Born, in Dublin, 24 Feb. 1797. Privately educated there. Early aptitude for music. In office of his father (a stockbroker), 1812–14. Began to study painting, 1814. Married (i.) Miss Berrel, 1827. Memb. of Royal Hibernian Acad., 1828; Secretary, 1830. Contrib. to “Dublin Literary Gaz.” Exhibited at Royal Acad., London, 1833. One of the founders of “Dublin Univ. Mag.,” 1833. To London, 1835; engaged in miniature painting. Play, “The Olympic Picnic,” produced at Olympic Theatre, 1835; “The Beau Ideal,” 1836; “Rory O’More” (dramatized from his novel), Adelphi Theatre, 1837; “The White Horse of the Peppers,” Adelphi; “The Happy Man,” Haymarket; “The Greek Boy,” Covent Garden; “Il Paddy Whack in Italia,” Lyceum. Helped to form “Bentley’s Miscellany,” 1837. Gave up painting owing to failing eyesight, 1844. Produced entertainment, “Irish Evenings,” performed by himself at Princess’s Concert Rooms, March 1844; performed it in America, 1846–48; “Paddy’s Portfolio,” 1848. Wife died, 1847. Play “Sentinels of the Alma,” produced, Haymarket; “Macarthy More,” Lyceum. Married (ii.) Mary Wandby, Jan. 1852. Ill-health from 1864. Removed to St. Heliers, Jersey; died there, 6 July 1868. Buried at Kensal Green. Works [exclusive of various farces printed in Lacy’s, Webster’s, and Duncombe’s “Acting Editions”]: “Rory O’More” (ballad), 1826; “Legends and Stories of Ireland” (2 series), 1831–34; “Rory O’More” (novel), 1837; “Songs and Ballads,” 1839; “Handy Andy,” 1842; “Treasure Trove,” 1844; “Lyrics of Ireland,” 1858; “Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns” (under pseud. “Ben Trovato”), 1859; “Volunteer Songs,” 1859; “Metrical Tales, and Other Poems,” 1860 [1859]. Life: by W. Bayle Bernard, 1874. Collected Works: “Poetical Works” [1880].

Personal

  In his personal appearance Lover has no smack of superfine clay. He looks made out of the fresh turf of his country, sound, honest and natural. He is careless in his dress, a little absent in his gait and manner, just short and round enough to let his atmosphere of fun roll easily about him, and, if frayed at all in the thread of his nature, a little marked with an expression of care—the result of years of anxieties for the support of a very interesting family. His features seem to use his countenance as a hussar does his jacket—wearing it loosely till wanted—and a more mobile, nervous, changing set of lineaments never played photograph to a soul within. There is always about him the modest unconsciousness of a man who feels that he can always employ his thoughts better than upon himself, and he therefore easily slips himself off, and becomes the spirit of his song or story. He does nothing like an actor. If you had heard him singing the same song, by chance, at an Inn, you would have taken him to be a jewel of a good fellow, of a taste and talent deliriously peculiar and natural, but who would spoil at once with being found out by a connoisseur and told of his merits. He is the soul of pure, sweet, truthful Irish nature, though with the difference from others that, while he represents it truly and is a piece of it himself, he has also the genius to create what inspires it.

  A most good-natured, pleasant Irishman, with a shining and twinkling visage…. After supper, Mr. Lover sang some Irish songs, his own in music and words, with rich, humorous effect, to which the comicality of his face contributed almost as much as his voice and words.

  Finally, he tried the stage—tempted, it is probable, by the great success of power in Irish characters; but I believe his first appearance was his last, a most vexatious but supremely ridiculous accident entirely destroyed his confidence, and damaged him fatally in the opinion of his audience. It was in a provincial theatre—I forget where—and I believe in his own drama of “Rory O’More.” He had to make his entrance through a cottage-door in the center of the stage, which had a small bar of wood across it representing the threshold. Over this he unluckily tripped and fell flat on his face, to the great amusement of the gallery. Recovering himself from his confusion, and cheered by the general applause with which a good-natured audience generously endeavoured to drown the recollection of his misadventure, he proceeded with the part; but, of course, with less spirit than he might have done under more favourable circumstances, and at the conclusion of the scene, having to make his exit through the same door, as malicious fate would have it, caught his foot again in the same bar, and was precipitated out of the cottage exactly as he had been into it. This was too much for the audience; the whole house was convulsed with laughter, and I am not quite sure that poor Lover summoned up courage to face it again. At all events, he speedily abandoned histrionics, and I never knew him to allude in the slightest manner to his disheartening coup d’essai in them, nor, of course, was it ever mentioned by me or any of the few who heard of it.

  Not less notable, however, than the best of his endowments—and certainly not less important as a principal source of his success—was his unflagging application. He was not only one of the cleverest and most vivacious men of his time, but he was also one of the most laborious. The great moral of his life—next to that strong sense of self-reliance which led him, whilst still a boy, to exert his talents at all hazards—was his ready surrender of indulgence and patient submission to detail, as the only means which could convert a gift into either a gain or a distinction. It is true he was so happily constituted that he could make his various faculties serve as reliefs to one another. He could pass from the easel to the piano, and from the etching-stool to the pen, and renew his vigour with as much certainty as he could awaken his invention.

  He was a rare humorist, had a bright Hibernian rollicking manner, a happy smile, and a rich brogue. He led the van of that noble army of British authors who have come here to show us their own heroes and heroines as they see them themselves,—to be the interpreters of their own works. His visit in every way was successful; he made hosts of friends in this country, and went back to his own with many of our dollars in his pocket, our good wishes and farewells ringing in his ears, and, as he always said, the happiest recollections of America and greatest affection for the Americans in his heart.

