Lever was now at the threshold of the most brilliant period of his career. Still in the prime of life, he was able to enjoy all the fun of the fair, and to record his impressions of men and affairs with unflagging vivacity, but with mellowed shrewdness. He neither hoped nor desired to reach again that giddy pinnacle upon which stood ‘Harry Lorrequer’ and ‘Charles O’Malley.’ He now possessed a firmer grip of character; he was more adroit in the arts of description and dialogue; and he had gained a truer insight into the workings of the human mind. His military fever was slowly burning itself out, though he was able to fan the embers into flame when, later, he was inditing the adventures of “Maurice Tiernay.” His sense of fantastic and boisterous humour was as strong as when he had created “Mickey Free” and “Corney Delany”: under firmer control it had lost much of its side-splitting qualities; yet, as one may judge from ‘Con Cregan,’ it was only because he held his art in high esteem that he did not, in his later period, produce another “Lorrequer.”
It has been the habit, in criticising Lever’s novels, to state that a startling change in his manner originated with ‘Glencore,’ published in 1855; but this statement is made mainly on the authority of Charles Lever. He really began to “sober down” with ‘The O’Donoghue’ in 1844 and ‘The Knight of Gwynne’ in 1845; and when, on the romance-inspiring shores of Lake Como, he planned the adventures of “roland Cashel,” his early nonchalant manner was fast disappearing.
To Alexander Spencer.
“Villa Nova, Lake of Como, Aug. 9, 1847.
“At last we are in Italy, and if the journey—bringing seven horses and three children over the Alps—was not without its share of anxieties, our present séjour well repays them all. Indeed, I could not attempt to give an idea of the mingled grandeur and beauty of this gorgeous lake—Alpine in sublimity, and yet a tropical picture of vegetation. Our little villa, one of the very smallest on the lake, stands next the Villa D’Esté, so renowned as Queen Caroline’s—about two and a half miles from Como, in a small embayment bounded by lofty mountains, and almost hid among the thick shade of olives, citrons, wild fig-trees, and cactus. On every side stands some picturesque abode, all, or nearly all, belonging to distinguished persons, and built in every variety of architectural taste. Castles and cottages, forts, villas, palaces, temples, all more beautiful than I have ever seen before, because that neither colour nor tracery suffers from the effects of weather; and nothing is more common than to see frescoes in all the freshness of tint on the outside of houses, while statues are of a whiteness that even our galleries rarely exhibit. Gondolas, in all the gay and frappant colours that aquatic coquetry can suggest, are eternally shooting past our windows; and now, while I write at midnight, the lake is alive with passing barcarolles and the glitter of torches,—making a picture of strange and most beautiful effect.
“I would ramble on for hours and yet convey, perhaps, nothing—at least nothing approaching the inexpressible charm of a scene where beauty of landscape blends with a picture of life made up of all that high civilisation and culture can create. It realises in one spot all I had dreamed of Italy—and whether in the balmy air, the sky lit up by stars of seemingly unnatural brilliancy, the lake blue as a turquoise, I fancy I see and feel the influence that renders every other land insipid after this.
“Your letters forwarded to me from Rheineck arrived here to-day. I have only to say how perfectly I concur with you in all that has been done—anxiously hoping, of course, that a good issue may follow, but quite satisfied to await with patience for the event. M’Glashan’s conduct is indeed a puzzle. He received from me (at his own urgent request too) a MS. on the 18th May. It was part of a small vol. which he purposed to treat with me for.* Since then he has not even written to acknowledge the receipt, much less to discuss the terms I proposed for the work. Prior to that he and Orr [? intended] to pay me a visit. I replied expressing my perfect readiness to receive them. But nothing followed. I should now be greatly gratified at recovering my MS., and if you could obtain it for me, Robert Maxwell of Gardiner Street would give it to our old friend, John Maxwell, who has promised to spend some days here on his way back to Florence, where he resides. I have not as yet made—nor do I see any immediate hope of making—a new literary engagement for the New Year, books and booksellers being at a discount. If, then, I could, by any means, obtain a hold on my former books, I would at once set about a new and cheap edition.
* ‘Tales of the Tyrol’
“I am so near the Swiss frontier—at the Canton of Tessin—that I prefer making my post town there, where all newspapers are admitted freely. Address me, then, Poste Restante, Chiasso, Switzerland.”
To Mr Alexander Spencer.