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

In Short

This volume serves as a poignant, unvarnished portrait of an Irish writer’s twilight years. Composed primarily of letters sent to his publisher, the book chronicles the daily reality of a man attempting to maintain his creative output—and his precarious finances—from his consular post in Trieste. It is a work of candid self-reflection, capturing the humor, professional anxiety, and profound melancholy of an aging artist who fears he is pouring water on the lees, yet who persists in his craft until his quiet, peaceful end.

The Story

The arc of the volume is defined by the steady decline of its subject’s physical constitution and the persistent, often humorous, efforts he makes to outrun the consequences. As the book opens in the mid-1860s, the narrator is settled in Italy, balancing his responsibilities as a diplomat with the relentless pressure of serial fiction. He is a man perpetually tired, suffering from recurring bouts of gout and "doing-nothingness," yet he remains tethered to his ink-bottle by necessity. He writes with a mixture of pride and self-deprecation about his works, treating them as life rafts that keep him afloat in both a financial and existential sense.

The narrative rhythm is dictated by the arrival of proofs, the demands of his publisher, and his own shifting moods. He is a man of contradictions: he is a social creature who feels deeply the loss of his old Irish companions, yet he chooses to remain in an isolated, sometimes desolate, Mediterranean existence. As the years pass, the tone of his letters darkens. He experiences the profound, debilitating blow of losing his wife—the companion of his long life—and subsequently finds himself in a state of drift. The "great" moments of European politics—the wars of Bismarck, the rise of Italian nationalism, and the complexities of the British cabinet—are observed from his desk in Trieste, analyzed with a sharp, cynical, yet occasionally weary eye.

The closing chapters are marked by a sense of finality. He is a man who has lived "in the thick of it" and is now visibly exhausted. He makes one final trip, seeking comfort in a visit to his daughter, and finds a temporary resurgence in his health. However, the recurring theme of his late life—a fear of becoming a burden to his children or a "weariness" to himself—eventually gives way to an acceptance of his end. The book concludes with the quiet, tragic report of his passing, relayed by his longtime friend and publisher. It is a dignified, understated exit for a man who spent his life entertaining others while fighting his own private shadows.

How It Unfolds

The routine of the professional. The author balances his work on serial novels like Tony Butler with the administrative tasks of his consular life, often complaining of the "ague" or bouts of profound lethargy that threaten his deadlines.

The weight of the past. He reflects on the deaths of his contemporaries, such as Thackeray, and notes how the bright, bustling Dublin of his youth has transformed into a place inhabited by "solemn care-worn personages" who no longer recognize the spirit of their younger days.

The political observer. He provides commentary on European instability, particularly the rise of Prussia and the maneuvering of the French, often using these observations to inform his "O’Dowd" columns for the magazine.

The deepening shadows. The narrative shifts to focus on his wife’s illness and his own worsening heart condition, as he moves from a posture of witty detachment to one of stark, honest vulnerability.

The final adjustment. The author attempts to find comfort in his daughters' company, even as he realizes that his "lease of life" is running thin, ultimately seeking a final meeting with his publisher before his strength fails him.

The People

The narrator is a man of immense charm and underlying fragility. He wants to be seen as a professional, yet he is prone to "dreary paroxysms of incapacity" that make him feel like a fraud. He values loyalty and friendship above all, relying on his publisher, John Blackwood, as both a sounding board for his plots and a sympathetic ear for his personal suffering.

The author’s wife remains a central, though often silent, force. Her death marks the most significant emotional rupture in the book, turning the narrator into a man who feels "companionless" despite the presence of his devoted daughters. These daughters, in turn, are the ones who drive him to his desk, observing his decline and trying to keep him anchored to the work that defines his identity. The various politicians and colleagues he mentions—like the "consummate rogue" Henry Bulwer or the "braggart" war correspondents—serve as foils to the author’s own, often cynical, view of human nature. By the end, the author is left alone with his daughters, a man who has outlived his era and is finally ready to rest.

In Its Own Voice

"For fifty odd years I lived in the thick of it, / And now I lie here heartily sick of it."

The author captures his own fatigue and disillusionment in a self-composed epitaph written during a particularly dark period of his life.

"I am subject to periodical and very acute attacks of ‘doing-nothingness.’--it would be euphuism to call it idleness, which implies a certain amount of indulgence, but mine are dreary paroxysms of incapacity to do anything other than sleep and eat and grumble."

Writing to his publisher, he describes the paralyzing creative blocks that plagued his final years.

"I know of no man but yourself from whom I should have liked to have letters on the same theme, and if my illness did not make me as reflective as you hoped for, your letter has given me much thought."

In one of his last letters, he acknowledges the deep, sustaining friendship he shared with John Blackwood.

What It's Really About

At its core, this volume is an inquiry into the cost of a literary life. It examines the tension between the public requirement to be "blithesome" and the private reality of aging, illness, and bereavement. The author constantly grapples with the question of whether a writer’s talent is a sustainable resource or a limited supply of "liquor" that eventually runs thin. It is also an exploration of the late-Victorian experience of exile; the author lives in Italy but remains mentally, emotionally, and politically tethered to the British and Irish worlds. Ultimately, the book is a meditation on the necessity of dignity in the face of physical decline and the quiet, persistent power of friendship.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy literary biography will find this book an exceptionally intimate experience. It does not offer the polish of a retrospective memoir; instead, it provides the raw, unedited, and often messy reality of a life in progress. You will feel the author’s frustration with his gout, his anxiety over bank balances, and his genuine affection for the friends who sustained him. It is, at times, a difficult read—the author’s health issues and his occasionally cynical, period-specific views on politics and foreign cultures can be jarring—but these elements are precisely what make the book feel authentic.

The prose is conversational and crisp, reflecting the voice of a man who spent his life writing for a deadline. It stays with you because it refuses to romanticize the act of dying. Instead, it presents a man who is "horribly grim" about his mortality, yet capable of finding small joys in a good dinner or a kind letter. For anyone interested in the 19th-century publishing world or the psychology of an artist who fears he has outlived his best work, this volume is an essential, if bittersweet, companion. You come away from it not with a sense of triumph, but with a profound appreciation for the endurance of the human spirit.