^IP^ • 1 7 TO »7 VANDEWyiTEf\ St ^^| 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 OP 
 
 Anthony Trollope, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
 
 }7 TO 27 Yandxwater Strevt. 
 
0^- 
 
 
 ,0i 
 
 a^ 
 
or 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MY EDUCATION. 
 
 1815-1834. 
 
 In writing these pages, which, for the want of a better 
 name, I shall be fain to call the autoMogi ai^hy of so insigni- 
 ficant a person as myself, it will not be so much my inten- 
 tion to speak of the little details of my private life as of 
 what I, and perhaps others round me, have done in liter- 
 ature; of my failures and successes, such as they have been, 
 and their causes; and of the opening which a literary 
 career offers to men and women for the earning of their 
 bread. And yet the garrulity of old age, and the aptitude 
 of a man's mind to recur to the passages of his own life, 
 will, I know, tempt me to say something of myself; nor, 
 without doing so, should I know how to throw my matter 
 into any recognized and intelligible form. That I, or any 
 man, should tell everything of himself I hold to be impos- 
 sible. Who could endure to own the doing of a mean 
 thing? Who is ^there that has done none? But this I 
 protest— that nothing that I say shall be untrue. I will 
 set down naught in malice; nor will I give to myself, 
 or others, honor which I do not believe to have been 
 fairly won. 
 
 My boyhood was, I think, as unhappy as that of a young 
 
6 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 gentleman could well be, my misfortunes arising from a 
 mixture of proverty and gentle standing on the part of 
 my father, and from an utter want on my own part of that 
 juvenile manhood which enables some boys to hold up 
 their heads even among the distresses which such a posi- 
 tion in sure to produce. 
 
 I was born in 1815, in Keppel Street, Russell Square, 
 and while a baby was carried down to Harrow, where my 
 father had built a house on a large farm which, in an evil 
 hour, he took on a long lease from Lord North wick. That 
 farm was the grave of all my father's hopes, ambition, and 
 prosperity, the cause of my mother's sufferings and of tliose 
 of her children, and perhaps the director of her destiny 
 and of ours. My father had been a Wykamist and a 
 fellow of New College, and Winchester was the destination 
 of my brothers and myself; but, as he had friends among 
 the masters at Harrow, and as tlie school offered an edu- 
 cation almost gratuitous to children living in the parish, 
 he, with a certain aptitude to do things differently from 
 others, which accompanied him throughout his life, de- 
 termined to use that august seminary as a '^t'other school " 
 for Winchester, and sent three of us there, one after the 
 other, at the age of seven. My father at this time was a 
 Chancery barrister practicing in London, occupying dingy, 
 almost suicidal, chambers at No. 23 Old Square, Lincoln's 
 Inn — chambers which, on one melancholy occasion, did 
 become absolutely suicidal.* He was, as I have been in- 
 formed by those quite competent to know, an excellent 
 and most conscientious lawyer, but plagued with so bad a 
 temper that he drove the attorneys from him. In his early 
 days he was a man of some small fortune and of higher 
 hopes. These stood so high at the time of my birth that 
 he was felt to be entitled to a country-house, as well as to 
 that in Keppel Street; and, in order that he might build 
 
 • A pupil of his destroyed himself in the rooms. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 7 
 
 Buch a residence, he took the farm. This place he called 
 Julians, and land runs up to the foot of the hill on which 
 tlie school and church stand— on the side toward London. 
 Things there went much against him: the farm was ruin- 
 ous, and I remember that we all regarded the Lord North- 
 wick of those days as a cormorant who was eating us up. 
 My father's clients deserted him. He purchased Yarious 
 dark, gloomy chambers in and about Chancery Lane, and 
 his purchases always went wrong. Then, as a final, crushing 
 blow, an old uncle, whose lieir he was to have been, married 
 and had a family! The house in London was let, and also 
 the house he built at Harrow, from which he descended 
 to a farmhouse on the land, which I have endeavored to 
 make known to some readers under the name of " Orley 
 Farm." lyiis place, just as it was when we lived there, is 
 to be seen in the frontispiece to the first edition of that 
 novel, having had the good fortuHC to be delineated by no 
 less a pencil than that of John Millais. 
 
 My two elder brothers had been sent as day-boarders to 
 Harrow School from the bigger house, and may probably 
 have been received among the aristocratic crowd — not on 
 equal terms, because a day-boarder at Harrow in those 
 days was never so received, but, at any rate, as other day- 
 boarders. I do not suppose that they were well treated, 
 but I doubt whether they were subjected to the ignominy 
 which I endured. I was only seven, and I think that 
 boys at seven are now spared among their more consider- 
 ate seniors. I was never spared, and was not even allowed 
 to run to and fro between our house and the school withr 
 out a daily purgatory. No doubt my appearance was against 
 me. 1 remember well, when I was still the junior boy in 
 the school, Dr. Butler, the head master, stopping me in 
 the street, and asking me, with all the clouds of Jove upon 
 his brow and all the thunder in his voice, whether it was 
 possible that Harrow School was disgraced by so disrepu- 
 tably dirty a little boy as I? Oii, what I felt at that mo- 
 
8 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 menti Bat I could not look ray feelings. I do not 
 doubt that I was dirty — but I think that he was cruel. 
 He must have known me had lie seen me as he was wont 
 to see me, for lie was in the habit of flogging me constant- 
 ly. Perhaps he did not recognize me by my face. 
 
 At this time I was three years at Harrow; and, as far as 
 I can remember. I was the junior boy in tlic school when 
 I left it. 
 
 Then I was sent to a private school at Sanbnry, kept by 
 Arthur Dnirv. This, I think, must have been done in 
 accordance with the advice of Henry Drury, who was my 
 tutor at Harrow School and my father's friend, and who 
 may probably have expressed an opinion that my juvenile 
 career was not proceeding in a satisfactory manner at Har- 
 row. To Sunbuiy I went, and during the two jears I was 
 there, though I never had any pocket-money, and seldom 
 had much in the way of clothes, I lived more nearly on 
 terms of equality with other boys than at any other period 
 during my very prolonged school-days. Even here I was 
 always in disgr^vce. I remember well how, on one occa- 
 sion, four boys were selected as having been the perpetra- 
 tors of some nameless horror. What it was, to this day I 
 cannot even guess; but I was one of the four, innocent as 
 a babe, but adjudged to have been the guiltiest of the 
 guilty. We each had to write out a sermon, and my ser- 
 mon was the longest of the four. During the whole of 
 one term-time we were helped last at every meal. We were 
 not allowed to visit the playground till the sermon was 
 finished. Mine was only done a day or two before the 
 holidays. Mr.s. Drury, when she saw us, shook her head 
 with pitying horror. There were ever so many other pun- 
 ishments accumulated on our heads. It broke my heart, 
 knowing myself to be innocent, and suffering also under 
 the almost equally painful feeling that the other three- 
 no doubt wicked boys— were the curled darlings of the 
 
 hool, who would never have selected me to share their 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 wickedness with them. I contrived to learn, from words 
 that fell from Mr. Drury, that he condemned me because 
 I, having come from a public school, might be supposed 
 to be the leader of wickedness! On the first day of the 
 next term he whispered to me half a word that perhaps he 
 had been wrodg. With all a stupid boy'e slowness, I said 
 nothing; and he had not tlie courage to carry reparation 
 further. All that was fifty years ago, and it burns me now 
 as though it were yesterday. What lily-livered curs those 
 boys must have been not to have told the truth! at any 
 rate as far as I was concerned. 1 remember their names 
 well, and almost wish to write them here. 
 
 When I was twelve there came the vacancy at Winches- 
 ter College which I was destined to fill. My two elder 
 brothers had gone there, and the younger had been taken 
 away, being already supposed to have lost his chance of 
 New College. It had been one of the great ambitions of 
 my father's life that his three sons who lived to go to 
 Winchester should all become fellows of New College. 
 But that suffering man was never destined to have an am- 
 bition gratified. We all lost the prize which he struggled 
 with infipite labor to put within our reach. My eldest, 
 brother all but achieved it, and afterward went to Oxford, 
 taking three exhibitions from the school, though he lost 
 the great glory of a Wykamist. He has since made him- 
 self well known to the public as a writer in connection 
 with all Italian subjects. He is still living, as I now write. 
 But my other brother died early. 
 
 While I was at Winchester my father's affairs went from 
 bad to worse. He gave up his practice at the bar, and, 
 unfortunate that he was, took another farm. It is odd 
 that a man should conceive — and in this case a highly 
 educated and a very clever man — that farming should be a 
 business in which he might make money without any 
 special education or apprenticeship. Perhaps of all trades 
 it Js the one in which m Acciu'fvte knowledge of ^vbat 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 things should be done, and the best manner of doing 
 them, is most necessary. And it is one also for success in 
 which a sufficient capital is indispensable. He had no 
 knowledge, and, when he took this second farm, no capi- 
 tal. This was the last step preparatory to his final ruin. 
 
 Soon after I had been sent to Winchester my mother 
 went to America, taking with her my brother Henry and 
 my two sisters, who were then no more than children. 
 This was, I think, in 1827. I have no clear knowledge of 
 her object, or of my father's; but I believe that he had an 
 idea tliat money might be made by sending goods — little 
 goods, such as pincushions, pepper-boxes, and pocket- 
 knives — out to the still unfurnished States; and that she 
 conceived that an opening might be made for my brother 
 Henry by erecting some bazaar or extended shop in one of 
 the Western cities. Whence the money came I do not 
 know, but the pocket-knives and the pepper-boxos were 
 bought, and the bazaar built. X have seen it since in the 
 town of Cincinnati — a sorry building! But I have been 
 told that in those days it was an imposing edifice. My 
 jnother went first, with my sisters and second brother. 
 Then my father followed them, taking my elder brother, 
 before he went to Oxford. But there was an interval of 
 some year and a half during which he and I were at Win- 
 chester together. 
 
 Over a period of forty years, since I began'my manhood 
 at a desk in the Post-office, I and my brother, Thomas 
 Adolphus, have been fast friends. There have been hot 
 words between us, for perfect friendship bears and allows 
 hot words. Few brothers have had more of brotherhood. 
 But in those school-days he was, of all my foes, the worst. 
 In accordance with the practice of the college, which sub- 
 mits, or did then submit, much of the tuition of the 
 younger boys to the elder, he was my tutor; and in his 
 capacity of teacher and ruler, he had studied the theories 
 of Draco. I remember well how he used to exact obedi- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 ence after the manner of that lawgiver. Hang a little boy 
 for stealing apples, he used to say, and other little boys 
 will not steal apples. The doctrine was already exploded 
 elsewhere, but he stuck to it with conservative energy. 
 The result was that, as a part of his daily exercise, he 
 thrashed me with a big stick. That such thrashings 
 should have been possible at a school as a continual part 
 of one's daily life, seems to me to argue a very ill condi- 
 tion of school discipline. 
 
 At this period I remember to have passed one set 
 of holidays — the midsummer holidays — in my father's 
 chambers in Lincoln's Inn. There was often a diflHculty 
 about the holidays — as to what should be done with me. 
 On this occasion my amusement consisted in wandering 
 about among those old, deserted buildings, and in reading 
 Shakespeare out of a bi-coluponed edition which is still 
 among my books. It was not that I had chosen Shakes- 
 peare, but that there was nothing else to read. 
 
 After a while my brother left Winchester and accom- 
 panied my father to America. Then another and a dijffer- 
 eut horror fell to my fate. My college bills had not been 
 paid, and the school tradesmen who administered to the 
 wants of the boys were told not to extend their credit to 
 me. Boots, waistcoats, and pocket-handkerchiefs, which, 
 with some slight superveillance, were at the command of 
 other scholars, were closed luxuries to me. My school- 
 fellows, of course, knew that it was so, and I became a 
 pariah. It is the nature of boys to be cruel. I have 
 sometimes doubted whether among each other they do 
 usually suffer much, one from the other's cruelty; but I 
 suffered horribly! I could make no stand against it. I 
 had no friend to whom I could pour out my sorrows. I 
 was big, and awkward, and ugly, and, I have no doubt, 
 skulked about in a most unattractive manner. Of course, 
 I was ill-dressed and dirty. But, ah! how well I remem- 
 ber all the agonies of my young heart; how I considered 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONT TROLLOPE. 
 
 "Whether I should always be alone; whether I could not 
 find my way up to the top of that college tower, and from 
 thence put an end to everything? And a worse thing 
 came than the stoppage of the supplies 'from the shop- 
 keepers. Every boy had a shilling a week pocket-money, 
 which we called battels, and which was advanced to us out 
 of the pocket of the second master. On one awful day 
 the second master announced to me that my battels would 
 be stopped. He told me the reason — the battels for the 
 last half-year had not been repaid; and he urged his own 
 unwillingness to advance tl?e money. The loss of a shil- 
 ling a week would not have been much — even though 
 pocket-money from other sources never reached me — but 
 that tlio other boys all knew it! Every now and again, per- 
 haps three or*four times in a half-year, these weekly shillings 
 were given to certain servants of the college, in payment, 
 it may be presumed, for some extra services. And now, 
 when it came to the turn of any servant, he received sixty- 
 nine shillings instead of seventy, and the cause of the 
 defalcation was explained to him. I never saw one of 
 those servants without feeling that I had picked his 
 pocket. 
 
 When I bad been at Winchester something over three 
 years my father reurned to England and took me away. 
 Whether this was done because of the expense, or because 
 my chance of New College was supposed to have passed 
 away, I do not know. As a fact, I should, I believe, have 
 gained the prize, as there occurred in my year an excep- 
 tional number of vacancies. But it would have served me 
 nothing, as there would have been no funds for my main- 
 tenance at the university till I should have entered in upon 
 the fruition of the founder's endowment, and my career 
 at Oxford must have been unfortunate. 
 
 When I left Winchester I had three more years of school 
 before me, having as yet endured nine. My father at this 
 time, having left my mother and sieters^ with my younger 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 brother, in America, took himself to live at a wretched 
 tumble-down farmhouse on the second farm he had hired, 
 and I Was taken there with him. It was nearly three 
 miles from Harrow, at Harrow Weald, but in the parish; 
 and from this house I was agahi sent to that school as a 
 day-boarder. Let those who know what is the usual ap- 
 pearance and what the usual apparteuances of a boy at 
 such a school, consider what must have been my condition 
 among them, with a daily walk of twelve miles through 
 the lanes, added to the other little troubles and labors of 
 a school life! 
 
 Perhaps the eighteen months which I passed in this 
 condition, walking to and fro on those miserably dirty 
 lanes, was the worst period of my life. I was now over 
 fifteen, and had come to an age ut which I could appre- 
 ciate at its full the misery of expulsion from all social 
 intercourse. I had not only no friends, but was despised 
 by all my companions. The farmhouse was not only no 
 more than a farmhouse, but was one of those farmhouses 
 which seem always to be in danger of falling into the 
 neighboring horse-pond. As it crept downward from 
 house to stables, fuom stables to barns, from barns to cow- 
 sheds, and from cowsheds to dung-heaps, one could hardly 
 tell where one began and the other ended! There was a 
 parlor in which my father lived, shut up among big books; 
 but I passed my most jocund hours in the kitchen, mak- 
 ing* innocent love to the bailiff's daughter. The farm 
 kitchen might be very well through the evening, when the 
 horrors of the school were over; but it all added to the 
 cruelty of the days. A sizar at a Cambridge college, or 
 a Bible-clerk at Oxford, has not pleasant days, or used 
 not to have them half a century ago; but his position was 
 recognized, and the misery was measured. I was a sizar 
 at a fashionable school, a condition never premeditated. 
 What right had a wretched farmer's boy, reeking from a 
 dung-hill, to sit next to the sons of peers— or, much worse 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 Still, next to the nous of big tradesmen who had made 
 their ten thousand a year? The indignities I endured are 
 not to be described. As I look back it seems to me that 
 all hands were turned against me — tliose of masters as 
 well as boys. I was allowed to join in no plays. Nor did 
 I learn anything, for I was tauglit nothing. The only 
 expense, except that of books, to which a house-boarder 
 was then subject, was the fee to a tutor, amounting, I 
 think, to ten guineas. My tutor took me without the 
 fee; but when I heard him declare the fact in the pupil- 
 room before the boys, I hardly felt grateful for the charity. 
 I was never a coward, and cared for a thrashing as little 
 as any boy, but one cannot make a stand against the acerb- 
 ities of three hundred tyrants without a moral courage, 
 of which at that time I possessed none. I know that I 
 skulked, and was odious to the eyes of those I admired 
 and enfied. At last I was driven to rebellion, and there 
 came a great fight — at the end of which my opponent had 
 to be taken home for a while. If these words be ever 
 printed, T trust that some schoolfellow of those days may 
 Btill be left alive who will be able to say that in claiming 
 this solitary glory of my school-days, I am not making a 
 false boast. 
 
 I wish I could give some adequate picture of the gloom 
 of that farmhouse. My elder brother — Tom, as I must 
 call him in my narrative, though the world, I think, 
 knows him best as Adolplius— was at Oxford. My father 
 and I lived together, he having no means of living except 
 what came from the farm. My memory tells me that he 
 was always in debt to his landlord and to the tradesmen 
 be employed. Of self-indulgence no one could accuse 
 him. Our table was poorer, I think, than that of the 
 bailiff who still hung on to our shattered fortunes. The 
 furniture was mean and scanty. There was a large, ram- 
 bling kitchen-garden, but no gardener; and many times 
 \erbal iucentives were made to me— generally, I fear, in 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AKTHOKY TROLLOPE. 15 
 
 vain — to get me to Jend a hand at digging and planting,^ 
 Into the hayfield on holidays I was often compelled to go 
 — not, I fear, with much profit. My father's health was 
 very bad. During the last ten years of his life he spent 
 nearly the half of his time in bed, suffering agony from 
 sick-headaches. But he was never idle unless when 
 suffering. He had at this time commenced a work — an 
 Encyclopaedia Ecclesiastica, as he called it — on which he 
 labored to the moment of his death. It was his ambition 
 to describe all ecclesiastical terms, including the denomi- 
 nations of every fraternity of monks and every convent of 
 nuns, with all their orders and subdivisions. Under 
 crushing disadvantages, with few or no books of reference, 
 with immediate access to no library, he worked at his 
 most ungrateful task with unflagging industry. When he 
 died, three numbers out of eight had been published by 
 subscription; and are now, I fear, unknown, and buried 
 in the midst of that huge pile of futile literature, the 
 building up of which has broken so many hearts. 
 
 And my father, thougli he would try, as it were by a 
 side wind, to get a useful spurt of work out of me, either 
 in the garden or in the hay-field, had constantly an eye to 
 my scholastic improvement. From my very babyhood, 
 before those first days at Harrow, I had to take my place 
 alongside of him as he shaved, at six o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, and say my early rules from the Latin Grammar, or 
 repeat the Greek alphabet; and was obliged at these early 
 lessons to hold my head inclined toward him, so that, in 
 the event of guilty fault, he might be able to pull my hair 
 without stopping his razor or dropping his shaving-brush. 
 No father was ever more anxious for the education of his 
 children, though I think ijone ever knew less how to go 
 about the work. Of amusement, as far as I can remember, 
 he never recognized the need. He allowed himself no 
 distraction, and did not seem to think it was necessary to 
 a child. I cannot bethink me of aught that he ever did 
 
16 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 for my gralification; but for my welfare — for the welfare 
 of us all — he was willing to make any sacrifice. At this 
 time, in the farmhouse at Harrow Weald, he could not 
 give his time to teach me, for every hour that he was not 
 io the fields was devoted to his monks and nuns; but he 
 would require me to sit at a table with Lexicon and Gradus 
 before me. As I look back on my resolute idleness and 
 fixed determination to make no use whatever of the books 
 thus thrust upon me, or of the hours, and as I bear in 
 mind the consciousness of great energy in after-life, I am 
 in doubt whether my nature is wholly altered, or whether 
 his plan was wholly bad. In those days he never punished 
 me, though I think I grieved him much by my idleness; 
 but in passion he knew not what he did, and he has 
 knocked me down with the great folio Bible which he 
 always used. In the old house were the first two volumes 
 of Cooper's novel called "The Prairie," a relic — probably 
 a dishonest relic^of some subscription to Hookham's 
 library. Other books of the kind there was none. I won- 
 der how many dozen times I read those first two volumes. 
 It was the horror of those dreadful walks backward and 
 forward »which made my life so bad. What so pleasant, 
 what so sweet, as a walk along an English lane, when the 
 air is sweet, and the weather fine, and when there is a 
 charm in walking! But here were the same lanes four 
 times a day, in wet and dry, in heat and summer, with all 
 the accompanying mud and dust, and with disordered 
 clothes. I might have been known among all the boys at 
 a hundred yards' distance by my boots and trousers — and 
 was conscious at all times that I was so known. I remem- 
 bered constantly that address from Dr. Butler when I was 
 A little boy. Dr. Longley niig^ht with equal justice have 
 said the same thing any day, only that Dr. LouL^loy never 
 in his life was able to say an ill-natured word. Dr. Butler 
 only became Dean of Peterborough, but his snccessor lived 
 to be Arohbiflhop of Canterbury. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TBOLLOPE. 17 
 
 I think it was in the autumn of 1831 that my mother, 
 with the rest of the family, returned from America. She 
 lived at first at the farmhouse, but it was only for a short 
 time. She came back with a book written about the United 
 States, and the immediate pecuniary success which that 
 work obtained enabled her to take us all back to the house 
 at Harrow — not to the first house, which would still have 
 been beyond her means, but to that which has since been 
 called Orley Farm, and which was an Eden as compared 
 to our abode at Harrow Weald. Here my schooling went 
 on under somewhat improved circumstances. The three 
 miles became half a mile, and probably some salutary 
 changes were made in my wardrobe. My mother and my 
 sisters, too, were tliere. And a great element of happiness 
 was added to us all in the affectionate and life-enduring 
 friendship of the family of our close neiglibor. Colonel 
 Grant. But I was never able to overcome — or even to at- 
 tempt to overcome — the absolute isolation of my school 
 position. Of the cricket-ground or racket-court I was 
 allowed to know nothing. And yet I longed for these 
 things with an exceeding ponging. I coveted popularity 
 with a covetousness that was almost mean. It seemed to 
 me that there would be an Elysium in the intimacy of 
 tliose very boys whom I was bound to hate because they 
 hated me. Something of the disgrace of my school-days 
 has clung to me all through life. Not that I have ever 
 shunned to speak of them as openly as I am writing now, 
 but that, when I have been claimed as schoolfellow by 
 some of those many hundreds who were with me either at 
 Harrow or at Winchester, I have felt that I had no right 
 to talk of things from most of which I was kept in estrange- 
 ment. 
 
 Through all my father's troubles lie still desired to send 
 me either to Oxford or Cambridge. My elder brother 
 went to Oxford, and Henry to Cambridge. It all depended 
 on my ability to get some scholarship that would help mo 
 
18 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 to live at the university. I had my chances. There were 
 exhibitions from Harrow — which I never got. Twice T 
 tried' for a sizarship at Clare Hall, but in vain. Once I 
 made a futile attempt for a scholarship at Trinity, Oxford, 
 but failed again. Then the idea of a university career 
 was abandoned. And very fortunate it was that I did not 
 succeed, for my career, with such assistance only as a 
 scholarship would have given me, would have ended in 
 debt and ignominy. 
 
 When I left Harrow I was all but nineteen, jand I had at 
 fii-st gone there at seven. During the whole of those 
 twelve years no attempt had been made to teach me any- 
 thing but Latin and Greek, and very little attempt to 
 teach me those languages. I do not remember any lessons 
 either in writing or arithmetic. French and German I 
 certainly was not taught. The assertion will scarcely be 
 credited, but I do assert that I have no recollection of 
 other tuitron except that in the dead languages. At the 
 school at Sunbury there was certainly a waiting master and 
 a French master. The latter was an extra, and I never 
 had €xtras. I suppose I must have been in the writing 
 master's class, but though I can call to mind the man, I 
 cannot call to mind his ferule. It was by their ferules 
 that I always knew them, and they me. I feel convinped 
 in my mind that I have been flogged oftener than aVy 
 human being alive. It was just possible to obtain fi\\ 
 scourgings in one day at Winchester, and I have' often 
 boasted that I obtained them all. Looking back over half 
 a century, I am not quite sure whether the boast is true; 
 but if I did not, nobody ever did. 
 
 And yet, when I think how little I knew of Latin or 
 Greek on leaving Harrow at nineteen, I am astonished at 
 the possibility of such waste of time. lam now a. fair 
 Latin scholar— that is to say, I read and enjoy the Latin 
 xjlassics, and could probably make myself understood in 
 •Latin prose. But the knowledge which I have, I have 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 39 
 
 acquired since I left school — no doubt, aided much by that 
 groundwork of the language which will in the process of 
 years make its way slowly, even through the skin. There 
 were tw,elye years of tuition in which I do not remember 
 that I ever knew a lesson ! When I left Harrow I was 
 nearly at the top of the school, being a monitor, and, I 
 think, the seventh boy. This position I achieved by 
 gravitation upward. I bear in mind well with how prod- 
 igal a hand prizes used to be showered about— but I never 
 got a prize. From the first to the last thei^ was nothing 
 satisfactory in my school career, except the way in which 
 I licked the boy who had to be taken home to be cured. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 Though I do not wish in these pages to go back to the 
 origin of all the TroUopes, I must say a few words of my 
 mother — partly because filial duty will not allow me to be 
 silent as to a parent who made for herself a considerable 
 name in the literature of her day, and partly because there 
 were circumstances i*n her career well worthy of notice. 
 She was the daughter of the Rev. William Milton, vicar of 
 Heckfield, who, as well as my father, had been a fellow of 
 New College. She was nearly thirty when, in 1809, she 
 mart-ied my father. Six or seven years ago a bundle of 
 love-letters from her to him fell into my hand in a very 
 singular way, having been found in the house of a 
 stranger, who, with much courtesy, sent them to me. 
 They were then about sixty years old, and had been written 
 some before and some after her marriage, over the space 
 ,of perhaps a year. In no novel of Richardson's or Miss 
 Barney's have I seen a correspondence at the same time so 
 sweet, so graceful, and so well expressed. But the marvel 
 
30 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 of these letters was in the strange difference they bore to 
 the love-letters of the present day. They are, all of them, 
 on square paper, folded and sealed, and addressed to my 
 father on circuit; but the language in each, though it 
 almost borders on the romantic, is beautifully chosen, and 
 ^fit, without change of a syllable, for the most critical eye. 
 What girl now studies the words with which she shall 
 address her lover, or seeks to charm him with grace of 
 diction? She dearly likes a little slang, and revels in the 
 luxury of entire familiarity with a new and strange being. 
 There is something in that, too, pleasant to our thoughts, 
 but I fear that tiiis phase of life does not conduce to a 
 taste for poetry among our girls. Though my mother 
 was a writer of prose, and reveled in satire, the poetic 
 feeling clung to her to the last. 
 
 In the first ten years of her married life she became the 
 mother of six children, four of whom died of consumption 
 at different ages. My elder sister married, and had chil- 
 dren, of whom one still lives; but she was one of the four 
 who followed each other at intervals during my mother's 
 lifetime. Then my brother Tom and I were left to her, 
 with the destiny before us three of writing more books 
 than were probably ever before produced by a single family.* 
 My married sister addedjto the number by one little anony- 
 mous High-church story, called " Chollerton." 
 
 From the date of their marriage up to 1827, when my 
 mother went to America, my father's affairs had always 
 been going down in the world. She had loved society, 
 affecting a somewhat liberal ruhy and professing an emo- 
 tional dislike to tyrants, which sprung from the wrongs of 
 would-be regicides and the poverty of patriot exiles. An 
 
 * The family of Estienne, the great French printers of the fifteenth 
 and sixteenth centuries, of whom there were at least nine or ten, did 
 more, perhaps, for the production of literature than any otlier family. 
 But they, though they edited, and not unfrequently translated, the 
 works which they published, were not authors in the ordinary sense, 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 21 
 
 Italian marquis who bad escaped with only a second shirt 
 from the clutches of some archduke whom he had wished 
 to exterminate, or a French proUtaire with distant ideas of 
 sacrificing himself to the cause of liberty, were always 
 welcome to the modest hospitality of her house. In after- 
 years, when marquises of another caste had been gracious 
 to her, she became a strong Tory, and thought that arch- 
 duchesses were sweet. But with her politics were always 
 an affair of the heart, as, indeed, were all her convictions. 
 Of reasoning from causes, I think that she knew nothing. 
 Her heart was in every way so perfect, her desire to do 
 good to all around her so thorough, and her power of self- 
 sacrifice so complete, that she generally got herself right 
 in spite of her want of logic; but it must be acknowledged 
 that she was emotional. I can remember now her books, 
 and can see her at her pursuits. Tl>e poets she loved best 
 were Dante and Spenser. But she raved also of him of 
 whom all such ladies were raving then, and rejoiced in the 
 popularity and wept over the persecution of Lord l^yron. 
 She was among those who seized with avidity on the novels, 
 as they came out, of the then unknown Scott, and who 
 could still talk of the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth. With 
 the literature of the day she was familiar, and with the 
 poets of the past. Of otlier reading I do not think she 
 had mastered much. Her life, I take it, though latterly 
 clouded by many troubles, was easy, luxurious, and idle, 
 till my father's affairs and her own aspirations sent her to 
 America. She had dear friends among literary people, of 
 whom I remember Mathias, Henry Milman, and Miss Laii- 
 don; but till long after middle life she never herself wrote 
 a line lor publication. 
 
 In 1827 she went to America, having been partly in- 
 stigated by the social and communistic ideas of a lady 
 whom I well remember— a certain Miss Wright— who was, 
 I think, the first of the American female lecturers. Him* 
 chief desire, however, was to establish my brother Henry; 
 
7i2 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 and perhaps joined with that was the additional object of 
 breaking up her English home without pleading broken 
 fortunes to all the world. At Cincinnati, in the state of 
 Ohio, she built a bazaar, and, I fancy, lost all the money 
 which may have been embarked in that speculation. It 
 could not have been much, and I think that others also 
 must have suffered. But she looked about her, at her 
 American cousins, and resolved to write a book about 
 them. This book she brought back with her in 1831, and 
 published it early in 1832. When she did this she was al- 
 ready fifty. When doing it she was aware that unless she 
 could BO succeed in making money, there was no money 
 for any of the family. She had never before earned a 
 shilling. She almost immediately received a considerable 
 sum from the publishers — if I remember rightly, amount- 
 ing to two sums of £400 each, within a few months; and 
 from that moment till nearly the time of her death, at any 
 rate, for more than twenty years, she was in the receipt of 
 a considerable income from her writings. It was a late 
 age at which to begin such a career. 
 
 " The Domestic Manners of the Americans " was the first 
 of a series of books of travels, of which it was probably the 
 best, and was certainly the best-known. It will not be 
 too much to say of it that it had a material effect upon 
 the manners of the Americans of the day, and that that 
 effect has been fully appreciated by them. No observer 
 was certainly ever less qualified to Judge of the prospects 
 or even of the happiness of a young people. No one could 
 have been worse adapted by nature for the task of learn- 
 ing whether a nation was in a way to thrive. Whatever 
 she saw she judged, as most women do, from her own 
 standing-point. If a thing were ugly to her eyes, it ought 
 to be ugly to all eyes— and if ugly, it must be bad. What 
 though people had plenty to eat and clothes to'wear, if 
 they put their feet upon the tables and did not reverence 
 their betters? The Americans wore to her rough, ua(*<^\lUL 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 29 
 
 and vulgar— and she told them so. Those communistic 
 and social ideas, which had been so pretty in a drawing- 
 room, were scattered to the winds. Her volumes were 
 very bitter; but they were very clever, and they saved the 
 family from ruin. 
 
 Book followed book immediately — first, two novels, and 
 then a book on Belgium and Western Germany. She re- 
 furnished the house which I have called Orley Farm, and 
 surrounded us again with moderate comforts. Of the 
 mixture of joviality and industry which formed her char- 
 acter it is almost impossible to speak with exaggeration. 
 The industry was a thing apart, kept to herself. It was 
 not necessary that any one who lived with her should see 
 it. She was at her table at four in the morning, and had 
 finished her work before the world had begun to be 
 aroused. But the joviality was all for others. She could 
 dance with other people's legs, eat and drink with other 
 people's palates, be proud with the luster of other people's 
 finery. Every mother can do that for her own daughters; 
 but she could do it for any girl whose look, and voice, and 
 manners pleased her. Even when she was at work, the 
 laughter of those she loved was a pleasure to her. She 
 had much, very much, to suffer. Work sometimes came 
 hard to her, so much being required — for she was extrava- 
 gant, and liked to have money to spend; but of all people 
 I have known she was the most joyous, or, at any rate, the 
 most capable of joy. 
 
 We continued this renewed life at Harrow for nearly two 
 years, during which I was still at the school, and at the erld 
 of which I was nearly nineteen. Then there came a great 
 catastrophe. My father, who, when he was well, lived a 
 sad life among his monks and nuns, still kept a horse and 
 gig. One day in March, 1834, just as it had been decided 
 that I should leave the school then, instead of remaining, 
 as had been intended, till midsummw/I was summoned 
 Tery early in the morning to drive hi^a up to Lon(Jon, He 
 
24 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 had been ill, and must still have been Very ill indeed 
 wlien he submitted to be driven by any one. It was not 
 till we had started that he told me that I was to put him 
 on board the Ostend boat. This I did, driving him 
 through tlie city down to the docks. It was not within his 
 nature to be communicative, and to the last he never told 
 me why he was going to Ostend. Something of a general 
 flitting abroad I had heard before, but why he should have 
 flown the 6rst, and flown so suddenly, I did not in the least 
 know till I returned. When I got back with the gig, the 
 house and furniture were all in charge of the sheriff's 
 officers. 
 
 The gardener who had been with us in former days 
 stopped me as I drove up the road, and with gestures, 
 signs, and whispered words, gave me to understand that 
 the whole affair — horse, gig, and harness — would be made 
 prize of if I went but a few yards further. Why they 
 should not have been made prize of I do not know. The 
 little piece of dishonest business which I at once took in 
 hand and carried through successfully was of no special 
 service to any of us. I drove the gig into the village, and 
 sold the entire equipage to the ironmonger for £17, the 
 exact sum which he claimed as being due to himself. I 
 was much complimented by the gardener, who seemed to 
 think that so much had been rescued out of the fire. I 
 fancy that the ironmonger was the only gainer by my 
 smartness. 
 
 "When I got back to the house a scene of devastation was 
 in progress, which still was not without its amusement. 
 My mother, through her various troubles, had contrived 
 to keep a certain number of pretty-pretties which were 
 dear to her heart. They were not much, for in those days 
 the ornamentation of houses was not lavish, as it is now; 
 but there was some china, and a little glass, a few books, 
 and a very moderate supply of household silver. These 
 things, wid things lil^9 them, were being wvrried dowA 
 
AUTOBIOGKAPHY 6^ AKtflOKt liROLLOl^B. ^S 
 
 Burreptitiously, through a gap between the two gardens, 
 on to the premises of our friend Colonel Grant. My two 
 sisters, then sixteep and seventeen, and the Grant girls, 
 who were just younger, were the chief marauders. To 
 such forces I was happy to add myself for any enterprise, 
 and between us we cheated the creditors to the extent of 
 our powers, amid the anathemas, but good-humored ab- 
 stinence from personal violence, of the man in charge of 
 the property. I still own a few books that were thus 
 purloined . 
 
 For a few days the whole family bivouacked under the 
 colonel's hospitable roof, cared for and comforted by 
 that dearest of all women, his wife. Then w€ followed 
 my father to Belgium, and established ourselves in a 
 large house just outside the walls of Bruges. At this 
 time, and till my father's death, everything was done with 
 money earned by my mother. She now again furnished 
 the house — this being the third that she had put in order 
 since she came back from America two years and a half 
 ago. 
 
 There were six of us went into this new banishment. 
 My brother Henry had left Cambridge, and was ill. My 
 younger sister was ill. And though as yet we hardly told 
 each other that it was so, we began to feel that that deso- 
 lating fiend, consumption, was among us. My father 
 was broken-hearted as well as ill, but whenever he could 
 sit at his table he still worked at his ecclesiastical records. 
 My elder sister and I were in good health, but I was an 
 idle, desolate hanger-on, that most helpless of human 
 beings, a hobbledehoy of nineteen, without any idea of a 
 career, or a profession, or a trade. As well as I can re- 
 member I was fairly happy, for there were pretty girls at 
 Bruges with whom I could fancy that I was in love; and 
 I had been removed from the real misery of school. But 
 as to my future life I had not even an aspiration. Now 
 and again there would arise a feeling that it was hard 
 
26 AUTOBIOGRIPHT OJ ANTHONY TROLLOPH. 
 
 upon my mother tbat she should have to do so much for 
 u§, that we should be idle while she was forced to work so 
 constantly; but we should probably have thought more 
 of that had she not taken to work as though it were the 
 recognized condition of life for an old lady of fifty-five. 
 
 Then, by degi-ees, an established sorrow was at home 
 among us. My brother was an invalid, and the horrid 
 word, which of all words was for some years after the 
 most dreadful to us, had been pronounced. It was no 
 longer a delicate chest, and some temporary necessity for 
 peculiar care — but consumption! The Bruges doctor had 
 said so, and we knew that he was right. From that time 
 forth my mother's most visible occupation was tbat of 
 nursing. There were two sick men in the house, and hers 
 were the hands that tended them. The novels went on» 
 of course. We had already learned to know that they 
 would be forthcoming at stated intervals, and they always 
 ^ere forthcoming. The doctor's vials and the ink-bottle 
 held equal places in my mother's rooms. I have wrRten 
 many novels, under many circumstances; but I doubt 
 much whether I could write one when my whole heart was 
 by the bedside of a dying son. Her power of dividing 
 herself into two parts, and keeping her intellect by itself, 
 clear from the troubles of the world, and fit for the duty 
 it had to do, I never saw equaled. I do not think that 
 the writing of a novel is the most difficult task which a 
 irtan may be called upon to do; but it is a task that may 
 be supposed to demand a spirit fairly at ease. The work 
 of doing it with a troubled spirit killed Sir Walter Scott. 
 My mother went through it unscathed in strength, though 
 she performed all the work of day-nurse and night-nurse 
 to a sick household; for there were soon three of them 
 dying. 
 
 At this time there came from some quarter an offer to 
 me of a commission in an Austrian cavalry regiment; and 
 po it was apparently my destiny to be a soldier. Bat I 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 27 
 
 must learn German and French, of which languages I knew 
 almost nothing. For this a year was allowed me, and in 
 order that it might be accomplished without expense, I 
 undertook the duties of a classical usher to a school then 
 kept by William Drury at Brussels. Mr. Drury had been 
 one of the masters at Harrow when I went there at seven 
 years old, and is now, after an interval of fifty-three years, 
 even yet oQciating as clergyman at that place.* To Brus- 
 sels I went, and my heart still sinks within me as I reflect 
 that any one should have intrusted to me the tuition of 
 thirty boys. I can only hope that those boys went there 
 to learn French, and that their parents were not particular 
 as to their classical acquirements. I remember that on 
 two occasions I was sent ho take the school out for a walk; 
 but that after the second attempt Mrs. Drury declared 
 that the boys' clothes would not stand any farther experi- 
 ments of that kind. I cannot call to mind any learning 
 by me of other languages; but as I only remained in that 
 position for six weeks, perhaps the return lessons had not 
 been as yet commenced. At the end of the six weeks a 
 letter reached me, offering me a clerkship in the General 
 Post-oflBce, and I accepted it. Among my mother's dear- 
 est friends she reckoned Mrs. Freeling, the wife of Clayton 
 Freeling, whose father. Sir Francis Freeling, then ruled 
 the Post-oflBce. She had heard of my desolate position, 
 and had begged from her father-in-law the offer of a berth 
 in his own oflBce. 
 
 I hurried back from Brussels to Bruges on my way to 
 London, and found that the number of invalids had been 
 increased. My younger sister, Emily, who, when I had 
 left the house, was trembling on the balance, who had 
 been pronounced to be delicate, but with that false* 
 tongued hope which knows the truth, but will lie lest the 
 heart should faint, had been called delicate, but only deli- 
 
 *He died two years after these words were written. 
 
S8 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 cate^ was now ill. Of course she was doomed. I knew it 
 of both of them, though I had never heard the word 
 spoken, or had spoken it to any one. And my father was 
 very ill — ill to dying, though I did not know it. And my 
 mother had decreed to send my elder sister away to Eng- 
 land, thinking that the vicinity of so much sickness might 
 be injurious to her. All this happened late in the au- 
 tumn of 1834, in the spring of which year we had come 
 to Bruges; and then my mother was left alone in a big 
 house outside the town, with two Belgian women-servants, 
 to nurse these dying patients — the patients being her hus- 
 band and children — and to write novels for tlie sustenance 
 of the family! It was about this period of her career that 
 her best novels were written. 
 
 To my own initiation at the Post-office I will return in 
 the next chapter. Just before Christmas my brother died, 
 and was buried at Bruges. In the following February my 
 father died, and was buried alongside of him, — and with 
 him died that tedious task of his, which I can only hope 
 may have solaced many of his latter hours. I sometimes 
 look back, meditating for hours together, on his adverse 
 fate. He was a man finely educated, of great parts, with 
 immense capacity for work, physically strong very much 
 beyond the average of men, addicted to no vices, carried 
 off by no pleasures, affectionate by nature, most anxious 
 for the welfare of his children, born to fair fortunes, who, 
 when he started in the world, may be said to have had 
 everything at his feet. But everything went wrong with 
 him. The touch of his hand seemed to create failure. He 
 embarked in one hopeless enterprise after another, spend- 
 ing on each all the money he could at the time command. 
 But the worst curse to him of all was a temper so irritable 
 that even those whom he loved the best could not endure 
 it. We were all estranged from him, and yet I believe 
 that he would have given his heart's blood for any of us. 
 His life, as I knew it, was one long tragedy. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 29 
 
 After his death my mother moyed to England, and took 
 and furnished a small house at Hadley, near Barnet. I 
 was then a clerk in the London Post-office, and I remember 
 well hoW gay she made the place with little dinners, little 
 dances, and little picnics, while she herself was at work 
 every morning long before others had left their beds. But 
 she did not stay at Hadley much above a year. She went 
 up to London, where she again took and furnished a house, 
 from which my remaining sister was married and carried 
 away into Cumberland. My mother soon followed her, 
 and on this occasion did more than take a house. She 
 bought a bit of land, a field of three acres near the town, 
 and built a residence for herself. This, I think, was in 
 1841, and she had thus established and re-established 
 herself six times in ten years. But in Cumberland she 
 found the climate too severe, and in 1844 she moved her- 
 self to Florence, where she remained till her death in 
 1863. She continued writing up to 1856, when she was 
 seventy-six years old, and had at that time produced one 
 hundred and fourteen volumes, of which the first was 
 not written till she was fifty. Her career offers great en- 
 couragement to those who have not begun early in life, 
 but are still ambitious to do something before they depart 
 hence. 
 
 She was an unselfish, affectionate, and most industrious 
 woman, with great capacity for enjoyment, and high 
 physical gifts. She was endowed, too, with much crea- 
 tive power, with considerable humor, and a genuine 
 feeling for romance. But she was neither clear-sighted 
 nor accurate; and in her attempts to describe morals, 
 manners, and even facts, was unable to avoid the pitfalls 
 of exaggeration. 
 
so AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE. 
 1834-1841. 
 
 While I was still learning my duty as an usher at Mr. 
 Drury's school at Brussels, I was summoned to my clerk- 
 ship in the London Post-office, and on my way passed 
 through Bruges. I then saw my father and my brother 
 Henry for the last time. A sadder household never was 
 held together. They were all dying — except my mother, 
 who would sit up night after night nursing the dying 
 ones, and writing novels the while, so that there might 
 be a decent roof for them to die under. Had she failed to 
 write the novels, I do not know where the roof would have 
 been found. It is now more than forty years ago, and look- 
 ing back over so long a lapse of time I can tell the story, 
 though it be the story of my own father and mother, of 
 my own brother and sister, almost as coldly as I have often 
 done some scene of intended pathos in fiction; but that 
 scene was indeed full of pathos. I was then becoming 
 alive to the blighted ambition of my father's life, and be- 
 coming alive also to the violence of the strain which my 
 mother was enduring. But I could do nothing but go 
 and leave them. There was something that comforted me 
 in the idea that I need no longer be a burden — a fallacious 
 idea, as it soon proved. My salary was to be £90 a year, 
 and on that I was to live in London, keep up my character 
 as a gentleman, and be happy. That I should have 
 thought this possible at the age of nineteen, and should 
 have been delighted at being able to make the attempt, 
 does not surprise me now; but that others should have 
 thought it possible, friends who knew something of the 
 ifTorld; does astonish me. A lad might have done S0| no 
 
i^trrOBlOQEAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPB* 3l 
 
 doubt, or might do so even in these days, who was properly 
 looked after and kept under control, on whose behalf some 
 law of life had been laid down. Let him pay so much a 
 week for his board and lodging, so much for his clothes, 
 so much for his washing, and then let him understand 
 that he has — shall we say?— sixpence a day left for pocket- 
 money and omnibuses. Any one making the calculation 
 will find the sixpence far too much. No such calculation 
 was made for me or by me. It was supposed that a suf- 
 ficient income had been secured to me, and that I should 
 live upon it as other clerks lived. 
 
