It seemed as if 1863 was about to prove a more enlivening year for
Charles Lever than some of its predecessors had been. ‘Barrington’ was
being applauded by his friends. Amongst these was Mr John Blackwood, for
whose good opinion Lever sent his thanks in a letter dated January 30.
To Lord Malmesbury he forwarded a copy of the novel, with the following
letter:--
_To The Earl of Malmesbury._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _Feb_. 16, 1863.
“My dear Lord,--I am sincerely obliged by your lordship’s note in
acknowledgment of ‘Barrington.’
“I am sure you are right in your estimate of Kinglake’s book.* Such
diatribes are no more history than the Balaclava charge was war.... It
was, however, his brief to make out the Crimean war a French intrigue,
and he obeyed the old legal maxim in a different case--‘Abuse the
plaintiff’s attorney.’
* The allusion is to the alleged personal cowardice of the
third Napoleon. “No man,” declares Lord Malmesbury, “could
be less exposed to such an accusation. I saw him jump off
the bridge over the Rhine at Geneva when a youth; and all
men can feel what must have been his agonies when riding all
day at the Battle of Sedan with his deadly malady upon
him.”--E. D.
“Italy is something farther from union than a year ago. In dealing with
the brigandage, Piedmont has contrived to insult the prejudices of the
South by wholesale invectives against all things Neapolitan. French
intrigues unquestionably help to keep up the uncertainty which all
Italians feel as to the future, and the inadequacy of the men in power
here contributes to the same. Indeed, what Kinglake says of the English
Generals--questioning how the great Duke would have dealt with the
matter before them--might be applied to Italian statesmen as regards
Cavour. They have not a shadow of a policy, save in their guesses as
to how _he_ would have treated any question before them. To get
‘steerage-way’ on the nation, Cavour had to launch her into a
revolution; but if these people try the same experiment they are likely
to be shipwrecked.
“It would be both a pride and a pleasure to me to send your lordship
tidings occasionally of events here, if you cared for it.”
After some half a dozen letters had passed between Lever and John
Blackwood concerning Magazine papers, Lever took courage and again asked
the question which he had asked in 1861. This time his way of putting it
was: “I have a half-novel, half-romance, of an Irish Garibaldian in my
head--only the opening chapters written. What would you say to it?”
To this Blackwood replied: “It is a serious business to start a long
serial, and I would not like to decide without seeing the bulk of the
work. I do not know how you have been in the habit of writing, whether
from month to month, or getting a good way ahead before publication is
commenced. If the latter is your usual plan, I have no hesitation in
asking you to send me a good mass of the MS., and I will let you know as
speedily as possible what I think and can propose.”
From this point onward--from 1863 to 1872*--the story of Charles Lever’s
literary life is told mainly in his letters to the House of Blackwood:
the current of his correspondence, which at one time had streamed into
Ireland, was now diverted, and Lever ingenuously revealed himself and
his methods of work and play to Mr John Blackwood.
* In Dr Fitzpatrick’s biography only a scant account of the
novelist’s life during this period is furnished; but a
number of Lever’s letters to Mr John Blackwood are given in
Mrs Blackwood Porter’s Life of her father. I am indebted to
Mrs Porter for permission to include some of these with the
others, and also several letters from Mr John Blackwood to
Lever.
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _May_ 2, 1863.
“I hasten to answer and thank you for your letter. I am glad you like
the line I have taken on Italy. I believe it to be the true one, and I
know that it is, so far, new.
“As to my story, I’d give you my whole plan in detail at once but for
this reason, which you will acknowledge to be good--that the very moment
I revealed it I should be obliged to invent another! To such an extent
do I labour under this unfortunate disability, that in my own family no
one ever questions me as to the issue of any tale I am engaged on, well
knowing that once I have discussed, I should be obliged to change it.
“You ask me how I write. My reply is, just as I live--from hand to
mouth! I can do nothing continuously--that is, without seeing
the printed part close behind me. This has been my practice for
five-and-twenty years, and I don’t think I could change it. At least, I
would deem it a rash experiment to try.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _May_ 8, 1863.
