Part 17

transmitted to Rome, not by post, but by a secret system of transmission from priest to priest, from Belgium to the Vatican, by _journées d’étapes_. This, to say the least, is very curious, but I think it is more. I believe it to be highly dangerous. I do not know whether you will smile at my fancies that the days of Hildebrand might yet be in store for us, but I feel if I were known to you personally I should scarcely be supposed likely to be regarded as an alarmist, and least of all on such grounds. My friends generally accuse me of having, from long foreign residence, a very tolerant feeling towards Romanism.

“Now, without tormenting you with any details, my idea would be to take this theme as the groundwork of a story, whose scene should lie alternatively in Ireland and abroad, the characters being home and foreign as occasion required. My priest (Machiavellian, of course) would be the _cheval de bataille_--not attempted, I need scarcely say, in any rivalry with Eugene Sue, whose vast superiority in every way as a writer refutes such a presumption, but because the object would open up a very different class of character and interest. My people would be enlisted from various ranks and conditions of men, and afford contrasts of country as well as of individuality.

“This meagre outline it is I would ask your opinion of. Indeed, I scarce knew how shadowy and vague it was till I wrote it down here, and yet there is that _within_ it which a really strong hand might turn to account. Will you kindly say if this be the kind of material that such [? a hand] as mine could work out with interest?

“I told you I would not inflict a MS. upon you, and here I have been doing something so very like it that I am ashamed to look back. However, if you knew how much more prosy and tedious I could have been, and on the very same subject, too, you would be gratified to be let off so easily.

“My best thanks for the hints about the two books. I have already written for them. Strange enough you should have suggested Spain as a likely _locale_ for interest, at a time when I was actually meditating a visit to the Peninsula, my former chief being made Ambassador at the Court of Lisbon, and having pressed me to visit him.

“Your last letter put me into such good-humour with my ‘Knight,’ that I set about writing a new No., and with your criticism so fully in my head, I believe I did better than at any previous stage of his monthly existence.

“There is no part of your praise I set more value on than what you observe as to the good-breeding of certain characters, for while our fashionable (!) writers depict ladies and gentlemen by a hundred distinctive traits of manners and taste, all evidencing the most vulgar views of life, there is another class who love to represent every person of station as a species of moral monster, made of sensuality, deceit, and utter selfishness. If I have avoided these opposite errors, I wish I may have hit the middle course without at the same time making good manners insipid. Your praise lets me hope this, and I could not wish for a more competent authority. I need not now say with what eagerness I will read any remarks you are so kind as to make on my ‘Knight.’ The book only occupies any place in my esteem by reason of your opinion. If you see cause to continue it, I am but too happy to be reconciled to my unworthy offspring.

“My Tyrol stories* I have shelved for the present. They grew to be _triste_ in spite of me, so I resolved to wait for better weather and better spirits, or in other words (such as my children tell me), ‘until Papa gets another pleasant letter from Miss Edge worth.’”

* Two of these tales of Tyrol, probably the only Tyrol stories written by him, were subsequently included in ‘Horace Templeton.’--E. D.

For many years Lever had been engaged in rough passages-at-arms with the Catholic Church militant in Ireland, and though he was by no means a bigoted Anti-Romanist, he regarded “the priest in politics” as a highly dangerous factor. It is greatly to the credit of Miss Edgeworth’s sense of proportion, and to her level-headedness and her acumen, that she saw that if Charles Lever made “priestcraft” his pivot, he would be tempted to outstrip the limits of fair-play in fiction. And it is creditable to Lever that he was so easily dissuaded from undertaking the novel in which the Irish priesthood--then his sworn foe--was to figure as the conglomerate villain of the piece. No doubt the book which Lever had in his mind was one which he proposed to his Dublin publisher, James M’Glashan, giving it the provisional title of ‘Corrig O’Neill.’ Some of the material for this abandoned novel he used in ‘The Daltons,’ in which the Abbé D’Esmonde has a prominent part, though this ecclesiastic’s intriguing (which is almost purely political) has little concern with affairs Hibernian.

_To Miss Edgeworth_.

“Riedenburg, Bregenz, Lac De Constance, _April_ 6, 1847.

“My dear Miss Edgeworth,--I am not quite certain that in now thanking you--and thank you I do most cordially and gratefully--for your kind letter, I am not imitating the obtrusive and old-fashioned politeness of people who will not slip away without saying the ‘good nights.’ Not even the fear of being classed with these _rococos_, however, shall prevent me from saying how I feel the extreme good-nature that dictated your delightful letter, and I now see--I own I never did see so clearly till now--the difficulties of my new story, and in your warnings I already read the censure, anticipatory as it is, of the very faults I should inevitably have committed. I do not fear, indeed, that I should have fallen into any imitation of Eugene Sue--for whose genius I entertain nothing like the admiration I feel for Balzac’s, and for whose false morality and no principle I have a hearty contempt; but I do feel that my prejudices might have easily led me away to father on my priest evils, social and political, which in all likelihood he could never have been answerable for, and, in my anxiety to make out my case, prove too much.

