The author of "Charles O'Malley," perhaps the most typical of
Irish novelists, was of English descent on his father's side.
But Charles James Lever himself was Irish by birth, being born
at Dublin on August 31, 1806--Irish in sentiment and
distinctly Irish in temperament. In geniality and extravagance
he bore much resemblance to the gay, riotous spirits he has
immortalised in his books. "Of all the men I have ever
encountered," says Trollope, "he was the surest fund of
drollery." Lever was intended for medicine; but financial
difficulties forced him to return to literature. His first
story was "Harry Lorrequer," published in 1837. It was
followed in 1840 by "Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon,"
which established his reputation as one of the first humorists
of his day. The story is the most popular of all Lever's
works, and in many respects the most characteristic. The
narrative is told with great vigour, and the delineation of
character is at once subtle and life-like. Lever died on June
1, 1872.
_I.--O'Malley of O'Malley Castle_
It was in O'Malley Castle, a very ruinous pile of incongruous masonry
that stood in a wild and dreary part of Galway, that I passed my infancy
and youth. When a mere child I was left an orphan to the care of my
worthy uncle. My father, whose extravagance had well sustained the
family reputation, had squandered a large and handsome property in
contesting elections for his native county, and in keeping up that
system of unlimited hospitality for which Ireland in general, and Galway
more especially, was renowned. The result was, as might be expected,
ruin and beggary. When he died the only legacy he left to his brother
was a boy of four years of age, entreating him, with his last breath,
"Be anything you like to him, Godfrey, but a father--or, at least, such
a one as I have proved."
Godfrey O'Malley sometime previous had lost his wife, and when this new
trust was committed to him he resolved never to re-marry, but to rear me
as his own child.
From my earliest years his whole anxiety was to fit me for the part of a
country gentleman, as he regarded that character--_viz._, I rode boldly
with the fox-hounds; I was about the best shot within twenty miles; I
could swim the Shannon at Holy Island; I drove four-in-hand better than
the coachman himself; and from finding a hare to hooking a salmon my
equal could not be found from Killaloe to Banagher. These were the
staple of my endowments; besides which, the parish priest had taught me
a little Latin, a little French, and a little geometry.
When I add to this portraiture of my accomplishments that I was nearly
six feet high, with more than a common share of activity and strength
for my years, and no inconsiderable portion of good looks, I have
finished my sketch, and stand before my reader.
We were in the thick of canvassing the county for the parliamentary seat
in my uncle's interest. O'Malley Castle was the centre of operations;
while I, a mere stripling, and usually treated as a boy, was entrusted
with an important mission, and sent off to canvass a distant relation,
Mr. Matthew Blake, who might possibly be approachable by a younger
branch of the family, with whom he had never any collision.
I arrived at his house while the company were breakfasting. After the
usual shaking of hands and hearty greetings were over, I was introduced
to Sir George Dashwood, a tall and singularly handsome man of about
fifty, and his daughter, Lucy Dashwood.
If the sweetest blue eyes that ever beamed beneath a forehead of snowy
whiteness, over which dark brown and waving hair fell, less in curls
than masses of locky richness, could only have known what wild work they
were making of my poor heart, Miss Dashwood, I trust, would have looked
at her teacup or her muffin rather than at me, as she actually did, on
that fatal morning.
Beside her sat a tall, handsome man of about five-and-thirty, or perhaps
forty, years of age, with a most soldierly air, who, as I was presented
to him, scarcely turned his head, and gave me a half-nod of unequivocal
coldness. As I turned from the lovely girl, who had received me with
marked courtesy, to the cold air and repelling hauteur of the
dark-browed captain, the blood rushed throbbing to my forehead; and as I
walked to my place at the table, I eagerly sought his eye, to return him
a look of defiance and disdain, proud and contemptuous as his own.
Captain Hammersly, however, never took further notice of me, and I
formed a bitter resolution, which I endeavoured to carry into effect
during the next day's hunt. Mounted on my best horse, I deliberately led
him across the worst and roughest country, river, and hills, and walls,
and ditches, till I finished up with a broken head and he with a broken
arm, and a horse that had to be slaughtered.
