Charles Lever.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 468, 3 May 1890, Page 3

Charles Lever.

EDITED BY MRS FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. [COPYRIGHT.] [All Rights Reserved.]

By Andrew Lang.

Surely it is a pleasant thing that there are books, like other enjoyments, for all ages. You would not havft ft boy prefer whist to fives, nor tobacco to toffee, nor Tolstoi to Charles Lever. The ancients reckoned Tyrtaous a fine poet, not that he was paiticularly melodious, nor reflective, but that he gave men heart to fight for their country. Charles Lever has done as much. In his biography, by Mr Fitzpatrick, it is told that a widow lady had but one son, and for him she obtained an appointment at Woolwich. She must have been a brave lady to send her only child to the wars. The boy was timid and nervous, and she fancied that she must find him some other profession ; perhaps that of literature. Bub he one day chanced on Lever’s novels, and they put so much heart into him that his character quite altered, and he became the braveßt of the brave. Lever may not do as much for everyone, but he does teach contempt of danger, or rather, delight in it; a gay, spontaneous, boyish kind of courage, Irish courage at its best. Youwillgetmoregoodfromthab, than harm from all his tales of much punch, and many drinking bouts. Theseareno longerin fashion ; they are nob very gay reading, perhaps, but his stories and songs, his duels and battles, and hunting scenes are as gay and as good as ever. Wild as they seem in the reading, they are not far from the truth, as may be gathered out of Barrington s Memoirs, and their tales of the reckless Irish life, some eighty years ago. There were two men in Charles Lever, a glad man and a sad man. . The gaiety was for his youth, when he poured out his ‘Lorrequers’ and ‘O’Malleys,’ allthe mirth and memories of his boyhood, all the tales of fighting and feasting he gleaned from battered seasoned old warriors like Major Monsoon. Even then, Mr Thackeray, who knew him, and liked and laughed at him, recognised through his merriment ‘the fund of sadness beneath.’ ‘The authors character is not humour but sentiment. • extreme delicacy, sweetness and kindliness of heart. The spirits are mostly artificial, the fond is sadness, as appears to me to be that of mosb Irish writing and people. , Boys may not see that, nor is it desirable that they should dwell on it. But, even in • Charles O’Malley ’ what a true, dark picture that is of the duel beside the broad angry river on the level waste under the wide grey sky. Charles has. shot his opponent, Bodkin, and with Considine, his second, is making his escape. ‘ Considine cried out suddenly, “Too infamous, by Jove, we are murdered men !’” ‘ What do you mean ?’ said I. • Don’t you see that f said lie pointing to something black which floated from a pole at the opposite side of the river. * Yea, what is it ?’ •It’s his coat they’ve pub upon an oar to show the people he’s killed, that’s all. Every man here’s his tenant, and look there, they’re not giving us much doubt as to their intentions.’ Here a tremendous yell buret forth from the mass of people along the shore, which, rising to a terrific cry, sunk gradually down to a low wailing, then rose and fell several times, as the Irish death cry filled the air, and rose to Heaven, as if imploring vengeance on a murderer. Passages like this, and what follows ; the dangerous voyage through the storm on the flooded Shannon, and through the reefs, are what Mr Thackeray may have had on his mind, when he spoke of Lever’s underlying melancholy. Like other men with very highspirits, he had hours of gloom, and the sadness and the thoughtfulness that were in him, came forth then and inform his later books. These are far more carefully written, far more cunningly constructed than the old chapters, written from month to month as the fib took him, with no more plan or premeditation than • Pickwick.’ But it is the early stories that we remember, and that he lives by: the pages thrown off at a heat, when he was a lively Doctor with few patients, and nob over-attentive to them. These were the days of ‘Harry Lorrequer’ and ‘Tom Burke ;’ characters that ran away with him, and took their own path through a merry world of diversion. Like the knights in Sir Thomas Malory, these heroes ‘ ride at adventure,’ ride amazing horses that dread no leap, be it an Irish stone wall on a mountain crest, or be it the bayonets of a French square. Mr Lever’s biographer has nob been wholly successful in pleasing the critics, and he does nob seem to affect very critical airs himself, but he tells a straightforward tale. The life of Charles Lever is the natural commentary on his novels. He was born at Dublin m 1806, the son of a builder or architect. At school he was very much flogged, and the odds are that he deserved these attentions, for he had high spirits beyond the patience of dominies. Handsome, merry and clever, he read novels in schools hours, wore a ring; and set up as a dandy. Even then he was in love with the young lady whom he married in the end. At a fight with boys of another school he and a friend placed a mine under the ground occupied by the enemy, and blew them, more or less, into the air. Many an eyebrow was singed off on that fatal day, when, for the only time, this romancer of the wars ‘smelled powder.” He afterwards pleaded for his party before the worthy police magistrate, and showed great promise as a barrister. At Trinity College, Dublin, he was full of his fun, made ballads, sang them through the streets in disguise (like Fergusson, the Scotch poet) and one night collected 30s m coppers. The original of Frank Webbe, in Charles O’Malley ’ was a chum of his, and he took part in the'wonderful practical jokes which he has made immortal in that novel. From Trinity College, Dublin, I,ever went to Gottingen, where he found fun and fightingenoughamong the German students. From that hour he became a citizen of the world, or at least, of Europe, and perhaps, like the prophets, was most honoured when out of his own country. He returned to Dublin and took his degree in medicine, after playing a famous practical joke. A certain medical professor was wont to lecture.in bed- One night he left.town unexpectedly. Lever, by chance, came early lecture, found the Professor absent,