“I am, then, if not deterred, at least checked as to the projected story, and will not adventure on it without more thought and reflection. Perhaps the tone towards Ireland at this moment is not very favourable to such portraiture: indeed, I am told that anything Irish is an ungracious theme to English ears just now, and I am reminded of the man who could never laugh at Liston, for remembering that the actor owed him ten pounds.

“If I fear to ask, I hope no less that my ‘Knight’ holds his place in your good opinion. I am aware that some of the late numbers introduce the reader to less agreeable companionship than is always pleasant, but I felt that the tableland was too even and unbroken, and that strong contrasts were needed to relieve some of the uniformity, even at the hazard of damaging my picture by false keeping. After all, there is nothing so bad as being tiresome, and I can see that this dread evil was spreading over my story. Heavens knows if, endeavouring to avert it, I have not made bad worse!

“I am not unreasonable enough to ask you to write to me again--but this much I will say, that I know of no favour for which I am more grateful, nor for any kindness on which I set such store, as a letter from Miss Edgeworth.”

This letter seems to have closed the correspondence. In May 1849 Miss Edgeworth died at the advanced age of eighty-three years.

X. COMO--FLORENCE--BAGNI DI LUCCA 1847-1849

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._

“Villa Lima, Como, _Sept_. 1, 1847.

“I send you herewith a letter received from Chapman this day. You will see by one expression--the same crucible--that he, too, is [alive] to the possibility of a reprint of my books himself. As to ‘Horace Templeton,’--which is now my only spec,--it is a secret--to be published without my name. I thereby receive a small sum, but I hazard no fame, and would willingly try if, under a new sobriquet, I could lay siege to a new public.

“Have you any reason to believe that £500 to £600 with my claim would be accepted [for the copyrights]? I am more than ever eager to recover them, because, during the reissue, I could lie by and yet have some means of living till better bookselling days. Above all, obtain my MS. from M’Glashan, for independently of his cavalier treatment of me, I have now, _viâ_ ‘Horace Templeton,’ a local habitation to accommodate my stray sheep withal. And this ‘Tyrol Tale’ will now do me good service. Send it, therefore, and with it will you send the pages of my story called ‘Carl Stelling, the Painter of Dresden,’ printed in the July number of the D. U. M., 1845? M’Glashan could give the sheet without destroying a number, but if not, buy one and tear it out. This also finds a lodging in the Hôtel Templeton.

“I cannot thank you enough for all your kindness in writing to me--a kindness that does not need the force of contrast (in others’ neglect) to make it dearer. I am a bankrupt in thanks, and have coolly resolved to die in your debt.”

_To Mr Alexander Spencer._

“Villa Lima, Lago de Como, _Sept._ 20, 1847.

“We could never think of pushing Curry to a bankruptcy. If others take this upon them we must abide by it, but I hope, for the poor man’s sake, it may not be so.... M’Glashan scarcely deserves a paragraph.... O’Sullivan’s letter was in so far only an allusion to the affair at issue--that is, he said, M’G. has, it appears, an MS. of yours in his hands, which he will write to you about by this post or the following. Four months ago he (M’G.) wrote to me asking, in eager terms, to see this MS., and promising a reply upon it without the least delay,--since which he has never once written, not even an acknowledgment of its arrival.

“I would beg of you to keep the MS. by you--that is, if it should not have already been forwarded to [catch] Maxwell in London. As to the printed story,--‘Carl Stelling,’--will you scratch out the title at top, and the words ‘by the editor’ carefully, and cross out the Introduction, letting the tale begin by the words of the narrator--“There are moments in life,” &c.,--and send it to Mr Chapman with a line to say that this printed matter comes in after the MS. pages of chapter xi. of ‘Horace Templeton’? I may here add that the aforesaid H. T. is already--so far at least as eleven chapters go--in the printer’s hands. It is precious bad stuff, and, worse still, very lachrymose and depressing--I mean, so far as such very powerless trash can be--_Mais que vovlez-vous?_ And in the present case I have laid the child at another man’s door, and will never own him--if he doesn’t grow up more thrivingly than I hope for.

“You wouldn’t believe what difficulties the authorities here make about the unhappy document. The Podesta is afraid of it! The Legation trembles at it--the Commessario says it is ‘Peri-colosissimo!’ and how I am to find an _employé_ courageous enough to look on while I sign it, I cannot tell. I fear that in the end I must go up to Milan, where the functionaries will possibly have more hardihood.

