
fording rivers, crossing bays, tramping along roads” with such
assiduity, that pen and ink were out of the question. At Gort he was
serenaded by a temperance band--the band playing all the songs in
‘Charles O’Malley.’ Its author made a speech by moonlight, and invited
the serenaders to tea in the parlour of his inn. He continued his now
joyous career through Mayo, refreshing himself with glimpses of the
scenery of a country which was for ever associated in his memory with
his earliest encourager, Maxwell.*
* Maxwell had left Ireland by this time. He is said to have
died (in poverty) in Scotland in 1850, but there is some
dispute as to the date of his death.--E. D.
This pleasant outing refreshed and reinvigorated him, and the symptoms
of the brain trouble, of which he had been warned, disappeared. But he
was determined to lead a more quiet life.**
During the autumn of 1844 he was visited by Mr Stephen Pearce, the
portrait-painter, who had arrived in Ireland in order to execute a
commission. A feeling of mutual regard seems to have sprung up at once
between the artist and the novelist. Lever invited Pearce on a visit,
and this visit was prolonged into a sojourn of two years. During these
two years Mr Pearce painted his host’s portrait. He also made a sketch
of his study--described as a little room with quaint sideboard of
carved oak, dark-brown cabinet, curiously sculptured, and heavy brocade
curtains across the door. Into this sketch the artist introduced a back
view of Lever sitting at the fireplace bending over the fire. He made
a sketch of the house, too, bringing into the picture a view of the old
cascade,*** portrayed by Lever as “none of your rollicking harum-scarum
things called waterfalls, but a solid, steady, discreet fall, coming
heavily down, step by step, some hundred yards in the midst of a large
meadow.”
** Major Leech informed Dr Fitzpatrick that Lever “lived at
the rate of £3000 a-year at Templeogue.”
*** I have endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to trace these
pictures. In 1896 Mr Pearce told me that he was unable to
throw any light upon their whereabouts. He also informed me
that, in addition to the pictures mentioned above, he had
made at Bagni di Lucca a chalk drawing of Lever’s head.--E.
D.
Mr Pearce enjoyed the society of his host so keenly that he was only a
short time under his roof when he offered to become his amanuensis, and
Lever, who was always hearing of growls about the illegibility of his
“copy,” readily accepted the artist’s proposal. To Dr Fitzpatrick Mr
Pearce furnished a most interesting account of life at Templeogue.
On fine afternoons Lever and he rode into the office of ‘The Dublin
University’ at a rattling pace. Sometimes the three children accompanied
them on their ponies. A party of urchins were in the habit of meeting
the equestrians on the outskirts of Dublin city--at Portobello Bridge.
This motley crowd--known as “Lever’s pack”--followed the chase right
up to the office of the Magazine in Sackville Street, sometimes
yelping like hounds. At the door of Messrs Curry & Co.’s shop there was
generally a fierce struggle amongst the youths for the honour of
holding Lever’s horse. It is needless to add that “the pack” was treated
liberally by its master.
If the weather was wet, Lever did not venture into the city. One of
his favourite pastimes was to ride about the grounds with his children,
encouraging them to gallop, or to jump over trunks of fallen trees,
giving a wild “hurroo” whenever they took a jump together.
Lever’s hospitality, generous and open-hearted as it was, had none of
the wildness with which it was the habit to credit it in these days. Mr
Pearce says that his manner was to make the house and everything in it
seem to belong to his guests, but his residence in Brussels had made him
“quite foreign in his dinners and his wines”; and much as he had written
about whisky, it was a beverage not to be found in Templeogue House. The
children dined at two o’clock, and Lever and his wife made this their
luncheon. He usually slept for an hour after this meal, and then he
would wake up, good-humoured and brisk, and ready for a bout of work.
“Though he was full of energy in anything he took up,” says Mr Pearce,
“he was sometimes very indolently inclined. Often and often I used to
try to tempt him to dictate. Sometimes I succeeded, and at other times
he would vote it a bore.... I have known him to be so dissatisfied with
his morning’s or evening’s work that he destroyed it. At other times
his flashing and brilliant thoughts carried him on for a great length
of time, pacing the room excitedly, while his delivery of words was so
rapid that it was impossible to keep pace with them.... But he never
allowed too slow absorption on paper of his thick-coming fancies,
rapidly dictated, to elicit an exclamation of impatience. He was always
genial, gentle, good-humoured; and at times as playful as a child.”
