In 1840 Charles Lever, on an invitation from Sir John
Crompton, Secretary to the British Embassy in Belgium, forsook
Ireland for Brussels, where for a time he followed his
profession of medicine. Two years later an offer of the
editorship of the "Dublin University Magazine" recalled him to
Ireland, when he definitely abandoned a medical career and
settled down to literature permanently. The first fruit of
that appointment was "Tom Burke of Ours," published, after
running serially in the magazine, in 1844. It is more serious
in tone than any of his preceding works; in it the author
utilises the rich colouring gained from his long residence in
France, and the book is less remarkable for the complex, if
vigorous, story it contains than for its graphic and exciting
pictures of men and events in the campaigns of Napoleon Many
of its episodes are conceived in the true spirit of romance.
_I.--The Boy Rebel_
"Be advised by me," said De Meudon earnestly; "do not embark with these
Irish rebels in their enterprise! They have none. Their only daring is
some deed of rapine and murder. No; liberty is not to be achieved by
such bands as these. France is your country--there liberty has been won;
there lives one great man whose notice, were it but passingly bestowed,
is fame."
He sank back exhausted. The energy of his speech was too great for his
weak and exhausted frame to bear. Captain de Meudon had come to Ireland
in 1798 to aid in the rebellion; he had seen its failure, but had
remained in Ireland trying vainly to give to the disaffection some
military organization. He had realized the hopelessness of his efforts.
He was ill, and very near to death. Now I stood by his bedside in a
little cottage in Glenmalure.
Boy as I was, I had already seen enough to make me a rebel in feeling
and in action. I had stood a short time before the death-bed of my
father, who disliked me, and who had left nearly all his property to my
elder brother, who was indifferent to me. My father had indentured me as
apprentice to his lawyer, and sooner than submit to the rule of this
man--the evil genius of our family--I had taken flight. The companion of
my wanderings was Darby M'Keown, the piper, the cleverest and cunningest
of the agents of rebellion. Then I had met De Meudon, who had turned my
thoughts and ambitions into another channel.
My companion grew steadily worse.
"Take my pocket-book," he whispered; "there is a letter you'll give my
sister Marie. There are some five or six thousand francs--they are
yours; you must be a pupil at the Polytechnique at Paris. If it should
be your fortune to speak with General Bonaparte, say to him that when
Charles de Meudon was dying--in exile--with but one friend left--he held
his portrait to his lips, and, with his last breath, he kissed it."
A shivering ran through his limbs--a sigh--and all was still. He was
dead.
"Halloa, there!" said a voice. The door opened, and a sergeant entered.
"I have a warrant to arrest Captain de Meudon, a French officer who is
concealed here. Where is he?"