On the fourth day after this adventure I was able to enter the
drawing-room again. Sir George Dashwood made the kindest inquiries about
my health.
"They tell me you are to be a lawyer, Mr. O'Malley," said he; "and, if
so, I must advise you to take better care of your headpiece."
"A lawyer, papa? Oh, dear me!" said his daughter. "I should never have
thought of his being anything so stupid."
"Why, silly girl, what would you have a man to be?"
"A dragoon, to be sure, papa," said the fond girl, as she pressed her
arm around him, and looked up in his face with an expression of mingled
pride and affection.
That word sealed my destiny.
_II.--I Join the Dragoons_
I had been at Mr. Blake's house five days before I recollected my
uncle's interests; but with one hole in my head and some half-dozen in
my heart my memory was none of the best. But that night at dinner I
discovered, to my savage amazement, that Mr. Blake and all the company
were there in the interest of the opposition candidate, and that Sir
George Dashwood was their candidate. In my excitement I hurled my
wineglass at the head of one of the company who expressed himself in
regard to my uncle in a manner insulting to a degree. In the duel which
followed I shot my opponent.
I had sprung into man's estate. In three short days I had fallen deeply,
desperately, in love, and had wounded, if not killed, an antagonist in a
duel. As I meditated on these things I was aroused by the noise of
horses' feet. I opened the window, and beheld no less a person than
Captain Hammersly. I begged of him to alight and come in.
"I thank you very much," he said; "but, in fact, my hours are now
numbered here. I have just received an order to join my regiment. I
could not, however, leave the country without shaking hands with you. I
owe you a lesson in horsemanship, and I'm only sorry that we are not to
have another day together. I'm sorry you are not coming with us."
"Would to heaven I were!" said I, with an earnestness that almost made
my brain start.
"Then why not?"
"Unfortunately, my worthy uncle, who is all to me in this world, would
be quite alone if I were to leave him; and, although he has never said
so, I know he dreads the possibility of my suggesting such a thing."
"Devilish hard; but I believe you are right. Something, however, may
turn up yet to alter his mind. And so good-bye, O'Malley, good-bye."
During the contest for the seat--which was frankly fought in pitched
battles and scrimmages, and by corruption and perjury--I managed to save
Miss Dashwood's life. When polling-time came, Sir George found the
feeling against him was so strong, and we were so successful in beating
his voters out of the town, in spite of police and soldiers, that he
resigned his candidature.
Afterwards I spent some time in Dublin, nominally in preparation for the
law, at Trinity College. But my college career convinced my uncle that
my forte did not lie in the classics, and Sir George succeeded in
inducing him to yield to my wishes, and interested himself so strongly
for me that I obtained a cornetcy in the 14th Light Dragoons a week
before the regiment sailed for Portugal. On the morning of my last day
in Dublin I met Miss Dashwood riding in the park. For some minutes I
could scarcely speak. At last I plucked up courage a little, and said,
"Miss Dashwood, I have wished most anxiously, before I parted for ever
with those to whom I owe already so much, that I should, at least, speak
my gratitude."
"But when do you think of going?"
"To-morrow. Captain Power, under whose command I am, has received orders
to embark immediately for Portugal."
I thought--perhaps it was but a thought--that her cheek grew somewhat
paler as I spoke; but she remained silent.
Fixing my eyes full upon her I spoke.
"Lucy, I feel I must confess it, cost what it may--I love you. I know
the fruitlessness, the utter despair, that awaits such a sentiment. My
own heart tells me that I am not, cannot be, loved in return. I ask for
nothing; I hope for nothing. I see that you at least pity me. Nay, one
word more. Do not, when time and distance have separated us, think that
the expressions I now use are prompted by a mere sudden ebullition of
boyish feeling; for I swear to you that my love to you is the source and
spring of every action in my life, and, when I cease to love you, I
shall cease to feel. And now, farewell; farewell for ever."