“I am greatly gratified that you have seen John Maxwell--whose visit I look for with much pleasure. We have not met for seventeen years,--up to that we had spent, nearly day-by-day, the previous ten or twelve years always together. It will be curious for each to see time’s changes in the other, and how far the opinions and tastes of the man already steering round Cape Dangerous have diverged from (those of) the boy and the youth. For myself, there are many [? changes] that I can recognise; nor am I blind to the telling of coming years, which show me the diminished sense of enjoyment I possess to heretofore,--how little I value society, how tiresome I find what I hear are very pleasant people, and so on. And without being actually old, I am old enough to think that the world used to be pleasanter long ago, and that friends were more cordial and more frank, and that there was more _laisser-aller_ in the course of life than in these hardworking, money-seeking, railroading days we’ve got now.

“The most enduring tastes a man can cultivate (avarice apart) are, I believe, the love of scenery and music. There I feel stronger than ever: the former has, perhaps from living a good deal alone, become a passion with me, and I am better pleased to have glens, glaciers, and cataracts than the fascinations of soirees and receptions.

“Keep ‘Horace Templeton’ quite _en cachet_, for though I suppose I shall be known easily, I will not confess, but die innocent.

“We have very grave events happening here at Milan, but they are kept quiet by the police, and even in society every one you ask on the subject says--_Non e niente_: and so they will keep on saying till the streets are barricaded, and the city in open revolt. Between ourselves, the reform party here are great blackguards, and the Pope [? without irreverence] an ass to think that moderate concessions and reasonable privileges will content a mob, who only look for a new constitution as an occasion for general pillage. It’s all very fine for ‘the gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease,’ to say God-speed to the march of Liberal opinions in other lands; but let them remember that our own institutions took centuries to grow and to consolidate, and were often shaken and menaced, and only at length firmly established by the force of public opinion, which finds its exponent in aristocratic institutions,--a hereditary peerage and a popular assembly, nearly four-fifths of which is aristocratic. Try the same systems in other countries, and see what will come of it. Get people to make laws who never met for the voting of a parish cess or a penny poor rate; liberate a press that only asks freedom that it may revel in libel; set up an aristocracy that are uneducated and unreformed as objects of general respect! No, no! If the Pope had contented himself with his first [? effort], and swept the Church and its monastic institutions free from abuses; had he examined into the state of charities and hospitals and schools,--he would have done far more good, though far less obtrusively, than by quarrelling with Austria, and fraternising with Mazzini & Co.

“There are rumours of an outbreak at Bologna; probably, my dear friend, you have already sighed forth a wish that I was in the midst of it rather than [that I should] inflict upon you this tiresome piece of prolixity. But remember what the old woman said to the sentinel, who threatened to put the bayonet into her hinder part--‘Divil thank you--sure it’s yer thrade!’

“Fore God! I think a Bull from the Pope must be easy to obtain in comparison with the formality of this unlucky document. I now enclose it _en règle_.”

_To Mr Alexander Spencer._

“Villa Lima, Lago de Como, _Oct_. 6, 1847.

“You say you are puzzled by what Chapman says as to my being charged with the production (at least one-half cost) of unsold copies. Yet the fact is precisely so. There were of ‘Hinton’ something above 16,000 sold and somewhere like 20,000 printed, and with the interval between the two amounts you will find that I am charged with a moiety of the cost of producing. It was this fact, coupled with the trickery of a depreciatory sale, that made Chapman pronounce the whole [? transaction] a cheat.*

* What Edward Chapman had actually written (some time previously) was: “You have been in the hands of the Philistines. It is these things which bring discredit on our craft, and make authors look upon us as a set of ghouls ready to eat them, body and bones--with a tendency to get fat upon their brains. No doubt it was thought that you would make a nice dish _curried._”--E. D.

“It was Chapman’s accountant who discovered M’Glashan’s status, [which] is indeed the greatest mystery of all. How he could leave the concern so deeply indebted I cannot conceive. Great sacrifices, I am sure, he made to retain the Magazine, but the sum of £3000 must be six times more than would purchase the D. U. M.

“Is it not possible that some day or other that same Magazine may be in the market? If it were mine--solely--I would make £1000 out of it per annum.

“I am sincerely gratified that you have read, and, better still, are pleased with, my Tyrolean story. Had I not too just grounds to fear how the very aspect of my hand-o’-write must weary you, I would have asked you to read the MS. Now that you have done so, I may say that I wrote it in the fulness of my heartfelt admiration for the land and the people,--one in which and with whom I would feel delighted to linger out whatever may remain to me of life.

“As for Como, I own I like it better every day I stay here; but if it be very pleasurable it is costly. Every one here is rich,--millionaire Russians and Lombards, Venetian Eccelenzas, Grandees d’Espagne, &c., are around us on every side; and the whole Lake is a gala of gay gondolas and dressy signoras, which figure not only reflected in the water, but once more and less pleasantly in one’s bank account.

“Maxwell wrote to me from Paris, and I replied to him to Livonia, as he desired; but he had not abandoned all idea of coming here, and was making, as fast as the heavy mail and his bronchitis would permit, for Florence.