i slipped into the bed, pub on his nightcap, and took the class himself. On another day he was standing outside the Foundling Hospital with a friend, a small man. Now, a kind of stone cradle for foundlings was built outside the door and, when a baby was placed therein, a bell rang. Lever lifted up his friend, popped him into the cradle, and had the joy of seeing the promising infant picked out by the porter. It seems a queer education for a man of letters; but, like Sir Walter Scott when revelling in Liddesdale, he was making himself all the time. He was collecting myriads of odd experiences and treasures of anecdotes ; he was learning to know men of all sorts, and later, as a country doctor, he had experiences of mess tables, of hunting, and of all the ways of bis remarkable countrymen. When cholera visited his district he stuck to his work like a man of heart and courage. But the usual tasks of a country doctor wearied him ; he neglected them, he became unpopular with the authorities, he married his first love and returned to Brussels, where he practised as a physician. He had already begun his first notable book, ‘ Harry Lorrequer, in the * University Magazine.’ It is merely a string.of Irish and other stories, good, bad, and indifferent, a picture gallery full of portraits of priests, soldiers, peasants, and odd characters. The plot is of no importance; we are not interested in Harry’s love affairs, but in hisscrapes, adventures, duels at home and abroad. He fights people by mistake whom he did nob know by sight, he appears on parade with his face blackened, he wins large piles at trente et quarante, he disposes of coopers of claret, and bowls of punch, and the sheep on a thousand hills provide him with devilled kidneys. The critics and the authors thought little of the merry medley, but the public enjoyed it, and defied the reviowers. One-paper preferred the book to a wilderness of ‘ Pickwickß,’ and as this opinion was advertised everywhere by McGlasham, the publisher, Mr Dickens was very much annoyed indeed. Authors are easily annoyed. But he writes ut placeat pueris , and there was a tremendous fight at Rugby between two boys, the ‘ Slogger Williams ’ and ‘ Tom Brown ’ of the period, for the possession of ‘Harry Lorrequer.’ When an author has the boys of England on his side, he can laugh at the critics. Nob that Lever laughed ; he, too, was eapily vexed, and much depressed, when the reviews pitched into him. Now he began ‘ Charles O’Malley,’ and, if anyone reads this article,Avhohas nobread the Irish Dragoon, let him begin at once. O’Malley is what you can recommend to a friend. Here is every species of diversion : duels : and steeplechases, practical jokes at college (good practical jokes, not booby traps, and apple-pie beds) ; here is fighting in the Peninsula. If any student is in doubb, let , him try Chapter XIV., the batde on the Douro. This is, indeed, excellent military writing, and need not fear comparison, as art, with Napier’s famous history, . Lever hus warmed to his work, his heart is in it, he had the best information from an eye witness, and the brief beginning, on the peace of nature before the strife of men, is admirably poetical. To reach the French, under Soult, Wellesley had to cross the deep and rapid Douro, in face of their fire, and without regular transport. ‘He dared‘the deed. What must have been his confidence in the men he commanded ; what must have been his reliance on his own genius !’ You hold your breath as you read, while English and German charge, till at last the field is won, and the dust of the French columns retreating in the distance blows down the road to Spain. The Great Duke read this passage, and marvelled how Lever knew certain things that he tells. He learned this, and much more, the humours of war, from the original of Major Monsoon. Falstaff is alone in the literature of the world, but if ever there came a later Falstaff’, Monsoon was the man. And where have you such an Irish Sancho Panza &s Micky Free, that independent minstrel, or such an Irish Di Vernon as Baby Blake ? The critics may praise Lever’s thoughtful and careful later novels as they will, bub 1 Charles O’Malley ’ will always bo the pattern of a military romance. The anecdote of ‘a virtuous weakness’ in O’Shaughnessy’s father’s character would alone make the fortune of many a story. The truth is, it is nob easy to lay down ‘ Charles O’Malley ’ to leave off reading it, and get on with the account of Lever.