“You will have had my note about my story, and all that I have to say on
that score is already said. Only that I have not written any more, nor
can I, without either a proof in print or a look at my MS.; for, as I
had to own to you, most ignominiously, I have only one way of writing!
And like the gentleman mentioned by Locke, who, having learned to dance
in a room where there was an old hairbrush, never could accomplish a
step without that accompaniment, so I must stick to my poor traditions,
of which an old coat and an old ink-bottle, and a craving impatience to
see how my characters look in type, are chief; and I seriously believe,
if you cut me off from these--there’s an end of me!
“I think there is material for a pleasant half-gossiping sort of paper
on social Italy--‘Life in Italian Cities,’--those strange wildernesses
where rare plants and weeds live together on a pleasant equality,
and where you may find the cowslip under a glass and the cactus on a
dunghill. Is it not strange, there is nothing so graphic about Italy
as the sketches in Byron’s letters? Perhaps it was the very blending of
Dirt and Deity in himself led him into the exact appreciation.
“My hand o’ write is none of the clearest, but I’ll do my best to be
legible _to_ you and _by_ you; and with my hearty thanks for your very
cordial note.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _May_ 16, 1863.
“Thanks for your note and its enclosure, which reached me this morning.
“I am glad you have understood what, after I had sent it off, appeared
to me a very unintelligible note, being in fact an attempt to explain
what even to myself is not explicable--the [only] mode in which I can
write a story.
“You are perfectly right as to looking at the thing in proof: it is
the same test as the artists’ one of seeing their drawing in a
looking-glass,--all that is good is confirmed, and all that is out
of drawing or wrong in perspective is just as sure of being displayed
strongly.
“If your opinion be favourable, the point which will most interest me
to know is the time of publishing; for, seeing that I want some
material which I can only obtain by personal intercourse, the longer the
interval, moderately speaking, the better for me.
“Secondly. Should we travel this road together, I want to beg that you
will be as free to tell me what you think of what I send as though I was
the rawest recruit in literature. I never write with the same spirit as
under such criticism--given when not too late to amend; and if anything
reaches you that you think ill of, do not hesitate to say so at once. I
can change--in fact, it is the one compensation for all the inartistic
demerits of my way of work--I can change as easily as I can talk of
changing. These are all that I want to stipulate for on my part; the
rest is with you. I am so eager to get on, that when you send me a proof
(I cannot till then) I’ll have at it at once. Meanwhile I lie in the sun
and suck oranges.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _May_ 28, 1863.
“Though I have been, not without some anxiety, waiting for a proof of my
story, or some tidings of it,--for I cannot go on without a clue,--I now
write to send you a paper on ‘Why Italy has not Done More,’ knowing from
my own experiences the benefit of being early in Mag. ‘make up.’
“I hope much you will like it. If you think that any addition to it
would be necessary, or in fact, if you have any changes to suggest, pray
let me know.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _June_ 25, 1863.
“I have just received your pleasant note and its enclosure. How your
promptitude tells of a long intimacy with Grub Street!
“As to quantity, 18 sheets of the D. U. M. used to suffice for a 3-vol.
novel; but it shall be more--20 if you like. I always feel with the
hostess in ‘The Honeymoon.’When reproached for her liquor, she excused
herself by saying that as she knew it was bad, she gave short measure.
“One _contretemps_ or another has knocked me out of work latterly; but
when the proof reaches me I’ll get into harness and pull away.
“Is it amongst the possible things to see you ever--this side o’ the
Alps? It would be a great pleasure to me to hear it was, not to say the
_positive advantage_ of having a gossip with you.
“The Mag. arrives most regularly and is a great pleasure to me. There is
(to me) a memory of school-days in the grim old face on the cover, that
brings back more flitting thoughts of long ago than I believed could
have been evoked by anything.”
_To Mr John Blackwood_
[Undated.]
“First of all, I thank you for your kind note, and say with what real
pride I shall see myself in your columns. ‘Ebony’ has been an ambition
of mine since my boyhood. I send you all that I know about Italy in an
article I have boiled down from an ox to a basin of broth, and only
hope it may suit your palate. I send you the opening of the Garibaldi
romance. To give all the realism so necessary for a story of adventure,
I was obliged to set out very quietly. Let me have your opinion as soon
as conveniently you can. I quite agree with you about the mystery as
to the authorship, and will answer for my part. Don’t forget to send me
‘Maga’ when out.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Spezzia, _June_ 26, 1863.