 But as yet the £90 a year was not secured to me. On 
 reaching London I went to my friend Clayton Freeling, 
 who was then secretary at the Stamp-office, and was taken 
 by him to the scene of my future labors m St. Murtin's-le- 
 Grand. Sir Francis Freeling was the secretary, but he 
 was greatly too high an official to be seen at first by a new 
 junior clerk. I was taken, therefore, to his eldest son, 
 Henry Freeling, who was the assistant secretary, and by 
 him I was examined as to my fitness. The story of that 
 examination is given accurately in one of the opening 
 chapters of a novel written by me, called '' The Three 
 Clerks." If any reader of this memoir would refer to 
 that chapter and see how Charley Tudor was supposed to 
 have been admitted into the Internal Navigation Office, 
 that reader will learn how Anthony Trollope was actu- 
 ally admitted into the secretary's office of the General 
 Post-office in 1834. I was asked to copy some lines from 
 the Times newspaper with an old quill pen, and at once 
 made a series of blots and false spellings. *'That won't 
 do, you know,'' said Henry Freeling to his brother Clayton. 
 Clayton, who was my friend, urged that I was nervous, 
 and asked that I might be allowed to do a bit of writing 
 at home and bring it as a sample on the next day. I was 
 then asked whether I was a proficient in arithmetic. What 
 could I say? I had never learned the multiplication- table. 
 
S» AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPE, 
 
 and had no more idea of the rule of three than of conlo 
 sections. " I know a little of it," I said humbly, where- 
 upon I was sternly assured that on the morrow, should I 
 succeed in showing that my handwriting was all that it 
 ought to be, I should be examined as to tliat little of 
 arithmetic. If that little should not be found to comprise 
 a thorough knowledge of all the ordinary rules, together 
 with practiced and quick skill, my career in life could not 
 be made at the Post-office. Going down the main stairs ol 
 the building — stairs which have, I believe, been now pulled 
 down to make room for sorters and stampers, Clayton 
 Freeling told me not to be too down-hearted. I was my- 
 self inclined to think that I had better go back to the 
 school in Brussels. But nevertheless I went to work, and 
 under the surveillance of my elder brother made a beauti- 
 ful transcript of four or five pages of Gibbon. With a 
 faltering heart I took these on the next day to the office. 
 With my calligraphy I was contented, but was certain that 
 I should come to the ground among the figures. But 
 when I got to '* The Grand," as we used to call our office 
 in those days, from its site in St. Martiii's-le-Grand, I 
 was seated at a desk without any further reference to my 
 competency. No one condescended even to look at my 
 beautiful penmanship. 
 
 That was the way in which candidates for the civil 
 service were examined in my young days. It was, at any 
 rate, the way in which I was examined. Since that time 
 there has been a very great change indeed; and in some 
 respects a great improvement. But in regard to the ab- 
 solute fitness of the young men selected for the public 
 service, I doubt whether more harm has not been done 
 than good. And I think that good might have been done 
 without the harm. The rule of the present day is, that 
 every place shall be open to public competition, and that 
 it shall be given to the best among the comers.* I object 
 to this, that at present there exists no known mode o( 
 
AUTOBIOGKAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 33 
 
 learning who is best, and that the method employed hjis 
 no tendency to elicit the best. That method pretends 
 only to decide who among a certain number of lads will 
 best answer a string of questions, for the answering of 
 which they are prepared by tutors, who have sprung up 
 for the purpose since this fashion of election has been 
 adopted. Wiien it is decided in a family that a boy shall 
 *' try the civil service," he is made to undergo a certain 
 amount of cramming. But such treatment has, I main- 
 tain, no connection whatever with education. The lad is 
 no better fitted after it than he was before for the future 
 work of his life. But his very success fills him with false 
 ideas of his own educational standing, and so far unfits 
 him. And, by the plan now in vogue, it has come to pass 
 that no one is in truth responsible either for the conduct, 
 the manners, or even for the character of the youth. The 
 responsibility was, perhaps, slight before; but existed, and 
 was on the increase. 
 
 There might have been — in some future time of still in- 
 creased wisdom, there yet may be— a department estab- 
 lished to test the fitness of acolytes without recourse to the 
 dangerous optimism of competitive choice. I will not say 
 but that there should have been some one to reject me— 
 though I will have the hardihood to say that, had I been 
 so rejected, the civil service would have lost a valuable 
 public servant. This is a statement that will not, I think, 
 be denied by those who, after I am gone, may remember 
 anything of my work. Lads, no doubt, should not be 
 admitted who have^none of the small acquirements that 
 are wanted. Our offices should not be schools in which 
 writing and early lessons in geography, arithmetic, or 
 French should be learned. But all that could be ascer- 
 tained without the perils of competitive examination. 
 
 Tlie desire to insure the efficiency of the young men 
 selected has not been the only oDject— perhaps not the 
 chief object— of those who have yielded in this matter to 
 
34 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 the arguments of the reformers. There had arisen ia 
 England a system of patronage, under which it had be- 
 come gradually necessary for politicans to use their in- 
 fluence for the purchase of political support. A member 
 of the House of Commons, holding oflSce, who might 
 chance to have five clerkships to give away in a year, found 
 himself compelled to distribute them among those who 
 sent him to the House. In this there was nothing pleasant 
 to the distributer of patronage. Do away with the system 
 altogether, and he would have as much chance of support 
 as another. He bartered his patronage only because an- 
 other did so also. The beggings, the refusings, thje jeal- 
 ousies, the correspondence, were simply troublesome. 
 Gentlemen in office were not, therefore, indisposed to rid 
 themselves of the care of patronage. I have no doubt 
 their hands are the cleaner and their hearts are the lighter; 
 but I do doubt whether the offices are, on the whole, bet- 
 ter manned. 
 
 As what I now write will certainly never be read till I am 
 dead, I may dare to say what no one now does dare to say 
 in print — though some of us whisper it occasionally into 
 our friends' ears— there are places in life which can hardly 
 be well filled except by *^ gentlemen." The word is one 
 the use of which almost subjects one to ignominy. If I 
 say that a judge should be a gentleman, or a bishop, I am 
 met with a scornful allusion to "nature's gentlemen." 
 Were I to make such an assertion with reference to the 
 House of Commons, nothing that I ever said again would 
 receive the slightest attention. A man in public life could 
 not do himself a greater injury than by saying in public 
 that the commissions in the army or navy, or berths in the 
 civil service, should be given exclusively to gentlemen. He 
 would be defied to define the term, and would fail should he 
 attempt to do so. But he would know what he meant, and 
 80, very probably, would they who defied him. It maybe 
 ^hat the son of the butcher of the village shall become as 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 35 
 
 well fitted for employments requiring gentle culture as the 
 son of the parson. Such is often the case. When such is 
 the case, no one has been more prone to give the butcher's 
 son all the welcome he has merited than myself; but the 
 chances are greatly in favor of the parson's son. The gates 
 of the one class should be open to the other; but neither 
 to the one class nor to the other can good be done by de- 
 claring that there are no gates, no barrier, no difference. 
 The system of competitive examination is, I think, based 
 on a supposition that there is no difference. 
 
 I got into my place without any examining. Looking 
 back now, I think I can see with accuracy what was then 
 the condition of my own mind and intelligence. Of things 
 to be learned by lessons I knew almost less than could be 
 supposed possible after the amount of schooling I had 
 received. 1 could read neither French, Latin, nor Greek. 
 I could speak no foreign language, and I may as well say 
 here as elsewhere that I never acquired the power of really 
 talking French. I have been able to order my dinner and 
 take a rai}way ticket, but never got much beyond that. 
 Of the merest rudiments of the sciences I was completely 
 ignorant. My handwriting was, in truth, wretched. My 
 spelling was imperfect. There was no subject as to which 
 examination would have been possible on which I could 
 have gone through an examination otherwise than dis- 
 'gracefully. And yet I think I knew more than the aver- 
 age of young men of the same rank who began life at 
 nineteen. J could have given a fuller list of names of the 
 poets of all countries, with their subjects and periods — 
 and probably of historians — than many others; and had, 
 perhaps, a more accurate idea of the manner in which my 
 own country was governed. I knew the names of all the 
 bishops, all the judges, all the heads of college^ and all 
 the cabinet ministers— not a very useful knowledge, in- 
 deed, but one that had not been acquired without other 
 iwatter which was more useful. 1 had read Shakespeare 
 
36 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 and Byron and Scott, and could talk about them. The 
 music of the Miltonic line was familiar to me. I had al- 
 ready made np my mind that*' Pride and Prejudice'* was 
 the best novel in the English language — a palm which I 
 only partially withdrew after a second reading of ** Ivan- 
 hoe," and did not completely bestow elsewhere till "Es- 
 mond " was written. And though I would occasionally 
 break down in my spelling, I could write a letter. If I 
 had a thing to say, I could so say it in written words that 
 the readers should know what I meant — a power which is 
 by no means at the command of all those who come out 
 from these competitive examinations with triumph. Early 
 in life, at the age of fifteen, I had commenced the danger- 
 ous habit of keeping a journal, and this I maintained for 
 ten years. The volumes remained in my possession un- 
 regarded — never looked at — till 1870, when I examined 
 them, and, with many blushes, destroyed them. They 
 convicted me of folly, ignorance, indiscretion, idleness, 
 extravagance, and conceit. But they had habituated me 
 to the rapid use of pen and ink, and taught me how to 
 express myself with facility. 
 
 I will mention here another habit which had grown upon 
 me from still earlier years — which I myself often regarded 
 with dismay when I thought of the hours devoted to it, 
 but which, I suppose, must have tended to make me what 
 I have been. As a boy, even as a child, I was thrown 
 much upon myself. I have explained, when speaking of 
 my school-days, how it came to pass that other boys would 
 not play with me. I was therefore alone, and had to form 
 my plays within myself. Play of some kind was necessary 
 to me then, as it has always been. Study was not my 
 bent, and I could not please myself by being all idle. 
 Thus it came to pass fhat I was always going about with 
 some castle in the air firmly built witTiln my mind. Nor 
 were these efiforts in architecture spasmodic, or subject to 
 constant change from day to day. For weeks, for months. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 37 
 
 if I remember rightly, from year to year, I would carry on 
 the same tale, binding myself down to certain laws, to cer- 
 tain, proportions, and proprieties, and unities. Nothing 
 impossible was ever introduced, nor even anything which, 
 from outward circumstances, would seem to be yiolently 
 improbable. I myself was, of course, my own hero. Such 
 is a necessity-of castle-building. But I never became a 
 king, or a duke — much less, when my height and personal 
 appearance were fixed, could I be an Antinous, or six feet 
 high. I never was a learned man, nor even a philosopher. 
 But I was a very clever person, and beautiful young wom- 
 en used to be fond of me. And 1 strove to be kind of 
 heart, and open of hand, and noble in thought, despising 
 mean things; and altogether I was a very much betteir 
 fellow than I have ever succeeded in being since. Thi& 
 had been the occupation of my life for six or seven years^ 
 before I went to the Post-ofl&ce, and was by no means, 
 abandoned when I commenced my work. There can, I 
 imagine, hardly be a more dangerous mental practice; but 
 I have often doubted whether, had it not been my prac- 
 tice, I should ever have written a novel. I learned in this 
 way to maintain an interest in a fictitious story, to dwell 
 on a work created by my own imagination, and to live in 
 a world altogether outside the world of my own material 
 life. In after-years I have done the same, with this dif- 
 ference, that I have discarded the hero of my early dreams, 
 and have been able to lay my own identity aside. 
 
 I must certainly acknowledge that the first seven years 
 of my official life were neither creditable to myself nor 
 useful to the public service. These seven years were 
 passed in London, and during this period of my life it was 
 my duty to be present every morning at the office punct- 
 ually at 10 A. M. I think I commenced my quarrels with 
 the authorities there by having in my possession a watch 
 which was always ten minutes late. I know that I very 
 soon achieved a character for irregularity, and came to be 
 
38 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 regarded as a black sheep by men around me who were 
 not themselves, T think, very good public servants. From 
 time to time rumors reached me that if I did not take care 
 I should be dismissed; especially one rumor, in my early 
 days, through my dearly beloved friend, Mrs. Clayton 
 Creeling — who, as I write this, is still living, and who, 
 -with tears in her eyes, besought me to think of my mother. 
 That was during the life of Sir Francis Freeling, who 
 died — still in harness— a little more than twelve months 
 after I joined the office. And yet the old man showed me 
 signs of almost affectionate kindness, writing to me with 
 his own hand more than once from his death-bed. 
 
 Sir Francis Freeling was followed at the Post-office by 
 €oloncl Maberly, who certainly was not my friend. I do 
 not know that I deserved to find a friend in my new 
 master, but I think that a man with better judgment would 
 not have formed so low an opinion of me as he did. Years 
 have gone by, and I can write now, and almost feel, with- 
 out anger; but I can remember well the keenness of my 
 anguish when I was treated as though I were unfit for any 
 useful work. I ^did struggle — not to do the work, for 
 there was nothing which was not easy without any strug- 
 gling, but to show that I was willing to do it. My bad 
 character, nevertheless, stuck to me, and was not to be got 
 rid of by any efforts within my power. I do admit that I was 
 irregular. It was not considered to be much in my favor 
 that I could write letters— which was mainly the work of 
 our office — rapidly, correctly, and to the purpose. The 
 man who came at ten, and who was always still at his desk 
 at half -past four, was preferred before me, though when 
 at his desk he might be less efficient. Such preference 
 was, no doubt, proper; but, with a little encouragement, I 
 also would have been punctual. I got credit for nothing, 
 and was reckless. 
 
 As it was, the conduct of some of us was very bad. 
 yhere was a comfortable sitting-room up-stairs, devoted 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 39 
 
 to the use of some one of our number "iylio, in turn, was 
 required to remain in the place all night. Hither one or 
 two of us would adjourn after lunch, and play ecarU for 
 an hour or two. ' I do not know whether such ways are 
 possible now in our public oflSces. And here we used to 
 have suppers and card-parties at night — great symposiums, 
 with much smoking of tobacco; for in our part of the 
 building there lived a whole bevy of clerks. These were 
 gentlemen whose duty it then was to make up and receive 
 the foreign mails. I do not remei»ber that they worked 
 later or earlier than the other sorting-clerks; but there 
 was supposed to be something special in foreign letters, 
 which required that the men who handled them should 
 have minds undistracted by the outer world. Their sala- 
 ries, too, were higher than those of their more homely 
 brethren; and they paid nothing for their lodgings. Con- 
 sequently, there was a somewhat fast set in those apart- 
 ments, given to cards and to tobacco, who drank spirits- 
 and-water in preference to tea. I was not one of them, 
 but was a good deal with them. 
 
 I do not know that I should interest my readers by say- 
 ing much of my Post-oflBce experiences in those days, I 
 was always on the eve of being dismissed, and yet was 
 always striving to show how good a public servant I could 
 become, if only a chance wore given me. But the chance 
 went the wrong way. On one occasion, in the perform- 
 ance of my duty, I had to put a private letter containing 
 bank-notes on the secretary's table, which letter I had duly- 
 opened, as it was not marked Private. The letter was seen 
 by the colonel, but had not been moved by him when he 
 left the room. On his return it was gone. In the mean- 
 time I had returned to the room again, in the performance 
 of some duty. When the letter was missed I was sent for, 
 and there I found the colonel much moved about this let- 
 ter, and a certain chief clerk, who, with a long face, was 
 making suggestions as to the probable fate of the money. 
 
40 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TllOLLOPB. 
 
 " The letter has been taken," said the colonel, turning to 
 me angrily, " and, by G — ! there has been nobody in the 
 room but you and I." As he spoke, he thundered his fist 
 down upon the table. ** Then,"" said I, "by Gr — ! you 
 have taken it," and I also thundered my fist down — but, 
 accidentally, not upon the table. There was there a stand- 
 ing movable desk, at which, I presume, it was the col- 
 oners habit to write, and on this movable desk was a large 
 bottleful of ink. My fist unfortunately came on the desk, 
 and the ink at once -^ew up, covering the colonel's face 
 and shirt-front. Then it was a sight to see that senior 
 clerk, as he seized a quire of blotting-paper, and rushed 
 to the aid of his superior ofiBcer, striving to mop up the 
 ink; and a sight also to see the colonel, in his agony, hit 
 right out through the blotting-paper at that senior clerk's 
 unoffending stomach. At that moment there came in the 
 colonel's private secretary, with the letter and the money, 
 and I was desired to go back to my own room. This was 
 an incident not much in my favor, though I do not know 
 that it did me special harm. 
 
 I was always in trouble. A young woman down in the 
 country had taken it into her head that she would like to 
 marry me, and a very foolish young woman she must have 
 been to enterLain such a wish. I need not tell that part of 
 the story more at length, otherwise than by protesting 
 that no young man in such a position was ever much less 
 to blame than I had been in this. The invitation had 
 come from her, and I had lacked the pluck to give it a 
 decided negative; but I had left the honae within half an 
 hour, going away without my dinner, and had never 
 returned to it. Then there was a correspondence — ff that 
 can be called a corrospondence in whicli all the letters 
 came from one side. At last the mother appeared at the 
 Post-office. My hair almost stands on my head now as I 
 remember the figure of the woman walking into the big 
 room in which I sat with six or seven other clerks, having 
 
AUTOBIOGKAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 41 
 
 a large basket on her arm and an immense bonnet on her 
 head. The messenger had vainly endeavored to persuade 
 her to remain in the anteroom. She followed the man in, 
 and, walking up the center of the room, addressed me in a» 
 loud voice: "Anthony Trollope, when are you going to 
 marry my daughter?" We have all had oar worst mo- 
 ments, and that was one of my worst. I lived through it, 
 however, and did not marry the young lady. These little 
 incidents were all against me in the office. 
 
 And then a certain other phase of my private life crept 
 into oflacial view, and did me a damage. As I shall ex- 
 plain just now, I rarely at this time had any money where- 
 with to pay my bills. In this state of things a certain 
 tailor had taken from me an acceptance for, I think, £12, 
 which found its way into the hands of a money-lender. 
 With that man, who lived in a little street near Mecklen- 
 burgh Square, I formed a most heartrending but a most 
 intimate acquaintance. In cash I once received from him 
 £4. Epr that and for the original amount of the tailor's 
 bill, which grew monstrously under repeated renewals, I 
 paid ultimately something over £200. That is so common 
 a story as to be hardly worth the telling; but the peculiarity 
 of this man was that he became so attached to me as to 
 visit me every day at my office. For a long period he found 
 it to be worth his while to walk up those stone steps daily, 
 and come and stand behind my chair, whispering to me 
 always the same words: " Now I wish you would be punct- 
 ual. If you only would be punctual, I should like you to 
 have anything you want." He was a little, clean old man, 
 who always wore a high, starched, white cravat, inside 
 which he had a habit of twisting his chin as he uttered his 
 caution. When I remember the constant persistency of 
 his visits, I cannot but feel that he was paid very badly for 
 his time and trouble. Those visits were very terrible, and 
 can hardly have been of service to me in the office. 
 
 Of one other misfortune which happened to me in those 
 
42 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 days I must tell the tale. A junior clerk in the secretary's 
 oflSce was always told off to sleep upon the premises, and 
 he was supposed to be the presiding genius ol the estab- 
 lishment when the other members of the secretary's de- 
 partment had left tlie building. On an occasion when I 
 ■was still little more than a lad, perhaps one-and-twenty 
 years old, I was filling this responsible position. At about 
 seven in the evening word was brought to me that the 
 Queen of, I think, Saxony, but I am sure it was a queen, 
 'i<r«nted to see the night mails sent out. At this time, 
 ■when there were many mail coaches, this was a show, and 
 august visitors would sometimes come to see it. But 
 preparation was generally made beforehand, and some 
 pundit of the office would be at hand to do the honors. 
 On this occasion we were taken by surprise, and there was 
 no pundit. I therefore gave the orders, and accompanied 
 her majesty around the building, walking backward, as I 
 conceived to be proper, and often in great peril as I did 
 80, up and down the stairs. I was, however, quite satis- 
 fied with my own manner of performing an unaccustomed 
 and most important duty. There were two old gentlemen 
 with her majesty, who, no doubt, were German barons, 
 and an ancient baroness also. They had come and, when 
 they had seen the sights, took their departure in two glass 
 coaches. As they were preparing to go I saw the two 
 barons consulting together in deep whispers, and then as 
 the result of that conversation one of them handed me a 
 half-crown! That also was a bad moment. 
 
 I came up to town, as I said before, purporting to live 
 a jolly life upon £90 per annum. I remained seven years 
 in the General Post-office, and when I left it my income 
 was £140. During the whole of this time I was hopelessly 
 in debt. There were two intervals, amounting together 
 to nearly two years, in which I lived with my mother, and 
 therefore lived in comfort— but even then I was over- 
 whelmed with debt. She paid much for me— paid all that 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB, 43 
 
 I asked her to pay, and all that she could find out that I 
 owed. But who in such a condition ever tells all and 
 makes a clean breast of it? The debts, of course, were 
 not large, but I cannot think now how I could have lived, 
 and sometimes have enjoyed life, with such a burden of 
 duns as I endured. Sheriff's officers, with uncanny docu- 
 ments, of which I never understood anything, were com- 
 mon attendants on me. And yet I do not remember that 
 I was ever locked up, though I think I was twice a pris- 
 oner. In such emergencies some one paid for me. And 
 now, looking back at it, I have to ask myself whether my 
 youth was very wicked. I did no good in it; but was 
 there fair ground for expecting good from me? When I 
 reached London no mode of life was prepared for me — no 
 advice even given to me. I went into lodgings, and then 
 had to dispose of my time. I belonged to no club, and 
 knew very few friends who would receive me into their 
 houses. In such a condition of life a young man should^ 
 no doubt, go home after his work, and spend the long 
 hours of the evening in reading good books and drinking 
 tea. A lad brought up by strict parents, and without 
 having had even a view of gayer things, might perhaps 
 do so. I had passed all my life at public schools, where 
 I had seen gay things, but had never enjoyed them. To- 
 ward the good books and tea no training had been given 
 me. There was no house in which I could habitually see 
 a lady's face and hear a lady's voice. No allurement; to 
 decent respectability came in my way. It seems to me 
 that in such circumstances the temptations of loose life 
 will almost certainly prevail v/ith a young man. Of 
 course, if the mind be strong enough, and the general 
 stuff knitted together of sufficiently stern material, the 
 temptations will not prevail. But such minds and such 
 material are, I think, uncommon. The tetnptation, at 
 any rate, prevailed with me. 
 I wonder how many young men fall utterly to pieces 
 
44 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 from being turned loose into London after the same fash- 
 ion. Mine was, I think, of all phases of such life the most 
 dangerous. The lad who is sent to mechanical work has 
 longer hours, during which he is kept from danger, and 
 has not generally been taught in his boyhood to anticipate 
 pleasure. He looks for hard work and grinding circum- 
 stances. I certainly had enjoyed but little pleasure, but 
 I had been among those who did enjoy it and were taught 
 to expect it. And I had filled my mind with the ideas of 
 such joys. And now, except during official hours, I was 
 entirely without control — without the influences of any 
 decent household around me. I have said something of 
 the comedy of such life, but it certainly had its tragic 
 aspect. Turning it all over in my own mind, as I have 
 constantly done in after-years, the tragedy has always been 
 uppermost. And so it was as the time was passing. 
 Could there be any escape from such dirt? I would ask 
 myself; and I always answered that there was no escape. 
 The mode of life was itself wretched. I hated the office. 
 I hated my work. More then all I hated my idleness. * I 
 had often told myself since I left school that the only 
 career in life within my reach was that of an author, and 
 the only mode of authorship open to me that of a writer of 
 povels. In the journal which I read and destroyed a few 
 years since, I found the matter argued out before I had 
 been in the Post-office two years. Parliament was out of 
 the question. I had not means to go to the Bar. In 
 official life, such as that to which I had been introduced, 
 there did not seem to be any opening for real success. 
 Pens and paper I could command . PoetVy I did not be- 
 lieve to be within my grasp. The drama, too, which I 
 would fain have chosen, I believed to be above me. For 
 history, bio^-aphy, or essay writing I had not sufficient 
 erudition. But I thought'^it possible that I might writea 
 novel. I had resolved very early that in thaC shape must 
 the attempt be made. But the months and years ran on. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 45 
 
 and no attempt was made. And yet no day was passed 
 without thoughts of attempting, and a mental acknowl- 
 edgment of the disgrace of postponing it. What reader 
 will not understand the agony of remorse produced by such 
 a condition of mind? The gentleman from Mecklenburgh 
 Square was always with me in the morning — always 
 angering me by his hateful presence — but when the 
 evening came I could make no struggle toward getting rid 
 ef him. 
 
 In those days I read a little, and did learn to read 
 French and Latin. I made myself familiar with Horace, 
 and became acquainted with the works of our own greatest 
 poets. I had my strong enthusiasms, and remember 
 throwing out of the window in Northumberland Street, 
 where I lived, a volume of Johnson^s "Lives of the Poets," 
 because he spoke sneeringly of Lycidas. That was North- 
 umberland Street by the Marylebone Workhouse, on to 
 the back-door of which establishment my room looked out 
 — a most dreary abode, at which I fancy I must have al- 
 most ruined the good-natured lodging-house keeper by my 
 constant inability to pay her what I owed. 
 
 How I got my daily bread I can hardly remember, but I 
 do remember that I was often unable to get myself a din 
 ner. Young men generally now have their meals provided 
 for them. I kept house, as it were. Every day I had to 
 fiiid myself with the day's food. For my breakfast I could 
 get some credit at the lodgings, though that credit would 
 frequently come to an end. But for all that I had often 
 bieakfast to pay day by day; and at your eating-house 
 credit is not given. I had no friends on whom I could 
 sponge regularly. Out on the Fulham Road I had an 
 uncle, but his house was four mil^^ from the Post-office, 
 and almost as far from my own Jodgings. Then came bor- 
 rowings of money, sometimes absolute want, and almost 
 constant misery. 
 
 Before I tell how it came about that I left this wretched 
 
46 AUTOBIOGRAPHY Of ANTHONY TROLLOFB. 
 
 life, I must say a word or two of the friendships which 
 lessened its misfortuues. My earliest friend in life wa* 
 John Merivale, with whom I had been at school at Sun- 
 bury and Harrow, and who was a nephew of my tutor, 
 Harry Drury. Herman Merivale, who afterward be- 
 came my friend, was bis brother, as is also Charles Meri- 
 vale, the historian, and Dean of Ely. I knew John when 
 I was ten years old, and am happy to be able to say that 
 he is going to dine with me one day this week. I hope- 
 I may not injure his character by stating that in those 
 days I lived very much with him. He, too, was impecu- 
 nious, but he had a home in London, and knew but little 
 of the sort of penury which I endured. For more than 
 fifty years he and I have been close friends. And then 
 
 there was one W A , whose misfortunes in life will 
 
 not p«rmit me to give his full name, but whom I 
 dearly loved. He had been at Winchester and at Oxford, 
 and at both place^had fallen into trouble. He then be- 
 came a schoolmaster — or, perhaps, I had better say usher 
 — and finally he took orders. But he was unfortunate in 
 all things, and died some years ago in poverty. He wa& 
 most perverse; bashful to very fear of a lady's dress; un- 
 able to restrain himself in anything, but yet with a con- 
 science that was always stinging him; a loving friend,, 
 though very quarrelsome; and perhaps, of all men I have 
 known, the most humorous. And he was entirely un- 
 conscious of his own humor. He did not know that he 
 could so handle all matters as to create infinite amusement 
 
 out of them. Poor W A ! To him there came no 
 
 happy turning-point at which life loomed seriously on 
 him, and tlien became prosperous. 
 
 W A , Merivale, and I formed a little club,. 
 
 which was called the Tramp Society, and subjected to 
 certain rules, in obedience to which we wandered on foot 
 about the counties adjacent to London. Southampton 
 waB the furthest point we ever reached; but Buckingham- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ATSTFO^T TROLLtJPB. 47 
 
 shire and Hertfordshire were more dear to us. These 
 were the happiest hours of my then life — and perhaps not 
 the least innocent, although we were frequently m peril 
 -from the village authorities whom we outraged. Not to 
 pay for any conveyance, never to spend above five shillings 
 a day, to obey all orders from the elected ruler of the hour 
 (this enforced under heavy fines), were among our statutes. 
 
 I would fain tell here some of our adventures: how A- 
 
 enacted an escaped madman and we his pursuing keepers, 
 and so got ourselves a lift in a cart, from which we ran 
 away as we approached the lunatic asylum; how we were 
 turned out of a little town at night, the townsfolk fright- 
 ened by the loudness of our mirth; and how we once crept 
 into a hayloft and were awakened m the dark morning by 
 a pitchfork — and how the juvenile owner of that pitch- 
 fork fled through the window when he heard the com- 
 plaints of the wounded man! But the fun was the fun of 
 W A , and would cease to be f uq. as told by me. 
 
 It was during these years that John Tilley, who has 
 now been for many years the permanent senior officer of 
 the Post-office, married my sister, whom he took with him 
 into Cumberland, where he was stationed as one of our 
 surveyors. He has been my friend for more than forty 
 jears; as has also Peregrine Birch, a clerk in the House of 
 Lords, who married one of those daughters of Colonel 
 Grant who assisted us in the raid we made on tJie goods 
 which had been seized by the sheriff's officer at Harrow. 
 These have been the oldest and dearest friends of my life; 
 and I can thank God that three of them are still alive. 
 
 When I had been nearly seven years in the secretary's 
 office of the Post-office, always hating my position there, 
 and yet always fearing that I should be dismissed from it, 
 there came a way of escape. There had latterly been 
 created in the service a new body of officers called sHr- 
 veyors' elerks. There were at that time seven surveyors 
 in England, two in Scotland, and three in Ireland. To 
 
48 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 each of these officers a clerk bad been lately attached, 
 whose duty it was to travel about the country under the 
 surveyor's orders. There had been much doubt among 
 the young men in the office whether they should or should 
 Dot apply for those places. The emoluments were good 
 and the work alluring; but there was at first supposed to 
 be something derogatory in the position. There was a 
 rumor that the first surveyor who got a clerk sent the 
 clerk out to fetch his beer; and that another had called 
 upon his clerk to send the linen to the wash. There was, 
 however, a conviction that nothing could be worse than 
 the berth of a surveyor's clerk in Ireland. The clerks 
 were all appointed, however. To me it had not occurred 
 to ask for anything, nor would anything have been given 
 me. But after a while there came a report from the far 
 west of Ireland that the man sent there was absurdly in- 
 capable. It was probably thought then that none but a 
 man absurdly incapable would go on such a mission to the 
 west of Ireland. When the report reached the London 
 office I was the first to read it. I was at that time in dire 
 trouble, having debts on my head and quarrels with our 
 secretary-colonel, and a full conviction that my life was 
 taking me downward to the lowest pits. So I went to 
 the colonel boldly, and volunteered for Ireland if he would 
 send me. He was glad to be so rid of me, and I went. 
 This happened in August, 1841, when I was twenty-six 
 years old. My salary in Ireland was to be but £100 a 
 year; but I was to receive fifteen shillings a day for every 
 day that I was away from home, and sixpence for every 
 mile that I traveled. The same allowances were made in 
 England; but at that time traveling in Ireland was done 
 at half the English prices. My income in Ireland, after 
 paying my expenses, became at once £400. This was the 
 first good fortune of my life. 
 
ATJTOBIOGKAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 49 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 IRELAND. — MY FIRST TWO NOVELS. 
 
 1841—1848. 
 In the preceding pages I have given a short record of 
 the firsfc twenty-six years of my life, years of suffering, 
 disgrace, and inward remorse. I fear that my mode 
 of telling will have left an idea simply of their ab- 
 surdities; but in truth I was wretched, sometimes almost 
 unto death, and have often cursed the hour in which I 
 was born. There had clung to me a feeling that I had 
 been looked upon always as an evil, an encumbrance, a 
 useless thing, as a creature of whom those connected with 
 him had to be ashamed. And I feel certain now that in 
 my young days I was so regarded. Even^ my few friend&> 
 ■who had found with me a certain capacity for enjoyment, 
 were half afraid of me. I acknowledge the weakness of a 
 great desire to be loved, of a strong wish to be popular with 
 my associates. No child, no boy, no lad, no young man, 
 had ever been less so. And I had been so poor; and so little 
 able to bear poverty. But from the day on which I set 
 my foot in Ireland all these evils went away from me. 
 Since that time who has had a happier life than mine? 
 Looking round upon all those I know, I cannot put my 
 hand upon one. But all is not over yet. And, mindful 
 of that, remembering how great is the agony of adversity, 
 how crushing the despondency of degradation, how sus- 
 ceptible I am myself to the misery coming from contempt, 
 remembering also how quickly good things may go and 
 evil things come, I am often again tempted to hope, almost 
 to pray, that the end may be near. Things may be going 
 well now: 
 
 Bin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris; 
 Nunc, nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam. 
 
60 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 There is unhappiness so great that the very fear of it is an 
 alloy to happiness. I had then lost my father, and sister, 
 and brother, have since lost another sister and my mother; 
 but I have never as yet lost a wife or a child. 
 
 When I told my friends that I was going on this mission 
 to Ireland they shook their heads, but said nothing to 
 dissuade me. I think it must have been evident to all 
 who were my friends that my life in London was not a 
 success. My mother and elder brother were at this time 
 abroad, and were not consulted; did not even know my in- 
 tention in time to protest against it. Indeed, I consulted 
 no one, except a dear old cousin, our family lawyer, from 
 whom I borrowed £200 to help me out of England. He 
 lent me the money, and looked upon me with pitying eyes, 
 shaking his head. " After all, you were right to go," he 
 said to me when I paid him the money a few ye^rs after- 
 ward. 
 
 But nobody then thought I was right to go. To become 
 clerk to an Irish surveyor, in Connaught, with a salary of 
 £100 a year, at twenty-six years of age! I did not think 
 it right even myself, except that anything was right which 
 would take me away from the General Post-oflfice and from 
 London. 
 
 My ideas of the duties I was to perform were very vague, 
 as were also my ideas of Ireland generally. Hitherto I had 
 passed my time seated at a desk, either writing letters my- 
 self, or copying into books those which others had written. 
 I had never been called upon to do anything I was unable 
 or unfitted to do. I now understood that in Ireland I was 
 to be a deputy-inspector of country post-ofiBces, and that 
 among other things to be inspected would be the post- 
 masters' accounts! But as no other person asked a question 
 as to my fitness for this work, it seemed unnecessary for 
 me to do so. 
 
 On the 15th of September, 1841, I landed in Dublin, 
 without an acquaintance in the country, and with only 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 51 
 
 two or three letters of introdugtion from a brother clerk 
 in the Post-office. I had learned to think that Ireland 
 was a land flowing with fun and whisky, in which irregu- 
 larity was the rule of life, and where broken heads were 
 looked upon as honorable badges. I was to live at a place 
 called Banagher, on the Shannon, which I had heard of 
 because of its having once been conquered, though it had 
 heretofore conquered everything, including the devil. 
 And from Banagher my inspecting tours were to be made,, 
 chiefly into Connaught, but also over a strip of country 
 eastward, which would enable me occasionally to run up 
 to Dublin. I went to a hotel, which was very dirty, and 
 after dinner I ordered some whisky punch. There was an 
 excitement in this, but when the punch was gone I was 
 very dull. It seemed so strange to be in a country in 
 which there was not a single individual whom I had ever 
 spoken to or ever seen. And it was to be my destiny to 
 go down into Connaught and adjust accounts, the destiny 
 of me, who had never learned the multiplication table, or 
 done a sum in long division! 
 
 On the next morning I called on the secretary of the 
 Irish Post-office, and learned from him that Colonel Ma- 
 berly had sent a very bad character with me. He could 
 not have sent a very good one; but I felt a little hurt when 
 I was informed by this new master that he had been in- 
 formed that I was worthless, and must in all probability 
 be dismissed. ^* But," said the new master, "I shall 
 judge vou by your own merits." From that time to the 
 day on which I left the service I never heard a word of 
 censure, nor had m«ny months passed before I found that 
 my services were valued. Before a year was over I had 
 acquired the character of a thoroughly good public servant. 
 
 The time went very pleasantly. Some adventures I had; 
 two of which I told in the " Tales of All Countries," un- 
 der the names of **The O'Conors of Castle Conor," and 
 "Father Giles of BWlymoy." I will not swear to every 
 
52 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 detail in these stories, but the main purport of each is 
 true. I could tell many others of the same nature, were 
 this the place for them. I found that the surveyor to 
 whom I had been sent kept a pack of hounds, and there- 
 fore I bought a hunter. I do not think he liked it, but 
 he could not well complain. He never rode to hounds 
 himself, but I did; and then and .thus began one of the 
 great joys of my life. I have ever since been constant to 
 the sport, having learned to love it with an affection which 
 I cannot myself fathom or understand. Surely no man 
 has labored at it as I have done, or hunted under such 
 drawbacks as to distances, money, and natural disadvan- 
 tages. I am very heavy, very blind, have been — in refer- 
 ence to hunting — a poor man, and am now an old man. I 
 have often had to travel all night outside a mail-coach, in 
 order that I might hunt the next day. Nor have I ever 
 been in truth a good horseman. And I have passed the 
 greater part of my hunting life under the discipline of the 
 civil service. But it has been for more than thirty years a 
 duty to me to ride to hounds; and I have performed that 
 duty with a persistent energy. Nothing has ever been al- 
 lowed to stand in the way of hunting, neither the writing 
 of books, nor the work of the Post-office, nor other pleas- 
 ures. As regarded the Post-office, it soon seemed to be 
 understood that I was to hunt; and when my services were 
 retransferred to England, no word of difficulty ever 
 reached me about it. I have written on very many sub- 
 jects, and on most of them with pleasure; but on no^ub- 
 ject with such delight as that on hunting. I have drag- 
 ged it into many novels, into too mamy, no doubt, but I 
 have always felt myself deprived of a legitimate joy when 
 the nature of the tale has not allowed -me a hunting 
 chapter. 
 
 Perhaps that which gave me the greatest delight was 
 the description of a run on a horse accidentally taken from 
 another sportsman, a circumstance \^hich occurred to my 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 53 
 
 dear friend Charles Buxton, who Will be remembered as 
 one of the members for Surrey. 
 
 It was altogether a very jolly life that I led in Ireland. 
 I was always moving about, and soon found myself to be 
 in pecuniary circumstances which were opulent in com- 
 parison with those of my past life. The Irish people did 
 Kot murder me, nor did they even break my head. I 
 soon found them to be good-humored, clever — the work- 
 ing classes very much more intelligent than those of Eng- 
 land — economical, and hospitable. We hear much of their 
 spendthrift nature; but extravagance is not the nature of 
 an Irishman. He will count the shillings in a pound ranch 
 more accurately than an Englishman, and will with much 
 more certainty get twelve pennyworth from each. But 
 they are perverse, irrational, and but little bound by the 
 love of truth. I lived for many years among them — not 
 finally leaving the country until 1859, and I had the 
 means of studying their character. 
 
 I had not been a fortnight in Ireland before I was sent 
 down to a little town in the far west of County Gal way, to 
 balance a defaulting postmaster's accounts, find out how 
 much he owed, and report upon his capacity to pay. In 
 these days such accounts are very simple. They adjust 
 themselves from day to day, and a Post-office surveyor has 
 nothing to do with them. At that time, though the sums 
 dealt with were small, the forms of dealing with them 
 -were very intricate. I went to work, however, and made 
 that defaulting postmaster teach me the use of those 
 forms. I then succeeded In balancing the account, and 
 had no difficulty whatever in reporti»g that he was alto- 
 gether unable to pay his debt. Of course, he was dismissed ; 
 "but he had been a very useful man to me. I never had 
 any further difficulty in the matter. 
 
 But my chief work was the investigating of complaints 
 made by the public as to postal matters. The practice of 
 the office was and is to send one of its servants to the snot 
 
54 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPB. 
 
 to see the complainant and to inquire into the facta, wheit 
 the complainant is suflficiently energetic or sufficiently 
 big to make himself well heard. A great expense ia 
 often incurred for a very small object; but the system; 
 works well on the whole, as confidence is engendered, and 
 a feeling is produced in the country that the department 
 has eyes of its own and does keep them open. This em- 
 ployment was yery pleasant, and to me always easy, as it 
 required at its close no more than the writing of a report. 
 There were no accounts in this business, no keeping of 
 books, no necessary manipulation of multitudinous forme, 
 I must tell of one such complaint and inquiry, because in 
 its result I think it was emblematic of many. 
 
 A gentleman in County Cavan had complained most 
 bitterly of the injury done to him by some arrangement 
 of the Post-office. The nature of his grievance has no 
 present significance; but it was so unendurable that he 
 had written many letters, couched in the strongest lan- 
 guage. He was most irate, and indulged himself in that 
 scorn which is so easy to an angry mind. The place 
 was not in my district, but I was borrowed, being young 
 and strong, that I might remove the edge of his per- 
 sonal wrath. It was mid-winter, and I drove up to his 
 house— a squire's country-seat— in the middle of a snow- 
 storm, just as it was becoming dark. I was on an open 
 jaunting-car, and was on my way from one little town 
 to another, the cause of his complaint having reference 
 to some mail conveyance between the two. I was cer- 
 tainly very cold, and very w#t, and very uncomfortable 
 when I entered his house. I was admitted by a butler, 
 but the gentleman himself hurried into the hall. I at 
 once began to explain my business. '' God bless mel" he 
 said, ''you are wet through. John, get Mr. TroUope 
 some brandy-and-water— very hot." I was beginning my 
 story about the post again when he himself took off my 
 greatcoat, and suggested that I should go up to my bed- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 65 
 
 room before I troubled myself with business. '' Bed- 
 room!" I exclaimed. Then he assured me that he would 
 not turn a dog out on such a night as that, and into a bed- 
 room I was shown, having first drank the brandy-and- 
 water standing at the drawing-room fire. When I came 
 down I was introduced to his daughter, and the three of us 
 went in to dinner. I shall never forget his righteous in- 
 dignation when I again brought up the postal question on 
 the departure of the young lady. Was I such a Goth as to 
 contaminate wine with business? So I drank my wine, 
 and then heard the young lady sing, while her father slept 
 in his arm-chair. I spent a very pleasant evening, but my 
 host was too sleepy to hear anything about the Post-oflBce 
 that night. It was absolutely necessary that I should go 
 away the next morning after breakfast, and I explained 
 that the matter must be discussed then. He shook his 
 head and wrung his hands in unmistakable disgust — almost 
 in despair. "But what am I to say in my report?'* I 
 asked. *' Anything you please," he said. "Don't spare 
 me, if you want an excuse for yourself. Here I sit all the 
 day, with nothing to do; and I like writing letters." I did 
 
 report that Mr. was now quite satisfied with the postal 
 
 arrangement of his district, and I felt a soft regret that I 
 should have robbed my friend of his occupation. Perhaps 
 he was able to take up the Pdor-law Board, or to attack 
 tlie Excise. At the Post-office nothing more was heard 
 from him. 
 
 I went on with the hunting surveyor at Banagher for 
 tliree years, during which, at Kingstown, the watering- 
 place near Dublin, I met Rose Hoseltine, the lady who has 
 flince become my wife. The engagement took place when 
 I had been just one year in Ireland, but there was still a 
 delay of two years before we could be married. She had 
 no fortune, nor had I any income beyond that which came 
 from the Post-office; and there were still a few debts, 
 which would have been paid off, no doubt, sooner but for 
 
56 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 that purchase of the horse. When I had been nearly three 
 years in Ireland we were married, on the 11th of June, 
 n844; and perhaps I ought to name that happy day as the 
 commencement of my better life, rather than the day on 
 which I first landed in Ireland. 
 
 For though during these three years I had been jolly 
 enough, I had not been altogether happy. The hunting, 
 the whisky punch, the rattling Irish life — of which I 
 could write a volume of stories were this the place to tell 
 them — were continually driving from my mind the still- 
 cherished determination to become a writer of novels. 
 When I reached Ireland I had never put pen to paper, nor 
 had I done so when I became engaged. And whei\ I was 
 married, being then twenty-nine, I had only written the 
 first volume of my first work. This constant putting off 
 of the day of work was a great sorrow to me. I certainly 
 had not been idle in my new berth. I had learned my 
 work, so that every one concerned knew that it was safe in 
 my hands; and I held a position altogether the reverse of 
 that in which I was always trembling while I remained in 
 London. But that did not sufl&ce — did not nearly suffice. 
 I still felt that there might be a career before me, if I 
 could only bring myself to begin the work. I do not think 
 I much doubted my own intellectual sufficiency for the 
 writing of a readable novel. What I did doubt was my 
 own industry, and the chances of the market. 
 