I pressed her hand to my lips, gave one long, last look, turned my horse
rapidly away, and, ere a minute, was out of sight.
_III.--I Smell Gunpowder_
What a contrast to the dull monotony of our life at sea did the scene
present which awaited us on landing at Lisbon! The whole quay was
crowded with hundreds of people, eagerly watching the vessel which bore
from her mast the broad ensign of Britain.
The din and clamour of a mighty city mingled with the far-off sounds of
military music; and, in the vistas of the opening streets, masses of
troops might be seen, in marching order. All betokened the near approach
of war.
On the morning after we landed, Power rode off with dispatches to
headquarters, leaving me to execute two commissions with which he had
been entrusted--a packet for Hammersly from Miss Dashwood and an epistle
from a love-sick midshipman who could not get on shore, to the Senhora
Inez da Silviero. I took up the packet for Hammersly with a heavy heart.
Alas! thought I, how fatally may my life be influenced by it!
The loud call of a cavalry trumpet roused me, and I passed out into the
street for the morning's inspection. The next day I delivered the packet
to the Senhora Inez, by whom I was warmly received--rather more on my
own account than on that of the little midshipman, I fancied. Certainly
I never beheld a being more lovely, and I found myself paying her some
attentions. Yet she was nothing to me. It is true, she had, as she most
candidly informed me, a score of admirers, among whom I was not even
reckoned; she was evidently a coquette. On May 7, 1809, we set off for
Oporto. The 14th were detailed to guard the pass to the Douro until the
reinforcements were up, and then I saw my first engagement. Never till
now, as we rode to the charge, did I know how far the excitement reaches
when, man to man, sabre to sabre, we ride forward to the battlefield. On
we went, the loud shout of "Forward!" still ringing in our ears. One
broken, irregular discharge from the French guns shook the head of our
advancing column, but stayed us not as we galloped madly on.
I remember no more. The din, the smoke, the crash--the cry for quarter,
mingled with the shout of victory, the flying enemy--are all commingled
in my mind, but leave no trace of clearness or connection between them;
and it was only when the column wheeled to re-form that I awoke from my
trance of maddening excitement, and perceived that we had carried the
position and cut off the guns of the enemy.
The scene was now beyond anything, maddening in its interest. From the
walls of Oporto the English infantry poured forth in pursuit; while the
whole river was covered with boats, as they still continued to cross
over. The artillery thundered from the Sierra, to protect the landing,
for it was even still contested in places; and the cavalry, charging in
flank, swept the broken ranks and bore down their squares. Then a final
impetuous charge carried the day.
From that fight I got my lieutenancy, and then was sent off by Sir
Arthur Wellesley on special duty to the Lusitanian Legion in
Alcantara--a flattering position opened to my enterprise. Before I set
out, I was able to deliver Miss Dashwood's packet to Captain Hammersly,
barely recovered from a sabre wound. His agitation and his manner in
receiving it puzzled me greatly, though my own agitation was scarcely
less.
When I returned after a month with the Legion, during which my services
were of no very distinguished character, I found a letter from Galway
which saddened my thoughts greatly. A lawsuit had gone against my uncle,
and what I had long foreseen was gradually accomplishing--the wreck of
an old and honoured house. And I could only look on and watch the
progress of our downfall without power to arrest it.
_IV.--Shipwrecked Hopes_
Having been sent to the rear with dispatches, I did not reach Talavera
till two days' hard fighting had left the contending armies without
decided advantage on either side.
I had scarcely joined my regiment before the 14th were ordered to
charge.
We came on at a trot. The smoke of the cannonade obscured everything
until we had advanced some distance, but suddenly the splendid panorama
of the battlefield broke upon us.
"Charge! Forward!" cried the hoarse voice of our colonel; and we were
upon them. The French infantry, already broken by the withering musketry
of our people, gave way before us, and, unable to form a square, retired
fighting, but in confusion and with tremendous loss, to their position.