“It has happened to me more than once, when particularly anxious to do
well, to make a fiasco of it. I have the same anxiety now; and to put
me at my ease, if there be anything you like in these, say so, for, like
most of my countrymen, I thrive better on kindnesses than on kicks.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Spezzia, _July_ 26,1863.
“I send by this post one sheet and half--or nearly--of ‘Tony’ corrected
for the Nov. No., being, I suspect, as much as your readers would
swallow at a time. Let chap. ix. end where I have marked, and I’ll try,
if I can, to put in the missing link, which, as you observe, occurs at
that place.
“Of course M’Casky ‘is extravagant,’ but I’ll swear to you not more so
than scores of real flesh-and-blood men in the land he came from.
“My home critics say that all that political part at Naples is dull and
heavy. I don’t think it so; besides, I have endeavoured to assure them
that there is in novel-writing a principle, analogous to what chemists
find in active medicinal substances, and which they profanely called
‘inert matte,’ but which, if our knowledge were greater, would doubtless
display some marvellous property of either enhancing some other gift or
restraining some latent power of mischief. Are you of my mind?--because
if, unhappily, you side with _them_, you are at full liberty to cut away
as much about Maitland’s politics as you like or dislike.
“My hope is that, with the portion now in print by me and that already
sent, you will have enough for December and January too. I say this,
for I start to-day for a yachting ramble down the coast, and am in
for idleness till the hot weather is over. It is 90 something in what
represents shade; and what with the smell of oranges and the glow, I
feel as if I were sitting in a pot of hot marmalade.
“At all events send me proof; be as critical, but as merciful, as you
can.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hotel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _Aug_. 3, 1863.
“I send you herewith a short paper on Italian affairs. Call it ‘Italian
Letters’ or ‘Glances at Italy.’ or anything you like better.
“The adventure with De Langier was my own. I accepted the mission at the
request of Sir G. Hamilton, and very narrowly escaped the cross of Saint
Joseph from the Grand Duke.
“I hope you will like the paper, but I reckon implicitly on your
frankness. I have got what, if I wasn’t so poor, I’d own to be gout in
one knuckle, and cannot hold a pen without trembling. I’m off to sea
to-night, but send me an early proof.”
_To Dr Burbidge_.*
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Aug_. 13, 1863
* English chaplain at Spezzia.
“I have been looking for a quiet ten minutes to write to you, but it has
not come yet, and so I send this off _in petto_.
“We got up here safely, and met my wife suffering far less than I
apprehended, and not materially the worse for all the fatigue.
“It reconciled her, besides, to much that she could reach her own quiet
old house here, which has for fifteen years been our home, so that
though I proposed remaining a day to rest at Pisa, she would not hear of
it, but pushed on bravely to the end.
“It is a wonderful relief to us all to have escaped from the Bagni di
Basseti, the coarse food, coarse linen, and coarser language of its
vile occupants. Sixteen months of such servitude at the cost of above a
thousand pounds have eaten deep into me, and it will require almost as
many more to blow off the steam of my indignation.
“I have cast my eye over the latter part of ‘Tony,’ and for the life
of me I cannot see what some of the crosses refer to. If I send a proof
down will you make the corrections bodily for me?
“Blackwood has written a most kind letter, and incidentally tells me
‘Tony’ is liked and well spoken of.”
_To Mr Alexander Spencer._
“Spezzia, Sept. 10, 1863.
“It is not very easy to write amidst the anxieties which money
occasions--I mean the want of money; but probably I ought to be
grateful that my occupation, being one which only employs imagination,
necessarily withdraws me, whether I will or no, from the daily thought
of difficulties which certainly reflecting over never diminishes.
“I am writing a new story--‘Luttrell of Arran’--as sad-coloured as my
own reveries; but how is a man to paint a good picture who has nothing
but blacks or browns on his palette?