 The vigor necessary to prosecute two professions at the 
 same time is not given to every one, and it was only lately 
 that I had found the vigor necessary for one. There must 
 be early hours, and I had not as yet learned to love early 
 hours. I Avas still, indeed, a young man; but hardly 
 young enough to trust myself to find the power to alter 
 the habits of my life. And I had heard of the difficulties 
 of publishing— a subject of which I shall have to say much 
 should I ever bring this memoir to a close. I had dealt 
 already with publishers on my mother's behalf, aqd knew 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 57 
 
 that many a tyro who could fill a manuscript lacked the 
 power to put his matter before the public; and I knew, 
 too, that when the matter was printed, how little had then 
 been done toward the winning of the battle! I had already 
 learned that many a book — many a good book — 
 
 " is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.'* 
 
 But still the purpose was strong within me, and the first 
 effort was made after the following fashion. I was located 
 at a little town called Drumsna, or, rather, village, in the 
 County Lei trim, where the postmaster had come to some 
 sorrow about his money; and my friend John Merivale 
 was staying with me for a day or two. As we were taking 
 a walk in that most uninteresting country, we turned up 
 through a deserted gateway, along a weedy, grass-grown 
 avenue, till we came to the modern ruins of a country- 
 house. It was one of the most melancholy spots I ever 
 visited. I will not describe it liere, because I have done 
 so in the first chapter of my first novel. We wandered 
 about the place, suggesting to each other causes for the 
 misery we saw there, and while I was still among the 
 mined walls and decayed beams I fabricated the plot of 
 '* The Macdermots of Ballycloran." As to the plot itself, 
 I do not know that I ever made one so good — or, at any 
 rate, one so susceptible of pathos. lam aware that I broke 
 down in the telling, not having yet studied the art. Never- 
 theless, '* The Macdermots " is a good novel, and worth 
 reading by any one who wishes to understand what Irish 
 life was before the potato disease, the famine, and the 
 Encumbered Estates Bill. 
 
 When my friend left me, I set to work and wrote the 
 first chapter or two. Up to this time I had continued 
 that practice of castle-building of which I have spoken, 
 but now the castle I built was among the ruins of that old 
 house. The book, however, hung with me. It was only 
 
58 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TEOLLOPE. 
 
 now and then that I found either time or energy for a tew 
 pages, I commenced the book in September, 1843, and 
 had only written a volume when I was married, in June, 
 1844. 
 
 My marriage was like the marriage of other people, and 
 of no special interest to any one except my wife and me. 
 It took place at Rotherham, in Yorkshire, where lier 
 father was the manager of a bank. We were not very 
 rich, having about £400 a year on which to live. Many 
 people would say that we were two fools to encounter 
 such poverty together. I can only reply that since that 
 day I have never been without money in my pocket, and 
 that I soon acquired the means of paying what I owed. 
 Nevertheless, more than twelve years had to pass over 
 our heads before I received any payment for any literary 
 work which afforded an appreciable increase to our in- 
 come. 
 
 Immediately after our marriage I left the west of Ire- 
 land and the hunting surveyor, and joined another in the 
 south. It was a better district, and I was eliabled to live 
 at Clonmel, a town of some importance, instead of at 
 Banagher, which is little more than a village. I had nok 
 felt myself to be comfortable in my old residence, as a 
 married man. On my arrival there as a bachelor I had 
 been received most kindly, but when I brought my 
 English wife I fancied that there was a feeling that I had 
 behaved badly to Ireland generally. When a young man 
 has been received hospitably in an Irish circle, I will not 
 say that it is expected of him that he should marry some 
 young lady in that society — but it certainly is expected of 
 him that he shall not marry any young lady out of it. I 
 had given offense, and I was made to feel it. 
 
 There has taken place a great change in Ireland since 
 the days in which I lived at Banagher, and a change so 
 much for the better that I have sometimes wondered at 
 the obduracy with wliich people have spoken of the per- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 59 
 
 manent ill condition of the country. Wages are now 
 nearly double what they were then. The Post-ofl&ce, at 
 any rate, is paying almost double for its rural labor— 95. 
 a week where it used to pay 5s., and 12s. a week where it 
 used to pay 7s. Banks have sprung up in almost every 
 village. Rents are paid with more than English punctu- 
 ality. And the religious enmity between the classes, 
 though it is not yet dead, is dying out. Soon after I 
 reached Banagher, in 1841, I dined one evening with a 
 Roman Catholic. I was informed next day, by a Protestant 
 gentleman who had been very hospitable to me, that I 
 must choose my party. I could not sit both at Protestant 
 and Catholic tables. Such a caution would now be im- 
 possible in any part of Ireland . Home-rule, no doubt, is 
 a nuisance; and especially a nuisance because the pro- 
 fessors of the doctrine do not at all believe it themselves. 
 There are, probably, no other twenty men in England or 
 Ireland who would be so utterly dumfounded and pros- 
 trated were Home-rule to have its way as the twenty Irish 
 members who profess to support it in the House of Com- 
 mons. But it is not to be expected that nuisances such 
 as these should be abolished at a blow. Home-rule is, 
 at any rate, better and more easily managed than the re- 
 bellion at the close of the last century; it is better than 
 the treachery of the Union; less troublesome than O'Con- 
 neirs monster meetings; less dangerous than Smith 
 O'Brien and the battle of the cabbage-garden at Ballin- 
 garry, and very much less bloody than Fenianism. The 
 descent from O'Connell to Mr. Butt has been the natural 
 declension of a political disease, which we had no right to 
 hope would be cured by any one remedy. 
 
 When I had been married a year my first novel was fin- 
 ished. In July, 1845, I took it with me to the north of 
 England, and intrusted Uie manuscript to my motlier, to 
 do with it the best she could among the publishers in Lon- 
 don. No one had read it but my wife; nor, as far as I am 
 
60 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TBOLL^PE. 
 
 aware, has any other friend of mine eve^ read a word of 
 my writing before it was printed. She, I think, has so 
 read almost everything, to my very great advantage in 
 matters of taste. I am sure I have never asked a friend ta 
 i*ead a line; nor have I ever read a word of my own writing 
 alond, even to her. With one exception — which shall be 
 mentioned as I come to it — I have never consulted a friend 
 as to a plot, or spoken to any one of the work I have been 
 doing. My first manuscript I gave up to my mother, 
 agreeing with her that it would be as well that she should 
 not look at it before she gave it to a publisher. I knew 
 that she did not give me credit for the sort of cleverness 
 necessary for such a work. I could see in the faces and 
 hear in the voices of those of my friends who were around 
 me at the house in Cumberland — my mother, my sister, 
 my brother-in-law, and, I think, my brother — that they 
 had not expected me to come out as one of the family 
 authors. There were three or four in the field before me, 
 and it seemed to be almost absurd that another should 
 wish to add himself -to the number. My father had writ- 
 ten much — those long ecclesiastical descriptions — quite 
 unsuccessfully. My mother had become one of the popu- 
 lar authors of the day. My brother had commenced, and 
 had been fairly well paid for his work. My sister, Mrs,^ 
 Tilley, had also written a novel, which was at the time in 
 manuscript — which was published afterward without her 
 name, and was called '* Chollerton." I could see that this 
 attempt of mine was felt to be an unfortunate aggravation 
 of the disease. 
 
 My mother, however, did the best she could for me, and 
 goon reported that Mr. Newby, of Mortimer Street, was 
 to publish the book. It was to be printed at his expense, 
 and he was to give me half the profits. Half the profits! 
 Many a young author expects much from such an under- 
 taking. I can with truth declare that I expected nothing. 
 And I got nothing. Nor did I expect fame, or even ao- 
 
AUTOBIOQBAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE.' 61 
 
 knowledgment. I was sure that the book would fail, and 
 it did fail most absolutely. I never heard of a person 
 reading it in those days. If there was any notice taken 
 of it by any critic of the day, I did not see it. I never 
 asked any questions about it, or wrote a single letter on 
 the subject to the publisher. I have Mr. Newby's agree- 
 ment with me, in duplicate, and one or two preliminary 
 notes; but beyond that I did not have a word from Mr. 
 Newljy. I am sure that he did not wrong me in that he 
 paid me nothing. It is probable that he did not sell tifty 
 copies of the work; but of what he did sell he gave me no* 
 account. 
 
 I do not remember that I felt in any way disappointed 
 or hurt. I am quite sure that no word of complaint 
 passed my lips. I think I may say that after the publicar 
 tion I never said a word about the book, even to my wife; 
 The fact that I had written and published it, and that I 
 was writing another, did not in the least interfere with 
 my life or with my determination to make the best I could 
 of the Post-oflBce. In Ireland, I think that no one knew 
 that I had written a novel. But I went on writing. " The 
 Macdermots " was published in 1847, and " The Kellys and 
 the O'Kellys " followed in 1848. I changed my publisher^ 
 but did not change my fortune. This second Irish story 
 was sent into the world by Mr. Colburn, who had long been 
 my mother's publisher, who reigned in Great Marlborougli 
 Street, and I believe created the business wTiich is now 
 carried on by Messrs. Hurst & Black ett. He had pre- 
 viously been in partnership with Mr. Bentley, in New 
 Burlington Street. I made the same agreement as before 
 as to half profits, and with precisely the same results. 
 The book was not only not read, but was never heard of — 
 at any rate, in Ireland. And yet it is a good Irish story, 
 much inferior to '*The Macdermots" as to plot, but su- 
 perior in the mode of telling. Again I held my tongue, 
 and not only said nothing, but felt nothing. Any success 
 
62 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOiq^Y TROLLOPB. 
 
 would, I think have carried me off my legs, but I was 
 altogether prepared for failure. Though I thoroughly 
 enjoyed the writing of these books, I did not imagine, 
 when the time came for publishing them, that any one 
 would condescend to read them. 
 
 But in reference to **The O'Kellys " there arose a cir- 
 cumstance which set my mind to work on a subject which 
 has exercised it much ever since. I made my first ac- 
 quaintance with criticism. A dear friend of mine, to 
 whom the book had been sent — as have all my books — 
 wrote me word to Ireland that he had been dining at some 
 club with a man high in authority among the gods of the 
 Times newspaper, and that this special god had almost 
 promised that *' The O'Kellys" should be noticed in that 
 most influential of "organs." The information moved 
 me very much; but it set me thinking whether the notice, 
 should it ever appear, would not have been more valuable, 
 at any rate, more honest, if it had been produced by other 
 means; if, for instance, the writer of the notice bad been 
 instigated by the merits or demerits of the book instead 
 of by the friendship of a friend. And I made up my mind 
 then that, should I continue this trade of authorship, I 
 would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. 
 I would neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would 
 I ever thanlf a critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even 
 in my own heart, for censure. To this rule I have adhered 
 with absolute strictness, and this rule I would recommend 
 to all young authors. What can be got by touting among 
 the critics is never worth the ignominy. The same may 
 of course be said of all things acquired by ignominious 
 means. But in -this matter it is so easy to fall into the 
 dirt. Facilis descensus Averni, There seems to be but 
 little fault in suggesting to a friend that a few words in this 
 or that journal would be of service. But any praise so 
 obtained must be an injustice to the public, for whose in- 
 fltruotion, and not for the sustentatioa of the author, such 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 63 
 
 notices are intended. And from such mild suggestion the 
 descent to crawling at the critic's feet, to the sending of 
 presents, and at last to a mutual understanding between 
 critics and criticised, is only too easy. Other evils follow, 
 for the denouncing of which this is hardly the place; 
 though I trust I may find such place before my work is 
 finished. I took no notice of my friend's letter, but I was 
 not the less careful in watching the Times, At last the 
 review came— a real review in the Times. I learned it by 
 heart, and can now give, if not the words, the exact pur- 
 port. ** Of ' The Kellys and the O'Kellys ' we may say 
 what the master said to his footman, when the man com- 
 plained of the constant supply of legs of mutton on the 
 kitchen table. * Well, John, legs of mutton are good sub- 
 stantial food;* and we may say also what John replied: 
 * Substantial, sir; yes, they are substantial, but a little 
 coarse.' " That was the review, and even that did not 
 sell the book! 
 
 From Mr. Colburn I did receive an account, showing 
 that 375 copies of the book had been printed, that 140 
 had been sold — to those, I presume, who liked substan- 
 tial food though it was coarse — and that he had incurred 
 a loss of £63 105. l^d. The truth of the account I never 
 for a moment doubted; nor did I doubt the wisdom of the 
 advice given to me in the following letter, though I never 
 thought of obeying it: 
 
 "Great Marlborough Street, 
 ** November 11, 1848. 
 
 ''My deae Sir,— I am sorry to say that absence from 
 town and other circumstances have prevented me from 
 earlier inquiring into the results of thesaleof *The Kellys. 
 and the O'Kelly's/ with which the greatest efforts have 
 been used, but in vain. The sale has been, I regret to 
 say, so small that the loss upon the publication is very 
 considerable; and it appears clear to me that although, 
 in consequence of the great number of novels that are 
 published, the sale of each, with some few exceptions, 
 must be Bmall, yet it ie evident that readers do not like 
 
€4 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 novels on Irish subjects as well as on others. Thus you 
 will perceive it is impossible for me to give any encourage- 
 ment to you to proceed in novel-writing. 
 
 *' As, however, I understand you have nearly finished 
 the novel 'La Vendue,* perhaps you will favor me with a 
 sight of it when convenient. 
 
 "I remain, etc., etc., H. CoLBURiir." 
 
 This, though not strictly logical, was a rational letter, 
 telling a plain truth plainly. I did not like the assurance 
 that '* the greatest efforts had been used," thinking that 
 any efforts which might be made for the popularity of a book 
 ought to have come from the author; but I took in good 
 part Mr. Colburn's assurance that he could not encourage 
 me in the career I had commenced. 1 would have bet 
 twenty to one against my own success. But by continu- 
 ing I could lose only pen and paper; and if the one chance 
 in twenty did turn up in my favor, then how much might 
 1 win! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY FIRST SUCCESS. 
 
 1849-1855. 
 
 1 HAD at once gone to work on a third novel, and .had 
 nearly completed it, when I was informed of the absolute 
 failure of the former. I find, however, that tlie agreement 
 for its publication was not made till 1850, by which time 
 I imagine that Mr. Colburn must have forgotten the dis- 
 astrous result of " The O'Kellys," as he thereby agrees to 
 give me £20 down for my* 'new historical novel, to be 
 called * La Vendue.' " He agreed also to pay me £30 more 
 when he had sold 350 copies, and £50 more should he sell 
 450 within six months. I got my £20, and then heard no 
 more of *' La Vendue,*' not even receiving any account. 
 Perhaps the historical title had appeared more alluring to 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 65 
 
 him than an Irish subject; though it was not long after- 
 ward that I received a warning from the very same house 
 of business against historical novels— as I will tell at length 
 when the proper time comes. 
 
 I have no doubt that the result of the sale of this story 
 was no better than that of the two that had gone before. 
 I asked no questions, however, and to this day had received 
 no information. The story is certainly inferior to those 
 wliich had gone before — chiefly because I knew accurately 
 the life of the people in Ireland, and knew, in truth, 
 nothing of life in the Vendee country, and also because 
 the facts of the present time came more within the limits 
 of my powers of story-telling than those of past years. 
 But I read the book the other day, and am not ashamed 
 of it. The conception as to the feeling of the people is, I 
 think, true; the characters are distinct; and the tale is 
 not dull. As far as I can remember, this morsel of criti- 
 cism is the only one that was ever written on tlie book. 
 
 I had, however, received £20. Alas! alas! years were 
 to roll by before I should earn by my pen another shilling. 
 And, indeed, I was well aware that I had not earned that; 
 but that the money had been '' talked out of " the worthy 
 publisher by the earnestness of my brother, who made the 
 bargain for me. I have known very much of publishers 
 and have been surprised by much in their mode of busi- 
 ness—by the apparent lavishness and by the apparent 
 hardness to authors, in the same men— but by nothing so 
 much as by the ease with which they can occasionally be 
 persuaded to throw away small sums of money. If you 
 will only makeiihe payment future instead of present, you 
 may generally twist a few pounds in your own or your 
 client's favor. "You might as well promise her £30» 
 This day six months will do very well." The publisher, 
 though he knows that the money will never come back to 
 him, thinks it worth his while to rid himself of your 
 importunity at so cheap a price. 
 
66 AUTOBIOGRArHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 But while I was writing *' La Vendee " I made a literary 
 attempt in another direction. In 1847 and 1848 there had 
 come upon Ireland the desolation and destruction, first, of 
 the famine, and then of the pestilence which succeeded the 
 famine. It was my duty at that time to be traveling 
 constantly in those parts of Ireland in which the misery 
 and troubles thence arising were, perhaps, at their worst. 
 The western parts of Cork, Kerry, and Clare were pre- 
 eminently unfortunate. The efforts — I may say the suc- 
 cessful efforts — made by the government to stay the hands 
 of death will still be in the remembrance of many — how 
 Sir Robert Peel was instigated to repeal the Corn-laws; 
 and how, subsequently. Lord John Russell took measures 
 for employing the people, and supplying the country with 
 Indian corn. The expediency of these latter measures 
 was questioned by many. The people themselves wished, 
 of course, to be fed without working; and the gentry, 
 who were mainly responsible for the rates, were disposed 
 to think that the management of affairs was taken too 
 much out of their own hands. My mind at the time was 
 busy with the matter, and, thinking that the government 
 was right, I was inclined to defend them as far as my 
 small powers went. S. G. 0, (Lord Sydney Godolphin 
 Osborne) was at that time denouncing the Irish scheme 'of 
 the administration in the 7Ymes,using very strong language, 
 as those who remember his style will know. I fancied 
 then — as I still think — that I understood the country 
 much better than he did; and I was anxious to show that 
 the steps taken for mitigating the terrible evil of the times 
 were the best which the minister of the day could have 
 adopted. In 1848 I was in London, and, full of my pur- 
 pose, I presented myself to Mr. John Forster— who has 
 since been an intimate and valued friend — but who was 
 at that time the editor of the Examiner, I think that 
 that portion of the literary world which understands the 
 iabrication of newspapers will admit that neither before 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. t 
 
 his time, nor sincp, has there been a more capable editor 
 of a weekly newspaper. As a literary man, he was not. 
 without his faults. That which the cabman is reported 
 to have said of him before the magistrate is quite true! 
 He was always "an arbitrary cove." As a critic, he be- 
 longed to the school of Bentley and Gifford — who would 
 always bray in a literary mortar all critics who disagreed 
 with them, as though such disagreement were a personal 
 offense requiring personal castigation. But that very 
 eagerness made him a good editor. Into whatever he did 
 he put his very heart and soul. During i/^ time the 
 Examiner was almost all that a Liberal weekly paper 
 should be. So to John Forster I went, and was shown 
 into that room in " Lincoln's Inn Fields in which, some 
 three or four years earlier, Dickens had given that reading 
 of which there is an illustration, with portraits, in th^e 
 second volume of his Life. 
 
 At this time I knew no literary men. A few I had met 
 when living with my mother, but that had been now so 
 long'ago that all such acquaintance had died out. ^knew 
 who they were, as far as a man could get such knowledge 
 from the papers of the day, and felt myself as in part be- 
 longing to the guild, through my mother, and in some de- 
 gree by my own unsuccessful efforts. But it was not 
 probable that any one would admit my claim; nor on this 
 occasion did I make any claim. I stated my mime and 
 official position, and the fact that opportunities had been 
 given me of seeing the poor-houses in Ireland, and of mak- 
 ing myself acquainted with the circumstances of the time. 
 Would a series of letters on tlie subject be accepted by the 
 Examiner 9 The great man, who loomed very large to me, 
 was pleased to say that if the letters should recommend 
 themselves by their style and matter, if they wert* nob too 
 long, and if — every reader will know how on such occa- 
 sions an editor will guard himself — if this and if that, 
 they should be favonibly entertained. They were favor- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOHTY TBOLLOPB. 
 
 ably entertained, if printing and publication be favorable 
 entertainment. But I heard no more of them. The world 
 did not declare the government had at last been adequately 
 defended, nor did the treasurer of the Examiner send me 
 a check in return. 
 
 Whether there ought to have been a check I do not even 
 yet know. A man who writes a single letter to a news- 
 paper of course is not paid for it, nor for any number of 
 letters on some point personal to himself. I have since 
 written sets of letters to newspapers, and have been paid 
 for them; but then I have bargained for a price. On this 
 occasion I had hopes; but they never ran high, and I was 
 not much disappointed. I have.no copy now of those let- 
 ters, and could not refer to them without much trouble; 
 nor do I remember what I said. But I know that 1 did 
 my best in writing them. 
 
 When my historical novel failed, as completely as had 
 its predecessors, the two Irish novels, I began to ask my- 
 self whether, after all, that was my proper line. I had 
 never thought of questioning the justice of the verdict 
 expressed against me. The idea ^that I was the unfortu- 
 nate ownev of unappreciated genius never troubled me. I 
 did not look at the books after they were published, 
 feeling sure that they had been, as it were, damned with 
 good reason. But still I was clear in my mind that I 
 would not lay down my pen. Then and therefore I de- 
 termined to chapge my hand, and to attempt a play. I 
 did attempt the play, and in 1850 I wrote a comedy, partly 
 in blank verse, and partly in prose, called ''The iJoblo 
 Jilt." The plot I afterward used in a novel called "Can 
 You Forgive Her?" I believe that I did give the best of 
 my intellect to the play, and I must own that when it was 
 completed it pleased me much. I copied it, and re-copied 
 it, touching it here and touching it there, and then sent 
 it to my very old friend, George Hartley, the actor, who 
 had, when I was in London, been stage-manager of one of 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 69 
 
 the great theaters, and who would, I thought, for my own 
 sake and for my mother's, give me the full benefit of his 
 professional experience. 
 
 I have now before me the letter which he wrote to me — 
 a letter which I have read a score of times. It was alto- 
 gether condemnatory. '^ When I commenced," he said, 
 " I had great hopes of your production. I did not think 
 it opened dramatically, but that might have been reme- 
 died." I knew then that it was all over. But as my old 
 friend warmed to the-subject, the criticism became stronger 
 and stronger, till my ears tingled. At last came the fatal 
 blow. ** As to the character of your heroine, I felt at a 
 loss how to describe it, but you have done it for me in the 
 last speech of Madame Brudo." Madame Brudo was the 
 heroine's aunt. " * Margai*et, my child, never play the 
 jilt again; 'tis a most unbecoming character. Play it with 
 what skill you will, it meets but little sympathy.' And 
 this, be assured, would be its effect upon an audience. So 
 that I must reluctantly add that, had I been still a manager, 
 ' The Noble Jilt' is not a play I could have recommended 
 for production." This was a blow that I did feel. The 
 neglect of a book is a disagreeable fact which grows upon 
 an author by degrees. There is no special moment of 
 agony — no stunning violence of condemnation. But a 
 piece of criticism such as this, from a friend, and from a 
 man undoubtedly capable of forming an opinion, was a 
 blow in the face! But I accepted the judgment loyally, 
 and said not a word on the subject to any one. I merely 
 showed the letter to my wife, declaring my conviction that 
 it must bo taken as gospel. And as critical gospel it has 
 since been accepted. In later days I have more than once 
 read the play, and I know that he was right. The dia- 
 logue, however, I think to be good, and I doubi: whether 
 some of the scenes be not the brightest and best work I 
 ever did. 
 Jnst at this time another literary project loomed before 
 
70 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 my eyes, and for six or eight months had considerable 
 size, I was introduced to Mr, John Murray, and pro- 
 posed to him to write a Handbook for Ireland. I ex- 
 plained to him that I knew the country better than most 
 other people, perhaps better than any other person, and 
 could do it well. He asked me to make a trial of my skill, 
 and to send him a certain number of pages, undertaking 
 to give me an answer within a fortnight after he should 
 bafe received my work. I went back to Ireland, and for 
 some weeks I labored very hard. I " did " the city of 
 Dublin, and the county of Kerry, in which lies the lake 
 scenery of Killarney; and I ''did " the route from Dub- 
 lin to Killarney, altogether completing nearly a quarter 
 of the proposed volume. The roll of manuscript was sent 
 to Albemarle Street — but was never opened. At the 
 expiration of nine months from the date on which it 
 reached that time-honored spot it was returned without a 
 word, in answer to a very angry letter from myself, I in- 
 sisted on having back my property — and got it. I need 
 hardly say that my property has never been of the slight- 
 est use to me. In all honesty I think that, had he been 
 less dilatory, John Murray would have got a very good 
 Irish Guide at a cheap rate. 
 
 Early in 1851 I was sent upon a job of special ofBcial 
 work, which for two years so completely absorbed my 
 time that I was able to write nothing, A plan was 
 formed for extending the rural delivery of letters, and for 
 adjusting the work, which up to that time had been 
 done in a very irregular manner. A country letter- 
 carrier would be sent in one direction, in which there 
 were but few letters to be delivered, the arrangement 
 having originated problkbly at the request of some in- 
 fluential person, while in another direction there was no 
 letter-carrier, because no influential person had exerted 
 himself. It was intended to set this right throughout 
 England, Ireland, and Scotland; and I quickly did the 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 71 
 
 work in the Irish district to which I was attached. I 
 was then invited to do the same in a portion of England, 
 and I spent two of the happiest years of my life at,the task. 
 I began in Devonshire, and visited, I think I may say, 
 every nook in that county, in Cornwall, Somersetshire, 
 the greater part of Dorsetshire, the Channel Islands, 
 part of Oxfordshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Worces- 
 tershire, Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, and the six 
 southern Welsh counties. In this way I had an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing a considerable portion of Great Britain, 
 with a minuteness which few have enjoyed. And I did 
 my business after a fashion in which no other official 
 man has worked, at least for many years. I went al- 
 most everywhere on horseback, I had two hunters of 
 my own, and here and there, where I could, I hired a 
 third horse. I had an Irish groom with me, an old 
 man, who has now been in my service for thirty-five 
 years; and in this manner I saw almost every house — I 
 thhik I may say every house of importance— in this large 
 district. The object was to create a postal network 
 which should catch all recipients of letters. In France 
 it was, and I suppose still is, the practice to deliver every 
 letter. Wherever the man may live to whom a letter is 
 addressed, it is the duty of some letter-carrier to take 
 that letter to his house, sooner or later. But this, of 
 course, must be done slowly. With us a delivery much 
 delayed was thought to b6 worse than none at all. In some 
 pLices we did establish posts three times a week, and per- 
 haps occasionally twice a week, but such halting arrange- 
 ments were considered to be objectionable, and we were 
 bound down by a salutary law as to expense, which came 
 from our masters at the Treasury. We were not allowed 
 to establish any messenger's walk on which a sufficient 
 number of letters would not be delivered to pay the man's 
 wages, counted at a halfpenny a letter. But then thfe 
 counting was in our own 'hands, and an enterprising offl- 
 
72 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 cial might be sanguiue in his figures. I think I was 
 sanguine. I did not prepare false aocountB; but I fear 
 that the postmasters and clerks who absolutely had the 
 country to do became aware that T was anxious for 
 good results. It is amusing to watch how a passiou 
 will grow upon a man. During those two years it was 
 the ambition of my life to cover the country with rural 
 letter-carriers. I do not remember that in any case a 
 rural post proposed by me was negatived by the authori- 
 ties; but I fear that some of them broke down afterward 
 as being too poor, or because, in my anxiety to include 
 this house and that, I had sent the men too far afield. 
 Our law was that a man should not be required to walk 
 more than sixteen miles a day. Had the work to be done 
 been all on a measured road, there would have*b«en no 
 need for doubt as to the distances. But my letter-car- 
 riers went here and there across the fields. It was my 
 special delight to take them by all short-cuts; and as I 
 measured on horseback the short-cuts which they would 
 have to make on foot, perhaps I was sometimes a little 
 unjust to them. 
 
 All this I did on horseback, riding on an average forty 
 miles a day. I was paid sixpence a mile for the distance 
 traveled, and it was necessary that I should, at any rate, 
 travel enough to pay for my equipage. This I did, and 
 got my hunting out of it also. I have often surprised 
 some small country post-master, who had never seen or 
 heard of me before, by coming down upon him at nine 
 in the morning, with a red coat and boots and breeches, 
 and interrogating him as to the disposal of every letter 
 which came into his office. And in the same guise I 
 would ride up to farmhouses, or parsonages, or other lone 
 residences about the country, and ask the people how 
 they got their letters, at what hour, and especially whether 
 they were delivered free or at a certain charge. For a 
 habit had crept into use, which came to be, in my eyes, 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 73 
 
 at that time, the one sin for which there w.as no pardon, 
 in accordance with which these rural letter-carriers used 
 to charge a penny a letter, alleging that the house was 
 out of their beat, and that they must be paid for their 
 extra work. I 'think that I did stamp out that evil. 
 In ail these visits I was^ in truth, a beneficent angel to 
 the public, bringing everywhere with me an earlier, 
 cheaper, and mucli more regular delivery of letters. 
 But not unfrequently the angelic nature of my mission 
 was imperfectly understood. I was, perhaps, a little in 
 a hurry to get on, and did not allow as much time as 
 was necessary to explain to the wondering mistress of 
 the house, or to an open-mouthed farmer, why it was 
 that a man arrayed for hunting asked so many questions 
 which might be considered impertinent, as Applying to 
 his or her private affairs. ^' Good-morning, sir. I have 
 just called to ask a few questions. I am a surveyor of 
 the Post-oflBce. How do you get your lettoi's? As I 
 am a little in a hurry^ perhaps you can explain at once." 
 Then I would take out my pencil and notebook, and wait 
 for information. And^ in fact, there was no other way in 
 which the truth could be ascertained. Unless I came down 
 suddenly as a summer's storm upon them, the very people 
 who were robbed by our messengers would not confess the 
 robbery, fearing the ill-will of the men. It was necessary 
 to startle them into the revelations which I required them 
 to make for their own go#d. And I did startle them. I 
 became thoroughly used to it, and soon lost my native 
 bashfulness — but sometimes my visits astonished the retir- 
 ing inhabitants of country-houses. I did, however, do my 
 work, and can look back upon what I did with thorough 
 satisfaction. I was altogether in earnest; and I believe 
 that many a farmer now has his letters brought daily to 
 his house free of charge, who but for mo would still have 
 had to send to the post-town for them twice a week, or 
 to have paid a man for bringing them irregularly to his door. 
 
74 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 This work took up my time so completely, and entailed 
 upon me so great an amount of writing, that I was, in 
 fact, unable to do any literary work» From day to day I 
 thought of it, still purporting to make another effort, and 
 often turning over in my head some fragment of a plot 
 which had occurred to me. But the day did not come in 
 which I could sit down with pen ana paper and begin an- 
 other novel. For. after all, wh;it could it be but a novel? 
 The play had failed more absolutely than the novels, for 
 the novels had attained the honor of print. The cause of 
 this pressure of official work lay, not in the demands of 
 the General Post-office, which more than once expressed 
 itself as astonished 'by my celerity, but in the necessity 
 which was incumbent on me to travel miles enough to pay 
 for my horses^ and upon the amount of correspondence, 
 returns, figures, and reports which such an amount of 
 daily twveling brought with it. I may boast that the 
 work was done very quickly and very thoroughly — with no 
 fault but an over-eagerness to extend postal arrangements 
 far and wide. 
 
 In the course of the job I visited Salisbury, and while 
 wandering there one midsummer evening round the pur- 
 lieus of the cathedral I conceived the story of '*The 
 Warden" — from whence came that series of novels of 
 which Barchester, with its bishops, deans, and archdea- 
 con, was the central site. I may as weU declare at once 
 that no one at their commencement could have had less 
 reason than myself to presume himself to be able to write 
 about clergymen. I have been often asked in what period 
 of my early life I had lived so long in a cathedral city as 
 to have become intimate with the ways of a close. I never 
 lived in any cathedral city, except Loudon, never knew 
 anything of any close, and at that time had enjoyed no 
 peculiar intimacy with any clergyman. My archdeacon, 
 who has been said to be life-like, and for whom I confess 
 that I have all a. parent's fond affection, was, I think, the 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 75 
 
 simple result of an effort of my moral consciousness. It 
 was such as that, in my opinion, that an archdeacon should 
 be, or, at any rate, would be, with such advantages as an 
 archdeacon might have; and lo! an archdeacon was pro- 
 duced, who has been declared by competent authorities to 
 be a rea) archdeacon down to the very ground. And yet, 
 as far as I can remember, I had not then even spoken to 
 an archdeacon. I have felt the compliment to be very 
 great. The archdeacon came whole from my brain after 
 this fashion; but in writing about clergymen generally, 1 
 had to pick up as I went whatever I might know or pre- 
 tend toknow about them. But my first idea had no refer- 
 ence to clergymen iu general. I had been struck by two 
 opposite evils, or what seemed to me to be evils, and with 
 an absence of all art-judgment in such matters I thought 
 that I might be able to expose them, or rather, to describe 
 them, both in one and the same tale. The first evil was 
 the possession by the Church of certain itinds and endow- 
 ments which had been intended for charitables purposes, 
 but which had been allowed to become incomes for idle 
 Church dignitaries. There had been more than one 
 such case brought to public notice at the time, in which 
 there seemed to have been an egregious malversation 
 of charitable purposes. The second evil was its very 
 opposite. Though I had been much struck by the 
 injustice above described, I had also often been an- 
 gered by the undeserved severity of the newspapers 
 toward the recipients of such incomes, who could 
 hardly be considered to be the chief sinners in the 
 matter. When a man is appointed to a place it is natural 
 that he should acpept the income allotted to that place 
 withoiit much inquiry. It is seldom that he will be the 
 first to find out that his services are overpaid. Though 
 he be called upon only to look beautiful and to bo dignified 
 upon state occasions, he will think £2000 a year little 
 enough for such beauty and dignity as he brings to the 
 
76 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TUOLLOPE. 
 
 task. I felt that there had been some tearing to pieces 
 which might have been spared. But I was altogether 
 wrong in supposing that the two things could be combined. 
 Any writer in advocating a cause must do so after the 
 fashion of an advocate^ or his writing will be ineffective. 
 He should take up one side and cling to that, and then he 
 may be powerful. There should be no scruples of con- 
 science. Such scruples make a man impotent for such 
 work. It was open to me to have described a bloated 
 parson, with a red nose and all other iniquities, openly 
 neglecting every duty required from him, and living riot- 
 ously on funds purloined from the poor, defying as he did 
 so the moderate remonstrances of a virtuous press. Or 
 I might have painted a man as good, as sweet, and as mild 
 as my warden, who should also have been a hard-working, 
 ill-paid minister of God's Word, and might have subjected 
 him to the rancorous venom of some daily Jupiter, who, 
 without a leg to stand on, without any true case, might 
 have been induced, by personal spite, to tear to rags the 
 poor clergyman, with poisonous, anonymous, and fero- 
 cious leading articles. But neither of these programmes 
 recommended it-self to my honesty. Satire, though it 
 may exaggerate the vice it lashes, is not justified in 
 creating it in order that it may be* lashed. Caricature 
 may too easily become a slander, and satire a libel. I 
 believed in the existence neither of the red-nosed clerical 
 cormorant, nor in that of the venomous assassin of the 
 journals. I did believe that through want of care, and 
 the natural tendency of every class to take care of itself, 
 money had slipped into the pockets of certain clergymen 
 which should have gone elsewhere; ayd I believed also 
 that through the equally natural propensity of men Jo be 
 as' strong as they know how to be, certain writers of the 
 press had allowed themselves to use language which was 
 cruel, though it was in a good cause. But the two objects 
 phould not have been combined — and I now know myself 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TEOLLOPE. 77 
 
 well enough to be aware that I was not the man to have 
 carried out either of them. 
 
 Nevertheless I thought much about it, and on the 29th 
 of July, 1853, having been then two years without having 
 made any literary effort, I began " The Warden," at Ten- 
 bury, in Worcestershire. It was then more than twelve 
 months since I had stood for an hour on the little bridge 
 in Salisbury, and had made out to my own satisfaction the 
 spot on which Hiram^s hospital should stand. Certainly, 
 no work that I ever did took up so much of my thoughts. 
 On this occasion I did no more than write the first chap- 
 ter, even if so much. I had determined that my oflScial 
 work should be moderated, so as to allow me some time 
 for writing; but then, just at this time, I was sent to take 
 the postal charge of the northern counties in Ireland, of 
 Ulster, and the Counties Meath and Louth. Hitherto, in 
 official language, I had been a surveyor's clerk, now I was 
 to be a surveyor. The difference consisted mainly in an 
 increase of income from about £450 to about £800 — for at 
 that time the sum netted still depended on the number of 
 miles traveled. Of course, that English work to which 
 I had become so warmly wedded had to be abandoned. 
 Other parts of England were being done by other men, 
 and I had nearly finished the area which had been in- 
 trusted to me. I should have liked to ride over the wJiole 
 country, and to have sent a rural post letter-carrier to 
 every parish, every village, every hamlet, and every grange 
 in England. 
 
 We were at this time very much unsettled as regards 
 any residence. While we were living at Clonmel two sons 
 had been born, who certainly were important enough to 
 have been mentioned sooner. At Clonmel we had lived in 
 lodgings, and from there had moved to Mallow, a town in 
 the County Cork, where we had taken a house. Mallow 
 was in the qenter of a hunting country, and had been very 
 pleasant to me. But our house there had been given up 
 
7S AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 when it was known that I should be detained in England; 
 and then we had wandered about in the western counties, 
 moying our headquarters from one town to another. 
 During this time we had lived at Exeter, at Bristol, at 
 Caermarthen, at Cheltenham, and at Worcester. Now wp 
 again moved, and settled ourselves for eighteen months at 
 Belfast. After that we took a house at Donnybrook, the 
 well-known suburb of Dublin. 
 
 The work of taking up a new district, which requires 
 not only that the man doing it sliould know the nature of 
 the postal arrangements, but also the characters and the 
 peculiarities of the postmasters and their clerks, was too 
 heavy to allow of my going on with my book at once. It 
 was not till the end of 1853 that I recommenced it, and it 
 was in the autumn of 1853 that I finished the work. It 
 was only one small volume, and in later days would have 
 been completed in six weeks, or in two months at the 
 longest, if other work had pressed. On looking at the 
 title-page, I find it was not published till 1855. I had 
 made acquaintance, through my friend John Merivale, 
 with William Longman, the publisher, and had received 
 from him an assurance that the manuscript should be 
 'Mocked at." It was *' looked at,'* and Messrs. Longman 
 made me an offer to publish it at half profits. I had no 
 reason to love 'Mialf profits," but I was very anxious to 
 have my book published, and I acceded. It was now more 
 than ten years since I had commenced writing '*The 
 Macdermots," and I thought that if any success was to be 
 achieved, the time surely had come. I had not been 
 impatient; but, if there was to be a time, surely it had 
 come. 
 
 The novel reading world did not go mad about **The 
 Warden;" but 1 soon felt that it had not failed as the 
 others had failed. There were notices of it in the press, 
 and I could discover that people around me knew that I 
 had written a book. Mr. Longman was complimentary. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 79 
 
 and after a while informed me that there would be profits 
 to divide. At the end of 1855 I received a check for £9 
 Ss. Sd.y which was the first money I had ever earned by 
 literary work — that £20 which poor Mr. Colburn had been 
 made to pay certainly never having been earned at all. At 
 the end of 1856 I received another snm of £10 15s. Id. 
 The pecuniary success was not great. Indeed, as regarded 
 remuneration for the time, stone-breaking would have 
 done better. A thousand copies were printed, of which, 
 after a lapse of five or six years, about three hundred had 
 to be converted into another form, and sold as belonging 
 to a cheap edition. In its original form ''The Warden" 
 never reached the essential honor of a second edition. 
 
 I have ah-eady said of the work that it failed altogether 
 in the purport for which it was intended. But it has a 
 merit of its own, a merit by my own perception of which 
 I was enabled to see wherein lay whatever strength I did 
 possess. The characters of the bishop, of the archdeacon, 
 of the archdeacon's wife, and especially of the warden, 
 are all well and clearly drawn. I had realized to myself 
 a series of portraits, and had been able so to put them on 
 the canvas that my readers should see that which I meant 
 them to see. There is no gift which an author can have 
 more useful to him than this. And the style of the En- 
 glish was good, though, from most unpardonable careless- 
 ness, the grammar was not unfrequently faulty. With 
 such results I have no doubt but that I would at once be- 
 gin another novel. 
 
 I will here say one word as a long-deferred answer to an 
 item of criticism which appeared in the Times newspaper 
 as to " The Warden." In an article — if I remember 
 rightly, on ''The Warden" and **Barchester Towers" 
 combined — which I would call good-natnred, but that I 
 take it for granted that the critics of the Times are actu- 
 ated by higher motives than good-nature, that little book 
 and its sequel are spoken of in terms which were very 
 
80 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
 
 pleasant to the author. But there was added to this a 
 gentle word of rebuke at the morbid condition of tho 
 author's mind, which had prompted him to indulge in 
 personalities — the personalities in question having refer- 
 ence to some editor or manager of the Times newspaper. 
 For I had introduced one Tom Towers sis being potent 
 among the contributors to the Jupiter j under which name 
 I certainly did allude to the Times. But at that time, 
 living away in Ireland, I had not even heard the name 
 of any gentleman connected with the Times ^newspaper, 
 and could not have intended to represent any individual 
 by Tom Towers. As I had created an archdeacon, so had 
 I created a journalist, and the one creation was no more 
 personal or indicative of morbid tendencies than the other. 
 If Tom Towers was at all like any gentleman then con- 
 nected with the TimeSy my moral consciousness must again 
 have been very powerful. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 **BARCHESTER TOWERS " AND *' THE THREE CLERKS.'* 
 
 1855-1858. 
 
 It was, I think, before I started on my English tours 
 among the rural posts that I made my first attempt at 
 writing for a magazine. I had read, soon after they came 
 out, the first two volumes of Charles Merivale's '* History 
 of the Romans under the Empire," and had got into some 
 correspondence with the author's brother as to the author's 
 views about Caesar. Hence arose in my mind a tendency 
 to investigate the character of probably the greatest man 
 who ever lived, which tendency in. after- years produced a 
 little book of which I shall have to speak when its timo 
 comes— and also a taste generally for Latin literature, 
 which has been one of the chief delights of my later life. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 81 
 
 And I may say thab I became at this time as anxious 
 about Caesar, and as desirous of reaching the truth as to 
 his character, as we have all been in regard ik> Bismarck in 
 these later days. I lived in Caesar, and debated with my- 
 self constantly whether he crossed the Rubicon as a tyrant 
 or as a patriot. In order that I might review Mr. Meri- 
 Tale's book without feeling that I was dealing iMiwarrant- 
 ably with a subject beyond me, I studied the '* Com- 
 mentaries" thoroughly, and went through a mass of other 
 reading which the object of a magazine article hardly 
 justified, but which has thoroughly justified itself in tho 
 subsequent pursuits of my life. I did write two articles, 
 the first mainly on Julius Caesar, and the second on 
 Augustus, which appeared in the Dublin Universit'i/ 
 Magazine* Tliey were the result of very much labor, but 
 there came from them no pecuniary product. I had been 
 very modest when I sent them to the editor, as I had been 
 when I called on John Forster, not venturing to suggest 
 the subject of money. After a while I did call upon the 
 proprietor of the magazine in Dublin, and was told by him 
 that such articles were generally written to oblige friends, 
 and that articles written to oblige friends were not usually 
 paid for. The Dean of Ely, as the author of the work in 
 question now is, was my friend; but I thiiik I was wronged, 
 as I certainly had no intention of obliging liim by my 
 criticism. Afterward, when I returned to Ireland, I 
 wrote other articles for the same magazine, one of which, 
 intended to be very savage in its denunciation, was on an 
 official blue-book just then brought out, preparatory to 
 the introduction of competitive examinations for the civil 
 service. For that and some other article, I now forget 
 what, I was paid. Up to the end of 1857 I had received 
 £65 for the hard work of ten years. 
 
 It was while I was engaged on "Barchester Towers'' 
 that I adopted a system of writing which, for some years 
 afterward, I found to be very serviceable to mo. My time 
 
82 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 was greatly occupied in traveling, and the nature of my 
 traveling was now changed. I could not any longer do it 
 on horseback. Railroads afforded me my means of con- 
 veyance, and I found that I passed in railway-carriages 
 very many hours of my existence. Like others, I used to 
 read — though Carlyle has since told me that a man when 
 traveling «hould not read, but ^' sit still and label his 
 thoughts." But if I intended to make a profitable busi- 
 ness out of my writing, and, at the same time, to do my 
 best for the Post-office, I must turn these hours to more 
 account than I could do even by reading. I made for 
 myself, therefore, a little tablet, and found after a few 
 days' exercise that I could write as quickly in a railway- 
 carriage as I could at my desk. I worked with a pencil, 
 ^nd what I wrote my wife copied afterward. In this way 
 was composed the greater part of *' Barchester Towers" 
 and of the novel which succeeded it, and much also of 
 others subsequent to them. My only objection to the 
 practice came from the appearance of literary ostentation, 
 to which I felt myself to be subject when going to work 
 before four or five fellow-passengers. But I got used to 
 it, as I had done to the amazement of the west country 
 farmers' wives when asking them after their letters. 
 
 In the writing of *' Barchester Towers "I took great 
 delight. The bishop and Mrs. Proudie were very real to me, 
 as were also the troubles of the archdeacon and the loves 
 of Mr. Slope. When it was done, Mr. W. Longman re- 
 quired that it should be subjected to his reader; and he re- 
 turned the manuscript to me, with a most laborious and 
 voluminous criticism— coming from whom I never knew. 
 This was accompanied by an offer to print the novel on the 
 half-profit system, with a payment of £100 in advance out 
 of my half profits— on condition that I would comply with 
 the suggestions made by his critic. One of theao 
 Buggestions required that I should cut the novel down to two 
 Tolumes. In my reply I went through the criticisms. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 83 
 
 rejecting one and accepting another, almost alternately, but 
 declaring at last that no consideration should induce me to 
 cut out a third of my work. I am at a loss to know how 
 such a task could be performed. I could burn the manu- 
 script, no doubt, and write another book on the same story; 
 but how two words out of six are to be withdrawn from a 
 written novel, I cannot conceive. I believe such tasks 
 have been attempted— perhaps performed; but I refused to 
 make even the attempt. Mr. Longman was too gracious 
 to insist on his critic's terms; and the book was published, 
 certainly none the worse, and I do not think much the 
 better, for the care that had been taken with it. 
 