One glorious cheer from left to right of our line proclaimed the
victory, while a deafening discharge of artillery from the French
replied to this defiance, and the battle was over.
For several months after the battle of Talavera my life presented
nothing which I feel worth recording. Our good fortune seemed to have
deserted us when our hopes were highest; for from the day of that
splendid victory we began our retrograde movement upon Portugal. Pressed
hard by overwhelming masses of the enemy, we saw the fortresses of
Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida fall successively into their hands, and
retired, mystified and disappointed, to Torres Vedras.
Wounded in a somewhat scatter-brain night expedition to the lines of
Ciudad Rodrigo, my campaigning--for some time, at least--was concluded;
for my wound began to menace the loss of my arm, and I was ordered back
to Lisbon. Fred Power was the first man I saw, and almost the first
thing he told me was that Sir George Dashwood was in Lisbon, and that
his daughter was with him. And then, with conflicting feelings, I found
that all Lisbon mentioned my name in connection with the senhora, and
Sir George himself, in appointing me an aide-de-camp, threw increased
gloom over my thoughts by referring to the report Power had spoken of.
My torment was completed by meeting Miss Dashwood in the Senhora Inez's
house under circumstances which led to treat me with stiff, formal
courtesy.
The next night a letter from a Dublin friend reached me which told me
that "Hammersly had got his _congé_."
Here, then, was the solution of the whole chaos of mystery; here the
full explanation of what had puzzled my aching brain for many a night
long. His own were the letters I had delivered into Hammersly's hands. A
flood of light poured at once across all the dark passages of my
history; and Lucy, too--dare I think of her? What if she had really
cared for me! Oh, the bitter agony of that thought! To think that all my
hopes were shipwrecked with the very land in sight.
I sprang to my feet with some sudden impulse, but, as I did so, the
blood rushed madly to my head, and I fell. My arm was again broken, and
ere day I was delirious.
Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and when I returned to consciousness and
convalescence I found I had been removed to the senhora's villa, and to
her I owed, in a large part, my recovery. I was deeper in my dilemma
than ever. Nevertheless, before I returned to the front, I found an
opportunity to vindicate to Lucy my unshaken faith, reconciling the
conflicting evidences with the proofs I proffered of my attachment. We
were interrupted before I could learn how my protestations were
received. Power, I found soon after, was the one favoured by the fair
Inez's affections.
_V.--A Desolate Hearth_
It is not my intention, were I even adequate to the task, to trace with
anything like accuracy the events of the war at this period. In fact, to
those who, like myself, were performing duties of a mere subaltern
character, the daily movements of our own troops, not to speak of the
continual changes of the enemy, were perfectly unknown, and an English
newspaper was more ardently longed for in the Peninsula than by the most
eager crowd of a London coffee-room.
So I pass over the details of the retreat of the French, and the great
battle of Fuentes D'Oñoro. In the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, that death
struggle of vengeance and despair, I gained some notoriety in leading a
party of stormers through a broken embrasure, and found myself under
Lord Wellington's displeasure for having left my duties as aide-de-camp.
However, the exploit gained me leave to return to England, and the
additional honour of carrying dispatches to the Prince Regent.
When I arrived in London with the glorious news of the capture of Ciudad
Rodrigo, the kind and gracious notice of the prince obtained me
attentions on all sides. Indeed, so flattering was the reception I met
with, and so overwhelming the civility showered on me, that it required
no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero as they
would make me. An eternal round of dinners, balls, and entertainments
filled up an entire week.
At last I obtained the Prince Regent's permission to leave London, and a
few mornings after landed in Cork. Hastening my journey, I was walking
the last eight miles--my chaise having broken down--when suddenly my
attention was caught by a sound which, faint from the distance, scarce
struck upon my ear. Thinking it probably some delusion of my heated
imagination, I rose to push forward; but at the moment a slight breeze
stirred, and a low, moaning sound swelled upward, increasing each
instant as it came. It grew louder as the wind bore it towards me, and
now falling, now swelling, it burst forth into one loud, prolonged cry
of agony and grief. O God, it was the death-wail!