“As to work generally, I have, thank God, health and strength for it. I
never was better, nor ever found it easier to apply myself. It is in the
precariousness of a life of literature is its real deterrent; but for
that defect it is unquestionably the pleasantest possible. At all events
it has kept us hitherto, and, I trust, will do so to the end.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Hôtel d’Odessa, Spezzia, _Sept_. 19, 1863.
“By my last short note you will have seen how eagerly I accepted the
opportunity of idleness and threw the blame of it on you,--though I say
not altogether idle, having to look over again the story I have been
writing for Chapman called ‘Luttrell,’ and which he has been desiring to
publish some months back.
“I am glad to get back to my old den, Casa Cap., where I write more
at ease and am freer from intrusions than here. Pray let me have No. 2
‘Tony’ to look over again, and send me No. 3 in the _form and quantity_
it will appear in the Magazine. Above all, let your people be sure to
send me ‘Maga.’
“These Italians are making immense warlike preparations. This week the
king reviews 360 pieces of artillery,--more than half the number
rifled guns. By the end of the month the fleet--now a very respectable
squadron--will manouvre before him. Whatever wars France may engage
in these poor devils are sure to partake of. Nice and Savoy are only
instalments of the price they are to pay for Solferino.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Oct_. 1, 1863.
“I was called here by telegraph too late to see my only son alive. He
died of a ruptured bloodvessel on Wednesday last.
“I have for some years back had many misfortunes; this one fills the
cup. I am as bereaved as one can be. My wife is dying, and this shock
may be her last. I have no right to obtrude upon you with these, but I
think you will pity me. Pity is indeed my portion, for one more broken
there cannot be. If I had not begun with you, I would not now, in
justice to you, continue. You will serve us both by drawing out what I
have written to a fifth number if possible. If not, I will do my utmost
to be ready; four parts there are.
“Pray forgive me in all this affliction that I mix you up with what
should not touch you.
“My poor boy was twenty-six,--the finest, boldest, and cleverest fellow
you ever saw, and one of the handsomest.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Oct_. 12,1863.
“I can never forget your kind and feeling note.* Broken and crushed as I
am, I am not yet insensible to such kindness. If you only knew how we
lived with our children, how much we mingled in their lives and they in
ours! It was but the other day my poor boy came back from India after
seven years’ absence, and the feeling that we were all together again
had but just dawned on us.
*_From Mr John Blackwood to Mr Charles Lever._
“Oct. 5,1868.
“I am truly distressed to hear of the sad affliction that
has come upon you in the death of your only son. God comfort
you, and grant that your poor wife may be supported under
this heavy blow. Do not disturb yourself about your tale. I
will make arrangements to suit a man suffering under sorrow
such as yours. We can either shorten the parts or suspend
publication at the end of the fourth part for a month if you
are not ready. All the opinions I hear of the first part are
highly favourable, and would, under other circumstances, be
highly gratifying to you. If I see any comments in the press
likely to interest you, I shall send them to you. All your
novels bespeak the writer a warm-hearted man, and I think
much of you in your affliction. I showed your affecting note
to my wife, who, although like myself personally a stranger
to you, joins me in warm sympathy.”
“My poor wife, too,--for two years a great sufferer from an internal
inflammation,--was happier than I had seen her for many a day, and
when I repined or complained about something, said to me, ‘Well, never
grumble about such disasters; remember all that we have to be thankful
for, and that death has never come amongst us hitherto.’ It was but one
week after that we lost him.
“From my heart. I thank you for your sympathy, all the more, too, that
you associated your wife in your sorrow for us.
“P.S.--It will be better for me, I believe, that I must work, and work
hard; the tired head may help the heavy heart after all.”
_To Mr Alexander Spencer._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Oct_. 17, 1863.
“Your kindest of notes was very dear to me at this, the saddest day of
my life. My poor boy was taken away almost in a moment. Some internal
rupture, followed by great haemorrhage, overcame him, and he sank at
once and never rallied even to consciousness.
