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Jack Hinton by Charles Lever Hard Cover 404 Pages Price reflects condition
Jack Hinton by Charles Lever new Edition wiwth autobiographical introduction Hard Cover 404 Pages New edition
PREFACE
THE unlooked-for favour with which the public received Charles O'Malley, and the pleasant notices forwarded to me from my publisher, gave me great courage ; and when asked if I could be ready by a certain date with a new story, I never hesitated to say, Yes. My first thought was, that in the campaign of the Great Napoleon. I might find what would serve as a "pendant" to the story I had just completed, and that by making-as there would be no impropriety in doing-an Irishman a soldier of France, I could still have on my side certain sympathies of my reader which would not so readily attach to a foreigner. I surrounded myself at once with all the histories and memoirs I could find of .the Consulate and the Empire; and, so far as I could, withdrew my mind from questions of home interest, and lived entirely amidst the mighty events that began at Marengo and ended at Waterloo.
Whether I failed to devise such a narrative as I needed, or whether-and I suspect this must have been the real reason-I found that the vastness of the them overpowered me, I cannot at this distance of time, remember. But so it was, that I found much time had slipped over, and that beyond some few notes and some scattered references, I had actually done nothing ; and my publisher had applied to me for the title of my story for advertisement, before I had begun or written one line of it.
Some disparaging remarks on Ireland and Irishmen in the London press, not very unfrequent at the time, nor altogether obsolete even now, had provoked me at the moment; and the sudden thought occurred of a reprisal by showing the many instances in which the Englishman would almost of necessity mistake and misjudge my countrymen, and that out of these blunders and misapprehensions, situations might arise that, if welded into a story, might be made to be amusing. I knew that there was not a class nor a condition in Ireland which had not marked differences from the correlative rank in England ; and that not only the Irish squire, the Irish priest, and the Irish peasant, were unlike anything in the larger island, but that the Dublin professional man, the official, and the shopkeeper had traits and distinctions essentially their own. I had frequently heard opinions pronounced on Irish habits which I could easily trace to that quizzing habit of my countrymen, who never can deny themselves the enjoyment of playing on the credulity of the traveller -all the more eagerly when they see his note-book taken put to record their short-comings and absurdities.
These thoughts suggested Jack Hinton, and led me to turn from my intention to follow the French arms, or rather to postpone the plan to another opportunity, for it had got too strong hold on me to be utterly abandoned.
I have already acknowledged, in a former notice to this story, that I strayed from the path I had determined on, and with very little reference to my original intention, suffered my hero to take his chance among the natives. Indeed, I soon found him too intensely engaged in the areas of self-preservation to have much time or taste for criticism on his neighbors.
I have owned elsewhere, that for Mr. Paul Rooney, 'ether Tom Loftus, Bob Mahon, O'Grady, Tipperary Joe, and even Corny Delany, I had not to draw on imagination, but I never yet heard one correct guess as to the originals. While on this theme, I may recall an incident which occurred about three years after the story was published, and which, if only for the trait of good humour it displayed, is worth remembering. I was making a little rambling tour through Ireland with my wife, following for the most part the seaboard, and only taking such short cuts inland as should bring us to some spot of especial interest. We journeyed with our own horses, and consequently rarely exceeded five and twenty or thirty miles in a day. While I was thus refreshing many an old memory, and occasionally acquiring some new experience, the ramble interested me much. It was in the course of this almost capricious journey--for we really had nothing like a plan-we reached the little town of Gort, where, to rest our horses, we were obliged to remain a day. There was not much to engage attention in the place. It was perhaps less marked by poverty than most Irish towns of its class, and somewhat cleaner and more orderly ; but the same destinctive signs were there of depression, the same look of inertness that one remarks almost universally through the land.
In strolling half listlessly about on the outskirts of the town, we were overtaken by a heavy thunderstorm, and driven to take shelter in a little shop where a number of either people had also sought refuge. As we stood them an active-looking but elderly man in the neat black of an ecclesiastic, and with a rosette in his hat, politely addressed us ; and proposed that instead of standing there in the crowd we would accept the hospitality of his lodging, which was in the same house, till such time as the storm should have passed over. His manner, his voice, and his general appearance convinced me he was a dignitary of our church. I thanked him at once for his courtesy, and accepted his offer. He proceeded to show us the way, and we entered a very comfortably furnished sitting-room where a pleasant fire was burning, and sat down well pleased with our good fortune.
While we chatted freely over the weather and the crops, some chance expression escaped me to show that I had regarded him as a clergyman of the Established Church. He at once, but with peculiar delicacy, hastened to correct my mistake, and introduced himself as the Roman Catholic Dean O'Shaughnessy. " I am aware whom I am speaking to," added he, pronouncing my name. Before I could express more than my surprise at being recognised where I had not one acquaintance, he explained that he had read of my being in the neighborhood in some local paper, which described our mode of travelling and led him at once to guess our identity.