 The work succeeded just as *' The Warden " had suc- 
 ceeded. It achieved no great reputation, but it was one 
 of the novels which novel-readers were called upon to read. 
 Perhaps I may be assuming unto myself more than I have 
 a right to do in saying now that *• Barchester Towers " has 
 become one of those novels which do not die quite at once, 
 whicli live and are read for perhaps a quarter of a century; 
 but if that be so, its life has been so far prolonged by the 
 vitality of some of its younger brothers. ** Barchester 
 Towers '' would hardly be so well known as it is had there 
 been no "Framfly Parsonage "and no " Last Chronicle of 
 Barset." 
 
 I received my £100, in advance, with profound delight. 
 It was a positive and most welcome increase to my income, 
 and -might probably be regarded as a first real step on the 
 road to substantial success. I am well aware that there 
 are many who think that an author in his authorship 
 should not regard money — nor a painter, or sculptor, or 
 composer, in his art. I do not know that this unnatural 
 self-sacrifice is supposed to extend itself further. A bar- 
 rister, a clergyman, a doctor, an engineer, and even actors 
 and architects, may without disgrace follow the bent of 
 human nature, and endeavor to fill their bellies and clothe 
 their backs, and also those of their wives and children, as 
 
54 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 <;omfortable as they can, by the exercise of their abilities 
 and their crafts. They may be as rationally realistic as 
 may the butchers and the bakers; but the artist and the 
 author forget the high glories of thejr calling if they con- 
 -descend to make a money return a first object. They who 
 preach this doctrine will be much offended by my theory, 
 and by this book of mine, if my theory and my book come 
 beneath their notice. They require the practice of a so- 
 called virtue which is contrary to nature, and which, in 
 my ej^es, would be no virtue if it were practiced. They 
 are like clergymen who preach sermons against the love of 
 money, but who know that the love of money is so distinct- 
 ive a characteristic of humanity that such sermons are 
 mere platitudes, called for by customary but unintelligent 
 piety. All material progress has come from man's desire 
 to do the best he can for himself and those about him, 
 and civilization and Christianity itself have been made 
 possible by such progress. Though we do not all of us 
 argue this matter out within our breasts, we do all feel it; 
 and we know that the more a man earns the more useful 
 he is to his fellow-men. The most useful lawyers, as a rule, 
 Lave been those who have made the greatest incomes— and 
 it is the same with the doctors. It would be the same in 
 the Church if they who have the choosing of bishops 
 always chose the best man. And it has in truth been so 
 too in art and authorship. Did Titian or Rubens dis- 
 regard their pecuniary rewards? As far as we know, 
 Shakespeare worked always for money, giving the best of 
 his intellect to support his trade as an actor. In our own 
 century what literary names stand higher than those of 
 Byron, Tennyson, Scott, Dickens, Macaulay, and Carlyle? 
 —and I think I may say that none of tliose great men 
 neglected the pecuniary result of their laboi-s. Now and 
 then a man may arise among us who, in any calling, 
 whether it be in law, in physic, in religious teaching, iu 
 art, or literature, may in his professional enthusiasm 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 85 
 
 utterly disregard money. All will honor his enthusiasm, 
 a'nd if he be wifeless and childless, his disregard of the 
 great object of men's work will be blameless. But it is a 
 mistake to suppose that a man is a better man because he 
 despises money. Few do so, and those few in doing so 
 suffer a defeat. Who does not desire to be hospitable to 
 his friends, generous to the poor, liberal to all, muni6cent 
 to his children, and to be himself free from the carking 
 fear which poverty creates? The subject will not stand 
 an argument; and yet authors are told that they should 
 disregard payment for their work, and be content to de- 
 Tote their unbought brains to the welfare of the public. 
 Brains that are unbought will never serve the public much. 
 Take away from English authors their copyrights, and you 
 would very soon take away from England her authors. 
 
 I say this here, because it is my purpose, as I go oii, to 
 state what to me has been the result of my profession in 
 the ordinary way in which professions are regarded; so 
 that by my example may be seen what prospect there is 
 that a man devoting himself to literature with industry, 
 perseverance, certain necessary aptitudes, and fair average 
 talents, may succeed in gaining a livelihood, as another 
 man does in another profession. The result with me has 
 "been comfortable but not splendid, as I think was to have 
 been expected from the combination of such gifts. 
 
 T have., certainly, also had always before my eyes the 
 charms of reputation. Over and above the money view 
 of the question, I wished from the beginning to be some- 
 thing more than a clerk in the Post-office. To be known 
 as somebody, to be Anthony Trollope, if it be no more, is 
 to me much. The feeling is a very general one, and I 
 think beneficent. It is that which has been called the 
 'Mast infirmity of noble mind." The infirmity is so 
 human that the man who lacks it is either above or below 
 humanity. I own to the infirmity. But I confess that 
 my first object in taking to literature as a profession was 
 
86 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 that which is common to the barrister when he goes to 
 the bar, and to the baker when he sets up his oven. I 
 wished to make an income on which I and those belonging 
 to me might live in comfort. 
 
 If, indeed, a man writes his books badly, or paints his. 
 pictures badly, because he can make his money faster in 
 that fashion than by doing them well, and at the sam& 
 time proclaims them to be the best he can do, if, in fact, 
 he sells shoddy for broadcloth, he is dishonest, as is any 
 other fraudulent dealer. So may be the barrister, who 
 takes money that be does not earn, or the clergyman who 
 is content to live on a sinecure. No doubt the artist or 
 the author may have a difficulty which will not occur to 
 the seller of cloth, in settling within himself what is good 
 "work and what is bad, when li\bor enough has been given, 
 and when the task has been scamped. It is a danger as 
 to which he is bound to be severe with himself — in which 
 he ought to feel that his conscience ought to be set fairly 
 in the balance against the natural bias of his interest. If 
 he do not do so, sooner or later his dishonesty will be dis- 
 covered, and will be estimated accordingly. But in this 
 he is to be governed only by the plain rules of honesty 
 which should govern us all. Having said so ri^uch I shall 
 not scruple as I go on to attribute to the pecuniary result 
 of my labors all the importance which I felt them to have 
 at tlie time. 
 
 '' Barchester Towers," for which I had received £100 
 in advance, sold well enough to bring me further payments, 
 —moderate payments — from the publishers. From that 
 day up to this very time in which I am writing, that 
 book and ''The Warden" together have given me almost 
 every year some small income. I get the accounts 
 very regularly, and I find that I have received £727 lis, 
 dd. for the two. It is more than I goj; for the three or 
 four works that came afterward, but the payments have 
 been spread over twenty years. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 87 
 
 Wheu I went to Mr. Longman with my next novel, 
 ^'The Three Clerks," in my hand, I could not induce him 
 to understand that a lump sum down was more pleasant 
 than a deferred annuity. I wished him to buy it from 
 me at a price which he might think to be a fair value, 
 and I argued with him that as soon as an author has put 
 himself into a position which insures a sufficient sale of 
 his works to give a profit, the publisher is not entitled to 
 exiTCct the half of such proceeds. While there is a pecun- 
 iary" risk, tlie whole of whicli must be borne by tlie pub- 
 lisher, such division is fair enough; but such a demand on 
 the part of the publisher is monstrous as soon as the 
 article produced is known to be a marketable commodity. 
 I thought that I had now reached that point, but Mr. 
 Longman did not agree with me. And he endeavored to 
 convince me that I might lose more than I gained, even 
 though I should get more money by going elsewhere. 
 *' It is for you," said he, " to think whether our names on 
 your title-page are not worth more to you than the in- 
 creased payment." This seemed to me to savor of that 
 high-flown doctrine of the contempt of mqney, which I 
 have never admired. I did think much of Messrs. Long- 
 man's name, but I liked it best at the bottom of a check. 
 
 I was also scared from the august columns of Pater- 
 noster Row by a remark made to myself by one of, the 
 firm, which seemed to imply that they did not much care 
 for works of fiction. Speaking of a fertile writer of tales 
 
 who was not then dead, he declared that (naming the 
 
 author in question) had spawned upon them (the publish- 
 ers) three novels a year! Such language is perhaps justifi- 
 able in regard to a man who shows so much of the fecund- 
 ity of the herring; but I did not know how fruitful might 
 bo my own muse, and I thought that I had better go else- 
 where. 
 
 I had then written " The Three Clerks," which, wlion 
 I could not sell it to Messrs. Longman, I took in the l-rst 
 
68 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOiq^Y TROLLOPE. 
 
 instance to Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, who had become 
 snccessors to Mr. Colbiirn. I had made an appointment 
 with one of the firm, which, however, that gentleman was 
 unable to keep. T was on my way from Ireland to Italy, 
 and had bnt one clay in London in which to dispose of 
 my manuscript. I sat for an hour in Great Marlborough 
 Street, expecting the return of the peccant publisher wha 
 had broken his tryst, and I was about to depart with my 
 bundle nnder my arm when the foreman of the h^use 
 came to me. He seemed to think it a pity that I should 
 go, and wished me to leave my work with him. This, 
 however, I would not do, unless he would undertake to 
 buy it theu and there. Perhaps he lacked authority. 
 Perhaps his judgment was against such purchase. But 
 while we debated the matter, he gave me some advice. 
 "I hope it's not historical, Mr. Trollope?" he said. 
 "Whatever you do, don't be historical; your historical 
 novel is not worth a damn." Thence I took ** The Three 
 Clerks" to Mr. Bentley; and on the same afternoon suc- 
 ceeded in selling it to him for £250. His son still possesses 
 it, and the firm has, I believe, done very well with the 
 purchase. It was certainly the best novel I had as yet 
 written. The plot is not so good as that of "The Mac- 
 dermots;" nor arc there any characters in the book equal 
 to those of Mrs. Proudie and the warden; but the work 
 has a more continued interest, and contains the first well- 
 described love-scene that I ever wrote. The passage in 
 which Kate Woodward, thinking that she will die, tries 
 to take leave of the lad she loves, still brings tears to my 
 eyes when I read it. I had not the heart to kill her. I 
 never could do that. And I do not doubt bub that they 
 are living happily together to this day. 
 
 The lawyer Chaffanbrass made his first appearance in 
 this novel, and I do not think that I have cause to bo 
 ashamed of him. But this novel now is chiefly noticeable 
 to mo from the fact that in it I introduced a character 
 
ATJTOBIOGRi.PH:T 0F ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 89 
 
 under the name of S!r Gregory Hardlines, by which I in- 
 tended to lean very heavily on that much-loathed scheme 
 of competitive examination, of which at that time Sir 
 Charles Trevelyan was the great apostle. Sir Gregory 
 Hardlines was intended for Sir Charles Trevelyan, as any 
 one at the time would know who had taken an interest in 
 the civil service. '' We always call him Sir Gregory," 
 Lady Trevelyan said to me afterward when I came to 
 lyiow her and her husband. I never learned to love com- 
 petitive examination; but I became, and am, very fond of 
 Sir Charles Trevelyan. Sir Stafford Northcote, who is 
 now Chancellor of the Exchequer, was then leagued with 
 his friend Sir Charles, and he too appears in " The Three 
 Clerks" under the feebly facetious name of Sir Warwick 
 West End. 
 
 But for all that " The Three Clerks " was a good novel. 
 
 When that sale was made I was on my way to Italy with 
 my wife, paying a third visit there to my mother and 
 brother. This was in 1S57, and she had then given up her 
 pen. It was the first year in which she had not written, 
 and she expressed to me her delight that her labors should 
 be at an end, and that mine should be beginning in the 
 same field. In truth they had already been continued for 
 a dozen years, but a man's career will generally be held to 
 date itself from the commencement of his success. On 
 those fq;i*eign tours I always encountered adventures, 
 which, as I look back upon them now, tempt me almost 
 to write a little book of my long-past Continental travels. 
 On this occasion, as we made our way slowly through. 
 Switzerland and over the Alps, we encountered again and 
 again a poor, forlorn Englishman, who had no friend and 
 no aptitude for traveling. He was always losing his way, 
 and finding himself with no scat in the coaches and no 
 bed at the inns. On one occasion I found him at Coire 
 seated at 5 a.m. in the coupe of a diligence which was 
 intended to start at noon for the Engadine, while it was 
 
90 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 his purpose to go over the Alps in anoHier whioh was to leave 
 at 5.30, and which was already crowded with passengers. 
 *'Ah!" he said, "I am in time now, and nobody shall 
 turn me out of this seat," alluding to former little mis- 
 fortunes of which 1 had been a witness. When I explained 
 to him his position, he was as one to whom life was too 
 bitter to be borne. But he made his way into Italy, and 
 encountered me again at the Pitti Palace in Florence, 
 **Can you tell me something?" he said to me in a whisper,, 
 having touched my shoulder. '^ The people are so ill- 
 natured I don't like to ask them. "Where is it they keep 
 the Medical Venus?" I sent him to the Ufl&zi, but I fear 
 he was disappointed. 
 
 We ourselves, however, on entering Milan, had been 
 in quite as much distress as any that he suffered. We 
 had not written for beds, and on driving up to a hotel 
 at ten in the evening, found it full. Thence we went 
 from one hotel to another, finding them all full. The 
 misery is one well known to travelers, but I never heard 
 of another case in which a man and his wife were told at 
 midnight to get out of the conveyance into the middle of 
 the street because the horse could not be made to go any 
 further. Such was our condition. I induced the driver^ 
 however, <o go again to the hotel which was nearest to 
 'him, and which was kept by a German. Then I bribed 
 the porter to get the master to come down to me; and, 
 though my French is ordinarily very defective, I spoke 
 with such eloquence to that German innkeeper that he, 
 throwing his arms round my neck in a transport of com- 
 passion, swore that he would never leave me nor my wife 
 till he had put us to bed. And he did so; but, ah I there 
 were so many in those beds! It is such an experience as 
 this which teaches a traveling foreigner how different, on 
 the Continent, is the accommodation provided for him, 
 from that which is supplied for the inhabitants of the 
 country. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TRbLLOPE. 91 
 
 It was on a previous visit to Milan, when the telegraph- 
 wires were only just opened to the public by the Austrian 
 autliorities, that we had decided one day at dinner that we 
 would go to Verona that night. There was a train at six, 
 reaching Verona at midnight, and we asked some servant 
 of the hotel to telegraph for us, ordering supper and beds. 
 The demand seemed to create some surprise; but we per- 
 sisted, and were only mildly grieved when we found our- 
 selves charged twenty zwanzigers for the message. Tele- 
 graphy was new at Milan, and the prices were intended to 
 be almost prohibitory. "We paid our twenty zwanzigers 
 and went on, consoling ourselves with the thought of our 
 ready supper and our assured bed. "When we reached Verona 
 there arose a great cry along the platform for Signer 
 TroUope. I put out my head and declared my identity, 
 when I was waited upon by a glorious personage, dressed 
 like a beau for a ball, with half a dozen others almost as 
 glorious behind him, who informed me, with his hat in 
 his hand, that he was the landlord of the '*Due Torre." 
 It was a heating moment, but it became more hot when 
 he asked me after my people — mes gens, I could only 
 turn* round and point to my Wife and brother-in-law. I 
 had no other ''people." There were three carriages pro- 
 vided for us, each with a pair of gray horses. When we 
 reached the house it was all lit up. "We were not allowed 
 to move without an attendant with a lighted candle. It 
 was only gradually that the mistake came to be under- 
 stood. On us there was still the horror of the bill, the 
 extent of which could not be known till the hour of de- 
 parture had come. The landlord, however, had acknowl- 
 edged to himself that his inductions had been ill-founded, 
 and he treated us with clemency. He had never before 
 received a telgram. 
 
 I apologize for these tales, which are certainly outsido 
 my purpose, and will endeavor to tell no more that shall 
 not have a closer relation to my story. I had finished 
 
92 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 " The Three Clerks " just before I left England, and when 
 in Florence was cudgeling my brain for a new plot. Being 
 then with my brother, I asked him to sketch me a plot, 
 and he drew out that of my next novel, called " Doctor 
 Thome." I mention this particularly, because it was th» 
 only occasion in which I have had recourse to some other 
 source than my own brains for the thread of a story. How 
 f^r I may unconsciously have adopted incidents from what 
 I have read — either from history or from works of imag^ 
 ination — I do not know. It is beyond question that a man 
 employed as I have been must do so. But when doing it 
 I have not been aware that I have done it. I have never 
 taketi another man's work, and deliberately framed my 
 work upon it. I am far from censuring this practice in 
 others. Our greatest masters in works of imagination 
 have obtained such aid for themselves. Shakespeare dug 
 out of such quarries wherever he could find them. Ben 
 Jonson, with heavier hand, built up his structures on his 
 studies of the classics, not thinking it beneath him to give, 
 without direct acknowledgment, whole pieces translated 
 both from poets and historians. But in those days no such 
 acknowledgment was usual.- Plagiary existed, and was 
 very common, but was not known as a sin. It is different 
 now; and I think that an author, when he uses either the 
 words or the plot of another, should own as much, de- 
 manding to be credited with no more of the work than he 
 has himself produced. I may say also that I have never 
 printed as my own a word that has been written by others.* 
 It might probably have "been better for my readers had I 
 done so, as I am informed that '' Doctor Thorne," the 
 novel of which I am now speaking, has a larger sale than 
 any other book of mine. 
 
 * I must make one exception to this declaration. The legal opinion 
 as to heirlooms in "The Eustace Diamonds " was written for me hy 
 Charles Merewether, the present Member for Northampton. 1 am 
 told that it has become the ruling authority on the subject. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 93^ 
 
 Early in 1858, while I was writing " Doctor Thome," I 
 was asked by the great men at the General Post-oflBce to 
 go to Egypt to make a treaty with the Pasha for the con« 
 veyance of our mails through that country by railway. 
 There was a treaty in existence, but that had reference to 
 the carriage of bags and boxes by camels from Alexandria- 
 to Suez. Since its date the railway had grown, and was 
 now nearly completed, and a new treaty was wanted. So 
 I came over from Dublin to London, on my road, and 
 again went to work among the publishers. The other 
 novel was not finished; but I thought I had now progressed 
 far enough to arrange a sale while the work was still on 
 the stocks. I went to Mr. Bentley and demanded £400 — 
 for the copyright. He acceded, but came to me the next 
 morning at the General Post-office to say that it could not 
 be. He had gone to work at his figures after I had left 
 him, and had found that £300 would be the outside valuo 
 of the novel. I was intent upon a larger sum; and in fnri- 
 ons haste — for I had but an hour at my disposal — I rushed 
 to Chapman & Hall in Piccadilly, and said what I had to say 
 to Mr. Edward Chapman in a quick torrent of words. 
 They were the first of a great many words which have 
 since been spoken by me in that back- shop. Looking 
 at me as he might have done at a highway robber who 
 had stopped him on Hounslow Heath, he said that he sup- 
 posed he miglit as well do as I desired. I considered this 
 to be a sale, and it was a sale. I remember that he held 
 the poker in his hand all the time that I was with him — 
 but in truth, even though he had declined to buy the 
 book, there would have been no danger. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 "DOCTOR THORNB." — **THE BERTRAMS." — "THE WEST 
 INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN." 
 
 As I journeyed across France to Marseilles, and made 
 thence a terribly rough voyage to Alexandria, I wrote my 
 
94 AUTOBIOGRAI^HY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 allotted number of pages every day. On this occasiou 
 more than once I left my paper on the cabin table, rush- 
 ing away to be sick in the privacy of my state-room. Ifc 
 was February, and tlie weather was miserable; but still I 
 did my work. Labor omnia vincit iinprobus. > I do not 
 say that to all men has been given physical strength suffi- 
 cient for such exertion as thie, but I do* believe that real 
 exertion will enable most men to work at almost any sea- 
 son. I had previously to this arranged a system of task- 
 work for myself, which I would strongly recommend to those 
 who feel as I have felt, that labor, when not made abso- 
 lutely obligatory by the circumstances of the hour, should 
 Dever be allowed to become spasmodic. There was no day 
 on which it was my positive duty to write for the publish- 
 ers, as it was my duty to write reports for the Post office. 
 I was free to be idle if I pleased. But as I had* made up 
 my mind to undertake this second profession, I found it 
 to be expedient to bind myself by certain self-imposed 
 laws. When I have commenced a new book, I have always 
 prepared a diary^ divided into weeks, and (^rried it on 
 for the period which I have allowed myself for the com- 
 pletion of the work. Ic this I have entered, day by day, 
 the number of pages I have written, so that if at any J;ime 
 I have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of 
 that idleness has been there, staring me in the face, and 
 demanding of me increased labor, so that the deficiency 
 might be supplied. According to the circumstances of 
 the time — whether my other business might be then heavy 
 or light, or whether the book which I was writing was or 
 was not wanted with speed — I have allotted myself so many 
 pages a week. The average number has been about 40. 
 It has heen placed as low as 20, and has risen to 112. And 
 as a page is an ambiguous term, my page has been made 
 to contain 250 words; and as words^ if not watched, will 
 have a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted 
 AS I went. In the bargains I have made with publishers 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 95 
 
 I have — not, of course, with their knowledge, but in my 
 own mind — undertaken to supply them with so many 
 words, and I have never put a book out of hand short of 
 the number by a single word. I may also say that the ex- 
 cess has been very small. I have prided myself on com- 
 pleting my work exactly within the proposed dimensions. 
 But, I have prided myself especially in completing it with- 
 in the proposed time — and I have always done so. There 
 has ever been tbe record before me, and a week passed 
 with an insufficient number of pages has been a blister to 
 my eye, and a month so disgraced would have been a sor- 
 row to my heart. 
 
 I have been told that such appliances are beneath the 
 notice of a man of genius. I have never fawcied myself to 
 be a man of genins, but had I been so I think I might well 
 have subjected myself to these trammels. Nothing, surely, 
 is so potent as a law that may not be disobeyed. It has 
 the force of the water-drop that hollows the stone. A 
 small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors 
 of a spasmodic Hercules. It is the tortoise which always 
 catches the hare. The hare has no chance. He loses 
 more time in glorifying himself for a quick spurt than 
 suffices for the tortoise to make half his journey. 
 
 I have known authors whose lives have always been 
 troublesome and painful because their tasks have never 
 been done in time. They have ever been as boys strug- 
 gling to learn their lesson as they entered the school gates. 
 Publishers have distrusted them, and they have failed 
 to write their best, because they have seldom written at 
 ease, I have done double their work — though burdened 
 with another profession — and have done it almost without 
 an effort. I have not once, through all my literary career, 
 felt myself even in danger of being late AYitli my task. I 
 have known no anxiety as to ** copy." The needed pages 
 far ahead — very far ahead — have almost always been in the 
 drawer beside me. And that little diary, with its dates 
 
96 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TKOLLOPE. 
 
 and ruled spaces, its record that must be seen, its daily, 
 "weekly demand upon my industry, has done all that for me. 
 
 There are those who would be ashamed to subject them- 
 selves to such a taskmaster, and who think tliat the man 
 who works with his imagination ^should allow himself to 
 Avait till^nspiration moTes him. When I have heard such 
 doctrine preached, I have hardly been able tx) lepress my 
 scorn. To me it Avould not be more absurd, if the shoe- 
 maker were to wait for inspiration, or the tallow-chandler 
 for the divine moment of melting. If thi man whose 
 business it is to write has eaten too many good things, or 
 lias drunk too much, or smoked too many cigars — as men 
 who write sometimes will do — then his condition may be 
 unfavorable for work; but so will be the condition of a 
 shoemaker who has been similarly imprudent. I have 
 sometimes tliought that the inspiration wanted has been 
 the remedy which time will give to the evil results of such 
 imprudence. Mens sana in corpore sano. The author 
 wants that, as does every other workman — that and a 
 habit of industry. I was once told that the surest aid to 
 the writing of a book was a piece of cobbler's wax ^n my 
 chair. I certainly believe in the cobbler's wax much more 
 than the inspiration. 
 
 It will be said, perhaps, that a man whose work has 
 risen to no higher pitch than mine has attained has no 
 right to speak of the strains and impulses to which real 
 genius is exposed. I am ready to admit the great varia- 
 tions in brain power whicli are exhibited by the products 
 of different men, and am not disposed to rank ray own 
 very high; but my own experience tells me that a man can 
 always do tlie work for which liis brain is fitted if he will 
 give himself the habit of regarding his work as a normal 
 condition of his life. I therefore venture to advise young 
 men who look forward to authorshipf as the business of 
 their lives, even when they propose that that authorslup 
 ^all be of the highest class known, to avoid enthusiastic 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOITT Tr6lL0PE. 97 
 
 rushes with their pens, and to seat themselves at their 
 desiis day by day, as though they were lawyers' clerks; 
 and so let them sit until the allotted task shall be accom- 
 plifihed. 
 
 While J was in Egypt I finished " Doctor Thome," and 
 on the following day began "The Bertrams." I was 
 moved now by a determination to excel, if not in quality, 
 at any rate in quantity. An ignoble ambition for an au- 
 thor, my readers will no doubt say. But not, I think, al- 
 together ignoble, if an author can bring himself to look 
 at his work as does any other workman. This had be- 
 come my task, this was the furrow in which my plow was 
 set, this was the thing the doing of which had fallen into 
 my hands, and I was minded to work at it with a will. It 
 is not on my conscience that I have ever scamped niy 
 work. My novels, whether good or bad, have beqn as 
 good as I could make them. Had I taken three months 
 of idleness between each, they would have been no better. 
 Feeling convinced of that, I finished "Doctor Thome" 
 on one day, and began "The Bertrams" on the next. 
 
 I had then been nearly two months in Egypt, and had 
 at last succeeded in settling the terms of a postal treaty. 
 Nearly twenty years have passed since that time, and other 
 years may yet run on before these pages are printed. I 
 trust I may commit no official sin by describing here .the 
 nature of the difficulty which met me. I found, on my 
 arrival, that I was to communicate with an officer of the 
 Pasha, who was then called Nubar Bey. I presume him 
 to have been the gentleman who has lately dealt with our 
 government as to the Suez Canal shares, and who is now 
 well known to the political world as Nubar Pasha. I 
 found him a most courteous gentleman, an Armenian. I 
 never went to his office, nor do I know that he had an 
 office. Every other day he would come to me at my hotel, 
 and bring with him servants, and pipes, and coffee. I en- 
 joyed his coming greatly; but there was one point ou 
 
98 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 which we could not agree. As to money and other de» 
 tails, it seemed as though he could hardly accede; fast 
 enough to the wishes of the Postmaster-general; br^t on 
 one point he was firmly opposed to me. I was desir- 
 ous that the mails should be carried through Egypt 
 in twenty-four hours, and he thought that forty-ieight 
 hours should be allowed. I was obstinate, and he was 
 obstinate; and for a long time we could come to no 
 agreement. At last his Oriental tranquillity seemed to 
 desert him, and he took upon himself to assure me, with 
 *almost more than British energy, that, if I insisted on the 
 quick transit, a terribly responsibility would rest on my 
 " head. I made this mistake, he said — that I supposed that 
 a rate of traveling which would be easy and secure in Eng- 
 land, could be attained with safety in Egypt. "The 
 Pasha, his master, would," he said, "no doubt accede to 
 any terms demanded by the British Post-office, so great 
 was his reverence for everything British. In that case he, 
 Nubar, would at once resign his position, and retire into 
 obscurity. He would be ruined; but the loss of life and 
 bloodshed which would certainly follow so rash an attempt 
 should not be on his head.'' I smoked my pipe, or rather 
 his, and drank his coffee, with Oriental quiescence, but 
 British firmness. Every now and again,-through three or 
 four visits, I renewed the expression of my opinion that 
 the transit could easily be made in twenty-four hours. At 
 last he gave way — and astonished me by the cordiality of 
 his greeting. There was no longer any question of blood- 
 shed or of resignation of office, and he assured me, with 
 energetic complaisance, that it should be his care to see 
 that the time was punctually kept. It was punctually 
 kept, and, I believe, is so still. I must confess, however, 
 that my persistency was not the result of any courage 
 specially personal to myself. While the matter was being 
 debated, it had been whispered to me that the Peninsular 
 and Oriental Steamshii) Company had conceived that 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 99 
 
 forty-eight hours would suit the purposes of their traffic 
 better than tweuty-four, and that, as they were the great 
 paymasters on the railway, the minister of the Egyptian 
 state, who managed the railway, might probably wish to 
 accommodate them. I often wondered who originated 
 that frightful picture of blood and desolation. That it 
 came from an English heart and an English hand I was 
 always sure. 
 
 From Egypt I visited the Holy Land, and, on my way, 
 inspected the Post-offices at Malta and Gibraltar. I could 
 fill a volume with true tales of my adventures. 
 
 The *' Tales of All Countries " have, most of them, some 
 foundation in such occurrences. There is one called *' John 
 Bull on the Guadalquivir," the chief incident in which oc- 
 curred to me and a friend of mine, on our way up that 
 riyer to Seville. We both of us handled the gold orna- 
 ments of a man whom we believed to be a bull-fighter, bub 
 who turned out to be a duke — and a duke, too, who could 
 speak English! How gracious he was to us, and yet how 
 thoroughly he covered us with ridicule! 
 
 On my return home I received £400 from' Messrs. Chap- 
 man & Hall for ** Doctor Thorne," and agreed to sell them 
 ^' The Bertrams " for the same sum. This latter novel was 
 written under very vagrant circumstances — at Alexandria, 
 Malta, Gibraltar, Glasgow, then at sea, and at last finished 
 in Jamaica. Of my journey to the West Indies I will say 
 a few words presently, but I may as well speak of these 
 two novels here. **Ddctor Thorne'* has, I believe, been 
 the most popular book that I have written — if I may take 
 the sale as a proof of comparative popularity. '^ The Ber- 
 trams " has had quite an oj^^posite fortune. I do not know 
 that I have ever heard it well spoken of even by my friends, 
 and I cannot remember that there is any character in it 
 that has dwelt in the minds of novel-readers. I myself 
 think that they are of about equal merit, but that neither 
 of them js good. They fall away very much from ''The 
 
100 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Three Clerks," both in pathos and humor. There is no 
 personage in either of them comparable to ChaffanbrasR 
 the lawyer. The plot of " Doctor Thorne " is good, and 
 I am led therefore to suppose that a good plot — which, to 
 my own feeling, is the most insignificant part of a tale — 
 is that which will most raise it or most condemn it in 
 the public judgment. The plots of J* Tom Jones " and 
 of '* Ivanhoe " are almost perfect, and they are probably 
 the most popular novels of the schools of the last and of 
 this century; but to me the delicacy of Amelia, and the 
 rugged strength of Burley anT3 Meg Merrilies, say more for 
 the power of those great novelists than the gift of con- 
 struction shown in the two works 1 have named. A nov- 
 el should give a picture of common life enlivened by 
 humor and sweetened by pathos. To make that picture 
 worthy of attention, the canvas should be crowded with 
 real portraits, not of individuals known to the world, or to 
 the author, but of created personages impregnated with 
 traits of character which are known. To my thinking, 
 the plot is but the vehicle for all this; and when you have 
 the vehicle, without the passengers, a story of mystery, in 
 which the agents never spring to life, you have but a 
 wooden show. There must, however, be a story. You 
 must provide a vehicle of some sort. That of "The Ber- 
 trams" was more than ordinarily bad; and as the book 
 was relieved by no special character, it failed. Its failure 
 never surprised me; but I have been surprised by the suc- 
 cess of ** Doctor Thorne." 
 
 At this time there was nothing in the success of the 
 one or the failure of the other to affect me very gr6atly. 
 The immediate sale, and the notices elicited from the 
 critics, and the feeling which had now come to me of a 
 confident standing- with the publishers, all made me know 
 that I had achieved my object. If I Wrote a novel, I could 
 certainly sell it. And if I could publish three in two 
 years— confining myself to half the fecundity of that ter- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 101 
 
 rible author of whom the publisher in Paternoster Row 
 had complained to me — I might add £600 a year to my 
 official income. I was still living in Ireland, and could 
 keep a good house over my head, insure my life, educate 
 my two boys, and hunt perhaps twice a week, on £1400 
 a year. If more should come, it would be well — but £1600 
 a year I was prepared to reckon as success. It had been 
 slow in coming, but was very pleasant when it came. 
 
 On my return from Egypt I was sent down to Scotland 
 to revise the Glasgow Post-office. I almost forget now 
 what it was that I had to do there, but I know that I 
 walked all over the city with the letter-carriers, going up 
 to the top flats of the houses, as the men would have de- 
 clared me incompetent to judge the extent of their labors 
 had I not trudged every step with them. It was mid- 
 summer, and wearier work I never performed. The men 
 would grumble, and then I would think how it would be 
 with them if they had to go home afterward and write a 
 love-scene. But the love-scenes written in Glasgow, all 
 belonging to ''Tiie Bertrams," are not good. 
 
 Then, in the autumn of that year, 1858, I was asked ta 
 go to the West Indies, and cleanse the Augean stables of 
 our Post-office system there. Up to that time, and at 
 that time, our colonial Post-offices generally were managed 
 from home, and were subject to the British Postmaster- 
 general. Gentlemen were sent out from England to be 
 postmasters, surveyors, and what not; and as our West 
 Indian islands have never been regarded as being of them- 
 selves happily situated for residence, the gentlemen so sent 
 were sometimes more conspicuous for want of income than 
 for official zeal and ability. Hence the stables had become 
 Augean. I was also instructed to carry out in some of the 
 ifllando a plan for giving up this postal authority to the 
 island governor, and in others to propose some such plan, 
 I was then to go on to Cuba, to make a postal treaty with 
 the Spanish authorities, and to Panama for the same pur- 
 
102 AUTOBIOGBAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 pose with the government of New Grenada. All this 
 work I performed to my satisfaction, and I hope to that 
 of my masters in St. Martin's-le-Grand. 
 
 But the trip is at the present moment of importance to 
 my subject, as having enabled me to write that which, on 
 the whole, I regard as the best book that has come from 
 my pen. It is short, and, I think I may venture to say, 
 amusing, useful, and true. As soon as I had learned from 
 the secretary at the General Post-office that this journey 
 would be required, I proposed the book to Messrs. Chap- 
 man & Hall, demanding £250 for a single volume. The 
 contract was made without any difficulty, and when I re- 
 turned home the work was complete in my desk. I began 
 it on bcflard the ship in which I left Kingston, Jamaica, 
 for Cuba, and from week to week I carried it on as I went. 
 From Cuba I made my way to St. Thomas, and through 
 the island down to Demarara, then back to St. Thomas — 
 which is the starting-point for all places in that part of 
 the globe — to Santa Martha, Carthagena, Aspinwall, over 
 the Isthmus to Panama, up the Pacific to a little harbor 
 on the coast of Costa Kica, thence across Central America, 
 through Costa Rica, and down the Nicaragua River to the 
 Mosquito coast, and after that home by Bermuda and 
 New York. Should any one want further details of the 
 voyage, are they not written in my book? The fact mem- 
 orable to me now is that I never made a single note while 
 writing or preparing it. Preparation, indeed, there was 
 none. The descriptions and opinions came hot on to the 
 --'>ner from their causes. I will not say that this is the 
 ^st way of writing a book intended to give accurate in- 
 formation. But it is the best way of producing, to the 
 €ye of the reader, and to his ear, that which the eye of the 
 writer has seen and his ear heard. There are two kinds 
 of confidence which a reader may have in his author— 
 which two kinds the reader who wishes to use his reading 
 well should carefully discriminate. There is a confidence 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 103- 
 
 in facts and a confidence in vision. The one man tells 
 you accurately what has been. The other suggests to yoa 
 what may, or perliaps what must have been, or what ought 
 to have been. The former requires simple faith. The 
 latter calls upon you to judge for yourself, and form your 
 own conclusions. The former does not intend to be pre- 
 scient, nor the latter accurate. Research is the weapon 
 used by the former; observation by the latter. Either 
 may be false — willfully false; as also may either be stead- 
 fastly true. As to that, the reader mu?t judge for him- 
 self. But the man who writes ciirrente calamo, who works 
 with a rapidity which will not admit of accuracy, may be- 
 as true, and in one sense as trustworthy, as he who bases 
 every word upon a roclf of facts. I have written very 
 much as I have traveled about; and though I have been, 
 very inaccurate, I have always written the exact truth as I 
 saw it; and I have, I think, drawn my pictures correctly. 
 
 The view I took of the relative position in the West 
 Indies of black men and white men was the view of the 
 Tiines newspaper at that period; and there appeared three 
 articles in that journal, one closely after another, which 
 made the fortune of the book. Had it been very bad, I 
 suppose its fortune could not have been made for it even 
 by the Times newspaper. I afterward became acquainted 
 with the writer cf those articles, the contributor himself 
 informing me that he had written them. I told him that 
 he had done me a greater service than can often be done 
 by one man to another, but that I was under no obligatioa 
 to him. I do not think that he saw the matter quite itt 
 the same light.^ 
 
 I am aware that by that criticism I was much raised in 
 my position as an author. Whether such lifting up by 
 such means is good or bad for literature is a question which 
 I hope to discuss in a future chapter. But the result was 
 immediate to me, for I at once went to Chapman & Hall 
 and successfully demanded £600 for my next novel. 
 
104 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TEOLf.OPE. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE ''CORXHILL MAGAZINE" AND '* FRAMLEY PAR- 
 SONAGE." 
 
 SOOK after ray return from the West Indies I was en- 
 abled to change my district in Ireland for one in England. 
 For some time past my official work had been of a 
 special nature, taking me out of my own district; but 
 through all that, Dublin had been my home, and there my 
 wife and children had lived. I had often sighed to return 
 to England, with a silly longing. My life in England for 
 twenty-six years, from the time of my birth to the day on 
 -which I left it, had been wretched. I had been poor, 
 friendless, and joyless. In Ireland it had constantly been 
 happy. I had achieved the respect of all with whom I was 
 concerned, I had made for myself a comfortable home, 
 and I had enjoyed many pleasures. Hunting, itself, was 
 a great delight to me; and now, as I contemplated a move 
 to England, and a house in the neighborhood of London, 
 I felt that hunting must be abandoned.* Nevertheless I 
 thought that a man who could write books ought not to 
 live in Ireland — ought to live within the reach of the pub- 
 lishers, the clubs, and the dinner-parties of the metropolis. 
 So I made my request at headquarters, and with some little 
 difficulty got myself appointed to the Eastern District of 
 England— which comprised Essex, Suffolk, Xorfolk, 
 Cambridgeshire, Huntingdonshire, and tl^e greater part of 
 
 Hertfordshire. 
 
 At this time I did not stand very well with the dom- 
 inant interest at the General Post-office. My old friend 
 Colonel Maberly bad been some time since squeezed into, 
 
 * It was not abandoned till sixteen more years had passed away. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 105 
 
 and his place was filled by Mr. Rowland Hill, the originator 
 of the penny post. With him I never had any sympathy^ 
 nor he with me. In figures and facts he was most ac- 
 curate, but I never came across any one who so little 
 understood tlie ways of men — unless it was his brother 
 Frederic. To the two brothers the servants of the Post- 
 oflSce — men numerous enough to have formed a large army 
 in old days — were so many machines who could be counted 
 on for their exact work without deviation, as wheels may 
 be counted on which are kept going always at the same 
 pace and always by the same power. Rowland Hill was an 
 industrious public servant, anxious for the good of his 
 country; but he was a hard taskmaster, and one who would, 
 I think, have put the great department with which he was 
 concerned altogether out of gear by his hardness, had he 
 not been at last controlled. He was the chief secretary; 
 my brother-in-law — who afterward succeeded him — came- 
 next to him, and Mr. HilFs brother was the junior sec- 
 retary. In the natural course of things I had not, from 
 my position, anything to do with the management of 
 affairs; but from time to time I found myself more oi;less 
 mixed up in it. I was known to be a thoroughly eflBcient 
 public servant — I am sure I may say so much of myself 
 without fear of con trad ictit)n from any one who has known 
 the Post-o^ce— I was very fond of the department, and, 
 when matters came to be considered, I generally had an 
 opinion of my own. I have no doubt that I often made 
 myself very disagreeable. I know that I sometimes tried 
 to do so. But I could hold my own, because I knew my 
 business and was useful. I had given ofiicial offense by 
 the publication of " The Three Clerks." I afterward gave 
 greater offense by a lecture on the civil service, which I 
 delivered in one of the large rooms at the General Post* 
 office, to the clerks there. On this occasion the Post- 
 master-general, with whom personally I enjoyed friendly 
 terms, sent for me and told mo that Mr. Hill had told 
 
106 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 him that I ought to be dismissed. When I asked his lord- 
 ship whether he was prepared to dismiss me he only 
 laughed. The tlireat was no threat to me, as I knew my- 
 self to be too good to be treated in that fashion. The 
 lecture had been permitted, and I had disobeyed no order. 
 In the lecture which I delivered there was nothing to 
 bring me to shame; but it advocated the doctrine that a 
 civil servant is only a servant as far as his contract goes, 
 and that he is, beyond that, entitled to be as free a man in 
 politics, as free in his general pursuits, and as free in 
 opinion, as those who are in open professions and open 
 trades. All tliis is very nearly admitted now, but it 
 certainly was not admitted then. At that time no one in 
 the Post-office could even vote for a Member of Parlia- 
 ment. 
 
 Through my whole official life I did my best to improve 
 the style of official writing. I have written, I should 
 think, some thousands of reports, many of them necessa- 
 rily very long; some of them dealing with subjects so ab- 
 surd as to allow a touch of burlesque; some few in which 
 a spark of indignation or a slight glow of pathos might 
 find *an entrance. I have taken infinite pains with these 
 reports, habituating myself always to write them in the 
 form in which they should be ^nt— without a copy. lb 
 is by writing thus that a man can throw on to his paper the 
 exact feeling with which his mind is impressed at the mo- 
 ment. A rough copy, or that which is called a draft, is 
 written in order that it may be touched and altered and 
 put upon stilts. The waste of time, moreover, in such an 
 operation is terrible. If a man knows his craft with his 
 pen, he will have learned to write without the necessity of 
 changing his words or the form of his sentences. I had 
 learned so to write my reports that they who read them 
 should know what it was that I meant them to understand. 
 But I do not think that they were regarded with favor. I 
 have heard horror expressed because the old forma were 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHON'Y TROLLOPE. 10? 
 
 disregarded and language used which had no savor of red 
 tape. During the whole of this work in the Post-office it 
 was my principle always to obey authority in everything^ 
 instantly, but never to allow my mouth to be closed as to 
 the expression of my opinion. They who had the ordering 
 of me very often did not know the work as I knew it — 
 could not tell, as I could, what would be the effect of this 
 or that change. When carrying out instructions which I 
 knew should not have been given, I never scrupled to point 
 out the fatuity of the improper order in the strongest lan- 
 guage that I could decently eiftploy. I have reveled in 
 these official correspondences, and» look back to some of 
 them as the greatest delights of my life. But I am not 
 sure that they were so delightful to others. 
 
 I succeeded, however, in getting the English district — 
 which could hardly have been refused to me — and pre- 
 pared to change our residence toward the end of 1859. 
 At the time I was writing " Castle Richmond," the novel 
 which I had sold to Messrs, Chapman & Hall for £600. 
 But there arose at this time a certain literary project 
 which probably had a great effect upon my career. While 
 traveling on postal service abroad, or riding over the 
 rural districts in England, or arranging the mails in Ire- 
 land — and such for the last eighteen years had now been 
 my life — I had no opportunity of becoming acquainted 
 with literary Jife in London. It was probably some feel- 
 ing of this which had made me anxious to move my pe- 
 nates back to England. But even in Ireland, where I was 
 still living in October, 1859, I had heard of the Cornhill 
 Magazine, which was to come out on the 1st of January, 
 1880, under the editorship of Thackeray. 
 
 I had at this time written from time to time certain 
 E.iort stories, which had been pu'blished in certain period- 
 icals, and which in due time were republished under the 
 name of '* Tales of All Countries." On the 23d of 
 October, 1859, I wrote to Thackeray, whom I had, I 
 
108 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 think, never then seen, offering to send him for th© maga- 
 zine certain of these stories. In reply to this I receiyed 
 two letters — one from Messrs. Smith & Elder, the pro- 
 prietors of the Cornhill, dated 26th of October, and the 
 other from the editor, written two days later. That from 
 Mr. Thackeray was as follows : 
 
 " 36 Onslow Squake, S. W.. Octoh&r 28. 
 " My Dear Mr. Trollope,— Smith & Elder have sent 
 you their proposals; and the business part done, let me 
 come to the pleasure, and say how very glad indeed I shall 
 be to have you as a c^operator in our new magazine. 
 And, looking over the annexed programme, you will see 
 whether you can't help us in many other ways besides tale- 
 telling. Whatever a man knows about life and its doings 
 that let us hear about. You must have tossed a good deal 
 about the world, and have countless sketches in your 
 memory and your portfolio. Please to think if you can 
 iurbish up any of these besides a novel. When events 
 occur, and you have a good, lively tale, bear us in mind. 
 One of our chief objects in this magazine is the getting 
 ■out of novel spinning, and back into the world. Don't 
 understand me to disparage our craft, especially your 
 wares. I often say I am like the pastry cook, and don't 
 care for tarts, but prefer bread-and-cheese; but the public 
 love the tarts (luckily for us), and we must bake and sell 
 them. There was quite an excitement in my family one 
 evening when Paterfamilias (who goes to sleep on a novel 
 almost always, when he tries it after dinner) came up-stairs 
 into the drawing-room wide awake, and calling for the 
 second volume of 'The Three Clerks.' I hope the 
 Coriihill Magazine will have as pleasant a story. And 
 the Chapmans, if ihey are the honest men I take them to 
 be, I've no doubt have told you with what sincere liking 
 jour works have been read by 
 
 *' Yours very faithfully, 
 
 ''W. M. Thackeray." 
 
