Part 11

Continuing his account of the meeting between the two novelists, Major Dwyer tells us that plans were discussed about sight-seeing. It was suggested that Thackeray should take a peep at a grand review which was to be held the following day in the Phoenix Park. Thackeray, Lever, and Major Dwyer drove to the Chief Secretary’s Lodge, and then walked to the review-ground. During the course of a cavalry charge Lever was separated from his friends, and Thackeray grew very uneasy when he beheld horsemen tearing wildly down towards him. The Major endeavoured to reassure the English novelist, but after listening to a brief lecture on military tactics, Thackeray said he preferred to review the ladies. The two men strolled homewards after the field-day, Thackeray waxing enthusiastic over Irish scenery. Then the conversation drifted to Waterloo, and Thackeray told his companion that the after-dinner conversation of the previous evening had caused him to think seriously of utilising in a work of fiction some of the incidents of the famous battle. Lever’s treatment of it in ‘O’Malley’ was much too imaginative--in fact, much too audacious, according to Michael Angelo Titmarsh.

This visit of Thackeray to Templeogue had a disturbing effect upon Lever. The former professed not to be able to understand why the latter should prefer Dublin to London as a place of residence. The Irish capital had been drained of its literary life-blood, he argued. No Irishman of ability remained at home except those who looked for advancement in the learned professions or those who were patronised by the Viceregal Court. Thackeray suggested that Lever should carry his Magazine across the water and establish it in London, where he would be in touch with numerous Irishmen of genuine ability. He would find that nineteen shillings out of every pound which he received came from Great Britain, and that his fame would travel faster and his purse would be more readily replenished if he was in the thick of the scramble in London rather than on the fringe of it in Dublin. Lever insisted that duty as well as his inclination bound him to his country, and that he would remain faithful to her as long as she would allow him to remain faithful. But though he spoke bravely he was shaken by the arguments of the author of ‘The Irish Sketch-Book.’

‘Tom Burke of Ours’ was now in hand. In the previous year Lever had an idea of writing an exhaustive Life of Napoleon, and he had crammed himself with information from various sources about the Napoleonic wars. Major Dwyer recounts a dialogue between the author of ‘Tom Burke’ and himself, as the pair walked along the eastern pier at Kingstown. Lever asked the Major if he would write military tales, long or short, for his Magazine. Dwyer declared that he should not know how to set about such a task; and the other asserted that, to begin with, nothing was easier than to depict a field of battle. A military man, or one who had been associated with military people, could easily conjure up a vision of a battlefield. “Then create a few actors and set them in motion--and the remainder is easy enough,” suggested Lever naïvely. He added a postscript to this recipe for the concoction of a novel of military life: “You would want a woman or two.” Major Dwyer declared that it was only a man who knew nothing at all about military operations who could describe a whole battle in the heroic:sensational style. He then asked Lever where he had obtained the material for his soldier stories. “For what is in ‘O’Malley,’” replied his companion, “I am mainly indebted to Napier; for the rest, to ‘Les Victoires et Conquêtes de l’Armée Français.’”

Writing many years afterwards about ‘Tom Burke,’ its author mentions that he was engaged upon it when Thackeray visited him at Templeogue, intent upon gathering material for his ‘Sketch-Book.’ “And I believe,” says Lever, “that though we discussed every other book and book-writer, neither of us ever, even by chance, alluded to what the other was doing.”

Though 1842 was a very busy year with him, the master of Templeogue did not deny himself ample jollification. His house became a resort for pleasant people. Brilliant men came to talk, to jest, to listen, or to play cards. The host was an inveterate gambler. Whist was one of his passions, but he could find enjoyment in any form of gambling, from roulette to “push-pin.” There is an illuminating anecdote told of a Templeogue whist-party which included Lord Muskerry. The vehicles belonging to the visitors somehow got interlocked during the night, and could not be disentangled until five o’clock in the morning, when a local blacksmith operated upon them. Two of the guests accompanied Lord Muskerry to his house in Merrion Square, and the door was opened for them by Lady Muskerry attired in her night-gown. She is said to have “pitched in” pretty heavily to his lordship.