“The great struggle of my life was his advancement,--to place him in a
high and honourable position; and to maintain him there was an effort
for which I toiled and laboured till I had parted with the little my
years of industry had gathered, sold my copyrights, and left myself
penniless, even to the poverty that I could scarcely collect enough to
pay the expenses of the churchyard where I laid him. So much for human
foresight! All my love and all my tact to be under the small mound of
the churchyard!
“They who speak of religious consolation in great calamity often forget
that these consolations only appeal to those whose lives have been
invariably directed by a religious standard, and that worldly-minded men
like myself can no more obtain the benefit of these remedies than
they could of any internal medicament which required a course of
long persistence. I say this to show that while not insensible to the
truthfulness of these counsels, yet that personally they do not apply.
“It is now left me to labour on with broken spirits and a faded heart.
To try and cheat the weariness of others I must strain head and nerves,
and stifle true feeling to portray its mockery.
“I suppose I only re-echo what thousands have said, that I wish from
my heart the race was run, and that I could lie down beside my poor
Charley.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Oct_. 20, 1863.
“It was very neglectful of me not to acknowledge your cheque. It was the
more so, since I had not any other money in my possession.
“My wife is a little better. She thanks you deeply and gratefully for
your words of kindness and sympathy to us both.
“I have not been able to work yet, but in a day or two I’ll try. The
poor fisherman in ‘The Antiquary’ cobbled at the boat of his drowned son
the day after,--but it’s harder to task the head when the heart is so
heavy.
“It is very kind of you to tell me good tidings of my story. Believe me,
I am far more anxious for you than for myself.”
_To Dr Burbidge._
“Wednesday, _Oct_. 21,1863.
“I only send you so much of my proof as will make the eighth part in
publication (_la suite en prochain numéro_). I detained it to make
certain corrections, by which you will see I am less an ass than a first
reading might have persuaded you to believe.
“Blackwood writes to me very favourably; he holds much to the secrecy
as to the authorship, and has not even told Aytoun, his most intimate
friend.
“With all the _bonne volonté_ in the world, I cannot work. I can no more
do it than I could walk with a broken leg. It is not that the thing is
difficult, it is impossible.
“I am right well pleased with our success at Church matters--that is,
that we have done all that so narrow an atmosphere admits of, and will
conquer fresh worlds when they are discovered.
“Are there any English ships in the Gulf? or is there anything consular
asked for or wished for?”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Nov_. 7, 1863.
“‘Tony’ looks better in Magazine than in proof. I hope your readers like
it, and sincerely more on your account than on my own.
“I write now to ask would you like a paper on Turkey, on which Bulwer
has been cramming me, but of which _I myself_ know nothing? First of
all, are you Turk or anti-Turk in Magazine? for B. is outrageously
Moslem, and, of course, so will be his article.
“From what I hear from him, the subject might be treated popularly and
readably.
“What clever papers those are in this month’s Magazine, Hawthorne and
the Americans! They are wonderfully well written, and I am amazed at the
good temper of the first, for the theme was a very strong temptation for
sharp reprisals.
“Up to this I have done nothing. I have a very aguish headache that
takes me on alternate days, and for which I am ordered change of air,
which, of course, in my wife’s present state of health, is impossible. I
am very peevish and dissatisfied at my forced idleness; but I suspect if
I were to write in my present mood you would be even less pleased with
my industry.”
_To Dr Burbidge._
“Casa Càpponi, Florence, _Nov_. 11, 1863.
“If the grapes are sour here, it is simply because the fox is too lazy
to stand on his hind legs and take them.
“Pendleton goes positively on the 17th--so he says. There is no one, nor
can there be any one, here to take his place in permanence. If really,
then, you do not actually prefer the hard peas of Spezzia, there is a
reasonable chance of success by a little effort. Just in the same ratio
that I have always bedevilled my own fortunes, I have a certain luck
when I deal with those of others; so if you care to make a move here,
say so now, or hold your peace during all next summer.
“I was told yesterday--by so great a swell that he was almost
unintelligible, and so high and mighty as not to bear being conquered
of by me--that there was a lady now here who was the wife of a gentleman
who once was H. M. of Rugby before Arnold, and who, hearing of your
vicinity, expressed a lively desire to see you here as chaplain. You
would doubtless know who she is, and if she be a valuable constituent.