 This was very pleasant, and so was the letter from Smith 
 A Elder offering me £1000 for the copyright of a three- 
 volume novel, to come out in the new magazine— on con- 
 dition that the first portion of it should be in their hands 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOIfY TROLLOPE. 109 
 
 "by December 12. There was much in all this that aston- 
 ished me— ill the first place;> the priQp, which was more 
 than double what I had yet received, and nearly double 
 that which I was abont to receive from Messrs. Chapman 
 & Hall. Then there was the suddenness of the call. It 
 was already the end of October, and a portion of the work 
 was required to be in the printer's hands within six weeks. 
 *' Castle Bichmond " was, indeed, half written, but that 
 was sold to Chapman. And it had always been a principle 
 with me in my ai*t that no part of a novel should be pub- 
 lished till the entire story was completed. I knew, from 
 what I read from month to month, that this hurried 
 publication of incompleted work was frequently, I might 
 perhaps say always, adopted by the leading novelists of 
 the day. That such has been the case is proved by the 
 fact that Dickens, Thackeray, and Mrs. Gaskell died with 
 unfinished novels, of which portions had been already 
 published. I had not yet entered upon the system of pub- 
 lishing novels in parts, and therefore had never been 
 tempted. But I was aware that an artist should keep in 
 his hand the power of fitting the beginning of his work to 
 the end. No doubt it is his first duty to fit the end to 
 the beginning, and he will endeavor to do so. But he 
 flhould still keep in his hands the power of remedying any 
 ■defect in this respect. 
 
 " Servetur ad imum 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit," 
 
 should be kept in view as to every character and every 
 string of action. Your Achilles should, all through, from 
 beginning to end, be "impatient, fiery, ruthless, keen." 
 Your Achilles, such as he is, will probably keep up his 
 character. But your Davus also should be always Davus, and 
 that is more difficult. The rustic, driving his pigs' to 
 market, cannot always make them travel by the exact path 
 which he has intended for them. When some young lady 
 «t the end of a story cannot be made quite perfect in her 
 
110 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 conduct, that vivid description of angelic purity with 
 which you laid tTie first lines of her portrait should be 
 slightly toned down. I had felt that the rushing mode of 
 publication to which the system of serial stories had given 
 rise, and by which small parts, as they were written, were 
 sent hot to the press, was injurious to the work done. If 
 I now complied with the proposition made to me, I must 
 act against my own principle. But such a principle be- 
 comes a tryant if it cannot be superseded on a just occa- 
 sion. If the reason be *' tanti," the principle should for 
 the occasion be put in abeyance. I sat as a judge, and 
 decreed that the present reason was "tanti." On this, 
 my first attempt at a serial story, I thought it fit to break 
 my own rule. I can say, however, that I have never broken 
 it since. 
 
 But what astonished me most was the fact that at so 
 late a day this new Cornhill Magazine should be in want 
 of a novel! Perhaps some of my future readers will be 
 able to remember the great expectations which were raised 
 as to this periodical. Thackeray's was a good name with 
 which to conjure. The proprietors, Messrs. Smith & 
 Elder, were most liberal in their manner of initiating the 
 work, and were able to make an expectant world of readers 
 believe that something was to be given them for a shilling 
 very much in excess of anything they had ever received 
 for that or double the money. Whether these hopes were 
 or were not fulfilled it is not for me to say, as, for the first 
 few years of the magazine's existence, I wrote for it more 
 than any other one person. But such was certainly the 
 prospect; and how had it come to pass that, with such 
 promises made, the editor and the proprietors were, at the 
 end of October, without anything fixed as to what must be 
 regarded as the chief dish in the banquet tp be provided? 
 
 I fear that the answer to this question must be found in 
 the habits of procrastination which had at that time grown 
 upon the editor. He had, I imagine, undertaken the work 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. Ill 
 
 himself, and had postponed its commencement till there 
 was left to him no time for commencing. There was still, 
 it may be said, as much time for liim as for me. I think 
 there was — for though he Jiad his magazine to look after, 
 I had the Post-oflBce. But he thought, when unable to 
 trust his own energy, that he might rely upon that of a 
 new recruit. He was but four years my senior in life, but 
 he was at the top of th§ tree, while I was still at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Having made up my mind to break my principle, I 
 started at once from Dublin to London. I arrived there 
 on the morning of Thursday, November 3, and left it on 
 the evening of Friday. In the meantime I had my agree- 
 ment with Messrs. Smith & Elder, and had arranged my 
 plot. But, when in London, I first went to Edward 
 Chapman, at 193 Piccadilly. If the novel 1 was then 
 writing for him would suit the Cornhill, might I consider 
 my arrangement withjiim to be at an end? Yes; I might. 
 But if that story would not suit the Cornhill, was I to 
 consider my arrangement with him as still standing — that 
 agreement; requiring that my manuscript should be in his 
 hands in the following March? As to that, i might do as 
 I pleased. In our dealings together, Mr. Edward Chap- 
 man always acceded to every suggestion made to him. He 
 never refused a book, and never haggled at a price. Then 
 I hurried into the City, and had my first interview with 
 Mr. George Smith. When he heard that '' Castle Rich- 
 mond " was an Irish story, he begged that I would en- 
 deavor to frame some other for his magazine. He was 
 sure that an Irish story would not do for a commence- 
 ment; and he suggested the Church, as though it were 
 my peculiar subject. I told him that *' Castle Rich- 
 mond" would have to '^ come out" while any other novel 
 that I might write for him would be running through the 
 magazine; but to that he expressed himself altogether 
 indifferent. He wanted an English tale, on English life^ 
 
112 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 with a clerical flavor. On these orders I went to work, 
 and framed what I suppose I must call the plot of '' Frani* 
 ley Parsonage." 
 
 On my journey hack to Ireland, in the railway carriage, 
 I wrote the first few pages of that story. I had got into 
 my head an idea of what I meant to write — a morsel of 
 the biography of an English clergyman who should not 
 be a bad man, but one led in\o. temptation by his own 
 youth and by the unclerical accidents of the life of those 
 around him. The love of his sister for the young lord 
 was an adjunct necessary, because there must be love in a 
 novel. And then, by placing Framley Parsonage near 
 Barchester, I was able to fall back upon my old friends- 
 Mrs. Proudie and the archdeacon. Out of these slight 
 elements I fabricated a hodge-podge in which the real plot 
 consisted at last simply of a girl refusing to marry the man 
 she loved till the man's friends agreed to accept her loving- 
 ly. Nothing could be less efficient or artistic. But the 
 characters were so well handled that the work, from the 
 first to the last, was popular, and was received as it went 
 on with still increasing favor by both editor and proprietor 
 of the magazine. The- story was thoroughly English* 
 There was a little fox-hunting and a little tuft-hunting; 
 some Christian virtue and some Christian cant. ^There 
 was no heroism and no villainy. There was much Church, 
 but nwre love-making. And it was downright, honest 
 love, in which there was no pretense on the part of the 
 lady that she was too ethereal to be fond of a man, no 
 half-and-half inclination on the part of the man to.pay a 
 certain price and no more for a pretty toy. Each of them 
 longed for the other, and they were not ashamed to say so. 
 Consequently, they in England who were living, or had 
 lived, the same sort of life, liked ^'Framley Parsonage.'^ 
 I think myself that Lucy Robarts is, perhaps, the most 
 natural English girl that I ever drew— the most natural^ 
 at any rate, of those who hnve been ^ood girls. She was 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 113 
 
 not as dear to me as Kate Woodward in *'Tlie Three 
 Clerks/' but I think &he is more like real human life. 
 Indeed, I doubt whether such a character could be made 
 more lifelike than Lucy Eobarts. 
 
 And I will say also that in this novel there is no very weak 
 part, no long succession of dull pages. The production 
 of novels in serial form forces upon the author the convic- 
 tion that he should not allow himself to be tedious in any 
 single part. I hope no reader will misunderstand me. In 
 spite of that conviction, the writer of stories in parts will 
 often be tedious. That I have been so myself is a fault 
 that will often lie heavy on my tombstone. But the writer, 
 when he embarks in such a business, should feel that he 
 cannot afEord to have many pages skipped out of the few 
 •which are to meet the reader's eye at the same time. Who- 
 can imagine the first half of the first volume of '* Wav- 
 erley " coming out in shilling numbers? I had realized 
 this when I was writing **Framley Parsonage;" and, 
 working on the conviction which had thus come home to 
 me, I fell into no bathos of dullness. 
 
 I subsequently came across a piece of criticism which 
 was written on me as a novelist by a brother novelist very 
 much greater than myself/and whose brilliantintellect and 
 warm imagination led him to a kind of work the very oppo- 
 site of mine. This was Natlianiel Hawthorne, the Amer- 
 ican, whom I did not then know, but whose works I knew. 
 Though it praises myself highly, I will insert it here, be- 
 cause it certainly is true in its nature: " It is odd enough," 
 be says, '' that my own individual taste is for 'quite another 
 class of works than those which I myself am able to write. 
 If I were to meet with such books as mine, by another 
 writer, I don't believe I *ould be able to get through 
 them. Have you ever read the novels of Anthony Trol- 
 lope? They precisely suit my taste— solid and substantiaU 
 writteM on the strength of beef and through the inspira- 
 tion of ale, and just as real as if some giant had hewn a 
 
114 AUTOBIOGHAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 great lump out of the earth and put it uuder a glass case, 
 with all its inhabitants goi*ng about their daily business, 
 and not suspecting that they were being made a show of. 
 And these books are just as English as a beefsteak. Have 
 they ever been tried in America? It needs an English 
 residence to make them thoroughly comprehensible, but 
 still I should think that human nature would give them 
 fiuccess anywhere." 
 
 This was dated early in 18G0, and could have had no 
 reference to *'Framley Parsonage;" but it was as true of 
 that work as of any that I have written. And the criti- 
 -cism, whether just or unjust, describes with wonderful 
 accuracy the purport that I have ever had in view in my 
 writing. I have always desired to '^ hew out some lump 
 of the earth," and to make men and women walk upon it 
 just as they do walk here among us — with not more of ex- 
 cellence, nor with exaggerated baseness — so that my 
 readers might recognize human beings like to themselves, 
 and not feel themselves to be carried away among gods or 
 demons. If I could do this, then I thought I might suc- 
 ceed in impregnating the mind of the novel-reader with a 
 feeling that honesty is the best policy; that truth prevails 
 while falsehood fails; that a girl will be loved as she is 
 pure and sweet and unselfish; that a man will be honored 
 as he is true and honest and brave of lieart; that things 
 meanly done are ugly and odious, and things nobly done 
 beautiful and gracious. I do not say that lessons such as 
 these may not be more grandly taught by higher flights 
 than mine. Such lessons come to us from our greatest 
 poets. But there are so many who will read novels and 
 understand them, who either do not read the works of our 
 great poets, or, reading them, miss the lesson 1 And even 
 in prose fiction the character whom the fervid imagination 
 of the writer has lifted somewhat into the clouds will 
 hardly give so plain an example to the hasty, normal 
 reader as the humbler personage whom that reader un- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 115- 
 
 consciously feels to resemble himself or liei*self. I do 
 think that a girl would more probably dress her own mind 
 after Lucy Robarts than after Flora Macdonald. 
 
 There are many who would laugh at the idea of a novel- 
 ist teaching either virtue or nobility — those, for instance, 
 who regard the reading of novels as a sin, and those also 
 who think it to be simply an idle pastime. They look, 
 upon the tellers of stories as among the tribe of those who 
 pander to the wicked pleasures of ;v wicked world. I have 
 regarded My art from so different a point of view that I 
 have ever thought of myself as a preacher of sermons, and 
 my pulpit as one which I could make both salutary and 
 agreeable to my audience. I do believe that no girl ha^ 
 risen from the reading of my pages less modest than she 
 was before, and that some may have learned from them, 
 that modesty is a charm wel] worth preserving. I think 
 that no youth has been taught that in falseness and flash- 
 ness is to be found the road to manliness; but some may 
 perhaps have learned from me that it is to be found in 
 truth and a high but gentle spirit. Such are the lessons 
 I have striven to teach; and I have thought it might best 
 be done by representing to my readers characters liko 
 themselves, or to which they might liken themselves. 
 
 'Tramley Parsonage" — or, rather, my connection with 
 the Cornhill — was the means of introducing me very ' 
 quickly to that literary world from which I had hitherto 
 been severed by the fact of my residence in Ireland. In 
 December, 1859, while I was still very hard at work on 
 my novel, I came over to take charge of the Eastern Dis- 
 trict, and settled myself at a residence about twelve miles 
 from London, in Hertfordshire, but on the border? both 
 of Essex and Middlesex, which was somewhat too grandly 
 called Waltham House. This I took on lease, and subse- 
 quently bought, after I had spent about £1000 on im- 
 provements. From hence I was able to make myself 
 irequent both in Cornhill and Piccadilly, and to live^ 
 
116 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 when the opportunity came, among men of my own pur- 
 suit. 
 
 It was in January, 1860, that Mr. George Smith to 
 
 whose enterprise we owe not only the Cornhill Magazine 
 but the Pall Mall Gazette — gave a sumptuous dinner to 
 his contributors. It was a memorable banquet in many 
 ways, but chiefly so to me because on that occasion I first 
 met many men who afterward became my most intimate 
 associates. It can rarely happen that one such occasion 
 can be the first starting-point of so many friendships. It 
 was at that table, and on that day, that I first saw Thack- 
 eray, Charles Taylor (Sir) — than whom in later life I have 
 loved nf> man better — Robert Bell, G. H. Lewes, and John 
 flverett Millais. With all these men I afterward lived 
 on affectionate terms; but I will here speak specially of 
 the last, because from that time he was joined with me in 
 ^o much of the work that I did. 
 
 Mr. Millais was engaged to illustrate " Framley Parson- 
 age," but this was not the first work he did for the maga- 
 zine. In the second number there is a picture of his, 
 accompanying Monckton Milnes's " Unspoken Dialogue,'* 
 The first drawing he did for "Framley Parsonage '* did 
 not appear till after the dinner of which I have spoken, 
 and I do not think that I knew at the time that he was 
 engaged on my novel. When I did know it, it made me 
 proud. He afterward illustrated ^'Orley Farm," "The 
 ♦Small House at Allington," ** EachelRay," and " Phineas 
 Finn." Altogether he drew from my tales eighty-seven 
 drawings, and I do not think that more conscientious work 
 was ever done by man. Writers of novels know well — and 
 so ought readers of novels to have learned — that there are 
 two modes of illustrating, either of which may be adopted 
 equally by a bad and by a good artist. To which class 
 Mr. Millais belongs I need not say; but, as a good artist, 
 It was open to him simply to make a pretty picture, or to 
 study the work of the author from whose writing he was 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 117 
 
 bound to take his subject. I have too often found that 
 the former alternative has been thought to be the better, 
 as it certainly is the easier method. An artist will fre- 
 quently dislike to subordinate liis ideas to those of an 
 author, and will sometimes be too idle to find out what 
 those ideas are. But this artist was neither proud nor 
 idle. In every figure that he drew it was his object to 
 promote the views of the writer whose work he had under- 
 taken to illustrate, and he never spared himself any pains 
 in studying that work, so as to enable him to do so. I have 
 carried on some of tliose characters from book to book, 
 and have had my own early ideas impressed indelibly on 
 my memory by the excellence of his delineations. Those 
 illustrations were commenced fifteen years ago, and from 
 that time up to this day my affection for the man of whom 
 I am speaking has increased. To see him has always been 
 a pleasure. His voice has been a sweet sound in my ears. 
 Behind his back I have never heard him praised without 
 joining the eulogist; I have never a word spoken against 
 him without opposing the censurer. These words, should 
 he ever see them, will come to him from the grave, and 
 will tell him of my regard — as one living man never tells 
 another. 
 
 Sir Charles Taylor, who carried me home in his brougham 
 that evening, and thus commenced an intimacy which has 
 since been very close, was born to wealth, and was there- 
 fore not compelled by the necessities of a profession to 
 enter the lists as an author. But he lived much with 
 those who did so, and could have done it himself had want 
 or ambition stirred him. He was our king at the Garrick 
 Club, to which, however, I did not yet belong. He gave 
 the best dinners of my time, and was — happily I may say 
 is * — the best giver of dinners. A man rough of tongue, 
 brusque in his manners, odious to those who dislike him, 
 
 ''^Alas! witliia a year of the writing of this he went from us. 
 
118 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Bomewhat inclined to tyranny, be is the prince of friends, 
 honest as the sun, and as open-handed as charity itself. 
 
 Eobert Bell has now been dead nearly ten years. As I 
 look back over the interval and remember how intimate 
 we were, it seems odd to me that we should have known 
 each other for no more than six years. He was a man who 
 had lived by his pen from his very youth; and was so far 
 successful tbat I do not think that want ever came near him. 
 But he never made that mark which his industry and tal- 
 ents would have seemed to insure. He was a man well 
 known to literary men, but not known to readers. As a 
 journalist he was useful and conscientious, but his plays 
 and novels never made themselves popular. He wrote a 
 life of Canning, and he brought out an annotated edition 
 of the British poets; but he achieved no gi-eat success. I 
 have known no man better read in English literature. 
 Hence his conversation had a peculiar charm, but he was 
 not equally happy with his pen. He will long be remem- 
 bered at the Literary Fund Committees, of which he was 
 a stanch and most trusted supporter. I think it was he 
 who first introduced me* to that board. It has often been 
 said that literary men are peculiarly apt to think^bat they 
 are slighted and unappreciated. Robert Bell certainly 
 never achieved the position in literature which he once 
 aspired to fill, and which he^was justified in thinking tliat 
 he could earn for himself. I have frequently discussed 
 these subjects with him, but I never heard from his mouth 
 a word of complaint as to his own literary fate. He liked 
 to hear the chimes go at midnight, and he loved to have 
 ginger hot in his mouth. On such occasions no sound 
 ever came out of a man's lips sweeter than his wit and 
 gentle revelry. 
 
 George Lewes — with his wife, whom all the world knows 
 as George Eliot— has also been and still is-ono of my dearest 
 friends. He is, I think, the acutest critic I know— and 
 the severest. His seventy, however, is a fault. His in- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 119 
 
 tention to be honest, even when honesty may give pain, 
 has caused him to give pain when honesty has not required 
 it. He is essentially a doubter, and has encouraged him- 
 self to doubt till the faculty of trusting has almost left him. 
 I am net speaking of the personal trust which one man feels 
 in another, but of that confidence in literary excellence 
 which is, I think, necessary for the full enjoyment of lit- 
 -erature. In one modern writer he did believe thoroughly. 
 Nothing can be more charming than the unstinted admira- 
 tion which he has accorded to everything that comes from 
 the pen of the wonderful woman to whom his lot has been 
 tinited. To her name I shall recur again when speaking 
 of the novelists of the present day. 
 
 Of " Billy Russell," as we always used to call him, I may 
 say that I never knew but one man equal to him in the 
 quickness and continuance of witty speech. That one man 
 was Charles Lever— also an Irishman— whom I had known 
 frotn an earlier date, and also with close intimacy. Of the 
 two, f think that'Lever was perhaps the more astounding 
 producer of good things. His manner was, perhaps, a 
 little the happier, and his turns more sharp and unex- 
 pected. But ''Billy" also was marvelous. Whether 
 abroad, as special correspondent, or at home, amid the 
 flurry of his newspaper work, he was a charming compan- 
 ion; his ready wit always gave him the last word. 
 
 Of Thackeray I will speak again when I record his 
 death. 
 
 There were many others whom I met for the first time 
 at George Smith's table. Albert Smith, for the first, and, 
 indeed, for the last time, as he died soon afte^-; Higgins, 
 whom all the world knew as Jacob Omnium, a man I 
 greatly regarded; Dallas, who for a time was literary critic 
 to the 7\meSf and who certainly in that capacity did better 
 work than has appeared since in the same department; 
 George Augustus Sala, who, had he given himself fair 
 play, would have risen to higher eminence than that of 
 
120 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 being the best writer in his day of sensational leading^ 
 articles; and Fitz-Janies Stephen, a man of very different 
 caliber, who has not yet culminated, but who, no doubt, 
 will culminate among our judges. There -were many 
 others; but I cannot now recall their various names as 
 identified with those banquets. 
 
 Of *' Framley Parsonage " I need only further say, tliat 
 as I wrote it I became more closely than ever acquainted 
 with the new shire which I had added to the English 
 counties. I had it all in my mind — its roads and rail- 
 roads, its towns and parishes, its members of Parliament, 
 and the different hunts which rode over it. I knew all 
 the great lords and their castles, the squires and their 
 parks, the rectors and their churches. This was t^ie fourth 
 novel of which I had placed the scene in Barsetshire, and 
 as I wrote it I made a map of the dear county. Through- 
 out these stories there has been no name given to a ficti- 
 tious site which does not represent to me a spot of which 
 I know all the accessories, as though I had lived and 
 wandered there. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ''CASTLE RICHMOND."— "BROWN, JONES, AND ROBIN- 
 SON." — '* NORTH AMERICA."—'* ORLEY FARM." 
 
 When I had half finished ''Framley Parsonage" I 
 went back to my other story, "Castle Richmond," which 
 I was writing for Messrs. Chapman & Hall, and completed 
 that. I think that this was the only occasion on which I 
 have had two different novels in my mind at the same 
 time. This, however, did not create either difficulty or 
 confusion. Many of us live in different circles; and when 
 we go from our friends in the town to our friends in the 
 country, we do not usually fail to remember -tiie little de- 
 tails of the one life or the other. The parson at Rusticum, 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 121 
 
 with his wife and his wife's mother, and all his belongings; 
 and our old friend, the squire, with his family history; and 
 Farmer Mudge, who has been cross with us, because we 
 rode so unnecessarily over his barley; and that rascally 
 poacher, once a gamekeeper, who now traps all the foxes; 
 and pretty Mary Cann, whose marriage with the wheel- 
 wright we did something to expedite — though we are alive 
 to them all, do not drive out of our brain the club gossip, 
 or the memories of last season's dinners, or any incident of 
 our London intimacies. In our lives we are always weaving 
 novels, and we manage to keep the different tales distinct. 
 A man does, in truth, remember that which it interests 
 him to remember; and when we hear that memory has 
 gone as age has come on, we should understand that the 
 capacity for interest in the matter concerned has perished. 
 A man will be generally very old and feeble before he 
 forgets how much money he has in the funds. There is a 
 good deal to be learned by any one who wishes to write a 
 novel well; but when the art has been acquired, I do not 
 see why two or three should not be well written at the 
 same time. I have never found myself thinking much 
 about the work that I had to do till I was doing it. I 
 have, indeed, for many years almost abandoned the effort 
 to think, trusting myself, with the narrowest thread of a 
 plot, to work the matter out when the pen is in my hand. 
 But my mind is coi^stantly employing itself on the work I 
 have done. Had I left either '* Framley Parsonage" or 
 '* Castle Richmond " half finished fifteen years ago, I think 
 I could complete the tales now with very little trouble. I 
 have not looked at '' Castle Richmond" since it was pub- 
 lished; and poor as the work is, I remember all the inci- 
 dents. 
 
 ** Castle Richmolid " certainly was not a success, though 
 the plot is a fairly good plot, and is much more of a plot than 
 I have generally been able to find. The scene is laid in Ire- 
 land during the famine; and I am well aware now that 
 
122 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 English readers no longer like Irish stories. I cannot- 
 understand why it should be so, as the Irish character is 
 peculiarly well fitted for romance. But Irish subjects 
 generally have become distasteful. This novel, however, 
 is of itself a weak production. The characters do not 
 excite sympathy. The heroine has two lovers, one of whom 
 is a scamp and the other a prig. As regards the scamp, 
 the girl's mother is her own rival. Rivalry of the same 
 nature has been admirably depicted by Thackeray in his 
 *' Esmond;" but there the mother's love seems to be justi- 
 fied by the girl's indifference. In *' Castle Richmond " the 
 mother strives to rob her daughter of the man's love. 
 The girl herself has no character; and the mother, who is 
 strong enough, is almost revolting. The dialogue is often 
 lively, and some of the incidents are well told; but the 
 story, as a whole, was a failure. I cannot remember, 
 however, that it was roughly handled by the critics when 
 it came out; and I much doubt whether anything so hard 
 was said of it then as that which I have said here. 
 
 I was now settled at Waltham Cross, in a house in which 
 I could entertain a few friends modestly, where we grew 
 our cabbages and strawberries, made our own butter, and 
 killed our own pigs. I occupied it for twelve years, and 
 tKey were years to me of great prosperity. In 1861 I be- 
 came a member of the Garrick Club, with which institu- 
 tion I have since been much identified. I had belonged 
 to it about two years, when, on Thackeray's death, I was 
 invited to fill his place on the committee, and I have been 
 one of that august body ever since. Having up to that 
 time lived very little among men, having known hitherto 
 nothing of clubs, having even as a boy been banished from 
 social gatherings, I enjoyed infinitely at first the gayetyof 
 the Garrick. It was a festival to me to dine there— which 
 I did, indeed, but seldom; and a great delight to play a 
 rubber in the little room up-stairs of an afternoon. I am 
 speaking now of the old club in King Street. This play- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 123 
 
 iug of whist before dinner has since become a habit with 
 me, so that unless there be something else special to do — 
 unless there be hunting, or I am wanted to ride in the 
 park by the young tyrant of my household — it is *^ my 
 custom always in the afternoon." I have sometimes felt 
 sore with myself for this persistency, feeling that I was 
 making myself a slave to an amusement which has not, 
 after all, very much to recommend it. I have often thought 
 that I would break myself away from it, and '* swear off," 
 as Kip Van Winkle says. But my swearing off has been, 
 like <^Jiat of Rip Van Winkle. And now, as I think of it 
 coolly, I do not know but that I have been right to cling 
 to it. As a man grows old he wants amusement, more 
 even than when he is young; and then it becomes so diffi- 
 cult to find amusement. Reading should, no doubt, be 
 the delight of men's leisure hours. Had I to choose be- 
 tween books and cards, I should no doubt take the books. 
 But I find that I can seldom read with pleasure for above 
 an hour and a half at a time, or more than three hours a 
 day. As I write this I am aware that hunting must soon 
 be abandoned. After sixty it is given to but few men to 
 ride straight across country, and I cannot bring myself to 
 adopt any other mode of riding. I think that without 
 cards I should now be much at a loss. When I began to 
 play at the Garrick, I did so simply because I liked the 
 society o^ the men who played. 
 
 I think that I became popular among those with whom 
 I associated. I have long been aware of a certain weak- 
 ness in my own character, which I may call a craving for 
 love. I have ever had a wish to be liked by those around 
 me, a wish that during the first half of my life was never 
 gratified. In my school- days no small part of my misery 
 came firom the envy with which I regarded the popularity 
 of popular boys. They seemed to me to live in a social 
 paradise, while the desolation of my pandemonium was 
 complete. And afterward, when I was in London as ayouug 
 
124 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 man, I had but few friends. Among the clerks in the 
 Post-office I held mj own fairly for the first two or three 
 years; but even then I regarded myself as something of a 
 pariah. My Irish life had been much better. I had my 
 wife and children, and had been sustained by a feeling of 
 general respect. But even in Ireland I had, in truth, 
 lived but little in society. Our means had been suflScient 
 for our wants, but insufficient for entertaining others. It 
 was not till we had settled ourselves at Waltham that I 
 really began to live much with others. The GrarrickClub 
 was the first assemblage of men' at which I felt myself ta 
 be popular. 
 
 I soon became a member of other clubs. There was the- 
 Arts Club in Hanover Square, of which I saw the opening, 
 but from which, after three or four years, I withdrew my 
 name, having found that during these three or four years 
 I had not once entered the building. Then I was one of 
 the originators of the Civil Service Club — not from judg- 
 ment, but instigated to do so by others. That also I left 
 for the same reason. In 1864 I received the honor of be- 
 ing elected by the committee at the Athenaeum. For this 
 I was indebted to the kindness of Lord Stanhope; and I 
 never was more surprised than when I was informed of the 
 fact. About the same time I became a member of the 
 Cosmopolitan, a little club that meets twice a week in 
 Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and supplies to all its 
 members, and its members' friends, tea and brandy-and- 
 water without charge! The gatherings there I used to 
 think very delightful. One met Jacob Omnium, Monckton 
 Milnes, Tom Hughes, William Stirling, Henry Reeve, 
 Arthur Eussell, Tom Taylor, and suchlike; and generally 
 a strong political element, thoroughly well mixed, gave a 
 certain spirit to the place. Lord Ripon, Lord Stanley, 
 William Forster, Lord Enfield, Lord Kimberley, George 
 Bentinck, Vernon Harcourt, Bromley Davenport, Knatch- 
 bull Huguessen, with many others, used to whisper the 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 125 
 
 secrets of Parliaipent with free tongues. Afterward I 
 became a member of the Turf, which I found to be 
 serviceable — or the reverse — only for the playing of whist 
 at high points. 
 
 In August, 1861, 1 wrote another novel for the Comhill 
 Magazine. It was a short story, about one volume in 
 length, and was called " The Struggles of Brown, Jones, 
 and Kobinson." In this I attempted a style for which I 
 certainly was not qualified, and to which I never again had 
 recourse. It was meant to be funny, was full of slang, 
 and was intended as a satire on the ways of trade. Still I 
 think that there is some good fun in it, but I have heard 
 no one else express such an opinion. I do not know that 
 I ever heard any opinion expressed on it, except by the- 
 publisher, who kindly remarked that he did not think it 
 was equal to my usual work. Though he had purchased 
 the copyright, he did republish the story in book form till 
 1870, and then it passed into the world of letters sub 
 silentio. I do not know that it was ever criticised or ever 
 read. I received £600 for it. From that time to this I 
 have been paid at about that rate for my work — £600 for 
 the quantity contained in an ordinary novel volume, or 
 £3000 for a long tale published in twen y parts, which is 
 equal in length to five such volumes. I have occasionally, 
 I think, r^eived something more than this, never, 
 I think, less for any tale, except when I have published 
 my work anonymously.* Having said so much, I need 
 not further specify the prices as I mention the books as 
 they were written. I will, however, when I am com- 
 pleting this memoir, give a list of all the sums I have 
 received for my literary labors. I think that " Brown, 
 Jones, and Eobinson " was the hardest bargain I ever sold 
 to a publisher. 
 
 * Bince the date at which this was written I have encountered & 
 dlmlDution in price. 
 
126 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 In 1861 the War of Secession had broken out in America, 
 and from the first I interested myself much in the ques- 
 tion. My mother had thirty years previously written a 
 Tery popular, but as I had thought, a somewhat unjust, 
 book about our cousins over the water. She had seen 
 what was distasteful in the manners of a young people, 
 but had hardly recognized their energy. I had entertained 
 for many years an ambition to follow her footsteps there, 
 and to write another book. I had already paid a short 
 visit to New York city and state on my way home from 
 the West Indies, but had not seen enough then to justify 
 me in the expression of any opinion. The breaking out 
 of the war did not make me think that the time was pe- 
 culiarly fit for such inquiry as I wished to make, but it 
 "did represent itself as an occasion on which a book might 
 be popular. I consequently consulted the two great powers 
 with whom I was concerned. Messrs. Chapman & Hall, 
 ihe publishers, were one power, and I had no difficulty in 
 arranging my affairs with them. They agreed to publish 
 the book on my terms, and bade me Godspeed on my 
 journey. The other power was the Postmaster-general 
 and Mr. Rowland Hill, the Secretary of the Post-office. I 
 wanted leave of absence for the unusual period of nine 
 months, and fearing that I should not get it by the ordi- 
 nary process of asking the secretary, I went direct to his 
 lordship. "Is it on the plea of ill-health?"^he asked, 
 looking into my face, which was then that of a very robust 
 man. His lordship knew the civil service as well as any 
 one living, and must have seen much of falseness and 
 fraudulent pretense, or he would not have asked that 
 •question. I told him that I was very well, but that I 
 wanted to write a book. '* Had I any special ground to 
 go upon in asking for such indulgence?" I had, I said, 
 done my duty well by the service. There was a good deal 
 of demurring, but I got leave for nine months— and I 
 knew that I had earned it. Mr. Hill attached to the 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 127 
 
 minute granting me the leave an intimation that it was ta 
 be considered as a full equivalent for the special services 
 rendered by me to tlie department. I declined, however, 
 to accept the grace with such a stipulation, and it was- 
 withdrawn by the direction of the Postmaster-general.* 
 
 I started for the States in August and returned in the 
 following May. The war was raging during the time 
 that I was there, and the country was full of soldiers. A 
 part of the time I spent in Virginia, -Kentucky, and 
 Missouri, among the troops along the line of attack. I 
 yisited all the states (excepting California) which had 
 not then seceded — failing to make my way into the se- 
 ceding states unless I was prepared to visit them with an 
 amount of discomfort I did not choose to endure. I 
 worked very hard at the task I had assigned to myself, 
 and did, I think, see much of the manners and institutions 
 of the people. Nothing struck me more than their per- 
 sistence in the ordinary pursuits of lifg in spite of the war 
 which was around them. Neither industry nor amuse- 
 ment seemed tp meet with any check. Schools, hospitals, 
 and institutes were by no means neglected because new 
 regiments were daily required. The truth, I take it, is 
 that we, all of us, soon adapt ourselves to the circumstances 
 around us. Though three parts of London were in flames 
 I should, no doubt, expect to have my dinner served to 
 hie, if I lived in the quarter which was free from fire. 
 
 The book I wrote was very much longer than that on 
 the West Indies, but was also written almost without a 
 note. It contained much information, and, with many 
 inaccuracies, was a true book. But it was not well done. 
 It is tedious and confused, and will hardly, I think, be of 
 
 • During the period of my service in the Post-offlce I did very 
 much special work for which I never asked any remuneration — and 
 never received any, though payments for special s«-vices were com- 
 mon in the department at that time. But if there was to be a ques- 
 tion of Buch remuneration, I did not choose that my work should be 
 valued at the price put upon it by Mr. Hill. 
 
128 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 future value to those who wish to make themselves ac- 
 quaiuted with the United States. It was publisheil about 
 the middle of the war — just at the time in which the hopes 
 of those who loved the South were most buoyant, and the 
 fears of those who stood by the North were the strongest. 
 But it expressed an assured confidence — which never 
 quavered in a page or in a line — that the North would win. 
 This assurance was based on the merits of the Northern 
 cause, on the superior strength of the Northern party, and 
 on a conviction that England would never recognize the 
 South, and that France would be guided in her policy by 
 England. I was right in my prophecies, and right, I 
 think, on the grounds on which they were made." The 
 Southern cause was bad. The South had provoked the 
 quarrel because its political supremacy was checked by the 
 election of Mr. Lincoln to the presidency. It had to fight 
 as a little man against a big man, and fought gallantly. 
 That gallantry — and a feeling, based on a misconception 
 as to American character, that the Southerners are better 
 gentlemen than their Northern brethren — did create great 
 sympathy here; but I believed that the country was too 
 just to be led into political action by a spirit of romance, 
 iind I was warranted in that belief. There was a moment 
 in which the Northern cause was in danger, and the dan- 
 ger lay certainly in the prospect of British interference. 
 Messrs. Slidell and Mason-ttwo men insignificant in thenj- 
 selves4-had been sent to Europe by the Southern party, and 
 had managed to get on board the British mail steamer called 
 the Trent, at Havana. A most undue importance was 
 attached to this mission by Mr. Lincoln's government, and 
 efforts were made to stop them. A certain Commodore 
 Wilkes, doing duty as policeman on the high eeas, did 
 stop the Trent, and took the men out. They were car- 
 ried, one to Boston and one to New York, and were incar- 
 cerated, amidst the triumph of the nation. Commodore 
 Wilkes, who had done nothing in which a man could take 
 
AUTOBIOGllAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 129 
 
 glory, was made a hero and received a prize sword.^ Eng- 
 land, of course, demanded her passengers back, and the 
 States for a while refused to surrender them. But Mr. 
 {Seward, with many political faults, was a wise man. I 
 was at Washington at the time, and it was known there 
 that the contest among the leading Northerners was very 
 sharp on the matter. Mr. Sumner and Mr. Seward were, 
 under Mr. Lincol-n, the two chiefs of the party. It was 
 understood that .Mr. Sumner was opposed to the rendition 
 of the men, and Mr. Seward in favor of it. Mr. Seward's 
 counsels at last prevailed with the President, and England's 
 declaration of war was prevented. I dined with Mr. 
 Seward on the day of the decision, meeting Mr. Sumner 
 at his house, and was told as I left the dining-room what 
 the decision had been. During the afternoon I and others 
 had received intimation through the embassy that we 
 might probably have to leave Washington at an hour's 
 notice. This, I think, was the severest danger that the 
 Northern cause encountered during the war. 
 
 But my book, though it was right in its views on this 
 subject— and wrong in none other, as far as I know— was 
 not a good book. I can recommend no one to read it now 
 in order that he may be either instructed or amused— as I 
 can do that on the West Indies. It served its purpose at 
 the time, and was well received by the public and by the 
 critics. 
 
 Before starting to America I had completed " Orley 
 Farm," a novel which appeared in shilling numbers— after 
 the manner in which " Pickwick," ''Nicholas Nickleby," 
 and many others had been published. Most of those among 
 my friends who talk to me now about my novels, and are 
 competent to form an opinion on the subject, say that this 
 is the best I have written. In this opinion I do not coin- 
 cide. I think that the highest merit which a novel can 
 have consists in perfect delineation of character, rather 
 than in plot,- or humor, or pathos, and I shall before 
 
130 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AXTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 long mention a subsequent work in which I think the 
 main character of tlie story is so well developed as to jus^- 
 tify me in asserting its claim above the others. The T)lot 
 of " Orley Farm " is, probably, the best I have ever made; 
 but it has the fault of declaring itself, and thus coming to 
 an end too early in the book. When Lady Mason tells 
 her ancient lover that she did forge the will, the plot of 
 *' Orley Farm " has unraveled itself — and this she does in 
 the middle of the tale. Independently, however, of this 
 the novel is good. Sir Peregrine Orme, his grandson, 
 Madeline Stavely, Mr. Furnival, Mr. Chaffanbrass, and 
 the commercial gentleman, are all good. The hunting ia 
 good. The lawyer's talk is good. Mr. Moulder carves 
 his turkey admirably, and Mr. Kantwise sells his tables 
 and chairs with spirit. 1 do not know that there is a dull 
 page in the book. I am fond of ** Orley Farm " — and am 
 especially fond of its illustrations by Millais, which are the 
 best I have seen in any novel in any language. 
 
 I now felt that I had gained my object. In 1862 I had 
 achieved that which I contemplated when I went to Lon- 
 don in 1834, and toward which I made my first attempt 
 when I began '* The Macdermots" in 1843. I bad created 
 for myself a position among literary men, and had secured 
 to myself an income on which I might live in ease and 
 comfort, which ease and comfort have been made to in- 
 clude many luxuries. From this time, for a period of 
 twelve years, my income averaged £4500 a year. Of this 
 I spent about two thirds and put by one. I ought, per- 
 haps, to have done better — to have spent one third and 
 put by two; but I have ever been too well inclined to spend 
 freely that which has come easily. 
 
 ' This, however, has been so exactly the life which my 
 thoughts and aspirations had marked out — thoughts and 
 aspirations which used to cause me to blush with sham© 
 because I was so slow in forcing myselt to the work which 
 they demanded— that I have felt some pride in having 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 131 
 
 attained it. I have before said how entirely I fail to 
 reach the altitude of those who think that a man devoted 
 to letters should be indifferent to the pecuniary results for 
 which work is generally done. An easy income has always 
 been regarded by me as a great blessing. Not to have to 
 think of sixpences, or very much of shillings; not to be 
 unhappy because the coals have been burned too quickly 
 and the house linen wants renewing; not to be debarred 
 by the rigor of necessity from opening one's hands, per- 
 haps foolishly, to one's friends — all this, to me, has been 
 essential to the comfort of life. I have enjoyed the com- 
 fort for, I may almost say, the last twenty years, though 
 no man in his youth had less prospect of doing so, or 
 would have been less likely at twenty-five to have had 
 such luxuries foretold to him by his friends. 
 
 But though the money has been sweet, the respect, the 
 friendships, and the mode of life which has been achieved 
 have been much sweeter. In my boyhood, when I would 
 be crawling up to school with dirty boots and trousers 
 through the muddy lanes, I was always telling myself that 
 the misery of the hour was not the worst of it, but that 
 the mud and solitude and poverty of the time would in- 
 sure me mud and solitude and poverty through my life. 
 Those lads about me would go into Parliament, or become 
 rectors and deans, or squires of parishes, or advocates 
 thundering at the Bar. They would not live with me 
 now — but neither should I be able to live with them in 
 after-years. Nevertheless I have lived with them. AVhen, 
 at the age in which others go to the universities, I became 
 a clerk in the Post-office, I felt that my old visions 
 were being realized. I did not think it a high calling. I 
 did not know then how very much good work may be done 
 by a member of Jfhe civil service who will show himself 
 capable of doing.it. The Post-office at last grew upon me 
 and forced itself into my affections. I became intensely 
 anxious that people should have their letters delivered to 
 
132 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOin TROLLOPE. 
 
 til em punctually. But my hope to rise had always heed 
 built on the writing of novels, and at last by the writing 
 of novels I had risen. 
 
 I do not think that I ever toadied any one, or that I 
 have acquired the character of a tuft-hunter. But here I 
 do not scruple to say that I prefer the society of distin- 
 guished people, and that even the distinction of wealth 
 confers many advantages. The best education is to be had 
 at a price as well as the best broadcloth. The son of a 
 peer is more likely to rub his shoulders against well-in- 
 formed men than the son of a tradesman. The graces 
 come easier to the wife of him who has had great-grand- 
 fathers than they do to her whose husband has been less^ 
 or more, fortunate, as he may think it. The discerning 
 man will recognize the information and the graces when 
 they are achieved without such assistance, and will honor 
 the owners of them the more because of the difficulties 
 they have overcome; but the fact remains that the society 
 of the well-born and of the wealthy will, sts a rule, be 
 worth seeking. I say this now because these are the rules 
 by which I have lived, and these are the causes which 
 have instigated me to work. 
 
 I have heard the question argued — On what terms should 
 a man of inferior rank live with those who are manifestly 
 superior to him? If a marquis or an earl honor me, who 
 have no rank, with his intimacy, am I, in my intercourse 
 with him, to remember our close acquaintance or his high 
 rank? I have always said that where the difference in 
 position is quite marked, the overtures to intimacy should 
 always come from the higher rank; but if the intimacy be 
 ever fixed, then that rank should be held of no account. 
 It seems to me that intimate triendship admits of no stand- 
 ing but that of equality. I cannot be the swereign's friend, 
 nor, probably, the friend of many very mifbh beneath the 
 Bovereign, because such equality is impossible. 
 
 When I first came to Waltham Cross, in the winter of 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 133 
 
 1859-60, I had almost mad« up my mind that my hunting- 
 was over. I could not then count upon an income which 
 would enable me to carry on an amusement which I should 
 doubtless find much more expensive in England than in 
 Ireland. I brought with me out of Ireland one mare, but 
 she was too light for me to ride in the hunting-field. As, 
 however, the money came in, I very quickly fell back inta 
 my old habits. First one horse was bought, then another, 
 and then a third, till it became established as a fixed rule 
 that I should not have less than four hunters in the stable. 
 Sometimes, when my boys have been at home, I have had 
 as many as six. Essex was the chief scene of my sport, 
 and gradually I became known there almost as well as 
 though I had been an Essex squire, to the manner born. 
 Few have investigated more closely than I have done the 
 depth and breadth and water-holding capacities of an 
 Essex ditch. It will, I think, be accorded to me by Essex 
 men generally that I have ridden hard. The cause of my 
 delight in the amusement I have never been able to an- 
 alyze to my own satisfaction. In the first place, even now, 
 I know very littl# about hunting— though I know very 
 much of the accessories of the field. I am too blind to see 
 hounds turning, and cannot therefore tell whether the fc 
 has gone this way or that. Indeed, all the notice I take 
 of hounds is not to ride over them. My eyes are so con- 
 stituted that I can never see the nature of a fence. I 
 either follow some one, or ride at it with the full convic- 
 tion that I may be going into a horse-pond or a gravel- pit. 
 I have jumped into both one and the other. I am very 
 heavy, and have never ridden expensive horses. I am 
 also old now for such work, being so stiff that I cannot 
 get onto my horse without the aid of a block or a bank. But 
 I ride still after the same fashion, with a boy's energy, 
 determined to get ahead if it may possibly be done, hating 
 the roads, despising young men who ride them, and with 
 a feeling that life cannot, with all her riches, have given 
 
134 AUTOBIOGRAPHY -OF ANTHONY TEQLLOPE. 
 
 me anything better than when I have gone through a long 
 run to the finish, keeping a place, not of glory, but of 
 oredit, among my juniors. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON." — "CAN YOU FOR- 
 GIVE HER?" — ** RACHEL RAY.'* — "THE FORTNIGHTLY 
 REVIEW." 
 