Life at Templeogue during the days of Mr Pearce’s sojourn was
singularly peaceful. The only “outbreaks” were occasional
dinner-parties,--generally assemblages of brilliant men; and when the
more staid amongst the guests had left for the city, it was Lever’s
custom to wind up the night with whist. The host was always overflowing
with good stories: frequently his guests forgot that time was running
away, and were startled by observing the daylight peeping in through the
chinks of the window-shutters. Mr Pearce relates one of these card-table
anecdotes.
“When the 11th Hussars arrived in Dublin, their notoriety made them a
great attraction, owing to the Earl of Cardigan being their colonel, and
the numerous duels and quarrels that had occurred in the regiment. One
of their officers, after a _levée_, was walking along Sackville Street,
on a sunny afternoon, in full dress, and was met by two Irishmen fresh
from the country. Staggered at the glittering and gorgeous apparition
clanking towards them, they riveted their eyes on the blazing gold,
blue, and crimson figure, and, with a wondering gaze, the one exclaimed
to the other, with a sharp nudge in the ribs and a look of exquisite
fun--‘Begorra, wouldn’t I like to have the chance of pawning him!’”
Lever could hardly avoid falling into traps such as he would set for his
own characters. One of these accidents has its amusing and its pleasant
side. He wished to get some contributions for the Magazine from the
Rev. Edward Johnson, and in writing to him he not only asked him for
contributions, but he invited him to pay a visit to Templeogue. He
addressed this letter to G. P. R. James, and James answered to the
call. Lever saw no way out of the difficulty except to arrange with the
prodigious romancist* for a serial story.
Major Dwyer recalls another dinner-party at Templeogue,** the guests
being himself, G. P. R James, Captain Siborne, and Dr Anster. James
took the lead in the conversation, discussing, with an air of authority,
horsemanship and military tactics. He entangled his host in the
equestrian discussion, and Lever proved to be more than a match for
him, for he had a genuine knowledge of horses, and though he was not a
correct or a graceful rider,*** he knew all the points of a horse,
and could, according to Major Dwyer, “knock as much out of the veriest
screw” as any man he had ever known. The author of a hundred and
eighty-nine volumes was not a bad judge of horseflesh, but his ideas
of warfare were developed from his inner consciousness, and Dwyer
recognised some of the military theories which James had expounded at
Lever’s dinner-table in a novel entitled ‘Arrah Neil’ (which ran
through ‘The Dublin University’ in 1844--doubtless the serial which was
commissioned in order to cover a blunder), “where a highly scientific
imaginary battle is fought in a corner of a field leading to a ford.”
* G. P. R James is said to have been the author of one
hundred and eighby-nine volumes. He was “Historiographer to
Great Britain” daring the reign of William IV. Subsequently
he entered the consular service. He was at Garlsruhe in 1846
when Lever was visiting the Grand Duchy of Baden, and he was
British Consul at Richmond from 1862 to 1868, and at Venice
from 1868 until his death, in 1800.--E. D.
** “Reminiscences of Lever and Thackeray,” by Major D------.
From “The Portfolio” (Appendix to ‘life of Lever,’ by Dr
Fitzpatrick).
*** He galloped his horse on the hardest road, says one
authority. Though the boldest of riders, says another, he
had a loose rolling seat Yet another authority declares that
in riding his face wore an expression of the utmost
enjoyment. Even on horseback he dressed himself almost as
negligently as if he were in his “snuggery,” displaying a
wide expanse of shirt-front, the lowest button on his
waistcoat being the only one in its button-hole.--E. D.
The Major tells an anecdote of another dinnerparty--one at the house of
Remy Sheehan, a well-known Dublin journalist of the period. Sheehan was
the leading member of the staff of ‘The Evening Mail’.* (to which paper
Lever was an occasional contributor). In the hall of Sheehan’s house
were certain wooden figures partly clad in armour. The lady whom Lever
took in to dinner asked him if he could tell her who the wooden figures
were intended to represent. “They are the staff of ‘The Mail,’” replied
the humourist.
* Sheridan Le Fanu subsequently owned and edited this
journal--E.D.
