Charles Lever, His Life in His Letters, Vol. I

by Charles James Lever

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.”