His excellent and delightful novel scarcely received one favourable notice from the press. This may have been because it was so popular, but Lever became so nervous that he did not like to look at the papers. When he went back to Dublin and edited a magazine there, he .was more fiercely assailed than ever. It is difficult for an Irishman to write about the Irish., or for a Scot to write about the Scotch, without hurting the feelings of his countrymen. While their literary brethren are alive they are not very dear to the scribes of these gallant nations, and thus Jeffrey was more severe to Scot than he need have been, while thelrishpress.it appears, made an onslaught on Lever.' MrThackeray met Leverin Dublin, and be mentions this unkind behaviour. * Lorrequer’s military propensities have been objected to strongly, by his squeamish Hibernian brethren. . . . But is Lor-

requer the only man in Ireland who is fond of military spectacles ? Why does, the “Nation'’publish theseedifyingand Christian war songs ? . . . And who is it that prates about the Irish at Waterloo, and the Irish at Fontenoy, and the Irish at Seringapatam, and the Irish at Timbuctoo ? If Mr O’Connell, like a wise rhetorician, chooses, and very properly, to flatter the national military passion, why not Harry Lorrequer ?’ Why not, indeed? but Mr Lever was a successful Irishman of letters, and a good many other Irish gentlemen of letters, honest Doolan and his friends, were not successful. That is the humour of it. Though you, my readers, do not detest Jones because he is in the Eleven, nor Brown because he has ‘got his cap,’, nor Smith because he does Greek lambics like a Sophocles ; though you rather admire and applaud these champions, you may feel very differently when you come to thirty years or more, and see other men doing what you cannot do, and gaining prizes beyond your grasp. And then if you are a reviewer, you * will find fault with a book for what it does not give,’ as thus : ‘ Lady Smigsmag’s novel is amusing, but lamentably deficient in geological information.’ ‘Mr Lever’s novels are trashy and worthless, for his facts are not borne out by any authority, andhegivesus no information about the political state of Ireland. “ Oh ! our country, our green and beloved, our beautiful and oppressed !” ’ and so. forth. It was not altogether a happy time, that Lever passed at home. Not only did his native critics belabour him most ungrudgingly for ‘Tom Burke,’ that vivid and chivalrous romance, but he made enemies of authors. He edited a magazine ! Is not that enough ? He wearied of wading through waggon loads of that pure unmitigated rubbish which people are permitted to ‘ shoot ’ at editorial doors. How much dust there is in it to how few pearls !. He did not return MSS. punctually andpolitely. The office cat could edit the volunteered contributions of many a magazine, butLever was even more casual and careless then an experienced office cat. He grew crabbed, and tried to quarrel with Mr

Thackeray for that delightful parody ‘ Phil Fogarty,’ nearly as good as a genuine story by Lever. ~ . . , Beset by critics, burlesqued by his friends, he changed his style (Mr Fitzpatrick tells us) and becamo more sober and not so entertaining. Would you believe it, he published a criticism of Beyle, of Stendhal, that psychological prig, the darling of culture and of Mr Paul Bourget ? Hariy Lorrequer on Stendhal : it beggars belief. He nearly fought a duel with the gentleman who is said to have suggested* Mr Pecksniff to Dickens ! Yet they call his early novels improbable. Nothing could be less plausible than a combat between Hariy Lorrequer and a gentleman who, even remotely, resembled the father of Cherry and Merry. . ~ Lever went abioad again, and m Florence or the Baths of Lucca, in Trieste or Spezia, he passed the rest of his life. He saw the Italian revolutions of 1848, and they added to his melancholy. This is plain from one of his novels with a curious history, Con Cregan.’ He wrote it at the same time as ‘ The Daltons,’ and he did nob sign it. The reviewers praised ‘ Con Cregan .’ at the expense of the signed work, rejoicing that Lever, as ‘ The Daltons’ proved, was exhausted, and that a new Irish author, the author of. Con Cregan,’ was coming to eclipse him. In short he eclipsed himself, and he did not like it. His right hand was jealous of what his left hand'did. It seems odd that any human being, however dull and envious, failed to detect Lever in the rapid and vivacious adventures of * Gil Bias,’ hero of one of the very best among his books, a piece nob unworthy of Dumas. ‘ Con was written after midnight, ‘ The Daltons in the morning, and there can be no doubt which set of hours was most favourable to Lever’s genius. Of course, he liked ‘ The Daltons ’ best: of all people,, authors appear to be their own worst critics. It is not possible even to catalogue Lever’s later books here. Again he drove a pair of novels abreast —‘ The.Dodds and Sir Jasper Carew ’ —which contains some of his most powerful situations. When almost an old man, sad, outworn in body, straightened in circumstances, he still produced excellent tales in this later manner —‘ Lord Kilgobbin That Boy of Norcotb’s,’ ‘ A Day s Ride,’ and many more. These are much less ‘boys’ books’ than the old, cheery, military romances ; they are the thoughts of a tired man of the world, who has done and seen everything that such men see and do. He says that he grew fat, and bald, and grave ; he wrote for the grave and the bald, not for the happier world which is young, and curly, and merry. He died at last, it is said, in his sleep, and it is added that he did what Harry Lorrequer would nob have done—he left his affairs in perfect order.

Lever lived in an age so full of great novelists that, perhaps, he is not prized as he should be. Dickens, Buhver, Thackeray, Trollope, George Eliot, were his contemporaries. Bub when we turn back and read him once more, we see that Lever, too, was a worthy member of that; famous company —a romancer for boys and men.