Before he had got halfway through ‘The O’Donoghue’ its light-hearted
author grew weary: he feared he was becoming too serious. He appealed
to his publisher for advice, asking him how he would prefer to have
the story: was he to wind it up amid the lightning and thunder which
scattered the French fleet in Bantry Bay? or was he to end it “in
Colburn-and-Bentley fashion, with love and marriage licences?” He
considered that the scheme of the story required a tragic ending.
M’Glashan objected to tragedy--“the ladies wouldn’t like it,”--and Lever
at last consented to make a more or less happy ending to his ‘Tale of
Ireland, Fifty Years Ago.’
When ‘The O’Donoghue’ was completed, Lever wrote a short novel which
he entitled ‘St Patrick’s Eve.’ He dedicated this book to his children.
Being aware that his relations with the Magazine (and consequently
with the publishers of his books) were none too pleasant, Mr Pearce
volunteered to take the manuscript of ‘St Patrick’s Eve’ to London. He
went straight to Chapman & Hall, and read the greater portion of the
story to the brothers Chapman, who promptly purchased it.* Mr Pearce
is under the impression that at the same time he made an agreement
on Lever’s behalf with the Chapmans for a new novel--‘The Knight of
Gwynne.’
* ‘St Patrick’s Eve’ was illustrated by Phiz. Chapman & Hall
paid the author £200 on account to cover royalties on the
sale of 5000 copies.--E. D.
The year 1844 furnished Lorrequer with another challenge from a testy
man of letters. In the January number of his Magazine a memoir of
Dr Maginn appeared. It was written by Dr Kenealy. The article was of
considerable length, and Lever informed his publishers that eighteen
persons, ranging from the Duke of Wellington to Sam Lover, were
insulted, and that there were at least four distinct libels in the
memoir.
Lever cut out most of the matter which he considered to be offensive
or dangerous, and the result was that Dr Kenealy sent his editor
a challenge. But the matter was somehow arranged without a hostile
meeting.
Lorrequer was growing heartily weary of editorial worries. Throughout
his career he suffered from hyper-sensitiveness,--the complaint stuck to
him in every clime as persistently as his gouty attacks. While he held
the reins at the office of ‘The Dublin University,’ Ireland was in an
acutely nervous condition. O’Connell was struggling for repeal of the
Act of Union; the Young Irelanders were urging the people to adopt
methods more drastic than O’Connell would countenance; the political
sect to which Lever belonged was antagonistic to O’Connell and to the
Young Irelanders. Party feeling ran high, party rancour flourished, and
many a hard blow was struck. William Carleton fell foul of Lever at an
early stage, and attacked him at every opportunity. ‘The Nation’--that
unique Irish paper, founded in 1842--published in 1843 an article about
the editor of ‘The Dublin University,’ accusing him of every literary
vice. This article was written by Carleton, who lived in a glass house,
but was not afraid to hurl stones at his brother novelist. It became
the fashion for every Dublin print which was not of the same way of
thinking, politically, as Lever, to abuse him. He complains, early
in 1845, of being racked by annoyances from every quarter, “sick of
falsehood, pretension, bad faith, covert insolence, senile flattery.” He
thought Ireland would have welcomed him with open arms, and would have
encouraged him to reside in it, and the incense that was offered to
him, he says bitterly, was misrepresentation and abuse. He did not
make sufficient allowance for the intense acerbity which distinguishes
political bickerings. He speaks also of “vile headaches not leaving him
night or day for months.” He was plainly the victim of overwork. Five
novels and numerous short papers had been written in less than three
years, and during these years the editorship of ‘The Dublin University’
used up a considerable portion of his time, and played havoc with his
nerves.
He made up his mind to bid good-bye to Templeogue,--“to seek out a
tranquil place in a foreign land,” he writes, “and to work away among
my children”; and in February 1845 he set out once more for Brussels, Mr
Pearce accompanying him.