Naturally enough, between the pressure of his literary work and his editorial labours, and the filching of hours from the night,--in order to lengthen the days,--Lever paid the penalty. He complained that he had gone sadly to seed. He feared that the opening of ‘Tom Burke’ was flat. It was fortunate that he had in Mortimer O’Sullivan a friend who was able to stimulate him. O’Sullivan told him that ‘Tom Burke’ was anything but flat, and that it promised to be his best book. Another of his encouragers was Canon Hayman, who paid Templeogue an early visit, and who has placed it on record that when Lever was not entertaining distinguished visitors he led a quiet and healthy life, and that when he was entertaining company his only desire was to make his guests “happy--innocently happy.” Riding was his favourite out-of-door exercise; and “never was he in better spirits than when far away on the Wicklow hills, with a friend by his side and his children around him on their ponies.”

‘Jack Hinton’ concluded its serial course in December, and it was arranged that ‘Arthur O’Leary’ should follow it in the Magazine. Lever submitted to Canon Hayman some of the manuscript of ‘Arthur O’Leary,’ declaring, in one of his petulant moods, that he “detested this stuff,”--that it was easy to write it, but a labour to read it.

But the Canon insisted that ‘O’Leary’ was excellent, and Lever retired to his “snuggery”--an apartment of which he gives an amusing glimpse in his Magazine*--prepared to work until the pen dropped from his tired fingers. The smallest charge of tiresomeness could always sink him deep in gloom; and, fortunately for himself the faintest echo of praise, coming from the lips of any one whose opinion he valued, could elevate him to the seventh heaven. He admits that “an impertinent paragraph or some malicious sneer” would cause him to toss his manuscript aside and to scribble caricatures on the sheets intended for the recording of fictional adventures.

* “The Sub-editor’s Snuggery,” in the ‘D. U. Magazine’ for July 1842.

Lever loved politics almost as ardently as he loved whist. He had an idea that in Ireland he might be enabled to cut a considerable figure in political life, but the party at whose side he was willing to serve--the Tory party--was fearful of him,--not because of any suspicion of his faithfulness or of any doubt about his ability, but because of his reputation as a humourist of the devil-may-care order. He attended occasional functions at the Viceregal Court, but he did not seem to make much headway in this direction. It is said that he resented bitterly the cold-shouldering to which the Viceroy, Lord de Grey, treated him.

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.”

The strain of writing, the increasing worries of editorship, and the attacks made upon him by writers politically opposed to him, were affecting Lever so much that he feared he would break down completely. Thackeray’s dedication to him of ‘The Irish Sketch-Book’ did not tend to advance his popularity in his own land. It was rashly assumed that he had prompted or suggested many things in the ‘Sketch-Book’ which gave offence to Lorrequer’s sensitive fellow-countrymen. He had always been a heavy sleeper, but he was beginning to feel that one may have too much of a good thing. Early in 1843 he complained that he slept for twenty hours a-day and yawned through the remaining four. As the summer approached he could neither write nor read. His doctor ordered him to take a trip on the Continent--not a business visit. Still uneasy, he called in Surgeon Cusack, who warned him against railroads and steamboats. This physician informed Lever that he was suffering from apoplectic threatenings. The diagnosis caused him horrible dismay, but he begged that his wife should not be told. As August approached he found himself unable to fill a space in a proof, and he made up his mind that, as a holiday was essential, and as he had been warned against railroads, he would take a driving tour through Ireland. Accompanied by his wife, and acting as his own coachman, he drove through the counties of Wicklow and Wexford. At New Ross he ignored his friend Cusack’s advice, and putting his horse and vehicle on board, he travelled to Waterford by steamboat. The journey agreed with him, and by the time he reached Lismore he imagined that he was fit for work again. In Lismore he made an effort to finish ‘Tom Burke,’ but the effort was a failure. He was fond of ‘Tom Burke,’ but he feared that there was a vast gulf between his conception of the story and the manner of his working it out. “I intended,” he says, “to have exhibited a picture of France at a period when the prestige of a monarch had given way to the feudalism of a military state, and where the great prizes, long limited to birth and station, were thrown open for the competition of all. To depict this, and to show the lights and shadows of French military life and the contrast of our own, was also my object. I forgot my plan sometimes; sometimes my characters had a will of their own, and would go their own way.” And oftener again, he modestly adds, he found himself endeavouring to accomplish something beyond his powers. He continued the journey through Cork to Killarney, and here he was able to complete ‘Tom Burke’ and to project a new novel, ‘The O’Donoghue.’ His spirits were now reviving rapidly. Chickens and salmon were the staple fare at the various inns at which he put up; and he declared his wife and he had consumed so much fowl and fish, that they found it difficult to prevent themselves from flying and swimming. It afforded him intense delight to revisit Clare and Galway. Here he describes himself “climbing mountains, fording rivers, crossing bays, tramping along roads” with such assiduity, that pen and ink were out of the question. At Gort he was serenaded by a temperance band--the band playing all the songs in ‘Charles O’Malley.’ Its author made a speech by moonlight, and invited the serenaders to tea in the parlour of his inn. He continued his now joyous career through Mayo, refreshing himself with glimpses of the scenery of a country which was for ever associated in his memory with his earliest encourager, Maxwell.*