At all events, think of the thing, and _think fast_.
“Sir Bulwer Lytton is graciously pleased to be pleased with ‘Tony,’ and
condescends to ask Blackwood, Who writes it? Some compensation this,
for a friend now here told me he turned it over, but though it wasn’t
positively _bad_, it was not ‘tempting.’ Happily it takes all sorts of
folk to make a public--as well as a world.
“I believe Julia sent you down a book of mine this morning. If ‘The
Times’ does not reach regularly, it is because it misses here at least
every second day.
“Write to me. Tell me that you are well and the Hôtel d’Odessa empty,
that the climate agrees with Mrs Burbidge, and that Bassetti has the
ague.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _November_.
“Do not cut down T. B.,--it would certainly damage him, and I’ll not
fail you, so far at least as time is concerned. What you tell me of the
opinions of him cheers me much.
“I wrote you a line about Turkey, and now it seems to be that a droll
series of short papers might be well devised--Mr Kenny Dodd upon ‘Men
and Things in General,’--a light [survey] taken from an Irish point of
view, and consequently as often _wrong_ as right. Next year will be a
stirring one here--that is, over the Continent, and afford plenty of
passing events when one wanted them.
“I wonder Bulwer Lytton did not guess me, and I wonder even more that he
liked T. B.; but I am well pleased all the same.
“So you are coming round to M’Caskey. I half thought you would, and
said little in his defence. It certainly is not easy for any one not
‘bog-born’ to understand that composite animal which Ireland produces,
and has so much of the gentleman through a regularly demoralised
scampish nature: the _point d’honneur_ preserved after honour itself was
gone, and the tradition of being respectable maintained after years of
a sponging-house and the police-courts. Believe me, I know full fifty
M’Caskeys, and one of them became a Chief Justice, though I don’t mean
mine to end that way.
“My very warmest thanks for yours and Mrs Blackwood’s inquiries about
my wife. She is a little better,--at least she says so, and that is
something,--and she was very grateful about your interest for her.”
_To Dr Burbidge._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Nov_. 1863.
“I like the notion you suggest of my cancelling. Did you ever see
an Irishman throw out a pint of his chalk mixture because he saw a
bluebottle in the measure? Or, rather, didn’t he daintily pick out the
beastie, aye, if it was a cockroach, with finger and thumb, and serve
his customer? I tell you I couldn’t afford to be careful. I’m not rich
enough, to write creditably,--_e poi?_ I never could bring myself yet,
nor do I hope to arrive at the point hereafter, to respect my Public;
and I often hug myself, in the not very profitable consolation, that
they never thought meaner of me nor do I of them. I _know_ that the very
worst things I ever did were instant successes, and some one or
two--as ‘The Dodds,’ for instance, which had a certain stamp of
originality--were total and lamentable failures. Now, mind, I do not say
this in any spirit of misanthropic invective. I do not want, like poor
Haydn, to slang the world that refuses to appreciate me--and, for this
reason, that they have taken carrion from me and eaten it for good
wholesome ox beef; but I say that for such consumers the trouble of
selection is clean thrown away, and I feel that if I were to write for
Fame, I might finish my book in the Fleet.
“My wife is certainly better; the change is not so great as to alter her
habits of rest and seclusion, but she is better, and looks better. Ju
and Syd well, and, like all of us, very much yours.
“Your notes are a great pleasure, and I think the postman a scoundrel
when he doesn’t bring one.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Nov._, 23,1863.
“The sight of your handwriting is very comforting to me. I tell you
frankly I get no letters that cheer me like yours now. I quite agree
with you about Turkey, and our policy has no other defence than that it
is better to leave open to contingencies what, if we were to deal with
summarily, we should finish at once. In not negotiating with Nicholas
England was simply giving way to one of those intermittent attacks of
morality which seize her after some aggressive paroxysm--a Caffre war or
the annexation of [?Oude] We have done scores of things--and if we live
and prosper will do them again--far more reprehensible than a partition
of Turkey. I believe the Crimean war was a signal blunder, and the peace
that followed it worse than the war.
