but he lays himself out to amuse you, and he does it. If he advertises a
character as a wit, he does not labour phrases to describe his
brilliancy; he produces the witticisms. He has been accused of
exaggeration. As regards the incidents, one can only say that the
memoirs of Irish society at the beginning of this century furnish at
least fair warranty for any of his inventions. In character-drawing he
certainly overcharged the traits: but he did so with intention, and by
consistently heightening the tones throughout obtained an artistic
impression, which had life behind it, however ingeniously travestied.
His stories have no unity of action, but through a great diversity of
characters and incidents they maintain their unity of treatment. That is
not the highest ideal of the novel, but it is an intelligible one, not
lacking famous examples; and Lever perfectly understood it.

If one wishes to realise how good an artist Lever was, the best way is
to read his contemporary Samuel Lover. _Handy Andy_ appeared somewhat
later than _Harry Lorrequer_. It is just the difference between good
whiskey and bad whiskey; both are indigenous and therefore
characteristic, but let us be judged by our best. Obviously the men have
certain things in common; great natural vivacity, and an easy cheerful
way of looking at life. Lover can raise a laugh, but his wit is
horseplay except for a few happy phrases. He has no real comedy; there
is nothing in _Handy Andy_ half so ingenious as the story in _Jack
Hinton_ of the way Ulick Bourke acquitted himself of his debt to Father
Tom. And behind all Lever's conventional types there is a real fund of
observation and knowledge which is absolutely wanting in Lover, who
simply lacked the brains to be anything more than a trifler.

A very different talent was that of their younger contemporary J.
Sheridan Le Fanu. The author of _Uncle Silas_ had plenty of solid power;
but his art was too highly specialised. No one ever succeeded better in
two main objects of the story-teller; first, in exciting interest, in
stimulating curiosity by vague hints of some dreadful mystery; and then
in concentrating attention upon a dramatic scene. It is true that,
although an Irishman, he gained his chief successes with stories that
had an English setting; but one of the best, _The House by the
Churchyard_, describes very vividly life at Chapelizod in the days when
this deserted little village, which lies just beyond the Phoen