* Maxwell had left Ireland by this time. He is said to have died (in poverty) in Scotland in 1850, but there is some dispute as to the date of his death.--E. D.

This pleasant outing refreshed and reinvigorated him, and the symptoms of the brain trouble, of which he had been warned, disappeared. But he was determined to lead a more quiet life.**

During the autumn of 1844 he was visited by Mr Stephen Pearce, the portrait-painter, who had arrived in Ireland in order to execute a commission. A feeling of mutual regard seems to have sprung up at once between the artist and the novelist. Lever invited Pearce on a visit, and this visit was prolonged into a sojourn of two years. During these two years Mr Pearce painted his host’s portrait. He also made a sketch of his study--described as a little room with quaint sideboard of carved oak, dark-brown cabinet, curiously sculptured, and heavy brocade curtains across the door. Into this sketch the artist introduced a back view of Lever sitting at the fireplace bending over the fire. He made a sketch of the house, too, bringing into the picture a view of the old cascade,*** portrayed by Lever as “none of your rollicking harum-scarum things called waterfalls, but a solid, steady, discreet fall, coming heavily down, step by step, some hundred yards in the midst of a large meadow.”

** Major Leech informed Dr Fitzpatrick that Lever “lived at the rate of £3000 a-year at Templeogue.”

*** I have endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to trace these pictures. In 1896 Mr Pearce told me that he was unable to throw any light upon their whereabouts. He also informed me that, in addition to the pictures mentioned above, he had made at Bagni di Lucca a chalk drawing of Lever’s head.--E. D.

Mr Pearce enjoyed the society of his host so keenly that he was only a short time under his roof when he offered to become his amanuensis, and Lever, who was always hearing of growls about the illegibility of his “copy,” readily accepted the artist’s proposal. To Dr Fitzpatrick Mr Pearce furnished a most interesting account of life at Templeogue. On fine afternoons Lever and he rode into the office of ‘The Dublin University’ at a rattling pace. Sometimes the three children accompanied them on their ponies. A party of urchins were in the habit of meeting the equestrians on the outskirts of Dublin city--at Portobello Bridge. This motley crowd--known as “Lever’s pack”--followed the chase right up to the office of the Magazine in Sackville Street, sometimes yelping like hounds. At the door of Messrs Curry & Co.’s shop there was generally a fierce struggle amongst the youths for the honour of holding Lever’s horse. It is needless to add that “the pack” was treated liberally by its master.

If the weather was wet, Lever did not venture into the city. One of his favourite pastimes was to ride about the grounds with his children, encouraging them to gallop, or to jump over trunks of fallen trees, giving a wild “hurroo” whenever they took a jump together.

Lever’s hospitality, generous and open-hearted as it was, had none of the wildness with which it was the habit to credit it in these days. Mr Pearce says that his manner was to make the house and everything in it seem to belong to his guests, but his residence in Brussels had made him “quite foreign in his dinners and his wines”; and much as he had written about whisky, it was a beverage not to be found in Templeogue House. The children dined at two o’clock, and Lever and his wife made this their luncheon. He usually slept for an hour after this meal, and then he would wake up, good-humoured and brisk, and ready for a bout of work.