“As to Turkey as a question for a paper, I can only say as Lord Plunkett
did of a _crim. con. case_: ‘I’d like to have a hundred pounds to argue
it either way.’
“How glad I am you like ‘The Dodds.’ I know I have never done, nor ever
shall do, anything one half so good, because it is original. I decanted,
through all the absurdities of Dodd’s nature, whatever I really knew
of life and mankind, and it is that very admixture of shrewd sense
and intense blundering that makes an Irishman. The perception and the
_enjoyment_ of the very domestic absurdities that overwhelm him with
shame would in any other nature mean insanity, but they only make
an Irishman very true to his national characteristics, and rather a
pleasant fellow to talk to.
“I’ll send you soon a sketch of my intentions as to ‘The Dodd’ papers;
perhaps you are right in keeping the name back.
“Your brother was quite right. My compliments to him, and say he shall
not be bored with any more Italian politics. I suppose my old medical
instincts led me into the mess, and made me fancy that an ‘occasional
bitter’ was always useful I’ll send you a batch of MSS. in a day or two,
and _when you send me the proofs I’ll go ahead vigorously._
“I am reading Kinglake, and delighted with him. I go with every line of
him.”
_To Dr Burbidge._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Dec_, 1,1863.
“I have at last bullied my attack, though a severe rheumatism has seized
on me and brought me to my knees in more senses than one. I am truly
sorry to hear you are out of sorts. Let me prescribe. Go up to the V.
Consulate, extremity of the Casa Falconi, and make Freddy (Sanders, F.)
search out from among the bottles there one of brandy--it is wonderfully
old and good--and take it home, and give yourself a stiffish glass of
the same, cold, without water, a short time before bed-hour, and follow
it each day by ten grains quinine in two separate doses--five grains
each, [?_C’est_] _la grande cure_.
“I am not yet sure whether I have lost MSS. as well as proof, the last,
certainly, as you may know to your cost some fine day when you see No.
2 walk in once more to have his face washed, for indeed I could not make
the corrections you did, and I know they ought to be made. By the way,
neither of us remarked that I gave the same maid--Honoré--to Sir William
Wardle and the Vyners.
“I cannot get to work as I ought. I have a good many anxieties, and I
bear them less well than I used. Strange dispensation, that one’s load
should grow heavier as the back to bear it grows weaker!
“I am making a shocking mull of ‘Luttrell,’ I feel and know, and can’t
help it. I suppose I shall go down to Spezzia in a few days--that is,
next week, but I don’t like leaving home with my wife so nervous and
suffering.
“The Church here at a dead-lock. Pendleton threatening, the vestry
coaxing, the parson putting forth each Sunday all his most attractive
graces, but still, to be sure, asking for more; and the public, most
of whom are in the migratory state, declare that they belong to another
parish, and are deaf to the charmer.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Florence, _Saturday, [Dec]_ 5, [1863.]
“I got a fright at finding that your letter of the 30th does not
acknowledge the receipt of ‘Tony.’ part five, and I hope it has reached
you and will soon reach me. I was wrong about seeing Staffa,--that is, I
have seen it, but only twice or thrice in as many years,--a mere chance
effect of atmosphere which ought not to have been set down as a common
occurrence. Bulwer Lytton amused me about the Colonial habits, but
what would he say if the Sec. (as in Duke of Newcastle case) was in the
Lords, and never went to the House of Lords at all? His other remark
is of more consequence--about Maitland’s connection with Neapolitan
politics; and I am sorry that he dislikes it, sorry because he is a
consummately good critic, and if he with his reflective habits thought
my politics a bore, Heaven help me with the genuine novel-reader!
“But, as you truly say (and with more truth in my particular case than
in most men’s), I must only do the best I can in my _own_ way, not
meaning that I do not desire to be told when I am wrong, and feel
thankful to any one who will take that trouble with me, and endeavour,
moreover, so far as I can, to benefit by the counsel I would not tell
him of the author. It will, besides, enable him to be more free in
stating his opinion, which the oftener you can obtain for me the better.
“I so fully agreed with you in not reviving Kenny Dodd, that I have
created a new man, Cornelius O’Dowd, whose letter to you is enclosed
herewith--the third chapter, being ‘The Friend of Gioberti,’ which
caused a laugh from those who have little mirth in their hearts of late.