It was whispered at the time of his departure that he was in serious
money difficulties, but two of his intimate Mends, Judge Longfield and
Major Dwyer, vouch that when leaving Ireland he left no debt behind
him. Lever’s own statement to Canon Hayman was that Dublin people were
telling one another he was about to take “French leave.” “The truth
is,” he continued, “I came to Dublin so poor a man that I cannot be
much poorer leaving it. But no one suffers by my poverty, except me and
mine.” Though he ceased to be the editor of ‘The Dublin University’
he did not sever his connection with the Magazine until a much later
period.*
* The average circulation of the Magazine (which, it must be
remembered, was published at half-a-crown) was 4000 during
Lever’s editorship. The circulation gradually fell away, and
early in the ‘Eighties the periodical died.--E. D.
And here, as we see the last of Charles Lever as a resident on Irish
soil, it may be suggested that it has been the fashion to contemplate
his novels which have Irishmen for their heroes--‘Harry Lorrequer’ being
rather a series of stories of desultory adventures than an ordinary
novel--from points of view which indicate some obliquity or narrowness
of vision. In Great Britain Lever is recognised merely as the humorsome
delineator of the rollicking, mule-cart-topping, bullet-proof dragoon:
in Ireland he is regarded by a considerable section of his countrymen as
a farce-writer, or else as that abomination, the Anti-Irish Irishman.**
Many of his critics--English, Irish, American--assert that his sketches
of Hibernian life are hopelessly out of drawing, that his gross
exaggeration smudges the picture. William Carle-ton went so far as to
accuse him of deliberately giving to the public “disgusting and debasing
caricatures” of Irish life and character. This class of criticism is
born either of ignorance or of jealousy or of crassness.
** Some of his Irish traducers--meaning to be scornful--
speak of him as an Englishman, and imply that he was unable
to view men and affairs with an Irish eye. Thomas Davis,
like Lever, was the son of an English father and of a mother
who was of Cromwellian-Irish stock, yet no Irishman dreams
of referring to Davis as “a foreigner.”--E. D.
Any one who will take the trouble to make himself acquainted with the
chronicles of social life of the periods described by Lever will find
that there is little exaggeration in his pictures. Of Irish peasant
life he did not possess that intimate knowledge--it can be acquired
only through actual experience--that Carle-ton possessed; but in none of
Lever’s books is there to be found anything bordering on disgusting and
debasing caricatures of the peasantry. One of his later Irish critics
goes so far in another direction as to insist that Lever “represents the
native virtues of the Irish so delicately and justly that no Englishman
is suffered to scoff at the poverty or ignorance of the people.” The
same critic continues: “Irish novelists are blamable for much of
the reproach cast upon Ireland in other countries. But Lever is not
chargeable either with caricature or concealment. Whenever he has to
deal with the good qualities of a race much maligned, he shows that
he is engaged upon a labour of love.” And his Irish gentleman _is_ a
gentleman. If any class of Irishmen has a right to complain of unfair
treatment at the hands of Harry Lorrequer, that class is the priesthood:
but this applies only to his very early books,--and Father Tom Loftus
atones for much.
The English novel-reader in the lump cares less than nothing for Lever’s
most valuable opinions and sketches of current political and social
life, or for his admirable pictures of a bygone time in the Emerald
Isle,--he is anxious to “cut the cackle and get to the ‘osses.” Many
an Irish reader professes to hold the belief that because Lever
occasionally treads upon a pet corn he was impregnated with a savage
desire to stamp violently on the foot of the patriot, eager to offer him
a jibe or a sneer in lieu of an apology. Irishmen--if an Irishman may
say it--are too ready to take offence at having their foibles laughed
at. Race-feeling has much to do with this sensitiveness: circumstances
more. The prosperous Briton can afford to enjoy banter. He says to
himself, “He laughs best who laughs last”; and he is confident he is
going to have the last laugh against somebody else. The mere Irishman
resents having fun poked at him. He prefers, or pretends to prefer,
unstinted praise to a reasonable mixture of praise, blame, and sarcasm;
he knows that in his inmost breast he harbours the quality of merciless
self-criticism. He does not desire laudation for the comfort of his
inner self, but for blazonry--for the eye of the world outside
his beloved island. Lever made no attempt to pander to this
idiosyncrasy--like Don John, he laughed when he was merry and clawed no
man in his humour; but whether he laughed at or with his country or his
fellow-countrymen, there was no bitterness or spitefulness in his mirth.
Whatsoever his political opinions, his sympathies were as Irish as the
Wicklow hills, and his kindly heart could not foster malice: even for
his relentless enemy, the gout, he could always find a pleasant word.