After a few very flattering remarks on the pleasure something of mine had afforded him, he said, "You are very hard upon us, Mr. Lever. You never let us off easily, but I assure you for all that we bear you no ill will. There is a strong national tie between us, and we can stand a great deal of quizzing for the sake of that bond."
I knew that he was alluding to his order, and when I said Something-I cannot remember what-about the freedoms that fiction led to, he stopped, saying, "Well! well! The priests are not very angry with you after all ; if it wasn't for one thing."
"Oh, I know," cried I, " that stupid story of Father Darcy and the Pope."
"No, no, not that ; we laughed at that as much as any Protestant of you all. What we couldn't bear so well was an ugly remark you made in Harry Lorrequer,' where-when there was a row at a wake and the money was scattered over the floor-you say that the priest gathered more than his shut', because--and here was the bitterness-old habit had accustomed him to scrape up his corn in low places! Now Mr. Lever, that was not fair, it was not generous, surely."
The good temper and the gentlemanlike quietness of the charge made me very uncomfortable at the time, and now, after many years, I recall the incident to show the impression it made on me,-the only atonement I can make for the flippancy.
I had begun this story of Jack Hinton at Brussels, but on a proposition made to me by the publisher and proprietor of the Dublin Magazine to take the editorship of that journal, I determined to return to Ireland.
To do this I was not alone to change my abode and country, but to alter the whole destiny of my life. I was at the time a practising physician attached to the British Legation, with the best practice of any Englishman in the place, a most pleasant society, and, what I valued not less than them all, the intimacy of the most agreeable and companionable man I ever knew in my life, whose friendship I 'have never ceased to treasure with pride and affection. I dedicated to him my first book, and it is with deep gratitude and pleasure I recall him ,while I give the last touches to these volumes.
There is one character in this story, and only one, to which imagination contributed scarcely anything in tire portraiture, though I do not pretend to say that the situations in which I have placed him are derived from facts. Tipperary Joe was a real personage ; and if there are among my readers any who remember the old coaching days between Dublin and Kilkenny, they cannot fail to recall the curious figure, clad in a scarlet hunting coat, and black velvet cap, who used, at the stage between Carlow and the Royal Oak, to emerge from some field beside the road, and after a trot of a mile or so beside the horses, crawl up at the back of the coach and over the roof, collecting what he called his rent from the passengers. A very humble tribute generally, but the occasion for a good deal of jesting and merriment ;-not diminished if by any accident an English traveller were present, who could neither comprehend the relations between Joe and the gentlemen, nor the marvelous freedom with which this poor ragged fellow discussed the passengers and their opinions.
Joe-I must call him so, for his real name has escaped me-once came to see me in Trinity College, and was curious to visit the Chapel, the Library, and the Examination Hall. I will not pretend that I undertook my office of cicerone without some misgivings, for though I was prepared to endure all the quizzings of my friends and acquaintances, I was not quite at my ease as to how the authorities-the dons-as they are called elsewhere, would regard this singular apparition within academic precincts. Joe's respectful manner, and an air of interest that bespoke how much the while place engaged his curiosity, soon set me at my ease, the ready tact with which he recognised and uncovered to such persons as held rank or station, at once satisfied me that I was incurring no risk whatever in my office of guide.
The kitchen and the sight of those gigantic spits, on which a whole series of legs of mutton were turning slowly, overcame all the studied reserve of his manner, and he burst out into a most enthusiastic encomium on the merits of an institution so admirably suited to satisfy human requirements.
When he learned, from what source I do not know, that I had put him in a book, ho made it-not unreasonably, perhaps -- the ground of a demand on my purse, and if the talented artist who had illustrated the tale had been accessible to him, I suspect that he, too, would have had to submit to the levy of a black mail ; all the more heavily, as Joe was by no means pleased with a portrait which really only self-flattery could have objected to.
Hablot K. Browne never saw him, and yet in his sketch of him standing to say his "good-bye " to Jack Hinton, at Kingston, he has caught the character of his figure and the moping lounge of his attitude to perfection. Indeed, though there is no resemblance in the face to Joe, the pose of the head and the position of the limbs recall him at once.
I have already said elsewhere that the volume amused me while I was writing it. Indeed, I had not at that time exhausted, if I had even tapped, the cask of a buoyancy of temperament which carried me along through my daily life in the sort of spirit one rides a fresh horse over a swelling sward. If this confession will serve to apologise for the want of studied coherency in the narrative, and the reckless speed in which events succeed events throughout, I shall deem myself much indebted to the generous indulgence of my readers.
I am now, so far as this book is concerned, at the end of my explanations. My excuses for its shortcomings, its errors, and extravagances, would not-were I to undertake them-be so easily dismissed. For my reader's sake, and for my own, I will not enter upon them, but write myself-for the favour which has not remembered these blemishes, nor suffered them to damage the tale in its effect as a whole.
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