I’m not sure you’ll like the thing (though I do), but you will never
disconcert me by frankness, backed up, as I now find it to be, by a
very kindly feeling towards me. There will very soon be events stirring
enough to record here. These people are bent on war, and the secret
agent of the Government left this yesterday for Caprera to confer with
Garibaldi.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, _Dec_, 19, 1863.
“There’s a common belief here that no letters with a photograph can pass
through the Florence post office, as some amateur official is certain to
secure it. If this (a copy for a bust that had a year ago some likeness
to me) reaches you it will be perhaps lucky, and if it fail there will
be no great misfortune to you. The sight of me, either in the flesh
or cardboard, has long ceased to make any one more light-hearted. I am
shaking away, and if I try to write in my present condition you’d shake
too. _Speriamo_--the weather will change soon, and, though I’m not given
to be over-sanguine of late, I hope to be again at work in a few days,
and send you a new relay of ‘Tony.’
“I wish you’d throw your eye over ‘Luttrell,’ and tell me what you think
of it.
“A happy Xmas to you and yours.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
“Casa Capponi, Florence, Dec 23, 1863.
“I send you herewith four chapters, to make at least part of No. 6,
‘Tony.’ Read and comment, and let me soon see the proof, for this is
my one busy consular moment and I can do nothing ‘fictionally’ for
some time, though Heaven knows, I know nothing of bottomry, nothing of
weight, Nothing of cargo, demurrage, or freight. And such a maze are my
faculties wrapt in,
‘I never could say
To this blessed day
Is it the Consul should pay or the Captain?’
“_Addio_, and a pleasanter and happier Christmas than is the lot of
yours faithfully.”
_To Dr Burbidge._
“Casa Capponi, Dec. 26, 1863,
“Will you kindly post the enclosed for me to imply that I am a resident
of Spezzia, and still enjoy the graceful hospitalities of the Hôtel
d’Odessa?
“I am glad you take the view which, though I did not word before, I
myself entertained of the ‘Athenaeum’ criticism. I believe I can guess
the secret spring which set the attack in motion, and the whole is not
worth thinking of, and I can dismiss it from my thoughts without even an
effort.
“Still, I do not believe ‘Luttrell’ will do, and my conviction is that
the despair that attaches to Ireland, from Parliament down to ‘Punch,’
acts injuriously on all who would try to invest her scenes with interest
or endow her people with other qualities than are mentioned in police
courts.
“Tell me, and the theme is a pleasanter one, do you take or give
yourself a holiday at this season? You surely do not treat the old age
and last moments of the year so disparagingly as to make working days of
them! Well, then, come up and give us three or four of them here. I make
no excuse for a dull house, probably you wouldn’t come if it were a gay
one, but such as it is you will be a very welcome guest, and I am sure
that a little new venue and new witnesses in the box would be of service
to you.”
_To Mr John Blackwood._
[Undated.]
“My present plan is of such a book as would make an ordinary 3-vol.
novel, for which I have, I believe, sufficient material for a good
story, and a stirring one. I have not, however, written one line beyond
what I have sent you, so that to trust me you must take my own security.
“Serial-writing not alone adapts itself to my habits, but actually
chimes in with a certain mixture of indecision and facility which marks
whatever I do in this way--that the success or failure of any character
before the world has always guided me, whether to work out the
creation more fully and perfectly, or to abandon it quietly. To give an
instance,--I could give over fifty,--Micky Free was never intended
to figure in more than a passing scene in ‘Charles O’Malley’; but the
public took to him, and so I gave him to them freely.
“All these ‘Confessions of Harry Lorrequer’ will neither exhibit my
artistic or constructive power in a very high light. _N’importe!_ if
you take me, you must take me as they do the two-year-olds--with all my
engagements, which are to write in the only way I have hitherto done, or
I honestly believe I could do at all.
“As to money, a post bill, or your cheque, quite as negotiable, will
suit me perfectly. I hope I am legible, but I have my fears, for I
jammed my fingers in a block on board my boat t’other day, and have not
used a pen since till now.”