  Such was the bright and happy career of one, who, from the time of his boyhood when he breathed health on the Wicklow mountains down to his peaceful end at St. Helier’s, in his seventy-second year, was fortunate in all he undertook; because, along with a brilliant, versatile genius, he was honest, honourable and dowered with practical common sense; and he also possessed a force of character, with a rare capacity for persistent work, which enabled him successfully to carry through and master whatever he resolved to attempt. Warm-hearted and pure-minded, tender and true, joyous and brave,—Samuel Lover, humbly accepted the strengthening and comforting truths of Revelation, reverencing God, and sincerely loving his fellow-men…. His Irish peasant songs,—inimitable, piquant and unique, terse and musical, overflowing with tender affection and natural pathos, sparkling with wit and beaming with kindly humour, innocent fun, and cordial geniality,—are universally appreciated and sung “con amore,” wherever the English language is known.

  It was not uncommon to hear Lover described as “a Brummagen Tom Moore.” That he certainly was not. Far from it. The one was as original as the other, but each in his own way. He was neither copyist nor imitator, and, if he had less of the inventive faculty than Moore, he had the art of making his own the thoughts for which there was no other owner. But it was as a teller of Irish stories Lover most delighted an audience. Few who heard him will forget the inimitable humor, the rich oily brogue, and the perfect ideal he conveyed into the character when relating “New Pettaties” and “Will ye lend me the loan of a gridiron?”

  I saw a great deal of Samuel Lover when he was in America in 1848. He was advertised to appear at the Broadway Theatre, and when he attempted to play in his own piece, “The White Horse of the Peppers,” he was certainly the most frightfully nervous man I ever saw in my life. There was a great house because of the natural curiosity to see the poet in his own play. He was a very intimate friend of my father’s. I stood in the wings when he came down as Gerald Pepper. The costume was the military dress of a cavalier of the time of James II., the scene of the play being the Revolution,—William III. coming over and turning James II. out of the country,—and Gerald Pepper was one of the Irish who remained faithful to the Stuart king. His feathers on this occasion were stuck in the back of his hat, his sword-belt was over the wrong shoulder, one of his boots was pulled up over his knee and the other was down over his foot. He looked as if somebody had pitch-forked his clothes onto him, and he was trembling like a leaf. I induced him to put a little more color in his face, took his hat off and adjusted the feathers properly, put his sword on as it ought to go, fixed his boots right, and literally pushed him onto the stage. Of course there is no harm now in saying that it was one of the worst amateur performances I ever saw in my life, and I don’t think Lover ever acted after that uncomfortable night.

  He struck me only as a pleasant little man of society, of not much weight.

  “Sam Lover,” or “little Lover,” as his friends sometimes irreverently called him, was a great favorite in London society. Possessing an inexhaustible fund of high spirits, good humor and sparkling wit, no one could be better company. Nor was he one of those who, as the Irish neatly express it, “hang up their fiddles behind the door” when they come home. On the contrary, he was never more happy, delightful and entertaining than when he was at home with only his wife and daughters about him. His truly lovable character was not only shown in gaity: he was also deeply humane and kind, with the keenest sense of honor and the warmest heart in the world.

General

  My children also read to me “Charles O’Malley,” a book full of action and graphical power; the work of a fresh, ever-observant and inventive mind, not going far into human nature, but giving the surface of life very vividly; a book to intoxicate the adventurous, daring young men by sketches of war, in its strange mixture of gay conviviality, recklessness and bloodshed.

  Lover is a very forcibly effective, and truthful writer of Irish novels, and falls into the ranks after Banim. He has less passion, but more picturesque vivacity. As a writer and composer of songs (not to mention the charming expression with which he sings them) Mr. Lover is still more popular, and his ballads have a certain singable beauty in them, and a happy occasional fancifulness. His novels, however, are the stuff whereof his fame is made, and they are highly vital and of great value in the sense of commentary on the national character.

  Lover is, as you know, the writer of songs equal (in popular effect) to any of Burns’s. He is the author of Tales of humor in a vein in which he has no equal. His songs are set to his own music, of a twin genius with the words it uses. His power of narration is peculiar and irresistible. His command of that fickle drawbridge between tears and laughter—that ticklish chasm across which touch Mirth and Pathos—is complete and wonderful. He is, besides, a most successful play-writer, and one of the best miniature painters living. He is a Crichton of the arts of joyance for eye and ear.

  Of Lover’s merits as a critic, despite his own modest disclaimers, a fair acknowledgment is due. He was no antiquarian, as he confesses—no Celtic scholar who could compare the claims of ancient and modern Irish song—but he was familiar with its history, knew the causes, and could enlarge instructively on the distinctions of its various classes, and, well acquainted with their leading specimens, was not unqualified to weigh and authenticate them in the duty of selection. His biographical notices are always faithful and compact, and if, in his notes, he has chosen to adopt a rambling pleasantry of tone that is occasionally diffuse, this does not exclude exactness when any point of interest occurs.

  His tastes were simple and his life pure. Thoroughly unselfish, hopeful himself and helpful to others, possessing a bright, happy disposition, and a noble nature which was the very soul of honour, he was respected and loved, by all who had the privilege of knowing him.

  His “Handy Andy” is a formless book, and the fun of it grows tedious.

  His “Rory O’More” took the general fancy. To its strains the Queen at her coronation was escorted to Buckingham Palace. To its strains the peasant baby in its box cradle fell asleep. To its strains Phelim O’Shea footed the reel at Limerick Fair, and the ladies at Dublin Castle trod their quadrille.

  The versatility of Lover is one of the stock examples in Irish biography, and it is somewhat difficult to say in which of his various capacities he best succeeded. I am inclined to think that it is as a humorous poet that he ranks highest. He has many competitors in other branches of intellectual activity, but there are very few indeed who can be placed on the same level as a humorist in verse.