 During the early months of 1863 "Orley Farm" was 
 atill being brought out in numbers, and at the same time 
 -*' Brown, Jones, and Robinson " was appearing in the 
 Cornhill Magazi7ie. In September, 1862, "The Small 
 House at AUington " began its career in the same periodi- 
 cal. The work on North America had also come out in 
 1863. In August, 1863, the first number of " Can You 
 Forgive Her?" was published as a separate serial, and was 
 continued through 1864. In 1863 a short novel was pro- 
 duced in the ordinary volume form, called "Rachel Ray." 
 In addition to these I published du«ag the time twp 
 Tolumes of stories called " The Tales of All Countries." 
 In the early spring of 1865 "Miss Mackenzie " was issued, 
 in the same form as "Rachel Ray;" and in May of the 
 same year " The Belton Estate " was commenced with the 
 •commencement of the Fortnightly Review, of which peri- 
 odical 1 will say a few words in this chapter. 
 
 I quite admit that I crowded my wares into the market 
 too quickly, because the reading world could not want such 
 a quantity of matter from the hands of one author in so 
 short a space of time. I had not been quite so fertile as 
 the unfortunate gentleman who disgusted the publisher in 
 Paternoster Row — in the story of whose productiveness I 
 have always thought there was a touch of romance — but I 
 had probably done enough to make both publishers and 
 readers think that I was coming too often beneath their 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 135 
 
 notice. Of publishers, however, I must speak collectively^ 
 as my sins were, I think, chiefly due to the encouragement 
 which I received from them individually. What I wrote- 
 for the Cornhill Magazine I always wrote at the instigation 
 of Mr. Smith. My other works were published by Messrs. 
 Chapman & Hall, in compliance with contracts made by 
 me with them, and always made with their good-wilU 
 Could I have been two separate persons at one and at the- 
 same time, of whom one might have been devoted to 
 Cornhill and the other to the interests of the firm in 
 Piccadilly, it might have been very well; but, as I pre- 
 served my identity in both places, I myself became aware 
 that my name was too frequent on title-pages. 
 
 Critics, if they ever trouble themselves with these pages> 
 will, of course, say that in what I have now said I have 
 ignored altogether the one great evil of rapid production 
 ^namely, that of inferior work. And, of course, if the 
 work was inferior because of too great rapidity of produc- 
 tion, the critics would be right. Giving to the subject the 
 best of my critical abilities, and judging of my own work 
 as nearly as possible as I would that of another, I believe 
 that the work which has been done quickest has been 
 done the best. I have composed better stories — that iff, 
 have created better plots — than those of " The Small 
 House at Allington " and *' Can You Forgive Her?" and 
 I have portrayed two or three better characters than are 
 tp be found in the pages of either of them; but taking 
 these books all through, I do not think that I have ever 
 done better work. Nor would these have been improved 
 by any effort in the art of story-telling, had each of these 
 been the isolated labor of a couple of years. How short is 
 the time devoted to the .manipulation of a plot can be 
 known only to those who have written plays and novels — 
 I may say also, how very little time the brain is able te 
 devote to such wearing work. There are usually some 
 hours of agonizing doubt, almost of despair — so, at least. 
 
136 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TEOLLOPE. 
 
 it has been with me — or perhaps some days. And £hen, 
 "with nothing settled in my brain as to the final develop- 
 ment of events, with no capability of settling anything, 
 but with a most distinct conception of some character or 
 ^jharacters, I have rushed at the work as a rider rushes at 
 a fence which he does not see. Sometimes I have en- 
 countered what, in hunting language, we call a cropper, 
 I had such a fall in two novels of mine, of which I have 
 already spoken — '* The Bertrams" and "Castle Rich- 
 mond." I shall have to speak of other such troubles. 
 But these failures have not arisen from over-hurried work. 
 When my work has been quicker done — and it has some- 
 times been done very quickly — the rapidity has been 
 achieved by hot 'pressure, not in the conception, but in 
 the telling of the story. Instead of writing eight pages a 
 day, I have written sixteen; instead of working five days 
 A week, I have worked seven. I have trebled my usual 
 average, and have done so in circumstances which have 
 enabled me to give up all my thoughts for the time to the 
 book I have been writing. This has generally been done 
 ^at some quiet spot among the mountains — where there has 
 been no society, no hunting, nu whist, no ordinary bouse- 
 hold duties. And I am sure that the work so done has 
 had in it the best truth and the highest spirit that I have 
 been able to produce. At such times I have been able to 
 imbue myself thoroughly with the characters I have had 
 in hand. I have wandered 'alone among the rocks Jand 
 woods, crying at their grief, laughing at their absurdities, 
 and thoroughly enjoying their joy. I have been impreg- 
 nated with my own creations till it has been my only ex- 
 citement to sit with the pen in my hand, and drive my 
 team before me at as quick a pace as I could make them 
 travel. 
 
 The critics will again say that all this may be very well 
 as to the rough work of the author's own brain, but it 
 will be very far from well in reference to the style in 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Idl 
 
 which that work has been given to the public. Afjjer all, 
 the vehicle whi^h' a writer uses for conveying his thoughts 
 to the public should not be less important to him than 
 the thoughts themselves. An author can hardly hope to 
 be popular unless he can use popular language. That is 
 quite true; but then comes the question of achieving a 
 popular — in other words, I may say, a good and lucid- 
 style. How may an author best acquire a mode of writing 
 which shall be agreeable and easily intelligible to the 
 reader? He must be correct, because without correctness- 
 he can be neither agreeable nor intelligible. Readers will 
 expect him to obey those rules which they, consciously or 
 unconsciously, have been taught to regard as binding on 
 language; and unless he does obey them, he will disgusts 
 Without much labor, no writer will achieve such a style. 
 He has very much to learn; and, when he has learned that 
 much, he has to acquire the habit of using what he has 
 learned, with ease. But all this must be learned and ac- 
 quired — not while he is writing that which shall please^ 
 but long before. His language must come from him as 
 music comes from the rapid touch of the great perform- 
 er's fingers; as words come from the mouth of the in- 
 dignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained 
 compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bell« 
 form themselves to the ear of the telegraphist. A man 
 who thinks much of his words as he writes them will gen- 
 erally leave behind him work that smells of oil. I speak 
 here, of course, of prose; for in poetry we know what care 
 is necessary, and we form our taste accordingly. 
 
 Eapid writing will, no doubt, give rise to inaccuracy — 
 chiefly because the ear, quick and true as may be its opera- 
 tion, will occasionally break down under pressure, and 
 before a sentence be closed. will forget the nature of the 
 composition with which it was commenced. A singular 
 nominative will be disgraced by a plural verb, because 
 other pluralities have intervened, and have tempted the 
 
138 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 'ear into plural tendencies. Tautologies will occur, be- 
 cause file ear, in demanding fresh emphasis, has forgotten 
 that the desired force has been already expressed. I need 
 not multiply these causes of error, which must have been 
 stumbling-blocks indeed when men wrote in the long sen- 
 tences of Gibbon, but which Macaulay, with his multi- 
 plicity of divisions, has done so much to enable us to avoid. 
 A rapid writer will hardly avoid these errors altogether. 
 Speaking of myself, I am ready to declare that, with 
 much training, I have been unable to avoid them. But 
 the writer for the press is rarely called upon — a writer of 
 books should never be called upon — to send his manuscript 
 hot from his hand to the printer. It has been my prac- 
 tice to read everything four times at least — thrice in 
 manuscript and once in print. Very much of my work I 
 have read twice in print. In spite of this I know that 
 inaccuracies have crept through, ** not single spies, but in 
 battalions." From this I gather that the supervision has 
 been insufficient, not that the work itself has been done 
 too fast. I am quite sure that those passages which have 
 beed written with the greatest stress of labor, and conse- 
 quently with the greatest haste, have been the most 
 effective and by no means the most inaccurate. 
 
 " The Small House at Allington " redeemed my reputa- 
 tion with the spirited proprietor of the CornhiU, which 
 must, I should think, have been damaged by *' Brown, 
 Jones, and Robinson." In it appeared Lily Dale, one of 
 the characters which readers of my novels have liked the 
 best. In the Jove with which she has been greeted I have 
 hardly joined with much enthusiasm, feeling that she is 
 somewhat of a French prig. She became first engaged to 
 a snob, who jiltled her; and then, though in truth she 
 loved another man who was hardly good enough, she could 
 not extricate herself suflSciently from the collapse of her 
 first great misfortune to be able to make up lifer mind to 
 be the wife of one whom, though she loved him, she did 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHQ'NT TROLLOFE. 139 
 
 nob altogether reverence. Prig as she was, she made her 
 way into the hearts of many readers, both young and old; 
 so that, from that time to this, I have been continually 
 honored with letters, the purport of which has always been 
 to beg me to marry Lily Dale to Johnny Eames. Had I 
 done so, however, Lily would never have so endeared her- 
 self to these people as to induce them to write letters to 
 the author concerning her fate. It was because she could 
 not get over her troubles that they loved her. Outside 
 Lily Dale and the chief interest of the novel, ''The Small 
 House at Allington " is, I think, good. The De Courcy 
 family are alive, as is also Sir Raffle Buffle, who is a hero 
 of the civil service. Sir Raffle was intended to represent 
 a type, not a man; but the man for the picture was soon 
 chosen, and I w^s often assured that the portrait was very 
 like. I have never seen the gentleman with whom I am 
 supposed to have taken the liberty. There is also an old 
 squire down at Allington, whose life as a country gentle- 
 man with rather straitened means is, I think, well de- 
 scribed. 
 
 Of ** Can You Forgive Her?" I cannot speak with too 
 great affection, though I do not know that of itself it did 
 very much to increase my reputation. As regards the 
 story, it was formed chiefly on that of the play which 
 my friend Mr. Bartley had rejected long since, the 
 circumstances of which the reader may perhaps remember. 
 The play had been called "The Noble Jilt;" but I 
 was afraid of the name for a novel, lest the critics might 
 throw a- doubt on the nobility. There was more of 
 tentative humility in that which I at last adopted. The 
 character of the girl is carried through with considerable 
 strength, but is not attractive. The humorous charac- 
 ters, which are also taken from the play— a buxom widow, 
 who with her eyes open chooses the most scampish of 
 two selfish suitors because he is the better-looking^ 
 are well done. Mrs. Greenow, between Captain Bell- 
 
140 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 field and Mr. Ch^eseacre, is very good fun — as far as 
 the fun of novels is. But that which endears the book to 
 me is the first presentation which I made in it of Plan- 
 tagenet Palliser, with his wife, Lady Glencdra. 
 
 By no amount of description or asseveration could I 
 succeed in making any reader understand how much 
 these characters, with their belongings, have been to me 
 in my latter life; or how frequently I have used them 
 for the expression of my political or social convictions. 
 They have been as real to me as free trade was to Mr. 
 Cobden, or the dominion of a party to Mr. Disraeli; 
 and as I have not been able to speak from the benches 
 of the House of Commons, or to thunder from plat- 
 forms, or to be eflBcacious as a lecturer, they have served 
 me as safety-valves by which to deliver my soul. Mr. 
 Plantagenet Palliser had appeared in " The Small House 
 at Allington," but his birth had not been accompanied 
 by many hopes. In the last pages of that novel he is 
 made to seek a remedy for a foolish false step in life by 
 marrying the grand heiress of the day — but the personage 
 of the great heiress does not appear till she comes on the 
 «cene as a married woman in "Can You Forgive Her?" 
 He is the nephew and heir to a duke — the Duke of 
 Omnium — who was first introduced in " Doctor Thorne," 
 and afterward in *' Framley Parsonage," and who is one 
 of the belongings of whom I have spoken. In these per- 
 sonages and their friends, political and social, I have en- 
 deavored to depict the faults and frailties and vices — as 
 also the virtues, the graces, and the strength— of our 
 highest classes; and if I have not made the strength and 
 virtues predominant over the faults and vices, I have not 
 painted the picture as I intended. Plantagenet Palliser I 
 think to be a very noble gentleman — such a one as justifies 
 to the nation the seeming anomaly of an hereditary peer- 
 age and of primogeniture. His wife is in all respects very 
 inferior to him; but she, too, has, or has been intended to 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 141 
 
 Lave, beneath the thin stratum of her follies a basis of 
 good principle, which enabled her to live down the con- 
 viction of the original wrong which was done to her, and 
 taught her to endeavor to do her duty in the position to 
 which she was called. She had received a great wrong- 
 having been made, when little more than a child, to marry 
 a man for whom she cared nothing; when, however, 
 though she was little more than a child, her love had been 
 given elsewhere. She had very heavy troubles, but they 
 did not overcome her. 
 
 As to the heaviest of these troubles, I will say a word in 
 vindication of myself and of the way I handled it in my 
 work. In the pages of "Can You Forgive Hur?" the 
 girl's "first love is introduced — beautiful, well-born, and 
 utterly worthless. To save a girl from wasting herself, 
 and an heiress from wasting her property on such a scamp, 
 was certainly the duty of the girl's friends. But it must 
 ever be wrong to force a girl into a marriage with a man 
 she does not love — and certainly the more so when there is 
 another whom she does love. In my endeavor to teach 
 this lesson I subjected the young wife to the terrible dan- 
 ger of overtures from the man to whom her heart had been 
 given. I was walking, no doubt, on ticklish ground, 
 leaving for a while a doubt on the question whether the 
 lover might or might not succeed. Then there came to 
 me a letter from a distinguished dignitary of our Church, 
 a man whom all men honored, treating me with severity 
 for what I was doing. It had been one of the innocent 
 joys of his life, said the clergyman, to have my novels 
 read to him by his daughters. But now I was writing a 
 book which caused him to bid them close it! Must I^also 
 turn away to vicious sensation such as this? Did I think 
 that a wife contemplating adultery was a character fit for 
 my pages? I asked him, in return, whether from his 
 pulpit, or, at any rate, from his communion-table, he did 
 not denounce adilftery to his audience; and if so, why 
 
142 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
 
 should it not be open to me to preach the same doctrine 
 to mine? I made known nothing which the purest girl 
 could not but have learned, and ought not to have learned 
 elsewhere, and I certainly lent no attraction to the sin 
 which I indicated. His rejoinder was full of grace, and 
 enabled him to avoid the annoyance of argumentation 
 without abandoning his cause. He said that the subject 
 was so much too long for letters; that he hoped I would go 
 and stay a week with him in the country, so that we might 
 have it out. That opportunity, however, has never yet 
 arrived. 
 
 Lady Glencora overcomes that trouble, and is brought,, 
 partly by her own scr.se of right and wrong, and partly by 
 the genuine nobility of her husband's conduct, to attach: 
 herself to him after a certain fashion. The romance of 
 her life is gone, but there remains a rich reality of whidi 
 she is fully able to taste the flavor. She loves her rank 
 und becomes ambitious, first of social, and then of polit- 
 ical, ascendency. He is thoroughly true to her, after his 
 thorough nature, and she, after her less perfect nature, is 
 imperfectly true to him. 
 
 In conducting these characters from one story to another 
 I realized the necessity, not only of consistency — which, 
 had it been maintained by a hard exactitude, would have 
 been untrue to nature — but also of those changes which 
 time always produces. There are, perhaps, but few of us 
 •who, after the lapse of ten years, will be found to have 
 changed our chief characteristics. The selfish man will 
 still be selfish, and the false man false. But our manner 
 of showing or of hiding these characteristics will be 
 chwiged, as also our power of adding to or diminishing 
 their intensity. It was my study that these people, as 
 they grew in years, should encounter the changes which 
 come upon us all; and I think that I have succeeded. 
 The Duchess of Omnium, when she is playing the part of 
 Prime Minister's wife, is the same ^man as that Lady 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 143 
 
 Glencora who almost longs to go off with Burgo Fitz- 
 gerald, but jet knows that she will never do so; and the 
 Prime Minister Duke, with his wounded pride and sore 
 spirit, is he who, for his wife's sake, left power and place 
 when they were first offered to him — but thfey have under- 
 gone the changes which a life so stirring as theirs would 
 naturally produce. To do all this thoroughly was in my 
 heart from first to last; but I do not Igiow that the game 
 has been worth the candle. To carry out my scheme I 
 have had to spread my picture over so wide a canvas that 
 I cannot expect that any lover of such art should trouble 
 himself to look at it as a whole. Who will read '* Can 
 You Forgive her?" "Phineas Finn," "Phineas Redux," 
 and "The Prime Minister " consecutively, in order that 
 they may understand the characters of the Duke of Omni- 
 um, of Plantagenet Palliser, and of Lady Glencora? Who 
 will ever know that they should be so read? But in the 
 performance of the work I had mucb gratification, and was 
 enabled from time to time to have in this way that fling at 
 the political doings of the day which every man likes to 
 take, if not in one fashion, then in another. I look upon 
 this string of characters — carried sometimes into othet 
 novels than those just named — as the best work of my life. 
 Taking him altogether, I think that Plantagenet Palliser 
 stands more firmly on the ground than any other person- 
 age I have created. 
 
 On Christmas day, 1863, we were startled by the news of 
 Thackeray's death. He had then for many months given 
 up the editorship of the Cornhill Magazine—^ position for 
 which he was hardly fitted either by his habits or temper- 
 ament—but was still employed in writing for its pages. I 
 had known him only for four years, but had grown into 
 much intimacy with him and his family. I regAid him as 
 one of the most tender-hearted human beings I ever knew, 
 who, with an exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the 
 world at large, would entertain an almost equally ex- 
 
144 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 aggerated sympathy with the joys and tFoubles of indi- 
 vidaals around him. He had been unfortunate in early 
 life — unfortunate in regard to money — unfortunate with 
 an afflicted wife — unfortunate in having his home broken 
 up before his children were fit to be h^s companions. This 
 threw him too much upon clubs, and taught him to dislike 
 general society. But it never affected his heart, or clouded 
 his imagination. He could still revel in the pangs and 
 joys of fictitious life, and could still feel — as he did to the 
 very last — the duty of showing to his readers the evil con- 
 sequences of evil conduct. It was, perhaps, his chief fault 
 as a writer that he could never abstain from that dash of 
 satire which he felt to be demanded by the weaknesses 
 which he saw around him. -The satirist who writes noth- 
 ing but satire should write but litfleT^rit will seem that 
 his satire springs rather from his own cai)h§ftic nature than 
 from the sins of the world in which he lives. "^Jsinyself re- 
 gard "Esmond " as the greatest novel in the English Ian* 
 guage, basing that judgment upon the excellence of iuS lan- 
 guage, on the clear individuality of the characters, on>^the 
 truth of its delineations in regard to the time selected, al5|d 
 on its great pathos. There are also in it a few scenes s^ 
 told that even Scott has never equaled the telling. Let 
 any one who doubts this read the passage in which Lady 
 Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to think that 
 his nuptials with Beatrice will be honored if Colonel 
 Esmond will give away the bride. When he went from 
 us he left behind living novelists with great names; but I 
 think that they who best understood the matter felt that 
 the greatest master of fiction of this age had gone. 
 
 '* Rachel Ray '' underwent a fate which no other novel 
 of mine has encountered. Some years before this a 
 periodical called Oood Words had been established under 
 the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman Mac.leod, a well- 
 known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. In 1863 he asked 
 me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TEOLLOPE. 
 
 145 
 
 that his priDciples did not teach him to confine his matter 
 to religious subjects, and paying me the comphment of 
 toying that hei7ould feel himself quite safe in my bands. 
 In reply I told him I thought he was wrong in his choice; 
 that though he might wish to give a novel to the readers 
 of Good Words, a novel from me would hardly be what he 
 wanted, and that I could not undertake to write either 
 with any specially religious tendency, or in any fashion dif- 
 ferent from that which was*usual to me. As worldly and 
 —if any one thought me wicked— as wicked as I had here- 
 tofore been, I must still be, should I write for Good 
 Words, He persisted in his request, and I came to terms 
 as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it and sent it ta 
 him, and shortly afterward received it back— a consider- 
 able portion having been printed— with an intimation that 
 it would not do. A letter more full of wailing and re- 
 pentance no man ever wrote. It was, he said, all his own 
 fault. He should have taken my advice. He should have 
 known better. But the story, such as it was, he could not 
 give to his readers in the pages of Good Words. Would I 
 forgive him? 'Any pecuniary loss to which his decision 
 might subject me the owner of the publication would 
 willingly make good. There was some loss— or, rather, 
 would have been— and that money I exacted, feeling that 
 the fault had in truth been with the editor. There is the 
 tale now to speak for itself. It is not brilliant, nor in any 
 way very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. 
 There is some dancing in one of the early chapters, de» 
 scribed, no doubt, with that approval of the amusement 
 which I have always entertained; and it was this to which 
 my friend demurred. It !s more true of novels than per- 
 haps of aftything else, that one man's food is another man's 
 poison. 
 
 ** Miss Mackenzie" was written with a desire to prove 
 that a novel may be produced without any love; but even 
 in this attempt it breaks down before the conclusion. In 
 
146 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 order that I might be strong in my purpose, I took for 
 my heroine a very unattractive old maid, who was over- 
 whelmed with money troubles; but even she was in love 
 before the end of the book, and made a romantic marriage 
 with an old man. There is in this story an attack upon 
 charitable bazaars, made with a viofence which will, I 
 think, convince any reader that such attempts at raising 
 money were at the time very "odious to me. I beg to say 
 that since that I have had no occasion to alter my opinion. 
 *'Miss Mackenzie" was published in the early spring of 
 1865. 
 
 At the same time I was engaged with others in establish- 
 ing a periodical Review, in which some of us trusted much, 
 and from which we expected great things. There was, how- 
 •ever, in truth so little combination of idea among us, that 
 we were not justified in our trust or in our expectations. 
 And yet we were honest in our purpose, and have, I think, 
 done some good by our honesty. The matter on which 
 we were all agreed was freedom of speech, combined with 
 personal responsibility. We would be neither conserva- 
 tive nor liberal, neither religious nor free- thinking, neither 
 popular nor exclusive — but we would let any man who had 
 a thing to say, and knew how to say it, speak freely. 
 But he should always speak with the responsibility of his 
 name attached. In the very beginning I militated against 
 this impossible negation of principles — and did so most 
 irrationally, seeing that I had agreed to the negation of 
 principles — by declaring that nothing should appear deny- 
 ing or questioning the divinity of Christ, It was a most pre- 
 posterous claim to make for such a publication as we pro- 
 posed, and it at once drove from us one or two who had in- 
 tended to join us. But we went on, and our company — lim- 
 ited—was formed. We subscribed, I think, £1250 each. I, 
 at least, subscribed that amount, and — having agreed to 
 bring out our publication every fortnight, aftejr the man- 
 fir of the well-known French publication— we called it 
 
AUTOBIOGRlPfiY OP Al^THONT TROtLOPB. 147 
 
 The FortnigUly. We secured the services of G. H. Lewes 
 as our editor. We agreed to manage our finances by a 
 Board, which was to meet once a fortnight, and of which 
 I was the chairman. And we determined that the pay- 
 ments for our literature should be made on a liberal aud 
 strictly ready-money system. We carried out our princi- 
 ples till our money was all gone, and then we sold the 
 copyright to Messrs. Chapman «& Hall for a trifle. But 
 before we parted with our property we found that a fort- 
 nightly issue was not popular with the trade through 
 whose hands the work must reach the public; and, as our 
 periodical had not become sufficiently popular itself to bear 
 down such opposition, we succumbed, and brought it out 
 once a month. Still, it was The Fortnightly, and still it 
 is Tlie Fortnightly, Of all the serial publications .of the- 
 day, it probably is the most serious, the most earnest, the 
 least devoted to amusement, the least flippant, the least 
 jocose— and yet it has the face to show itself month after 
 month to the world, with so absurd a misnomer! It is, 
 as all who know the laws of modern literature are aware, 
 a very serious thing to change the name of a periodical* 
 By doing so you begin an altogether new enterprise. 
 Therefore should the name be well chosen; whereas this 
 was very ill chosen, a fault for which I alone was responsi- 
 ble. 
 
 That theory of eclecticism was altogether impracticable. 
 It was as though a gentleman should go into the House of 
 Commons determined to support no party, but to serve 
 his country by individual utterances. Such gentlemen 
 have gone into the House of Commons, but they have not 
 served their country much. Of course, the project broke 
 down. Liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry will 
 never object to appear in company with their opposites, 
 because they have the conceit to think that they can quell 
 those opposites; but the opposites will not appear in con- 
 junction with liberalism, free-ihinking, and open inquiry. 
 
148 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 As a natural consequence, our new publication became an 
 organ of liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. The 
 result has been good; and though there is much in the 
 now established principles of Jlie Fortnightly with which 
 I do not myself agree, I may safely say that the publica- 
 tion has assured an individuality, and asserted for itself a 
 position in our periodical literature, which is well under- 
 stood and highly respected. 
 
 As to myself and my own hopes in the matter — I wa8 
 craving after some increase in literary honesty, which I 
 think is still desirable, but which is hardly to be attained 
 by the means which then recommended themselves to me. 
 In one of the early numbers I wrote a paper advocating 
 the signature of the authors to periodical writing, admit- 
 ting that the system should not be extended to journalistic 
 articles on political subjects. I think that I made the best 
 of my case; but further consideration has caused me to 
 doubt whether the reasons which induced me to make an 
 exception in favor of political writing do not extend them- 
 selves also to writing on other subjects. ^luch of the 
 literary criticism which we now have is very bad indeed; 
 so bad as to be open to the charge both of dishonesty and 
 incapacity. Books are criticised without being read— are 
 criticised by favor — and are trusted by editors to the criti- 
 cism of the incompetent. If the names of the critics 
 were demanded, editors would be more careful. But I 
 fear the effect would be that wft should get but little criti- 
 cism, and that the public would put but little trust in 
 that little. An ordinary reader would not care to have his 
 books recommended to him by Jones; but the recommen- 
 dation of the great unknown comes to him with all the 
 weight of the Times, the Spectator, or the Saturday, 
 
 Though I admit so much, I am not a recreant from the 
 doctrine I then preached. I think that the name of the 
 author does tend to honesty, and that the knowledge that 
 
 will be inserted adds much to the author's industry and 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 149 
 
 care. It debars him also from illegitimate license and dis- 
 honest assertions. A man should never be. ashamed to 
 Acknowledge that which he is not ashamed to publish. In 
 The Fortnightly everything has been signed, and in this 
 way good has, I think, been done. Signatures to articles 
 in other periodicals have become much more common 
 since The Fortnightly was commenced. 
 
 After a time Mr. Lewes retired from the editorship, 
 feeling that the work pressed too severely on his moderate 
 strength. Our loss in him was very great, and there was 
 considerable difficulty in finding a successor. I must say 
 that the present proprietor has been very fortunate in the 
 choice he did make. Mr. John Morley has done the work 
 with admirable patience, zeal, and capacity. Of course, 
 he has got around him a set of contributors whose modes 
 of thought are what we may call much advanced; he, 
 being " much advanced " himself, would not work with 
 other aids. The periodical has a peculiar tone of its own; 
 but it holds its own with ability, and though there are 
 many who, perhaps, hate it, there are none who despise it. 
 When the company sold it, having spent about £9000 on 
 it, it was worth little or nothing. Now I believe it to be 
 a good property. 
 
 My own last personal concern with it was on a matter 
 of fox-hunting.* There came out in it an article from the 
 pen of Mr. Freeman, the historian, condemning the amuse- 
 ment which I love, on the grounds of cruelty and general 
 brutality. "Was it possible, asked Mr. Freeman, quoting 
 from Cicero, that any educated man should find delight in 
 so coarse a pursuit? Always bearing in mind my own 
 connection with The Fortnightly, I regarded this almost 
 as a rising of a child against the father. I felt, at any rate, 
 bound to answer Mr. Freeman in the same columns, and I 
 obtained Mr. Morley's permission to do so. I wrote, my 
 
 *I have written various articles for it since, especially two oa 
 Cicero, to which I devoted great labor. 
 
150 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 defense of fox-hunting, and there it is. In regard to the 
 charge of cruelty, Mr. Freeman seems to assert that noth- 
 ing unpleasant should be done to any of God's creatures 
 except for a useful purpose. The protection 6f a lady's 
 shoulders from the cold is a useful purpose; and there- 
 fore a dozen fur-hearing animals may be snared in the 
 snow and left to starve to death in the wires, in order that 
 the lady may have the tippet — though a tippet of wool 
 would serve the purpose as well as a tippet of fur. But 
 the congregation and healtliful amusement of one or two 
 hundred persons, on whose behalf a single fox may or 
 may not be killed, is not a useful purpose. I think that 
 Mr. Freeman has failed to perceive that amusement is as 
 needful and almost as necessary as food and raiment. The 
 absurdity of the further charge as to the general brutality 
 of the pursuit and its consequent unfitness for an educated 
 man, is to be attributed to Mr. Freeman's ignorance of 
 what is really done and said in the hunting-field — perhaps 
 to his misunderstanding of Cicero's words. There was a 
 rejoinder to my answer, and I asked for space for further 
 remarks. I could have it, the editor said, if I much wished 
 it; but he preferred that the subject should be closed. Of 
 course I was silejit. His sympathies were all with Mr. 
 Freeman— and against the foxes, who, but for fox-hunting, 
 would cease to exist in England. And I felt that The 
 Fortnightly was hardly the place for the defense of the 
 sport. Afterward Mr. Freeman kindly suggested to me 
 that he would be glad to publish my article in a little book 
 to be put out by him, condemnatory of fox-hunting gener- 
 ally. He was to have the last word and the first word, 
 and that power of picking to pieces which he is known to 
 use in so masterly a manner, without any reply from me! 
 This 1 was obliged to decline. If he Trould give me the 
 last word, as he would have the first, then, I told him I 
 should be proud to join him in the book. This offer did 
 not, however, meet his views. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPE. 151 
 
 It had been decided by the Board of Management, some- 
 what in opposition to my own ideas on the subject, that 
 The Fortnightly Revieio should always contain a novel. It 
 was, of course, natural that I should write the first novel, 
 and I wrote "The Belton Estate." It is similiar in its 
 attributes to "Rachel Ray" and to *' Miss Mackenzie." 
 It is readable, and contains scenes which are true to life; 
 but it has no peculiar merits, and will add nothing to my 
 reputation as a novelist. I have not looked at it since it 
 was published; and now, turning back to it in my memory, 
 I seem to remember almost less of it than of any book that 
 I have written. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 **THE CLAVERINGS."-^THE " PALL MALL GAZETTE,"— 
 "NINA BALATKA."—" LINDA TRESSEL." 
 
 "The Claverings," which came out in 1866 and 1867, 
 was the last novel which I wrote for The Comhill; and it 
 was for this that I received the highest rate of pay that was 
 ever accorded to me. It was the same length as " Framley 
 Parsonage," and the price was £2800. Whether much or 
 little, it was offered by the proprietor of the magazine, and 
 was paid in a single check. 
 
 In " The Claverings " I did not follow the habit which 
 had now become very common to me, of introducing per- 
 sonages whose names are already known to the readers of 
 my novels, and whose characters were familiar to myself. 
 If I remember rightly, no one appears here who had ap- 
 peared before, or who has been allowed to appear since. I 
 consider the story, as a whole, to be good, tliough I am 
 not aware that the public has ever corroborated that verdict. 
 The chief character is that oi a young woman who has 
 married, manifestly for money and rank— so manifestly 
 that she does not herself pretend, even while she is making 
 
152 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 the marriage, that she has any other reason. The man iff 
 old, disreputable, and a worn-out debauchee. Then comes 
 the punishment natural to the offense. When she is free, 
 the man whom she had loved, and who had loved her, iff 
 engaged to another woman. He vacillates and is weak— 
 in which weakness is the fault of the book, as he plays the 
 part of hero. But she is strong — strong in her purpose, 
 strong in her desires, and strong in her consciousness that 
 the punishment which comes upon her has been deserved. 
 
 But the chief merit of "The Claverings" is in the 
 genuine fun of some of the scenes. Humor has not been 
 my forte, but I am inclined to think that the characters 
 of Captain Boodle, Archie Clavering, and Sophie Gorde- 
 ^oup are humerous. Count Pateroff, the brother of Sophie, 
 is also good, and disposes of the young hero's interference 
 in a somewhat masterly manner. In "The Claverings," 
 too, there is a wife whose husband is a brute to her, wha 
 loses an only cliild — his heir — and who is rebuked by her 
 lord because the boy dies. Her sorrow is, I think, pathetic* 
 From beginning to end the story is well told. But I doubt 
 now whether any one reads "The Claverings." When I 
 remember how many novels I have written, I have no right 
 to expect that above a few of them shall endure even to the 
 second year beyond publication. This story closed my 
 connection with the Cornhill Magaziiie, but not with itff 
 owner, Mr. George Smith, who subsequently brought out 
 a further novel of mine in a separate form, and who about 
 this time established the Pall Mall Gazette, to which paper 
 I was for some years a contributor. 
 
 It was in 1865 that the Pall Mall Gazette was com- 
 menced, the name having been taken from a fictitious 
 periodical, which was the offspring of Thackeray's brain. 
 It was set on foot by the unassisted energy and resources 
 of George Smith, who had succeeded, by 'means of his 
 magazine and his publishing connection, in getting 
 around him a society of literary men who sufficed, as far 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKT TROLLOPB, 153 
 
 as literary ability went, to float the paper at once under 
 faTorable auspices. His two strongest staffs, probably, 
 :syere ''Jacob Omnium," whom I regard as the most for- 
 cible newspaper writer of my days, and Fitz-James 
 Stephen, the most conscientious and industrious. To 
 them the Pall Mall Gazette owed very much of its early 
 success, and to the untiring energy and general ability of 
 its proprietor. Among its other contributors were George 
 Lewes, Hannay— who, I think, came up from Edinburgh 
 for employment on its columns — Lord Houghton, Lord 
 Strangford, Charles Merivale, Greenwood (the present 
 editor), Greg, myself, and: very many others— so many 
 others that I have met at a Pall Mall dinner a crowd of 
 guosts who would have filled the House of Commons 
 more respectably than I have seen it filled even on impor- 
 tant occasions. There are many who now remember — 
 and, no doubt, when this is published there will be left 
 some to remember— the great stroke of business which 
 was done by the revelations of a visitor to one of the 
 casual wards in London. A person had to be selected 
 who would undergo the misery of a night among the 
 usual occupants of a casual ward in a London poor-house, 
 and who should at the same time be able to record what 
 he felt and saw. The choice fell upon Mr. Greenwood's 
 brother, who certainly possessed the courage and the 
 powers of endurance. The description, which was very 
 well given, was, I think, chiefly written by the brother of 
 the Casual himself. It had a great effect, which was in- 
 creased by secrecy as to the person who encountered all 
 the horrors of that night. 1 was more than once assured 
 that Lord Houghton was the man. I heard it asserted 
 also that I myself had been the hero. At last the un- 
 known one could no longer endure that his honors should 
 be hidden, and revealed the truth— in opposition, I fear, 
 to promises to the contrary, and instigated by a convic- 
 tion that, if known, he could turn his honors to account. 
 
154 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 In the meantime, howeyer, that record of a night passed 
 in a work-house had done more to establish the sale of the 
 journal than all the legal lore of Stephen, or the polem- 
 ical power of Higgins, or the critical acumen of Lewes. 
 
 My work was very various. I wrote much on the sub- 
 ject of the American war, on which my feelings were at 
 the time very keen — subscribing, if I remember right, my 
 name to all that I wrote. I contributed also some sets of 
 sketches of which those concerning hunting found favor 
 with the public. They were republished afterward, and 
 had a considerable sale: and may, I think, still be recom- 
 mended to those who are fond of hunting, as being accu- 
 rate in their description of the different classes of people 
 who are to be met in the hunting-field. There was also a 
 set of clerical sketches, which was considered to be of 
 sufficient importance to bring down upon my head the 
 critical wrath of a great dean of that period. The most 
 ill-natured review that was ever written upon any work of 
 mine appeared in the Contemporary Review with reference 
 to these clerical sketches. The critic told me that I did 
 not understand Greek. That charge has been made not 
 unfrequently by those who have felt themselves strong in 
 that pride-prodifcing language. It is much to read Gfreek 
 with ease, but it is not disgraceful to be unable to do so. 
 To pretend to read it without being able, that is disgrace- 
 ful. The critic however, had been driven to wrath by my 
 saying that deans of the Church of England loved to re- 
 visit the glimpses of the metropolitan moon. 
 
 I also did some critical work for The Pall Mall, as I 
 also did for The Fortnightly. It was not to my taste, but 
 was done in conformity with strict conscientious scruples. 
 I read what I took in hand, and said what I believed to be 
 true, always giving to the matter time altogether incom- 
 mensurate with the pecuniary result to myself. In doing 
 this for The Pall Mall I fell into great sorrow. A gentle- 
 man, whose wife was dear to me as if she were my owq 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 155 
 
 aister, was in some trouble as to his conduct in the public 
 fiervice. He had been blamed, as he thought, unjustly, 
 and vindicated himself in a pamphlet. This he handed to 
 me one day, asking me to read it, and express my opinion, 
 about it if I found that I had an opinion. I thought the 
 request injudicious, and I did not read the pamphlet. He 
 met me again, and, handing me a second pamphlet, pressed, 
 me very hard. I promised him that I would read it, and 
 that if I found myself able I would express myself — but 
 that I must say not what I wished to think, but what I 
 did think. To this, of course, he assented. I then went 
 very much out of my way to study the subject, which was 
 one requiring study. I found, or thought that I found, 
 that the conduct of the gentleman in his oflBce had been 
 indiscreet, but that charges made against himself, affect- 
 ing his honor, were baseless. This I said, emphasizing 
 much more strongly than was necessary the opinion which 
 I had formed of his indiscretion, as will so often be the 
 case when a man has a pen in his hand. It is like a club 
 or a sledge-hammer — in using which, either for defense or 
 attack, a man can hardly measure the strength of the 
 blows he gives. Of course there was offense, and a break- 
 ing off of intercourse between loving friends, and a sense 
 of wrong received, and, I must own, too, of wrong done. 
 It certainly was not open to me to whitewash with honesty 
 him whom I did not find to be white; but there was no 
 duty incumbent on me to declare what was his color in my 
 eyes — no duty even to ascertain. Bat I had been ruffled 
 by the persistency of the gentleman's request, which should 
 not have been made, and I punished him for his wrong- 
 doing by doing a wrong myself. I must add, that before 
 he died his wife succeeded in bringing us together. 
 
 In the early days of the paper, the proprietor, who at 
 that time acted also as chief editor, asked me to undertake 
 a duty, of which the agony would, indeed, at no one mo- 
 ment have been so sharp as that endured in -ihe casual 
 
156 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 ward, bnt might have been prolonged until human nature 
 sank under it. He suggested to me that I should during 
 an entire season attend the May meetings in Exeter Hall, 
 and give a graphic and, if possible, amusing descripton of 
 the proceedings. I did attend one — which lasted three 
 hours — and wrote a paper which I think was called " A 
 Zulu in Search of a Religion,'* But when the meeting was 
 over I went to that spirited proprietor and begged him to 
 impose upon me some task more equal to my strength. 
 Not even on behalf of the Pall Mall Gazette, which was 
 very dear to me, could I go through a second May meet- 
 ing, much less endure a season of such martyrdom. 
 
 I have to acknowledge that I found myself unfit for 
 work on a newspaper. I had not taken to it early enough 
 in life to learn its ways and bear its trammels. 1 was 
 fidgety when any word was altered in accordance with the 
 judgment of the editor, who, of course, was responsible 
 for what appeared. I wanted to select my own subjects, 
 not to have them selected for me; to write when I pleased, 
 and not when it suited others. As a permanent member 
 of a staff I was no use, and after two or three years I 
 dropped out of the work. 
 
 From the commencement of my success as a writer, 
 which I date from the beginning of the Cor nhill Magazine, 
 I had always felt an injustice in literary affairs which had 
 never afflicted me or even suggested itself to me while I 
 was unsuccessful. It seemed to me that a name once 
 earned carried with it too much favor. I, indeed, had 
 never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a 
 matter of course; but there were others who sat on higher 
 seats, to whom the critics brought unmeasured incense and 
 adulation, even when they wrote, as they sometimes did 
 write, trash which from a beginner would not have been 
 thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope no one will 
 think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy of 
 others. Though I never reached that height, still I had 
 
AUTOBIOORAPHT OP ANTHOmT TROLLOPE. 167 
 
 SO far progressed that that which I wrote was received 
 with too much favor. The injustice which struck me did 
 not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in 
 that which was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming 
 up below me might do work as good as mine, and probably 
 much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated. In 
 order to test this, I determined to be such an aspirant my* 
 self, and to begin a course of novels anonymously, in order 
 that I might see whether I could obtain a second identity 
 — whether, as I had made one mark by such literary ability 
 as I possessed, I might succeed in doing so again. In 1865 
 I began a short tale called '' Nina Balatka," which in 
 1866 was published anonymously in Blackwood's Magazine^ 
 In 1867 this was followed by another of the same lengthy 
 called '* Linda Tressel." I will speak of them together, 
 as they are of the same nature and of nearly equal merit. 
 Mr. Blackwood, who himself read the manuscript of 
 " Nina Balatka," expressed an opinion that it would not 
 from its style be discovered to have been written by me; 
 but it was discovered by Mr. Hutton of the Spectatory who 
 found the repeated use of some special phrase which had 
 rested upon his ear too frequently when reading for the 
 purpose of criticism other works of mine. He declared 
 in his paper that ** Nina Balatka " was by me, showing, I 
 think, more sagacity than good-na*ure. I ought not, 
 however, to complain of him, as of all the critics of my 
 work he has been the most observant, and generally the 
 most eulogistic. '* Nina Balatka " never rose suflBciently 
 high in reputation to make its detection a matter of any im- 
 portance. Once or twice I heard the story mentioned by 
 readers who did not know me to be the author, and always 
 with praise; but it had no real success. The same may be 
 said of "Linda Tressel." Blackwood, who, of course, 
 knew the author, was willing to publish them, trusting 
 that works by an experienced writer would make their way, 
 even without the writer's name, and he was willing to pay 
 
158 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 me for them, perhaps half what they would have fetched 
 with my name. But he did not find the speculation an- 
 swer, and declined a third attempt; though a third such 
 tale was written for him. 
 
 Nevertheless I am sure that the two stories are good. 
 Perhaps the first is somewhat the better, as being the less 
 lachrymose. They were both written very quickly, but 
 with a considerable amount of labor; and both were 
 written immediately after visits to the towns in which 
 the scenes are laid — Prague, mainly, and Nuremberg, 
 Of course I had endeavored to change not only my 
 manner of language, but my manner of story- telling 
 aJ«o; and in this, pace Mr. Hutton, I think that I was 
 successful. English life in them there was none. There 
 was more of romance proper than had been usual with 
 me. And I made an attempt at local coloring, at de- 
 «;riptions of scenes and places, which has not been 
 usual with me. In all this I am confident that^I was in a 
 measure successful. In the loves, and fears, and hatreds, 
 both of Nina and of Linda, there is much that is pathetic. 
 Prague is Prague, and Nuremberg is Nuremberg. I know 
 that the stories are good, but they misse^ the object with 
 which they had been written. Of course there is not in 
 this any evidence that I might not have succeeded a second 
 time as I succeeded before, had I gone on with the same 
 dogged perseverance. Mr. Blackwood, had I still further 
 reduced my price, would probably have continued the 
 •experiment. Another ten years of unpaid, unflagging 
 labor might have built up a second reputation. But this, 
 at any rate, did seem clear to me, that with all the increased 
 advantages which practice in my art must have given me, 
 I could not at once induce English readers to read what I 
 gave to them, unless I gave it with my name. 
 
 I do not wish to have it supposed from this that I quar- 
 rel with public judgment in affairs of literature. It is a 
 matter of course that in all things the public should trust 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 159 
 
 to established reputation. It is as natural that a uoTel^ 
 reader wanting novels should send to a library for those by 
 George Eliot or Wilkie Collins, as that a lady wlien she 
 wants a pie for a picnic should go to Fortnum'& Mason. 
 Fortnum & Mason can only make themselves Fortnum & 
 Mason by dint of time and good pies combined. If Titian 
 were to send us a portrait from the other world, as certain 
 dead poets send their poetry, by means of a medium, it 
 would be some time before the art critic of the Times 
 would discover its value. We may sneer at the want of 
 judgment thus displayed, but such slowness of judgment 
 38 human, and has always existed. I say all this here be- 
 cause my thoughts on the matter have forced upon me the 
 conviction that very much consideration is due to the 
 bitter feelings of disappointed authors. 
 
