Any one who will take the trouble to make himself acquainted with the chronicles of social life of the periods described by Lever will find that there is little exaggeration in his pictures. Of Irish peasant life he did not possess that intimate knowledge--it can be acquired only through actual experience--that Carle-ton possessed; but in none of Lever’s books is there to be found anything bordering on disgusting and debasing caricatures of the peasantry. One of his later Irish critics goes so far in another direction as to insist that Lever “represents the native virtues of the Irish so delicately and justly that no Englishman is suffered to scoff at the poverty or ignorance of the people.” The same critic continues: “Irish novelists are blamable for much of the reproach cast upon Ireland in other countries. But Lever is not chargeable either with caricature or concealment. Whenever he has to deal with the good qualities of a race much maligned, he shows that he is engaged upon a labour of love.” And his Irish gentleman _is_ a gentleman. If any class of Irishmen has a right to complain of unfair treatment at the hands of Harry Lorrequer, that class is the priesthood: but this applies only to his very early books,--and Father Tom Loftus atones for much.
The English novel-reader in the lump cares less than nothing for Lever’s most valuable opinions and sketches of current political and social life, or for his admirable pictures of a bygone time in the Emerald Isle,--he is anxious to “cut the cackle and get to the ‘osses.” Many an Irish reader professes to hold the belief that because Lever occasionally treads upon a pet corn he was impregnated with a savage desire to stamp violently on the foot of the patriot, eager to offer him a jibe or a sneer in lieu of an apology. Irishmen--if an Irishman may say it--are too ready to take offence at having their foibles laughed at. Race-feeling has much to do with this sensitiveness: circumstances more. The prosperous Briton can afford to enjoy banter. He says to himself, “He laughs best who laughs last”; and he is confident he is going to have the last laugh against somebody else. The mere Irishman resents having fun poked at him. He prefers, or pretends to prefer, unstinted praise to a reasonable mixture of praise, blame, and sarcasm; he knows that in his inmost breast he harbours the quality of merciless self-criticism. He does not desire laudation for the comfort of his inner self, but for blazonry--for the eye of the world outside his beloved island. Lever made no attempt to pander to this idiosyncrasy--like Don John, he laughed when he was merry and clawed no man in his humour; but whether he laughed at or with his country or his fellow-countrymen, there was no bitterness or spitefulness in his mirth. Whatsoever his political opinions, his sympathies were as Irish as the Wicklow hills, and his kindly heart could not foster malice: even for his relentless enemy, the gout, he could always find a pleasant word.