My suspense became too great to bear; I dashed madly forward. As I
neared the house, the whole approach was crowded with carriages and
horsemen. At the foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and
mournful hearse, its plumes nodding in the breeze, and, as the sounds
without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the black pall of a
coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and an old man,
a life-long friend of my uncle, across whose features a struggle for
self-mastery was playing, held out his hand to enforce silence. I sprang
toward him, choked by agony. He threw his arms around me, and muttering
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.
Mine was a desolate hearth. In respect to my uncle's last wishes, I sold
out of the army and settled down to a quieter life than the clang of
battle, the ardour of the march. Gradually new impressions and new
duties succeeded; and, ere four months elapsed, the quiet monotony of my
daily life healed up the wounds of my suffering, and a sense of content,
if not of happiness, crept gently over me, and I ceased to long for the
clash of arms and the loud blast of the trumpet.
But three years later a regiment of infantry marching to Cork for
embarkation for the Continent after Bonaparte's return from Elba, roused
all the eagerness of my old desires, and I volunteered for service
again.
A few days after I was in Brussels, and attending that most memorable
and most exciting entertainment, the Duchess of Richmond's ball, on the
night of June 15, 1815. Lucy Dashwood was there, beautiful beyond
anything I had ever seen her. When the word came of the advance of
Napoleon I was sent off with the major-general's orders, and then joined
the night march to Quatre Bras. There I fell into the hands of a French
troop and missed the fighting, though I saw Napoleon himself, and had
the good fortune to effect the escape of Sir George Dashwood, who lay a
prisoner under sentence of death in the same place as myself. Early in
the day of Waterloo I contrived my own escape, and was able to give Lord
Wellington much information as to the French movements.
After the battle I wandered back into Brussels and learned that we had
gained the day. As I came into the city Sir George met me and took me
into his hotel, where were Power and the senhora, about to be married.
Wounded by the innocent raillery of my friends, I escaped into an empty
room and buried my head in my hands. Oh, how often had the phantom of
happiness passed within my reach, but glided from my grasp!
"Oh, Lucy, Lucy!" I exclaimed aloud. "But for you, and a few words
carelessly spoken, I had never trod the path of ambition whose end has
been the wreck of all my happiness! But for you I had never loved so
fondly! But for you, and I had never been--"
"A soldier, you would say," whispered a soft voice as a light hand
gently touched my shoulder. "No, Mr. O'Malley; deeply grateful as I am
to you for the service you once rendered myself, bound as I am by every
tie of thankfulness by the greater one to my father, yet do I feel that
in the impulse I have given to your life I have done more to repay my
debt to you than by all the friendship, all the esteem I owe you. If,
indeed, by any means, you became a soldier, then I am indeed proud."
"Alas! Lucy--Miss Dashwood, I would say--how has my career fulfilled the
promise that gave it birth? For you, and you only, to gain your
affection, I became a soldier. And now, and now----"
"And now," said she, while her eyes beamed upon me with a very flood of
tenderness, "is it nothing that I have glowed with pride at triumphs I
could read of, but dared not share in? I have thought of you. I have
dreamed, I have prayed for you."
"Alas! Lucy, but not loved me."
Her hand, which had fallen upon mine, trembled violently. I pressed my
lips upon it, but she moved it not. I dared to look up; her head was
turned away, but her heaving bosom betrayed emotion.
Our eyes met--I cannot say what it was--but in a moment the whole
current of my thoughts was changed. Her look was bent upon me, beaming
with softness and affection; her hand gently pressed my own, and her
lips murmured my name.
The door burst open at this moment, and Sir George Dashwood appeared.
Lucy turned one fleeting look upon her father, and fell fainting into my
arms.
"God bless you, my boy!" said the old general as he hurriedly wiped a
tear from his eye. "I am now indeed a happy father."
* * * * *