 We who have succeeded are so apt to tell new aspirants 
 not to aspire, because the thing to be done may probably 
 be beyond their reach. ** My dear young lady, had you 
 not better stay at home and darn your stockings?" ''As, 
 sir, you have asked for my candid opinion, I can only 
 counsel you to try some other work of life which may be 
 better suited to your abilities." What old-established suc- 
 cessful author has not said such words as these to humble 
 aspirants for critical advice, till they have become almost 
 formulas? No doubt there is cruelty in such answers: but 
 the man who makes them has considered the matter*with- 
 in himself, and has resolved that such cruelty is the best 
 mercy. No doubt the chances against literary aspirants 
 are very great. It is so easy to aspire — and to begin! A 
 man cannot make a watch or a shoe without a variety of 
 tools and many materials. He must also have learned 
 much. But any young lady can write a book who has a 
 sufficiency of pens and paper. It can be done anywhere; 
 in any clothes — which is a groat thing; at any hours— to- 
 which happy accident in literature I owe my success. And 
 the saccess, when achieved^ is sp pleasant I The aspirants^ 
 
160 AUTOBIOGBAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 of course, are very many; and the experienced counselor, 
 when asked for his candid judgment as to this or that 
 effort, knows that among every hundred efforts there will 
 be ninety -nine failures. Then the answer is so ready: 
 *'My dear young lady, do darn your stockings; it will be 
 for the best." Or perhaps, less tenderly, to the male as- 
 pirant: "You must earn some money, you say. Don't 
 you think that a stool in a counting-house might be better?" 
 The advice will probably be good advice— probably, no 
 doubt, as may be proved by the terrible majority of fail- 
 ures. But who is to be sure that he is not expelling an 
 angel from the heaven to which, if less roughly treated, 
 he would soar — that he is not dooming some Milton to be 
 mute and inglorious, who, but for such.cruel ill-judgment, 
 would become vocal to all ages? 
 
 The answer to all this seems to be ready enough. The 
 judgment, whether cruel or tender, should not be ill-judg- 
 ment. He who consents to sit as judge should have 
 capacity for judging. But in this matter no accuracy of 
 judgment is possible. It may be that the matter sub- 
 jected to the critic is so bad or so good as to make an 
 assured answer possible. '' You, at any rate, cannot make 
 this your vocation;" or '' You, at any rate, can succeed, 
 if you will try." But cases as to which such certainty 
 can be expressed are rare. The critic who wrote the arti- 
 cle on the early verses of Lord Byron, which produced the 
 "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," was justified in 
 his criticism by the merits of the "Hours of Idleness." 
 The lines had, nevertheless, been written by that Lord 
 Byron who became our Byron. In a little satire called 
 "'^The Biliad," which, I think, nobody knows, are the 
 following well-expressed lines: 
 
 " When Payne Knight's ' Taste ' was issued to the town, 
 A few Greek verses in the text set down 
 Were torn to pieces, mangled into hash, 
 Doomed to the flames as execrable trash — 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 161 
 
 III short, were butchered rather than dissected, 
 And several false quantities detected— 
 Till, when the smoke had vanished from the cinders, 
 'Twas just discovered that — the lines were Pindar's I" 
 
 There can be no assurance against cases such as these; 
 and yet we are so free with our advice, always bidding the 
 young aspirant to desist. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no career of life so charming as that 
 of a successful man of letters. Those little unthought-of 
 advantages which I just now named are in themselves at- 
 tractive. If you like the town, live in the town, and do 
 your work there; if you like the country, choose the 
 country. It may be done on the top of a mountain or in 
 the bottom of a pit. It is compatible with the rolling of 
 the sea and the motion of a railway. The clergyman, the 
 lawyer, the doctor, the Member of Parliament, the clerk 
 in a public office, the tradesman, and even his assistant in 
 the shop, must dress in* accordance with certain fixed laws; 
 but the author need sacrifice to no grace, hardly even to 
 propriety. He is subject to no bonds such as those which 
 Jbind other men. AVho else is free from all shackle as to 
 hours? The judge must sit at ten, and the attorney-gen- 
 eral, who is making his £20,000 a year, must be there with 
 his bag. The prime-minister must be in his place on that 
 weary front bench shortly after prayers, and must sit 
 
 there, either asleep or awake, even though or 
 
 should be addressing the House. During all that Sunday 
 which he maintains should be a day of rest, the active 
 clergyman toils like a galley-slave. The actor, when 
 eight o'clock comes, is bound to his footlights. The civil- 
 service clerk must sit there from ten till four— unless his 
 office be fashionable, when twelve to six is just as heavy 
 on him. The author may do liis work at five in the morn- 
 ing, when he is fresh from his bed, or at three in the 
 morning, before he goes there. And the author wants no 
 capital, and encounters no risks. When once he is afloat, 
 
162 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 the publisher finds all that— and indeed, unless he be rash^ 
 finds it whether he be afloat or not. But it is in the con- 
 sideration which he enjoys that the successful author finds 
 his richest reward. He is, if not of equal rank, yet of 
 equal standing with the highest; and if he be open to the 
 amenities of society, may choose his own circles. He, 
 without money, can enter doors which are closed against 
 almost all but him and the wealthy. I have often heard 
 it said that in this country the man of letters is not recog- 
 nized. I believe the meaning of this to be that men of 
 letters are not often invited to be knights and baronets. 
 I do not think that they wish it — and if they had it they 
 would, as a body, lose much more than they would gain, 
 I do not at all desire to have letters put after my name, 
 or to be called Sir Anthony, but if my friends Tom 
 Hughes and Charles Reade became Sir Thomas and Sir 
 Charles, I do not know how I might feel —or how my 
 wife might feel — if we were left unbedecked. As it is, 
 the man of letters who would be selected for titular honor, 
 if such bestowal of honors were customary, receives from 
 the general respect of those around him a much more 
 pleasant recognition of his worth. 
 
 If this be so— if it be true that the career of the success- 
 ful literary man be thus pleasant— it is not wonderful that 
 many should attempt to win the prize. But how is a man 
 to know whether or not he has within him the qualities 
 necessary for such a career? He makes an attempt, and 
 fails; repeats his attempt, and fails again ! So many have suc- 
 ceeded at last who have failed more than once or twice! AVho 
 will tell him the truth as to himself? Who has power to 
 find out that truth? The hard man sends him off without 
 a scruple to that office-stool; the soft man assures him thac 
 there is much merit in his manuscript. 
 
 Oh, my young aspirant— if ever such a one should read 
 these pages— be sure that no one can tell you! To do so 
 it would be necessary not only to know what there is now 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOl^Y TROLLOPE. 163 
 
 within you, but also to foresee what time will produce 
 there. This, however, I think may be said to you, with- 
 out any doubt as to the wisdom of the counsel given, that 
 if it be necessary for you to live by your work, do not 
 l)egin by trusting to literature. Take the stool in the 
 ofl&ce, as recommended to you by theliardman; and then, 
 in such leisure hours as may belong to you, let the praise 
 which has come from the lips of that soft man induce you 
 to persevere in your literary attempts. Should you fail, 
 then your failure will not be fatal; and what better could 
 you have done with the leisure hours had you not so failed? 
 Such double toil, you will say, is severe. Yes; but if you 
 want this thing, you must submit to severe toil. 
 
 Some time before this I had become one of the com- 
 mittee appointed for the distribution of the moneys of 
 the Royal Literary Fund, and in that capacity I heard 
 and saw much of the sufferings of authors. I may in a 
 future chapter speak further of this institution, which I 
 regard with great affection, and in reference to which I 
 should be glad to record certain convictions of my own; 
 but I allude to it now, because the experience I have ac- 
 quired in being active in its cause forbids me to advise any 
 young man or woman to enter boldly on a literary career 
 in search of bread. I know how utterly I should have 
 failed myself had my bread not been earned elsewhere 
 while I was making my efforts. During ten years of work, 
 which 1 commenced with some aid, from the fact that 
 others of my family were in the same profession, I did not 
 earn enough to buy me the pens, ink, and paper which I 
 was using; and then when, with all my experience in my 
 art, I began again as from a new springing-point, I should 
 have failed again unless again I could have given years to 
 the task. Of course, there have been many who have done 
 better than I— many whose powers have been infinitely 
 greater. But then, too, I have seen the failure of many 
 who were greater. 
 
164: AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANIHOl^Y THOLLOPB. 
 
 The career, when success has been achieyed,. is certainly 
 yevy pleasant; but the agonies which are endured in the 
 search for that success are often terrible. And the author's 
 poverty is, I think, harder to be borne than any other 
 poverty. The man, whether rightly or wrongly, feels 
 that the world is iJsing him with extreme injustice. The 
 more absolutely he fails, the higher, it is probable, he will 
 reckon his own merits; and the keener will be the sense 
 of injury in that he, whose work is of so high a nature, 
 cannot get bread, while they whose tasks are mean are 
 lapped in luxury. '*I, with my well-filled mind, with my 
 clear intellect, with all my gifts, cannot earn a 'poor crown 
 a day, while that fool, who simpers in a little room behind 
 a shop, makes his thousands every year." The very 
 charity, to which he too often is driven, is bitterer to him 
 than to others. While he takes it he almost spurns the 
 hand that gives it to him, and every fiber of his heart 
 within him is bleeding with a sense of injury. 
 
 The career, when successful, is pleasant enough, cer. 
 tainly; but when unsuccessful, it is of all careers the 
 most agonizing. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ON NOVELS, AND THE ART OF WRITING THEM. 
 
 It is nearly twenty years since I proposed to myself to 
 write a history of English prose fiction. I shall never do 
 it now, but the subject is so good a one that I recommend 
 it heartily to some man of letters, who shall at the same 
 time be indefatigable and light-handed. I acknowledge 
 that I broke down in the task, because I could not endure 
 the labor in addition to the other labors of my life. 
 Though the book might be charming, the work was very 
 much the reverse. It came to have a terrible aspect to me, 
 as did that proposition that I should sit out all the May 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 165 
 
 meetings of a seasoil. According to my plan of such a 
 history, it would be necessary to read an infinity of noyels^- 
 and not only to read them, but so to read them as to point- 
 out the excellences of those which are most excellent, and- 
 to explain the defects of those which, though defective, 
 had still reached sufficient reputation to make them worthy 
 of notice. I did read ^any after this fashion — and here 
 and there 1 have the criticisms which I wrote. In regard 
 to many, they were written on some blank page within the 
 book. I have not, however, even a list of the books so criti- 
 cised. I think that the *' Arcadia" was the first, and 
 " Ivanhoe " the last. My plan as I settled it at last, had 
 been to begin with " Robinson Crusoe," which is the earli- 
 est really popular novel which we have in our language, 
 and to continue the review so as to include the works of all 
 English novelists of reputation, except those who might 
 still be living when my task should be completed. But 
 when Dickens and Bulwer died my spirit flagged, and Ihat 
 which I had already found to be very difficult had become 
 almost impossible to me at my then period of life. 
 
 I began my own studies on the subject with works 
 much earlier than " Robinson Crusoe," and made my way 
 through a variety of novels which were necessary for my 
 purpose, but which in the reading gave me no pleasure 
 whatever. I never worked harder than at the '' Arcadia," 
 or read more detestable trash than the stories written by 
 Mrs. Aphra Behnj but these two were necessary to my 
 purpose, which was not only to give an estimate of the 
 novels as I found them, but to describe how it had come 
 to pass that the English novels of the present day have 
 become what they are, to point out the effects which they 
 have produced, and to inquire whether their great popu- 
 larity has, on the whc»le, done good or evil to the people 
 who read them. I still thihk that the book is one well 
 worthy to be written. 
 
 I intended to write that book to vindicate my own pro- 
 
166 AUTOBIOOBAPHT OF AlsTTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Session as a novelist, and also to yindicate that public taste 
 in literature which has created and nourished the profession 
 which I follow. And I was starred up to make such an 
 attempt by a conviction that there still exists among ua 
 Englishmen a prejudice in respect to novels, which might, 
 perhaps, be lessened by such a work. This prejudice is 
 not against the reading of novels, as is proved by their 
 general acceptance among us. but it exists strongly in 
 reference to the appreciation in which they are professed 
 to be held; and it robs them of much of that high char- 
 acter which they may claim to have earned by their grace, 
 their honesty, and good teaching. 
 
 No man can work long at any trade without being 
 brought to consider much whether that which he is daily 
 doing tends to evil or to good. I have written many 
 novels, and have known many writers of novels, and 1 can 
 assert that such thoughts have been strong with them and 
 with myself. But in acknowledging that these writers 
 have received from the public a full measure of credit for 
 such genius, ingenuity, or perseverance as each may have 
 displayed, I feel that there is still wanting to them a just 
 appreciation of the excellence of their calling, and a gen- 
 eral understanding of the high nature of the work which 
 they perform. 
 
 By the common consent of all mankind who have read, 
 poetry takes the highest place in literature. That nobil- 
 ity of expression, and all but divine grace of words, which 
 she is bound to attain before she can make her footing 
 good, is not compatible with prose. Indeed, it is that 
 which turns prose into poetry. When that has been in 
 truth achieved, the reader knows that the writer has 
 soared above the earth, and can teach his lessons some- 
 what as a god might teach. He who sits down to write 
 his tale in prose makes no such attempt, nor does he 
 dream that the poet's honor is within his reach; but his 
 teaching is of the same nature, and his lessons all tend to 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 167 
 
 the same end. By either, false sentiments may be fos- 
 tered; false notions of humanity may be engendered; false 
 honor, false love, false worship may be created; by either, 
 vice instead of virtue may be taught. But by each, 
 equally, may true honor, true love, true worship, and true 
 humanity be inculcated; and that will be the greatest 
 teacher who will spread such truth the widest. But at 
 present, much as novels, as novels, are bought and read, 
 there exists still an idea, a feeling which is very prevalent, 
 that novels at their best are but innocent. Young men 
 and women, and old men and women, too, read more of 
 them than of poetry, because such reading is easier than 
 the reading of poetry; but they read them, as men eat 
 pastry after dinner, not without some inward conviction 
 that the taste is vain, if not vicious. I take upon myself 
 to say that it is neither vicious nor vain. 
 
 But all writers of ficti6n who have desired to think well 
 of their own work, will probably have had doubts on their 
 minds before they have arrived at this conclusion. Think- 
 ing much of my own daily labor and of its nature, I felt 
 myself at first to be much afflicted, and then to be deeply 
 grieved, by the opinion expressed by wise and thinking 
 men as to the work done by novelists. But when, by 
 degrees, I dared to examine and sift the sayings of such 
 men, I found them to be sometimes silly and often arro- 
 gant. I began to inquire what had been the nature of 
 English novels since they first became common in our own 
 language, and to be desirous of ascertaining whether they 
 had done harm or good. I could well remember that, in 
 my own young days, they had not taken that undisputed 
 possession of drawing rooms which they now hold. Fifty 
 years ago, when George IV. was king, they were not, in- 
 deed, treated as Lydia had been forced to treat them in 
 the preceding reign, when, on the approach of elders, 
 " Peregrine Pickle " was hidden beneath the bolster, and 
 " Lord AinBWorth " put away under the sofa. But the 
 
168 AUTOBIOGBAPHT OF ANTHONY TROL'LOPE. 
 
 families in which an unrestricted permission was given 
 for the reading of novels wer^'vory few, and from many 
 they were altogether banished. The high poetic genius 
 and correct morality of Walter Scott had not altogether 
 succeeded in making men and women understand that 
 lessons which were good in poetry could not be bad in 
 prose. I remember that in those days an embargo was 
 laid upon novel-reading as a pursuit, which was to the 
 novelist a much heavier tax than that want of full appre- 
 ciation of which I now complain. 
 
 There is, we all know, no such embargo now. May we 
 not say that people of an age to read have got too much 
 power into their own hands to endure any very complete 
 embargo? Novels are read right and left, above stairs and 
 below, in town houses and in country parsonages, by young 
 countesses and by farmers' daughters, by old lawyers and 
 by young students. It has not only come to pass that a 
 special provision of them has to be made for the godly, 
 but that the provision so made must now include books 
 which a few years since the godly would have thought to 
 be profane. It was this necessity which, a few years since, 
 induced the editor of Oood Words to apply to me for a 
 novel — which, indeed, when supplied was rejected, but 
 which now, probably, owing to further change in the same 
 direction, would have been accepted. 
 
 If such be the case — if the extension of novel-reading 
 be so wide as I have described it — then very much good or 
 harm must be done by novels. The amusement of the 
 time can hardly be the only result of any book that is read, 
 and certainly not so with a novel, which appeals especially 
 to the imagination, and solicits the sympathy of the young. 
 A vast proportion of the teaching of the day — greater, 
 probably, tlian many of us have acknowledged to our- 
 selves — comes from these books, which are in the hands of 
 all readers. It is from them that girls learn what is ex- 
 pected from them, and what they are to expect when 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 169 
 
 lovers come; and also from them that young men uncon- 
 sciously learn what are, or should he, or may be, the 
 charms of love—though I fancy that few young men will 
 think so little of their natural instincts and powers as to 
 believe that I am right in saying so. Many other lessons 
 also are taught. In these times— when the desire to be 
 honest is pressed so hard, is so violently assaulted by the 
 ambition to be great; in which riches are the easiest road 
 to greatness; when the temptations to which men are sub- 
 jected dulls their eyes to the perfected iniquities of others; 
 when it is so hard for a man to decide vigorously that the 
 pitch, which so many are handling, will defile him if it be 
 touched— men's conduct will be actuated much by that 
 which is from day to day depicted to them as leading to 
 glorious or inglorious results. The woman who is de- 
 scribed as having obtained all that the world holds to be 
 precious, by lavishing her charms and her caresses un- 
 worthily and heartlessly, will induce other women to do 
 the same with theirs; as will she who is made interesting 
 by exhibitions of bold passion teach others to be spuriously 
 pa^ionate. The young man who, in a novel, becomes a 
 hero, perhaps a Member of Parliament, and almost a 
 prime-minister, by trickery, falsehood, and flash cleverness, 
 will have many followers, whose attempts to rise in the 
 world ought to lie heavily on the conscience of the novelists 
 who create 6ctitious Cagliostros. There are Jack Shep- 
 pards other than those who break into houses and out of 
 prisons— Macheaths, who deserve the gallows more tliaii 
 Gay's hero. 
 
 Thinking of all this, as a novelist surely must do—as I 
 certainly have done through my whole career— it becomes 
 to him a matter of deep conscience how he shall handle 
 those characters by whose words and doijigs he hopes to 
 interest his readers. It will very frequently be the case 
 that he will be tempted to sacrifice something for effect, 
 to «ay a word or two here, or to draw a picture there, for 
 
170 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TfiOLLOPB. 
 
 which he feels that he has the power, and which, when 
 spoken or drawn, would be alluring. The regions of abso- 
 lute vice are foul and odious. The savor of them, till 
 custom has hardened the palate and the nose, is disgusting. 
 In these he will hardly tread. But there are outskirts on 
 these regions, on which sweet-smelling flowers seem to 
 grow, and grass to be green. It is in these border-lands 
 that the danger lies. The novelist may not be dull. If 
 he commit that fault, he can do neither harm nor good. 
 He must please, and the flowers and the grass in these 
 neutral territories sometimes seem to give him so easy an 
 opportunity of pleasing. 
 
 The writer of stories muit please, or he will be nothing. 
 And he must teach, whether he wish to teach or no. How 
 shall he teach lessons of virtue and at the same time make 
 himself a delight to his readers? That sermons are not in 
 themselves often thought to be agreeable we all know. Nor 
 are disquisitions on moral philosophy supposed to be pleas- 
 ant reading for our idle hours. But the novelist, if he have a 
 conscience, must preach his sermons with the same purpose 
 as the clergyman, and must have his own system of etlncs. 
 If he can do this efficiently, if he can make virtue allur- 
 ing and vice ugly, while he charms his readers instead of 
 wearying them, then I think Mr. Carlyle need not call 
 him distressed, nor talk of that long ear of fiction, nor 
 question wheth^ he be or not the most foolish of existing 
 mortals. 
 
 I think that many have done so; so many that we 
 English novelists may boast, as a class, that such has been 
 the general result of our own work. Looking back to the 
 past generation, I may say with certainty that such was 
 the operation of the novels of Miss Edgeworth, Miss 
 Austen, and Walter Scott. ' Coming down to my own 
 times, I find such to have been the teaching of Thackeray, 
 of Dickens, and of George Eliot. Speaking, as I shall 
 speak to any one who mtiy read these words, with that 
 
AUTOBIOGflAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 171 
 
 absence of self-personality which the dead may claim, I 
 will boast that such has been the result of my own writing. 
 Can any one, by search through the works of the six great 
 English noyelists I have named, find a scene, a passage, or 
 a word that would teach a girl to be immodesty, or a man 
 to be dishonest? When men, in their pages, have been 
 described as dishonest and women as immodest, have they 
 not ever been punished? It is not for the novelist to say, 
 baldly and simply: "Because you lied here or were heart- 
 less there, because you, Lydia Bennet, forgot the lessons 
 of your honest home, or you. Earl Leicester, were false 
 through your ambition, or you, Beatrix, loved too well the 
 glitter of the world, therefore you shall be scourged with 
 scourges either in this world or in the next;" but it is for 
 him to show, as he carries on his tale, that his Lydia, or 
 his Leicester, or his Beatrix, will be dishonored in the 
 estimation of all readers, by his or her vices. Let a woman 
 be drawn clever, beautiful, attractive — so as to make men 
 love her, and women almost envy her — and let her be 
 made also heartless, unfeminine, and ambitious of evil 
 grandeur, as was Beatrix, what a danger is there not in 
 such a character! To the novelist who shall handle it,, 
 what peril of doing harm! But if at last it have been so 
 handled that every girl who reads of Beatrix shall say: 
 ^'Oh! not like that — let me not be like that!" and that 
 every youth shall say: ** Let me not liave such a one as 
 that to press to my bosom, anything rather than that!" — 
 then will not the novelist have preached his sermon as 
 perhaps no clergyman can preach it? 
 
 Very much of a novelist's work must appertain to the 
 intercourse between young men and young women. It is 
 admitted tliat a novel can hardly be made interesting or 
 successful without love. Some few miglit be named, but 
 even in those the attempt breaks down, and the softness 
 of love is found to bo necessary to complete the story, 
 *' Pickwick " has been named as an exception to the rule> 
 
172 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 but even in ''Pickwick" there are three or four sets of 
 lovers, whose little amatory longings give a softness to the 
 work. I tried it once with '' Miss Mackenzie," but I had 
 to make her fall in love at last. In this frequent allusion 
 to the passion which most stirs the imagination of the 
 young, there must be danger. Of that the writer of fic- 
 tion is probably well aware. Then the question has to be 
 asked, whether the danger may not be so averted that good 
 mav be the result — and to be answered. 
 
 In one respect the necessity of dealing with love is 
 advantageous — advantageous from the very circumstance 
 which has made love necessary to all novelists. It is 
 necessary, because the passion is one which interests or 
 has interested all. Every one feels it, has felt it, or ex- 
 pects to feel it — or else rejects it with an eagerness which 
 still perpetuates the interest. If the novelist, therefore, 
 can so handle the subject as to do good by his handling, 
 as to teach wholesome lessons in regard to love, the good 
 which he does will be very wide. If T can teach politi- 
 cians that they can do their business better by truth than 
 by falsehood, I do a great service; but it is done to a 
 limited number of persons. But if I can make young men 
 and women believe that truth in love will make them 
 happy, then, if my writings be popular, I shall have a 
 very large class of pupils. No doubt the cause for that 
 fear which did exist as to novels arose from an idea that 
 the matter of love would be treated in an inflammatory 
 and generally unwholesome manner. " Madam," says Sir 
 Anthony, in the play, ''a circulating library in a town is 
 an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge. It blossoms 
 through the year; and depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that 
 they who are so fond of handling the leaves will long for 
 the fruit at last." Sir Anthony was, no doubt, right. 
 But he takes it for granted that the longing for the fruit 
 is an evil. The novelist who writes of love thinks dif- 
 ferently, and thinks that the honest love of an honest man 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANtHONT TROLLOFE. 173 
 
 is a treasure which a good girl may fairly hope to win; and 
 that, if she can be taught to wish only for that, she will 
 have been taught to entertain only wholesome wishes. 
 
 I can easily believe that a girl should be taught to wish 
 to love by reading how Laura Bell loved Pendennis. Pen- 
 dennis was not, in truth, a very worthy man, nor did he 
 make a very good husband; but the girl's love was so 
 beautiful, and the wife's love, when she became a wife, so 
 womanlike, and at the same time so sweet, so unselfish, so 
 wifely, so worshipful — in the sense in which wives are told 
 that they ought to worship their husbands — that I cannot 
 believe that any girl can be injured, or even not benefited, 
 by reading of Laura's love. 
 
 There once used to be many who thought, and prob- 
 ably there still are some, even here in England, who 
 think that a girl should hear nothing of love till the time 
 €ome in which she is to be marriedr That, no doubt, was 
 the opinion of Sir Anthony Absolute and of Mrs. Mala- 
 prop. But I am hardly disposed to believe that the old 
 system was more favorable than ours to the purity of man- 
 ners. Lydia Languish, though she was constrained by fear 
 of her aunt to hide the book, yet had " Peregrine Pickle'' 
 in her collection. While human nature talks of love so 
 forcibly, it can hardly serve our turn to be silent on the 
 subject. " Naturam expellas furcd tamen itsque recurret" 
 There are countries in which it has been in accordance 
 with th^ manners of the upper classes that the girl 
 should be brought to marry the man almost out of the 
 nursery — or rather, perhaps, out of the convent — without 
 having enjoyed that freedom of thought which the read- 
 ing of novels and of poetry will certainly produce ; but I 
 do not know that the marriages so made have been thought 
 to be happier than our own. 
 
 Among Englifeh^ovels of the present day, and among 
 English noTeliets, a great division is made. There are 
 sensational noyels and anti-sensational, sensational novel- 
 
174 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 ists and anti-sensational, sensational readers and anti-sen- 
 sational. The novelists who are considered to be anti- 
 sensational are generally called realistic. I am realistic. 
 My friend Wilkie Collins is generally snpposed to be sen- 
 sational. The readers who prefer the one are supposed to 
 take delight in the elucidation of character. Those who 
 hold by the other are charmed by the ^continuation and 
 gradual development of a plot. All this is, I think, a 
 mistake — which mistake arises from the inability of the 
 imperfect artist to be at the same time realistic aud sen- 
 sational. A good novel should be both, and both in the 
 highest degree. If a novel fail in either, there is a failure in 
 art. Let those readers who believe that they do not like sen- 
 sational scenes in novels think of some of those passages 
 from our great novelists which have charmed them most: of 
 Rebecca in the castle with Ivanhoe; of Burley in the cave 
 with Morton; of the mad lady tearing the veil of the ex- 
 pectant bride, in ** Jane Eyre;'* of Lady Castlewood as, in 
 her indignation, she explains to the Duke of Hamilton 
 Henry Esmond's right to be present at the marriage of his 
 Grace with Beatrix — may I add, of Lady Mason, as she 
 makes her confession at the feet of Sir Peregrine Orme? 
 Will any one say that the authors of these passages have 
 sinned in being over-sensational? No doubt, a string of hor- 
 rible incidents, bound together without truth in detail, and 
 told as affecting personages without character — wooden 
 blocks, who cannot make themselves known to the reader 
 as men and women — does not instruct or amuse, or even 
 fill the mind with awe. Horrors heaped upon horrors, 
 and which are horrors only in themselves, and not as touch- 
 ing any recognized and known person, are not tragic, 
 and soon cease even to horrify. And such would-be tragic 
 elements of a story may be increased without end aud 
 without difficulty. I may tell you of ii woman murdered 
 — murdered in the same street with you, in the next 
 house; that she was a wife murdered by her husband— a 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 175 
 
 bride not yet a week a wife. I may add to it forever. I 
 may say that the murderer roasted her alive. There is no 
 end to it. I may declare that a former wife was treated 
 with equal barbarity; and may assert that, as the murder- 
 er was led away to execution, he declared his only sorrow, 
 his only regret, to be, that he could not live to treat a 
 third wife after the same fashion. There is nothing so 
 easy as the creation and the cumulation of fearful incidents 
 after this fashion. If such creation and cumulation be 
 the beginning and the end of the novelist's work — and 
 novels have been written which seem to be without other 
 attractions— nothing can be more dull or more useless. 
 But not on that account are we averse to tragedy in prose 
 fiction. As in poetry, so in prose, he who can deal ade- 
 quately with tragic elements is a greater artist and reaches 
 a higher aim than the writer whose efforts never carry 
 him above the mild walks of everyday life. The *' Bride 
 of Lammermoor" is a tragedy throughout, in spite of 
 its comic elements. The life of Lady Castlewood, of 
 whom I have spoken, is a tragedy. Rochester's wretched 
 thralldom to his mad wife, in '-Jane Eyre," is a tragedy. 
 But these stories charm us, not simply because they are 
 tragic, but because we feel that men and women with flesh 
 and blood, creatures with whom we can sympathize, are 
 struggling amid their woes. It all lies in that. No novel 
 is anything, for the purposes either of comedy or tragedy, 
 unless the reader can sympathize with the characters 
 whose names he finds' upon the pages. Let an author so 
 tell his tale as to touch his reader's heart and draw his 
 tears, and ho lias, so faV, done his work well. Truth let 
 there be— truth of description, truth of character, human 
 truth as to men and women. If there be such truth, I 
 do not know that a novel can be too sensational, 
 
 I did intend, when I meditated that history of English 
 fiction, to include within its pages some rules for the 
 •>vriting of novels; or, I might perhaps say, with more 
 
176 AUTOBIOGHAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 modesty, to offer some advice on the art to such tyros in 
 it as might be willing to take advantage of the experience 
 of an old hand. But the matter would, I fear, be too 
 long for this episode, and I am not sure that I have as yet 
 got the rules quite settled in my own mind. I will, how- 
 ever, say a few words on one or two points which my own 
 practice has pointed out to me. 
 
 I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when he 
 sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not be- 
 cause he has to tell a story, but because he has a story to 
 tell. The novelist's first novel will generally have sprung 
 from the right cause. Some series of events or some 
 development of character will have presented itself to his 
 imagination; and this he feels so strongly that he thinks 
 he can present his picture in strong and agreeable lan- 
 guage to others. He sits down and tells his story because 
 he has a story to tell; as you, my friend, when you have 
 heard something which has at once tickled your fancy or 
 moved your pathos, will hurry to tell it to the first person 
 you meet. But when that first novel has been received 
 graciously by the public and has made for itself a success, 
 then the writer, naturally feeling that the writing of 
 novels is within his grasp, looks about for something to 
 tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always success- 
 fully, and sits down to write, not because he has something 
 which he burns to tell, but because he feels it to be in- 
 cumbent on him to be telling something. As you, my 
 friend, if you are very successful in the telling of that first 
 story, will become ambitious of further story- telling, and 
 will look out for anecdotes— in the'narration of which you 
 will not improbably sometimes distress your audience. 
 
 So it has been with many novelists, who, after some 
 good work, perhaps after very much good work, have dis- 
 tressed their audience because they have gone on with 
 their Hvork till their work has become simply a Irade with 
 them. Need I make a list of such, seeing that it wouhl 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOITY TROLLOPE. 177 
 
 contain the names of those who have been greatest in the 
 art of British novel-writing. They have at hist become 
 weary of that portion of a novelist's work which is of all 
 the most essential to success. That a man, as he grows 
 old, should feel the labor of writing to be a fatigue is 
 natural enough. But a man to whom writing has become 
 a habit may write well though he be fatigued. But the 
 weary novelist refuses any longer to give his mind to that 
 work of observation and reception from which has come 
 his power, without which work his power cannot be con- 
 tinued — which work should be going on not only when 
 he is at his desk, but in all his walks abroad, in all liis 
 movements through the world, in all his intercourse with 
 his fellow-creatures. He has become a novelist, as another 
 has become a poet, because he has, in those walks abroad, 
 unconsciously, for the most part, been drawing in matter 
 from all that he has seen and heard. But this has not 
 been done without labor, even when the labor has been 
 unconscious. Then there comes a time when he shuts 
 his eyes and shuts his ears. When we talk of memory 
 fading as age comes on, it is such shutting of eyes and 
 ears that we mean. The things around cease to interest 
 us, and we cannot exercise our minds upon them. To the 
 novelist, thus wearied, there comes the demand for further 
 novels. He does not know his own defect, and even if he 
 did he does not wish to abandon his own profession. He 
 still writes; but he writes because he lias to tell a story, 
 not because he has a story to tell. What reader of novels 
 has not felt the '' woodcnncss " of this mode of tellins^ 
 The characters do not live and move, but are cut out of 
 blocks and are propped against the wall. The incidents 
 are arranged in certain lines — the arrangement being as 
 palpable to the reader as it has been to the writer — but di> 
 not follow each other as results naturally demanded by 
 previous action. The reader can never feel — as he ought 
 to feel — that only for that flame of the ey(^, only for that 
 
178 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOiJ^r TROLLOPE. 
 
 angrj word, only for that moment of weakneBs, all might 
 have been different. The course of the tale is one piece 
 of stiff mechanism, in which there is no room for a doubt. 
 These, it may be said, are reflections^ which I, being an 
 old novelist, might make useful to myself for discontinu- 
 ing my work, but can hardly be needed by those tyros of 
 whom I have spoken. That they are applicable to myself 
 I readily admit, but I also find that they apply to many 
 beginners. Some of us who are old fail at last because we 
 are old. It would be well that each of us should say to 
 iiimself, 
 
 " Solve senescentem mature sanus equum, ne 
 Peccet ad extremum ridendus." 
 
 But many young fail also, because they endeavor to tell 
 stories when they have none to tell. And this comes from 
 idleness rather than from innate incapacity. The mind 
 has not been sufficiently at work when the tale has been 
 ■commenced, nor is it kept sufficiently at work as the tale 
 is continued. I have never troubled myself much about 
 the construction of plots, and am not now insisting spe- 
 ■cially on thoroughness in a branch of work in which I. 
 myself have not been very thorough. I am not sure that 
 the construction of a perfected plot has been at any period 
 within my power. But the novelist has other aims than the 
 elucidation of his plot. He desires to make his readers so 
 intimately acquainted with his characters that the creatures 
 of his brain should *be to them speaking, moving, living, 
 human creatures. This he can never do unless he know 
 those fictitious personages himself, and he can never know 
 them unless he can live with them in the full reality of 
 established intimacy. They must be with him as he lies 
 down to sleep, and as he wakes from his dreams. He 
 must* learn to hate them and to love them. He must argue 
 with them, quarrel with them, forgive them, and even 
 submit to them. He must know of them whether they be 
 -cold-blooded or passionate, whether true or false, and how 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 17& 
 
 far trne, and bow far false. The depth and the breadth 
 and the narrowness and the shallowness of each should bo 
 clear to him. And, as here, in oar outer world, we know 
 that men and women change — become worse or better as^ 
 temptation or conscience may guide them — so should these 
 creations of his change, and every change should be noted 
 by him. On the last day of each month recorded, every 
 person in his novel should be a month older than on the 
 first. If the would-be novelist have aptitudes that way, 
 all this will come to him without much struggling; but if 
 it do not come, I think he can only make novels of 
 wood. 
 
 It is so that I have lived with my characters, and thence 
 has come whatever success I have obtained. There is a 
 gallery of them, and of all in that gallery I may say that I 
 know the tone of the voice, and the color of the hair, 
 every flame of the eye, and the very clothes they wear. Of 
 each man I could assert whether he would have said these 
 or the other words; of every woman whether she would 
 then have smiled or so have frowned. When I shall feel 
 that this intimacy ceases, then I shall know that the old 
 horse should be turned out to grass. That I shall feel it 
 when I ought to feel it I will by no means say. I do not 
 know that I am at all wiser than Gil Bias' canon; but I do 
 know that the power indicated is one without which xhe 
 teller of tales cannot tell them to any good effect. 
 
 The language in which the novelist is to put forth his 
 etory, the colors with which he is to paint his picture, 
 must, of course, be to him a matter of much consideration. 
 Let him have all other possible gifts— imagination, obser- 
 Tation, erudition, and industry — they will avail him noth- 
 ing for his purpose, unless he can put forth his work in 
 pleasant words. If he be confused, tedious, harsh, or in- 
 harmonious, readers will certainly reject him. The read- 
 ing of a volume of history or on science may represent 
 itself as a duty; and though the duty may by a bad style 
 
180 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 be made very disagreeable, tlie conscientious reader will, 
 perhaps, perform it. But the noyelist will be assisted by 
 no such feeling. Any reader may reject his work without 
 the burden of a sin. It is the first necessity of his position 
 that he make himself pleasant. To do this, much more is 
 necessary than to write correctly. He may, indeed, be 
 pleasant without being correct — as I think can be proved 
 by the works of more than one distinguished novelist. But 
 he must be intelligible— intelligible without trouble; and 
 he must be harmonious. 
 
 Any writer who has re/id even a little will know what is 
 meant by the word intelligible. It is not sufiBcient that 
 there be a meaning that may be hammered out of the sen- 
 tence, but that the language should be so pellucid that the 
 meaning should be rendered without an effort of the reader; 
 and not only some proposition of meaning, but the very 
 sense, no more and no less, which the writer has intended 
 to put into his words. What Macaulay says should be re- 
 membered by all writers: "How little the all-important 
 art of making meaning pellucid is studied now! Hardly 
 any popular author except myself thinks of it." The 
 language used should be as ready and as efficient a con- 
 ductor of the mind of the writer to the mind of^the reader 
 as is the electric spark which passes from one battery to 
 another battery. In all written matter the spark should 
 carry everything; but in matters recondite the recipient 
 will search to see that he misses nothing, and that he 
 takes nothing away too much. The novelist cannot ex- 
 pect that any such search will be made. A young writer, 
 who will acknowledge the truth of what I am saying, will 
 often feel himself tempted by the difficulties of language 
 to tell himself that some one little doubtful passage, some 
 single collocation of words, which is not quite what it 
 ought to be, will not matter. I know well what a stum- 
 bling-block such a passage may be. But he should leave 
 Done such behind him as he goes on. The habit of writing 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPfi. 181 
 
 clearly soon comes to the writer who is a severe critic to 
 himself. 
 
 As to that harmonious expression which I think is re- 
 quired, I shall find it more difficult to express my mean- 
 ing. It will be granted, I think, by readers, that a style 
 may be rough, and yet both forcible and intelligible; but 
 it will seldom come to pass tliat a novel written in a rough 
 style will be popular— and less often that a novelist who 
 habitually uses such a style will become soi The har- 
 mony which is required must come from the practice of the 
 ear. There are few ears naturally so dull that they cannot, 
 if time be allowed to them, decide whether a sentence, 
 when read, be or be not harmonious. And the sense of 
 such harmony grows on the ear, when the intelligence has 
 once informed itself as to what is, and what is not, har- 
 monious. The boy, for instance, who learns with accur- 
 acy the prosody of a Sapphic stanza, and has received 
 through his intelligence a knowledge of its parts, will soon 
 tell by his ear whether a Sapphic stanza be or be not cor- 
 rect. Take a girl, endowed with gifts of music, well in- 
 structed in her art, with perfect ear, and read to her such 
 a stanza with two words transposed, as, for instance — 
 
 " Mercuri, nam te docilis magistro 
 Movit Amphion canendo lapides, 
 Tuque testudo resonare septem 
 Callida nervis — " 
 
 and she will find no halt in the rhythm. But a school- 
 boy with none of her musical acquirements or capacities, 
 who has, however, become familiar with the meters of the 
 poet, will' at once discover the fault. And so will the 
 writer become familiar with what is harmonious in prose. 
 But in order that familiarity may serve him in his busi- 
 ness, he must so train his ear that he shall be able to 
 weigh the rhythm of every word as it falls from his pen. 
 This, when it has been done for a time, even for a short 
 time^ will ]3ecome so habitual to him that he will have ap- 
 
182 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 predated the metrical duration of every syllable before it 
 shall have dared to show itself upon paper. The art of 
 the orator is the same. He knows beforehand how each 
 sound which he is about to utter will affect the force of 
 his climax. If a writer will do so he will charm his read- 
 ers, though his readers will probably not know how they 
 have been charmed. 
 
 In writing a novel the author soon becomes aware that 
 a burden of many pages is before him. Circumstances re- 
 quire that he should cover a certain/ and generally not a 
 very confined, space. Short novels are not popular with 
 readers generally. Critics often complain of the ordinary 
 length of novels, of the three volumes, to which they are 
 subjected; but few novels which have attained great suc- 
 cess in England have been told in fewer pages. The 
 novel- writer who sticks to novel-writing as his profession 
 will certainly find that this burden of length is incumbent 
 on him. How shall he carry his burden to the end? How 
 shall he cover his space? Many great artists have by their 
 practice opposed the doctrine which I now propose to 
 preach; but they have succeeded, I think, in spite of their 
 fault,"and by dint of their greatness. There should be no 
 episodes in a novel. Every sentence, every word, through 
 all those pages, should tend to the telling of the story. Such 
 episodes distract the attention of the reader, and always 
 do so disagreeably. Who has not felt this to be the case, 
 even with *' The Curious Impertinent, *' and with the 
 '' History of the Man of the Hill." And if it be so with 
 Cervantes and Fielding, who can hope to succeed? Though 
 the novel which you have to write must be long, let it be 
 all one. And this exclusion of episodes should be carried 
 down into the smallest details. Every sentence and every 
 word used should tend to the telling of the story. " But,"' 
 the young novelist will say, '* with so many pages before 
 me to be filled, how shall I succeed, if I thus confine my- 
 self; how am I to know beforehand what space this story 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 183 
 
 of mine will require? There must be the three volumes, 
 or the certain number of magazine pages, which I have 
 oontracted to supply. If I« may not be discursive should 
 occasion require, how shall I complete my task? The 
 painter suits the size of his canvas to his subject, and must 
 I, in my art, stretch my subject to my canvas?" This un- 
 doubtedly must be done by the novelist; and if he will 
 learn his business, may be done without injury to his 
 -effect. He may not paint different pictures on the same 
 oanvas, which he will do, if he allow himself to wander 
 ^way to matters outside his own story; but by studying 
 proportion in his work, he may teach himself so to tell his 
 «torj that it shall naturally fall into the required length. 
 Though kis story should be all one, yet it may have many 
 parts. Though the plot itself may require but few char- 
 acters, it may be so enlarged as to find its full develop- 
 ment in many. There may be subsidiary plots, which 
 shall all tend to the elucidation of the main story, and 
 which will take their places as part of one and the same 
 work, as there may be many figures on a canvas, which 
 shall not to the spectator seem to form themselves into 
 separate pictures. 
 
 There is no portion of a novelist's work in which this 
 fault of episodes is so common as in the dialogue. It is 
 so easy to make any two persons talk on any casual subject, 
 with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant! 
 Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport, may thus be 
 handled in a loosely discursive Htyle; and the writer, while 
 indulging himself, and filling bis pages, is apt to think 
 that he is pleasing his reader. I think he can make no 
 greater mistake. The dialogue is generally the most agree- 
 able part of a novel; but it is only so as long as it tends in 
 some way to the telling of the main story. It need not 
 seem to be confined to that, but it should always have a 
 tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical 
 acumen of a reader is both just and severe. When a long 
 
184 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 dialogue on extraneous matter reaches his mind, he at 
 once feels that he is being cheated into taking something 
 which he did not bargain to accept when he took up that 
 novel. He does not at that moment require politics or 
 philosophy, but he wants his story. He will not, perhaps, 
 be able to say in so many words that at some certain point 
 the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does 
 so he will feel it, and the feeling will be unpleasant. Let 
 the intending novel-writer, if he doubt this, read one of 
 Bulwer's novels — in which there is very much to charm — 
 and then ask himself whether he has not been offended by 
 devious conversations. 
 
 And the dialogue, on which the modern novelist, in 
 consulting the taste of his probable readers, must depend 
 most, has to be constrained also by other rules. The 
 writer may tell much of his story in conversations, but he 
 may only do so by putting such words into the mouths of 
 his personages as persons so situated would probably use. 
 He is not allowed for the sake of his tale, to make his 
 characters give utterance to long speeches, such as are not 
 customarily heard from men and women. The ordinary 
 talk of ordinary people is carried on in short, sharp, ex- 
 pressive sentences, which, very frequently, are never com- 
 pleted, the language of which even among educated people 
 is often incorrect. The novel-writer, in constructing his 
 dialogue, must so steer between absolute accuracy of 
 language — which would give to liis conversation an air of 
 pedanrry — and the slovenly inaccuracy of ordinary talkers 
 — which, if closely followed, would offend by an appearance 
 of grimace — as to produce upon the car of his readers a 
 sense of reality. If he be quite real, he will seem to at- 
 tempt to be funny. If he be quite correct, he will seem to 
 be unreal. And above all, let the speeches be short. No 
 •character bhould utter much above a dozen words at a 
 breath, uiiks.s the writer can justify to himself a longer 
 flood of speech, by the speciality of the occasion. 
 
JLTXTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 185 
 
 In all this human nature must be the novel-writer's 
 guide. No doubt effective novels have been written in 
 which human nature has been set at defiance. I might 
 name *' Caleb Williams " as one, and **Adam Blair" as 
 another. But the exceptions are not more than enough to 
 prove the rule. But in following human nature he must 
 remember that he does so with a pen in his hand, and that 
 the reader who will appreciate human nature will also de- 
 mand artistic ability and literary aptitude. 
 
 The young novelist will probably ask, or more probably 
 bethink himself, how he is to acquire that knowledge of 
 human nature which will tell him with accuracy what men 
 and women would say in this or that position. He must 
 acquire it as the compositor, who is to print his words, has 
 learned the art of distributing his type — by constant and 
 intelligent practice. Unless it be given to him to listen 
 and to observe, so to carry away, as it were, the manners 
 of people in his memory, as to be able to say to himself, 
 with assurance, that these words might have been said in 
 a given position, and that those other words could not 
 have been said, I do not think that in these days he can 
 succeed as a novelist. 
 
