Charles Lever, His Life in His Letters, Vol. II — Edition Insights

The Editor's Hand and the Serial's Pulse

Edmund Downey's editorial presence is minimal but strategic. He provides brief footnotes, such as identifying Sidney Lever as the author of 'Fireflies,' and occasionally clarifies references. The letters themselves, however, are the primary text, and they reveal a writer deeply engaged in the mechanics of serial publication. Lever frequently sends instalments of his stories—'Tony,' 'O'Dowd,' and others—and asks for Blackwood's counsel. In one letter, he writes, 'I am not sure—so much has your criticism on “Tony” weighed with me, and so far have I welded his fortunes by your counsel—that you’ll not have to own it one of these days as your own.' This collaborative dynamic is central to understanding Lever's creative process. The letters also show his responsiveness to reader and critic feedback, as when he revises a squib about 'M'Caskey' after Blackwood's reservations. The serial format demanded quick adjustments, and Lever's letters capture that pressure.

Health, Humour, and the Shadow of Mortality

Throughout the volume, Lever's physical condition is a recurring undercurrent. He mentions 'the ague' in 1864, and by 1868 he describes attending the ex-Emperor's funeral in Trieste: 'four mortal hours in a uniform on a mule, with a fierce north-easter and a High Mass!' The humour is characteristic—Lever often deflects discomfort with wit. Yet the letters also reveal a man aware of his own decline. He writes of Thackeray's death with genuine sorrow, recalling their evenings at Templeogue, and reflects on the fate of writers who 'go on pouring water on the lees.' The epitaph he composes for himself is a dark joke, but it underscores a preoccupation with legacy. The movement between lighthearted anecdotes and somber reflections gives the correspondence a layered emotional texture.

Political Sarcasm and the Irish Question

Lever's letters frequently engage with contemporary politics, particularly the Irish Church debate. In February 1868, he writes, 'The Irish Church is doomed. The only question is not who is to use the crowbar, but how to get out of the way when the edifice is falling.' This blunt assessment is typical of his style: he avoids sentimentality and favors sharp, almost cynical observation. He also discusses a squib he wrote, 'M'Caskey,' which he insists is 'sarcasm, not seriousness.' The letters show him navigating the expectations of his publisher, who worried the piece might be misread. Lever's political commentary is woven into his literary work, and the correspondence reveals how he calibrated his tone for different audiences. His refusal to lecture in America, citing the 'Irish element that would certainly assail me,' further illustrates his awareness of his public persona.

Family, Friends, and the Texture of Daily Life

Beyond literary business, the letters offer glimpses of Lever's domestic world. He mentions his youngest daughter's review of a book and her account of Maximilian's funeral published in 'The Times,' expressing a wish to see her work in 'Maga.' These details humanize the writer, showing pride in his children's accomplishments. He also references friends like Lytton and Bowes, and his correspondence with Blackwood includes warm personal regards: 'Give my warmest and best regards to your wife.' The letters from Trieste, where Lever settled, convey a sense of isolation tempered by routine. He envies Blackwood's London life but admits he would not want to live there permanently. The recurring image of the mule ride at the funeral—absurd and uncomfortable—epitomizes Lever's ability to find humor in the mundane.

Readers approaching this volume should attend to the interplay between Lever's literary output and his personal circumstances. The letters are not a polished autobiography but a raw record of a working writer's life. Pay attention to the shifts in tone—from playful to weary—and the recurring motifs of health, politics, and collaboration. The editorial notes are sparse, so the letters themselves must carry the narrative. This is a document of process, not product, and its value lies in the immediacy of Lever's voice.

Reading Lever’s letters, I remembered sitting on my grandmother’s porch, her old copy of Cobb's Bill-of-Fare — Themes and Context open in my lap. The way he grumbles about editors while loving the work—that same stubborn affection ran through Cobb’s menu of daily woes. Both felt like eavesdropping on a friend who’d rather complain than stop.