 And then let him beware of creating tedium! Who has 
 not felt the charm of a spoken story up to a certain point, 
 and then suddenly become aware that it has become too 
 long, and is'the reverse of charming. It is not only that 
 the entire book may have this fault, but that this fault 
 may occur in chapters, in passages, in pages, in paragraphs. 
 I know no guard against this so likely to be effective as 
 the feeling of the writer himself. When once the sense 
 that the thing is becoming long has grown upon him, he 
 may be sure that it will grow upon his readers. I see the 
 smile of some, who will declare to themselves that the 
 words of a writer will never be tedious to himself. Of the 
 TFiiter pf whom this may be truly said, it may be said'vith 
 equal truth, that he will always be tedious to his readers. 
 
186 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ON ENGLISH NOVELISTS OF THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 In this chapter I will venture to name a few successful 
 novelists of my own time, with whose works I am ac- 
 quainted; and will endeavor to point whence their success 
 has come, and why they have failed when there has been 
 failure. 
 
 I do not hesitate to name Thackeray the first. His 
 knowledge of human nature was supreme, and his charac- 
 ters stand out as human beings, with a force and a truth 
 which has not, I think, been within the reach of any 
 other English novelist in any period. I know no character 
 in fiction, unless it be Don Quixote, with whom the reader 
 becomes so intimately acquainted as with Colonel New- 
 combe. How great a thing it is to be a gentleman at all 
 parts! How we admire the man of whom so much may 
 be said with truth ! Is there any one of whom we feel more 
 sure in this respect than of Colonel Newcombe? It is not 
 because Colonel Newcombe is a perfect gentleman that we 
 think Thackeray's work to have been so excellent, but 
 because he has had the power to describe him ^ssuch, and 
 to force us to love him, a weak and silly old man, on 
 account of this grace of character. 
 
 It is evident from all Thackeray's best work that he 
 lived with the characters he was creating. He had always 
 a story to tell until quite late in life; and he shows us that 
 this was so, not by the interest which he had in his own 
 plots, for I doubt whether his plots did occupy much of 
 his mind, but by convincing us that his characters were 
 alive to himself. With Becky Sharpe, with Lady Castle- 
 wood and her daughter, and with Esmond, with Warring- 
 ton, Pendennis, and the Major, with Colonel Newcombe 
 
AirrOBIOQRAPHY OF ANTHONT TROLLOPE. 187 
 
 and with Barry Lyndon, he must have lived in perpetual 
 intercourse. Therefore, he has made these personages 
 real to us. ^ 
 
 Among all our novelists his style is the purest, as to my 
 ear it is also the most harmonious. Sometimes it is dis- 
 figured by a slight touch of affectation, by little conceits 
 which sraell«of the oil; but the language is always lucid. 
 The reader, without labor, knows what he means, and 
 knows all that he liieans. As well as I can remember, he 
 deals with no episodes. I think that any critic, examin- 
 ing his work minutely, would find that every scene, and 
 every part of every scene, adds something to the clearness 
 with which the story is told. Among all his stories there 
 is not one which does not leave on the mind a feeling of 
 distress that women should ever be immodest or men dis- 
 honest, and of joy that women should be so devoted and 
 men so honest. How we hate the idle selfishness of Pen* 
 dennis, the worldliness of Beatrix, the craft of Becky 
 Sharpe! how we love the honesty of Colonel Newcombe, 
 the nobility of Esmond, and the devoted affection of Mrs. 
 Pendennis! The hatred of evil and love of good can hardly 
 have come upon so many readers without doing much good. 
 
 Late in Thackeray's life — he never was an old man, but 
 toward the end of his career — he failed in his power of 
 charming, because he allowed his mind to become idle. In 
 the plots which he conceived, and in the language which 
 he used, I do not know that there is any perceptible 
 change; but in ** The Virginians " and in " Philip " the 
 reader is introduced to no character with which he makes 
 A close and undying acquaintance. And this, I have no 
 doubt, is so because Thackeray himself had no such in- 
 timacy. His mind had come to be weary of that fictitious 
 life which is always demanding the labor of new creation, 
 and he troubled himself with his two Virginians and his 
 Philip only when he was seated at his desk. 
 At the present moment George Eliot is the first of 
 
188 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 English novelists, and I am disposed to^ place her second 
 of those of my time. She is best known to the literary 
 world as a writer of prose fiction, and not improbably 
 whatever of permanent fame she may acquire will come 
 froDrf her novels. But the nature of her intellect is very 
 far removed indeed from that which is common to the 
 tellers of stories. Her imagination is, no floubt, strong, 
 but it acts in analyzing rather than in creating. Every- 
 thing that comes before her is pulled to pieces so that the 
 inside of it shall be seen, and be seen, if possible, by her 
 readers as clearly as by herself. This searching analysis 
 is carried so far that, in studying her later writings, one 
 feels one's self to be in company with some philosopher 
 rather than with a novelist. I doubt whether any young 
 person can read with pleasure either "Felix Holt/' 
 "Middlemarch," or "Daniel Deronda," I know that 
 they are very difficult to many that are not young. 
 
 Her personifications of character have been singularly 
 terse and graphic, and from them has come her great 
 hold on the public, though by no means the greatest effect 
 which she has produced. The lessons which she teaches 
 remain, though it is not for the sake of the lessons that 
 her pages are read. Seth Bede, Adam Bede, Maggie and 
 Tom Tulliver, old Silas Marner, and, much above all, 
 Tito, in "Komola," are characters which, when once 
 known, can never be forgotten. I cannot say quite so- 
 much for any of those in her later works, because in them 
 the philosopher so greatly overtops the portrait painter^ 
 that, in the dissection of the mind, the outward signs 
 seem to have been forgotten. In her, as yet, there is no- 
 symptom whatever of that weariness of mind which, 
 when felt by the reader, induces him to declare that the 
 author has written himself out. It is not from decadence 
 that we do not have another Mrs. Poyser, but because the 
 author soars to things which seem to her to be higher thaa 
 Mrs. Poyser. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. IS^ 
 
 It is, I think, the defect of George Eliot that she strug- 
 gles too hard to do work that shall be excellent. She lacks 
 ease. Latterly the signs of this have been conspicuous in 
 her style, which has always been and is singularly correct, 
 but which has become occasionally obscure from her toa 
 great desire to be pungent. It is impossible not to feel 
 the struggle, and that feeling begets a flavor of affecta- 
 tion. In "Daniel Deronda," of which at this moment 
 only a portion has been published, there are sentences 
 which I have found myself compelled to read three times 
 before I have been able to take home to myself all that the 
 writer has intended. Perhaps I may be permitted here to 
 say, that this gifted woman was among my dearest and most 
 intimate friends. As I am speaking here of novelists, I 
 will not attempt to speak of George Eliot's merit as a 
 poet. 
 
 There can be no doubt that the most popular novelist of 
 my time — probably the most popular English novelist of 
 any time — has been Charles Dickens. He has now been 
 dead nearly six years, and the sale of his books goes on as 
 it did during his life. The certainty with which his novels 
 are found in every house — the familiarity of his name in 
 all English-speaking countries — the popularity of such 
 characters as Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, and Pecksniff, and 
 many others whose names have entered into the English 
 language and become well-known words — the grief of the 
 country at his death, and the honors paid to hirtri at his 
 funeral, all testify to his .popularity. Since the List book 
 he wrote himself, I doubt whether any book has been so 
 popular as his biography by John Forster. There is no 
 withstanding such testimony as this. Such evidence of 
 popular appreciation should go for very much, almost for 
 everything, in criticism on the work of a novelist. The 
 primary object of a novelist is to please; and this man's 
 novels have been found more pleasant than those of any 
 other writer. It might, of course, be objected to this. 
 
190 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 that though the hooks have pleased, they have been injuri- 
 ous, that their tendency has been immoral and their teach- 
 ing vicious; but it is almost needless to say that no such 
 charge has ever been made against Dickene. His teaching 
 has ever been good. From all which, there arises to the 
 critic a question whether, with such evidence against him 
 as to the excellence of this writer, he should not subor- 
 dinate his own opinion to the collected opinion of the 
 world of readers. To me it almost seems that I must be 
 wrong to place Dickens after Thackeray and George Eliot, 
 knowing as I do that so great a majority put him above 
 those authors. 
 
 My own peculiar idiosyncrasy in the matter forbids me 
 to do so. I do acknowledge that Mrs. Gramp, Micawber, 
 Pecksniff, and others have become household words in 
 every house, as though they were human beings; but to 
 my judgment they are not human beings, nor are any of 
 the characters human which Dickens has portrayed. It 
 has been the peculiarity and the marvel of this man's 
 power that he has invested his puppets with a charm that 
 has enabled him to dispense with human nature. There 
 is a drollery about them, in my estimation, very much 
 below the humor of Thackeray, but which has reached 
 the intellect of all; while Thackeray's humor has escaped 
 the intellect of many. Nor is the pathos of Dickens 
 human. It is stagey and* melo-dramatic. But it is so 
 expreseed that it touches every heart a little. There is no 
 real life in Smike. His misery, his idiotcy, his devotion 
 for Nicholas, his love for Kate, are all overdone and in- 
 compatible with each other. But still the reader sheds a 
 tear. Every reader can find a tear for Smike. Dickens's 
 novels are like Boucicault's plays. lie has known how to 
 draw his lines broadly, so that all should see the color. 
 
 He, too, in his best days, always lived with his char- 
 acters; and he, too, as he gradually ceased to have the 
 power of doing so, ceased to charm. Though they are not 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY tROLLOPB. 191 
 
 hnman beings, we all remember Mrs. Gamp and Pickwick. 
 The Boffins and Veneerings do not, 1 think, dwell in the 
 minds of so many. 
 
 Of Dickens's style it is impossible to "speak in praise. 
 It is jerky, nugrammatical, and created by himself in de- 
 fiance of rules — almost as completely as that created by 
 Garlyle. To readers who have taught themselves to regard 
 language, it must, therefore, be unpleasant. But the 
 critic is driven to feel the weakness of his criticism,, 
 when he acknowledges to himself — as he is compelled in 
 all honesty to do — that with the language, such as it is, 
 the writer has satisfied the great mass of the readers of 
 his country. Both these great writers have satisfied the 
 readers of their own pages; but both have done infinite 
 harm by creating a school of imitators. No young- 
 novelist should ever dare to imitate the style of Dickens. 
 If such a one wants a model for his language, let him take- 
 Thackeray. 
 
 Bulwer, or Lord Lytton — but I think that he is still 
 better known by his earlier name — was a man of very great- 
 parts. Better educated than either of those I have named 
 before him, he was always able to use his erudition, and he 
 thus produced novels from which very much not only may 
 be, but must be, learned by his readers. He thoroughly 
 understood the political status of his own country, a sub- 
 ject on which, I think, Dickens was marvelously ignorant, 
 and which Thackeray had never studied. He had read 
 extensively, and was always apt to give his readers the 
 benefit of what he knew. The result has been that very 
 much more than amusement may be obtained from Bul- 
 wer'e novels. There is also a brightness about them — the 
 result rather of thought than of imagination, of study and 
 of care, than of mere intellect — which has made many of 
 them excellent in their way. It is perhaps improper to 
 class all his novels together, as he wrote in varied manners, 
 making in his earlier works, such as ** Pelham " and 
 
19i AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 *' Ernest Maltravers," pictures of a fictitious life, and 
 afterward pictures of life as he believed it to be, as in 
 '' My Novel " aud ** The Ca-xtons." But from all of them 
 there comes the same flavor of an effort to produce effect. 
 The effects are produced, but it would have been better if 
 the flavor had not been there. 
 
 I cannot say of Bulwer as I have of the other novelists 
 whom I have named, that he lived with his characters. 
 He lived with his work, with the doctrines which at the 
 time he wished to preach, thinking always of the effects 
 whi(5h he wished to preach; but I do not think he ever 
 knew his own personages, and therefore neither do we 
 know them. Even Pelham and Eugene Aram are not 
 human beings to us, as are Pickwick and Colonel Newcome 
 and Mrs. Poyser. 
 
 In his plots Bulwer has generally been simple, facile, 
 and successful. The reader never feels with him, as he 
 does with Wilkie Collins, that it is all plot, or, as with 
 George Eliot, that there is no plot. The story comes nat- 
 urally, without calling for too much attention, and is thus 
 proof of the completeness of the man's intellect. His lan- 
 guage is clear, good, intelligible English, but it is defaced 
 by mannerism. In all that he did, affectation was his fault. 
 
 How shall I speak of my dear old friend Charles Lever, 
 and his rattling, jolly, joyous, swearing Irishmen. Surely 
 never did a sense of vitality come so constantly from a 
 man's pen, nor from man's voice, as from his! I knew 
 him well for many years, and whether in sickness or in 
 health I have never come across him without finding him 
 to be running over with wit and fun. Of all the men I 
 have encountered, he was the surest fund of drollery, I 
 have known many witty men, many who could say good 
 things, many who would sometimes be ready to say them 
 when wanted, though they would sometimes fail — but he 
 never failed. Rouse him in the middle of the night, and 
 wit would come from him before he was half awake. And 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 193 
 
 yet he never monopolized the talk, was never a bore. He 
 would take no more than his own share of the words 
 spoken, and would yet seem to brighten all that was said 
 daring the night. His earlier novels— the later I have not 
 read— are just like his conversation. The fun never flags, 
 and to me, when I read them, they were never tedious. 
 As to character, he can hardly be said to have produced 
 it. Corney Delauey, the old man-servant, may perhaps be 
 named as an exception. 
 
 Lever's novels will not live long, even if they may be 
 said to be alive now, because it is so. What was his man- 
 ner of working I do not know, but I should think it must 
 have been very quick, and that he never troubled himself 
 on the subject, except when he was seated with a pen in 
 his hand. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte was surely a marvelous woman. If it 
 could be riglit to judge the work of a novelist from one 
 small portion of one novel, and to say of an author that 
 he is to be accounted as strong as he shows himself to be 
 in his strongest morsel of work, I should be inclined to put 
 Miss Bronte very high indeed. I know no interest more 
 thrilling than that which she has been able to throw into 
 the characters of Rochester and the governess, in the secr 
 ond volume of **Jane Eyre."^ She lived with those 
 characters, and felt every fiber of the heart, the longings of 
 the one and the sufferings of the other. And therefore, 
 though the end of the book is weak, and the beginning not 
 very good, I venture to predict that ''Jane Eyre" will be 
 read among English novels when many whose names are 
 now better known shall have been forgotten. "Jane 
 Eyre " and " Esmond " and *' Adam Bede" will be in the 
 hands of our grandchildren when "Pickwick" and 
 " Pelham " and " Harry Lorrequer " are forgotten; because 
 the men and women depicted are human in their aspira- 
 tions, human in their sympathies, and human in their 
 actions. 
 
 T 
 
194 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 In ''Villette," too, and in ''Shirley," there is to be 
 found human life as natural and as real, though in circum- 
 stances not so full of interest as those told in "Jane 
 Eyre." The character of Paul, in tlie former of the two, 
 is a wonderful study. She must herself have bee*i in love 
 ■with some Paul when she wrote the book, and have been 
 determined ta prove to herself that she was capable of lov- 
 ing one whose exterior circumstances were mean and in 
 every way unprepossessing. 
 
 There is uo writer of the present day who has so much 
 puzzled me by his eccentricities, impracticabilities, and 
 capabilities as Charles Reade. I look upon him as endowed 
 almost with genius, but as one who has not been gifted 
 by nature with ordinary powers of reasoning. He can see 
 what is grandly noble, and admire it with all his heart. 
 He can see, too, what is foully vicious, and hate it with 
 equal ardor. But in the common affairs of life he cannot 
 see what is right or wrong; and as he is altogether un- 
 willing to be guided by the opinion of others, he is con- 
 stantly making mistakes in liis litefary career, and sub- 
 jecting himself to reproach which he hardly deserves. He 
 means to be honest. He means to be especially honest, 
 more honest than other people. He has written a book 
 called " The Eighth Commandment," on behalf of honesty 
 in literary transactions— a wonderful work, which has, 
 I believe, been read by a very few. I never saw a copy 
 except that in my own library, or heard of any one who 
 knew the book. Nevertheless it is a volume that must 
 have taken very great labor, and have been written— as, 
 indeed, he declares that it was written— without the hope 
 of pecuniary reward. He makes un appeal to the British 
 parliament and British people on behalf of literary honesty, 
 declaring that, should he fail— "I shall have to go on 
 blushing for the people I was born among." And yet, of 
 all the writers of my day, he has seemed to me to under- 
 stand literary honesty the least. On one occasion, as he 
 
AUTOBIOGRA.PHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 195 
 
 tells US in this book, he bought for a certain sum, from a 
 Freucb author, the right of using a plot taken from a play, 
 which he probably might have used without such purchase, 
 and also without infringing any international copyright act. 
 The French author not unnaturally praises him for the 
 transaction, telling him that he is '' un vrai gentleman." 
 The plot was used by Reade in a novel; and a critic, dis- 
 covering the adaptation, made known his discovery to the 
 public. Whereupon tiie novelist became angry, called his 
 critic a pseudonymuucle, and defended himself by stating 
 the fact of his own purchase. In all this he seems to me 
 to ignore what we all mean when we talk of literary 
 plagiarism and literary honesty. The sin of which the 
 author is accused is not that of taking another man's prop- 
 erty, but of passing oS as his own creation that which he 
 does not himself create. When an author puts his name to 
 a book be claims to have written all that there is therein, 
 unless he makes direct sigaification to the contrary. Some 
 years subsequently there arose another similar question, 
 in which Mr. Readers opinion was declared even more 
 plainly, and certainly very much more publicly. In a tale 
 which he wrote he inserted a dialogue which he took from 
 Swift, and took without any acknowledgment. As might 
 have been expected, one of the critics of the day fell foul 
 of him for this barefaced plagiarism. The author, how- 
 ever, defended himself, with much abuse of the critic, by 
 asserting, that whereas Swift had found the jewel, he 
 had snpplied the setting— an argument in which there 
 was some little wit, and would have been much excellent 
 truth, had he given the words a belonging to Swift and 
 not to himself. 
 
 The novels of a man possessed of so singular a mind 
 must themselves be very strange— and they are strange. 
 It has generally been his object to write down some abuse 
 with which he has been particularly struck — the harshness, 
 for instance, with which paupers or .lunatics are treated, 
 
196 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 or the wickedness of certain classes — and he always, I 
 think, leaves upon his readers an idea of great earnestness 
 of purpose. But he has always left, at the same time, on 
 my mind so strong a conviction that he has not really un- 
 derstood his subject, that I have ever found myself taking 
 the part of those whom he has accused. So good a heart, 
 and so wrong a head, surely no novelist ever before had 
 combined! In story-telling he has occasionally been al- 
 most great. Among his novels I would especially recom- 
 mend *' The Cloister and the Hearth." I do not know 
 that in this work, or in any, that he has left a character 
 that will remain: but he has written some of his scenes so 
 brightly that to read them would always be a pleasure. 
 
 Of Wilkie Collins it is impossible for a true critic not 
 to speak with admiration, because he has excelled all his 
 contemporaries in a certain most difficult branch of his 
 art; but as it is a branch which I have not myself at. all 
 cultivated, it is not unnatural^ that his work should be 
 very much lost upon me individually. When I eit down 
 to write a novel I do not at all know, and I do not very 
 much care, how it is to end. Wilkie Collins seems so to 
 construct his that he not only, before writing, plans every- 
 thing on, down to the minutest detail, from the begin- 
 ning to the end; but then plots it all back again, to see 
 that there is no piece of necessary dovetailing which does 
 not dovetail with absolute accuracy. The construction is 
 most minute and most wonderful. But I can never lose 
 the taste of the construction. The author seems always 
 to be warning me to remember that something happened 
 at exactly half-past two o'clock on Tuesday morning; or 
 that a woman disappeared from the road just fifteen yards 
 beyond the fourth mile-stone. One is constrained by 
 mysteries and hemmed in by difficulties, knowing, how- 
 ever, that the mysteries will be made clear, and the diffi- 
 culties overcome, at the end of the third volume. Such 
 work gives me no pleasure. I am, however, quite pre- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPB 1^7 
 
 pared to acknowledge that the want of pleasure comes 
 from fault of my intellect. 
 
 There are two ladies of whom T would fain say a word, 
 though I feel that I am making my list too long, in order 
 that I may declare how much I have admired their work. 
 They are Anne Thackeray and Rhoda Broughton. I have 
 known them both, and have loved the former almost as 
 though she belonged to me. No two writers were ever 
 more dissimilar, except in this that they are both feminine. 
 Miss Thackeray^s characters are sweet, charming, and 
 quite true to human nature. In her writing she is always 
 endeavoring to prove that good produces good, and evil 
 evil. There is not a line of which she need be ashamed, 
 not a sentiment of which she should not be proud. But 
 she writes like a lazy writer who dislikes her work, and who 
 allows her own want of energy to show itself in her pages. 
 
 Miss Broughton, on the other hand, is full of energy — 
 though she, too, I think, can become tired over her work. 
 She, however, does take the trouble to make her personages 
 stand upright on the ground. And she has the gift of 
 making them speak as men and women do speak. '* You 
 beast!" said Nancy, sitting on the wall, to the man who 
 was to be her husband — thinking that she was speaking to 
 her brother. Now Nancy, whether right or wrong, was 
 just the girl who would, as circumstances then were, have 
 called her brother a beast. There is nothing wooden about 
 any of Miss Broughton's novels — and in these days so many 
 novels are wooden! But they are not sweet-savored as are 
 those by Miss Thackeray, and are, therefore, less true to 
 nature. In Miss Broughton's determination not to be 
 mawkish and missish, she has made her ladies do and say 
 things which ladies would not do and say. They throw 
 themselves at men's heads, and when they are not accepted 
 only think how they may throw themselves again. Miss 
 Broughton is still so young that I hope she may live to 
 overcome her fault in this direction. 
 
198 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 There is one other name, without which the list of tfie 
 best-known English novelists of my own time would cer- 
 tainly be incomplete, and that is the name of the present 
 prime-minister of England. Mr. Disraeli has written so 
 many novels, and has been so popular as a novelist that, 
 wliether for good or for ill, I feel myself compelled to 
 speak of him. He began his career as an author early in 
 life, publishing ''Vivian Grey" when he was twenty- 
 tliree years old. He was very young for such work, though 
 hardly young enough to justify the excuse that he makes 
 in his own preface, that it is a book written by a boy. 
 Dickens was, I think, younger when he wrote, his 
 '* Sketches by Boz," and as young when he was writing 
 the ** Pickwick Papers." It was hardly longer ago than 
 the other day when Mr. Disraeli brought out "Lothair," 
 and between the two there were eight or ten others. To 
 me they have all had the same flavor of paint and unreality. 
 In whatever he has written he has affected something 
 which has been intended to strike his readers as uncom- 
 mon, and therefore grand. Because he has been bright 
 and a man of genius, he has carried his object as regards 
 the young. He has struck them with astonishment, and 
 aroused in their imagination ideas of a world more glori- 
 ous, more rich, more witty, more enterprising, than their 
 own. But the glory has been the glory of pasteboard, and 
 the wealth has been a wealth of tinsel. The wit has 
 been the wit of hair-dressers, and the enterprise has been 
 the enterprise of mountebanks. An audacious conjurer 
 has generally been his hero — some youth who, by wonder- 
 ful cleverness, can obtain success by every intrigue that 
 comes to his hand. Through it all there is a feeling of 
 stage properties, a smell of hair-oil, an aspect of buhl, a 
 remembrance of tailors, and that pricking of the con- 
 science which must be the general accompaniment of paste 
 diamonds. I can understand that Mr. Disraeli should, by 
 his novels, have instigated many a young man and many 
 
AIJTOBIOOUAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 199 
 
 a young woman on their way in life, but I cannot under- 
 stand that he should have instigated any one to good. 
 Vivian Grey has had probably as many followers as Jack 
 Sheppard, and has led his followers in the same direction. 
 **Lothair," which is as yet Mr". Disraeli's last work, 
 and, I think, undoubtedly his worst, has been defended 
 on a plea somewhat similar to that by which he has de- 
 feuded *' Vivian Grey." As that was written when he was 
 too young, so was the other when he was too old — too old 
 for work of that nature, though not too old to be prime- 
 minister. If his mind were so occupied with greater 
 things as to allow him to Write such a work, yet his judg- 
 ment should have sufficed to induce him to destroy it when 
 written. Here that flavor of hair-oil, that flavor of false 
 jewels, that remembranxie of tailors, comes out stronger 
 than in all the others. Lothair is falser even that Vivian 
 Grey, and Lady Corysaud, the daughter of the duchess, 
 more inane and unwomanlike than Venetia or Henrietta 
 Temple. It is the very bathos of story- telling. I have 
 often lamented, and have as often excused to myself, that 
 lack of public judgment which enables readers to put up 
 with bad work because it comes from good or from lofty 
 hands. I never felt the feeling so strongly, or was so 
 little able to excuse., it, as when a portion of the reading 
 public received "Lothair" with satisfaction. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON CRITICISM. 
 
 Literary criticism in the present day has become a 
 profession— but it has ceased to be an art. Its object is 
 no longer that of proving that certain literary work is 
 good, and other literary work is bad, in accordance with 
 rules which the critic is able to define. English criticism 
 at present rarely even pretends to go so far as this. It 
 ttttempV in the first place, to tell the public whether a 
 
200 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 book be or be not worth public attention; and, in the 
 second place, so to describe the purport of the work as to 
 enable those who have not time or inclination for reading 
 it to feel that by a short-cut they can become acquainted 
 with its contents. Both these objects, if fairly well car- 
 ried out, are salutary. Though the critic may not be a 
 profound judge himself, though not unfrequently he be a 
 young man making his first literary attempts, with tastes 
 and judgment still unfixed, yet he probably has a con- 
 science in the matter, and would not have been selected for 
 that work had he not shown some aptitude for it. Though 
 he may not be the best possible guide to the undiscerniug, 
 he will be better than no guide at all. Eeal substantial 
 criticism must, from its nature, be costly, and that which 
 the public wants should, at any- rate, be cheap. Advice 
 is given to many thousands, which, though it may not be 
 the best advice possible, is better than no advice at all. 
 Then that description of the work criticised, that com- 
 pressing of the much into very little — which is the work 
 of many modern critics or reviewers — does enable many to 
 know something of what is being said, who without it 
 would know nothing. 
 
 I do not think it is incumbent on me at present to name 
 periodicals in which this work is well done, and to make 
 complaints of others by which it is scamped. I should 
 give offense, and might probably be unjust. But I think 
 I may certainly say that as some of these periodicals are 
 certainly entitled to great praise for the manner in whicli 
 the work is done generally, so are others open to very 
 severe censure — and that the praise and that the censure 
 are chiefly due on behalf of one virtue audits opposite 
 vice. It is not critical ability that we have a right to de- 
 mand, or its absence that we are bound to deplore. Crit- 
 ical ability for the price we pay is not attainable. It is a 
 faculty not peculiar to Englishmen, and when displayed 
 is very frequently not appreciated. But that critics should 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TItOLLOPE. 201 
 
 be honest we have a right to demand, and critical dis- 
 honesty we are bound to expose. If the writer will tell 
 us what he thinks, though his thoughts be absolutely 
 vague and useless, we can forgive him; but when he tells 
 us what he does not think, actuated either by friendship 
 or by animosity, then there should be no pardon for him. 
 This is the sin in modern English criticism of which there 
 is most reason to complain. 
 
 It is a lamentable fact that men and women lend them- 
 selves to this practice who are neither vindictive nor ordi- 
 narily dishonest. It has become ** the custom of the trade," 
 under the veil of which excuse so many tradesmen justify 
 their malpractices. When a struggling author learns 
 that so much has been done ^for A by the Barsetshire 
 Gazette, so much for B by the Dillshorough Herald, and, < 
 again, so much for by that powerful metropolitan organ 
 the Evening Pulpit, and is told also that A and B and C 
 have been favored through personal interest, he also goes to 
 work among the editors, or the editors' wives— or, perhaps, 
 if he cannot reach their wives, with their wives' first or 
 second cousins. When once the feeling has come upon an 
 editor or a critic that he may allow hiifiself to be influenced 
 by other considerations than the duty he owes to the public, 
 all sense of critical or of editorial honesty falls from him 
 at once. Pacilis descensus A verni. In a very short time 
 that editorial honesty becomes ridiculous to himself. It 
 is for other purpose that he wields the power; and when 
 he is told what is his duty, and what should be his con- 
 duct, the preacher of such doctrine seems to him to be 
 quixotic. " Where have you lived, my friend, for the last 
 twenty years," he says in spirit, if not in word, '* that you 
 come out now with such stuff as old-fashioned as this?" And 
 thus dishonesty begets dishonesty, till dishonesty seems to 
 be beautiful. How nice to be good-natured I How glo- 
 rious to assist struggling young authors, especially if the 
 young author be ftlso a pretty y^omml How gracious to 
 
202 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 oblige a friend! Then the motive, though still pleasing, 
 departs further from the border of what is good. In what 
 way can the critic better repay the hospitality • of his 
 wealthy literary friend than by good-natured criticism, or 
 more certainly insure for himself a conuinuation of hoBpi- 
 table favors? 
 
 Some years since a critic of the day, a gentleman well 
 known then in literary circles, showed me the manuscript 
 of a book recently published, the work of a popular author. 
 It was handsomely bound, and was a valuable and desirable 
 possession. If had just been given to him by the author, 
 as an acknowledgment for a laudatory review in one of the 
 leading journals of the day. As I was expressly asked 
 whether I did not regard such a token as a sign of grace 
 t)oth in the giver and in the receiver, I said that I thought 
 it should neither have been given nor have been taken. 
 My theory was repudiated with scorn, and I was told that 
 I was strait-laced, visionary and impracticable! In all 
 that the damage did not lie in the fact of that one present, 
 but in the feeling on the part of the critic that his office 
 was not debased by the acceptance of presents from those 
 whom he criticised. This man was a professional critic, 
 bound by his contract with certain employers to review 
 such books as were sent to him. How could he^ when he 
 had received a valuable present for praising one book, 
 censure another by the same author? 
 
 While I write this I well know that what I «ay, if it be 
 ever noticed at all, will be taken as a straining at gnats, as 
 a pretense of honesty, or, at any rate, as an exaggeration 
 of scruples. I have said the same thing before, and have 
 been ridiculed for saying it. But none the less am I sure 
 that English literature generally is suffering much under 
 this evil. All those who are struggling for success have 
 forced upon them the idea that their strongest efforts 
 should be made in touting for praise. Those who are not 
 familiar with the lives of authors will hardly believe how 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 203 
 
 low will be the forms which their struggles will take; how 
 •little presents will be sent to men who write little articles; 
 how much flattery may be expended, even on the. keeper 
 of a circulating library; with what profuse and distant 
 genuflexions approaches are make to the outside railing of 
 the temple which contains within it the great thunderer 
 of some metropolitan periodical publication! The evil 
 here is not only that done to the public when interested 
 counsel is given to them, but extends to the debasement of 
 those who have, at any rate, considered themselves fit to 
 provide literature for the public. 
 
 I am satisfied that the remedy for this evil must lie in 
 the conscience and deportment of authors themselves. If 
 once the feeling could be produced that it is disgraceful 
 for an author to ask for praise — and demands for praise 
 are, I think, disgraceful in every walk of life — the prac- 
 tice would gradually fall into the hands only of the lowest, 
 and that which is done only by the lowest soi^n becomes 
 despicable even to them. The sin, when perpetuated with 
 unflagging labor, brings with it at best very poor reward. 
 That work of running after critics, editors, publishers, the 
 keepers of circulating libraries, and their clerks, is very 
 hard, and must be very disagreeable. He who does it 
 must feel himself to be dishonored — or she. It may, per- 
 haps, help to sell an edition, but can never make an author 
 successful. 
 
 I think it may be laid. down as a golden rule in literature 
 that there should be no intercourse at all between an 
 author and his critic. The critic, as critic, sliould not 
 know his author, nor the author, as author, his critic. 
 As censure should beget no anger, so should praise beget 
 no gratitude. The young author should feel that criti- 
 cisms fall upon him as dew or hail from heaven — which, 
 as coming from heaven, man accepts as fate. Praise let 
 the author try to obtain by wholesome efPort; censure let 
 him avoid, if possible, by care and industry. But when 
 
^04 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 they come, let him take them as coming from some source 
 which he cannot influence, and with which he should not* 
 meddle. 
 
 I know no more disagreeable trouble into which an 
 author may plunge himself than that of a quarrel with 
 his critics, or any more useless labor than that of answer- 
 ing them. It is wise to presume, at any rate, that the re- 
 viewer has simply done his duty, and has spoken of the 
 book according to the dictates of his conscience. Nothing 
 can be gained by combating the reviewer's opinion. If the 
 book which he has disparaged be good, his judgment will 
 be condemned by the praise of others; if bad, his judgment 
 will be confirmed by others. Or if, unfortunately, the criti- 
 cism of the day be in so evil a condition generally that 
 such ultimate truth cannot be expected, the author may 
 be sure that his efforts made on behalf of his own book 
 will not set matters right. If injustice be done him, let 
 him bear i#. To do so is consonant with the dignity of 
 the position which he ought to assume. To shriek, and 
 scream, and sputter, to threaten actions, and to swear 
 about the town that he has been belied and defamed in 
 that he has been accused of bad grammar or a false meta- 
 phor, of a dull chapter, or even of a borrowed heroine, 
 will leave on the minds of the public nothing but a sense 
 of irritated impotence. 
 
 If, indeed, there should spring from an author's work 
 any assertion by a critic injurious to the author's honor, 
 if the author be accused of falsehood or of personal mo- 
 tives which are discreditable to him, then, indeed, he may 
 be bound to answer the charge. It is hoped, however, 
 that he may be able to do so with clean hands, or he will 
 so stir the mud in the pool as to come forth dirtier than 
 he went into it. 
 
 I have lived much among men by whom the English 
 criticism of tlio day has been vehemently abused. I have 
 heard it said that to the public it is a false guide, and that 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 206 
 
 to authors it is never a trustworthy mentor, I do not 
 concur .in this wholesale censure. There is, of course, 
 criticism and criticism. There are at this moment one or 
 two periodicals to which both public and authors may 
 safely look for guidance, though there are many others from 
 which no spark of literary advantage may be obtained. But 
 it is well that both public and authors should know what 
 is the advantage which they have a right to expect. There 
 have been critics-^and there probably will be again, though 
 the circumstances of English literature do not tend to pro- 
 duce them — with power sufficient to entitle them to speak 
 with authority. These great men have declared, tanquam 
 ex cathedrdj that such a book has been so far good and so 
 far bad, or that it has been altogether good or altogether 
 bad; and the world has believed them. When making 
 such assertions they have given their reasons, explained 
 their causes, and have carried conviction. Very great 
 reputations have been achieved by such critics, but not 
 without infinite study and the labor of many years. 
 
 Such are not the critics of the day, of whom we are now 
 speaking. In the literary world as it lives at present some 
 writer is selected for the plaoe of cdtic to a newspaper, 
 generally some young writer, who for so many shillings a 
 column shall review whatever book is sent to him and ex- 
 press an opinion— reading the book through for the pur- 
 pose, if the amount of honorarium as measured, with the 
 amount of labor will enable him to do so. A laborer must 
 measure his work by his pay or he cannot live. From 
 criticism such as this must for the most part be, the gen- 
 eral reader has no right to expect philosophical analysis, 
 or literary judgment on which confidence may be placed. 
 But he probably may believe that the books praised will 
 be better than the books censured, and that those which 
 are praised by periodicals which never censure are better 
 worth his attention than those which are not noticed. 
 And readers will also find that by devoting an hour or two 
 
206 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 
 
 on Saturday to the criticisms of the week, they will e....ble 
 themselves to have an opinion about the books of the day. 
 The knowledge so acquired will not be great, nor will that 
 little be lasting; but it adds something to the pleasure of 
 life to be able to talk </n subjects of which others are 
 speaking; and the man who has sedulously gone through 
 the literary notices in the Spectator and the Saturday may 
 perhaps be justified in thinking himself as well able to 
 talk about the new book as his friend who has brought 
 that new book on the tapis j and who, not improbably, ob- 
 tained his information from the same source. 
 
 Aa an autlior, I have paid careful attention to the re- 
 views which have been written on my own work; and I 
 think that now I well know where I may look for a little 
 instruction, where I may expect only greasy adulation, 
 where I shall be cut up into mince-meat for the delight of 
 those who love sharp invective, and where I shall find an 
 equal mixture of praise and censure so adjusted, without 
 much judgment, as to exhibit the impartiality of the news- 
 paper and its staff. Among it all there is much chaff, 
 which I have learned how to throw to the winds, with 
 equal disregard whether it praises or blames; but I have 
 also found some corn, on which I have fed and nourished 
 myself, and for which I have been thankful. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET."— LEAVING THE POST- 
 OFFICE. — "ST. PAUL'S MAGAZINE." 
 
 I WILL now go back to the year 1867, in which I was 
 Btill living at Waltham Cross. I hjid some time sinc^ 
 bought tlie house there which I had at first hired, ai^ 
 added rooms to it, and made it for our purposes very com- 
 fortable. It was, however, a rickety old place, requiring 
 much repair, and occasionally not as weather-tight as it 
 ehould be. We had a domain there sufficient for the cows, 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 207 
 
 and for t\^e making of our butter and bay. For straw- 
 berries, asparagus, green pease, out-of-door peaches — for 
 roses especially — ^and such everyday luxuries, no place was 
 ever more excellent. It was only twelve miles from Lon- 
 don, and admitted, therefore, of frequent intercourse with 
 the metropolis. It was also near enough to the Roothing 
 country for hunting purposes. No doubt the Shoreditch 
 Station, by which it had to be reached, had its drawbacks. 
 My average distance, also, to the Essex meets was twenty 
 miles; but the place combined as much or more than I had 
 a right to expect. It was within my own postal district, 
 and had, upon the whole, been well chosen. 
 
 The work I did during the twelve years that I remained 
 there — from 1859 to 1871 — was certainly very great. I 
 feel confident that in amount no other writer contributed 
 so much during that time to English literature. Over and 
 above my novels, I wrote political articles, critical, social, 
 and sporting articles, for periodicals, without number. I 
 did the work of a surveyor of the General Post-office, and 
 so did it as to give the authorities of the department no 
 slightest pretext for fault-finding. I hunted always at 
 least twice a week. I was frequent in* the whist- room at 
 the Garrick. I lived much in society in London, and was 
 made happy by the presence of many friends at Waltham 
 Cross. In addition to this we always spent six weeks, at 
 least, out of England. Eew men, I think, ever lived a 
 fuller life; and I attribute the power of doing this alto- 
 gether to the virtue of early hours. It was my practice to 
 be at my table every morning at 5.30; and it was also my 
 practice to allow myself no mercy. An old groom, whose 
 business it v/as to call me, and to whom I paid £5 a year 
 extra for the duty, allowed himself no mercy. During 
 all those years at Waltham Cross ho was never once late 
 with the coffee which it was his duty to bring me. I do 
 not know that I ought not to feel that I owe more to him 
 than to an^ one else for the success I-haverhad. By be- 
 
208 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AK^THONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 ginning at that hour I could complete my literary work 
 before I dressed for breakfast. 
 
 All those, I think, who have lived as literary men- 
 working daily as literary laborers— will agree with me that 
 three hours a day will produce as much as a man ought to 
 write. But then he should so have trained himself that 
 he shall be able to work continuously during those three 
 hours— so have tutored his mind that it shall not be neces- 
 sary for him to sit nibbling his pen, and gazing at the 
 wall before him, till he shall have found the words with 
 which he wants to express his ideas. It iiad at this time 
 become my custom — and it still is my custom, though of 
 late I have become a little lenient to myself — to write with 
 my watch before me, and to require from myself 250 words 
 every quarter of an hour. I have found that the 250 words 
 have been forthcoming as regularly as my watch went. 
 Bnt my three hours were not devoted entirely to 
 writing. I always began my task by reading the work of 
 the day before, an operation which would take me half an 
 hour, and which consisted chiefly in weighing with my 
 ear the sound of the words and phrases. I would strongly 
 recommend this practice to all tyros in writing. That 
 their work should be read after it has been written is a 
 matter of course; that it should be i*ead twice, at least, be- 
 fore it goes, to the printers, I take to be a matter of course. 
 But by reading what he has last written, before he recom- 
 mences his task, the writer will catch the tone and spirit of 
 what he is then saying, and will avoid the fault of seeming 
 to be unlike himself. This division of time allowed me to 
 produce over ten pages of an ordinary novel volume a day, 
 and if kept up through ten months, would have given as 
 its results three novels of three volumes each in the year — 
 the precise amount which so greatly acerbated the pub- 
 lisher in Paternoster Row, and wliich must, at anj rate, 
 be felt to be quite as much as tlie novel-readers of the 
 world can want from the hands of one man. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AITTHOKY TROLLOPE. 209 
 
 I have never written three novel? in a year; but by 
 following the plan above described I have written more 
 than as much as three volumes; and by adhering to it over 
 a course" of years I have been enabled to have always on 
 liand — for 3ome time back now — one or two, or even three, 
 unpublished novels in my desk beside me. Were I to 
 die now, there are three such besides " The Prime Minis- 
 ter," half of which has only yet been issued. One of these 
 lias been six years 6nished, and has never seen the light 
 since it was first tied up in the wrapper which now con- 
 tains it. I look forward with some grim pleasantry to its 
 publication after anotiier period of six years, and to the 
 declaration of the critics that it has been the work of a 
 period of life at which the power of writing novels had 
 passed from me. Not improbably, however, these pages 
 may be printed first. 
 
 In 1866 and 1867 '' The Last Chronicle of Barset " was 
 brought out by George Smith, in sixpenny monthly num- 
 bers. I do not know that this mode of publication had 
 been tried before, or that it answered very well on this 
 occasion. Indeed, the shilling magazines had interfered 
 greatly with the success of novels published in numbers 
 without other accompanying matter. The public, finding 
 that so much might be had for a shilling, in which a portion 
 of one or more novels was always included, were unwilling 
 to spend their money on the novel alone. Feeling that 
 this certainly had become the case in reference to novels 
 published in shilling numbers, Mr. Smith and I deter- 
 mined to make the experiment with sixpenny parts. 
 As he paid me £3000 for the use of my manuscript, the 
 loss, if any, did not fall upon me/ If I remember right, 
 the enterprise ^^as not altogether v»ccessful. 
 
 Taking it as a whole, I regard this as the best novel I 
 have written. I was never quite satisfied with the devel- 
 opment of the plot, which consisted in the loss of a check, 
 of a oharge made against/a clergyman for stealing it, and 
 
210 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 of absolute uncertainty on the part of the clergyman 
 himself as to the manner in which the check had found 
 its way into his hands. I cannot quite make myself be- 
 lieve tifat even such a man as Mr. Crawley couM have 
 forgotten how he got it; nor would the generous friend 
 who was anxious to supply his wants have supplied them 
 by tendering the check of a third person. Such fault I 
 acknowledge — acknowledging, at the same time, that I 
 have never been capable of constructing with complete 
 success the intricacies of a plot that required to be unrav- 
 eled. But while confessing so much, I claim to have 
 portrayed the mind of the unfortunate man with great 
 accuracy and greater delicacy. The pride, the humility, 
 the manliness, the weakness, the conscientious rectitude 
 and bitter prejudices of Mr. Crawley were, I feel, true to 
 nature and well described. The surroundings, too, are 
 good. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie, at the palace, is a real woman; and 
 the poor old dean dying at the deanery is also real. The 
 archdeacon, in his victory, is very real. There is a true 
 savor of English country life all through the book. It 
 was with many misgivings that I killed my old friend 
 Mrs. Proudie. I could not, I think, have done it, but for 
 a resolution taken and declared under circumstances of 
 great momentary pressure. 
 
 It was thus that it came about. I was sitting one morn- 
 ing at work upon the novel, at the end of the long drawing- 
 room of the Athenaeum Club— as was then my wont when 
 I had slept the previous night in London. As I was there, 
 two clergymen, each with a magazine in his hand, seated 
 themselves— one on one side of the fire, and one on the 
 other— close to me. They soon began to abuse what they 
 were reading, and each was reading some part of some 
 novel of mine. The gravamen of their complaint lay in 
 the fact that I reintroduced the same characters so often. 
 ** Here," said one, ** is that archdeacon whom we have 
 
AUTOBIOQRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 211 
 
 had in every novel he has ever written." *' And here," said 
 the other, " is the old duke whom he has talked about till 
 everybody is tired of him. If 1 could not invent new 
 characters, I would not write novels at all." Then one of 
 them fell foul of Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for me 
 not to hear their words, and almost impossible to hear 
 them and be quiet. I got up, and standing between them, 
 I acknowledged myself to be the culprit. " As to Mrs. 
 Proudie, " I said, " I will go home and kill her before th« 
 week is over." And so I did. The two gentlemen wore 
 utterly confounded, and one of them begged me to forget 
 his frivolous observations. 
 
 I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my 
 delight in writing about Mrs. Proudie, so thorough was 
 my knowledge of all the little shades of her character. It 
 was not only that she was a tyrant, a bully, a would-be 
 priestess, a very vulgar woman, and one who would send 
 headlong to the nethermost pit all who disagreed with her; 
 but that at the same time she was conscientious, by no 
 means a hypocrite, really believing in the brimstone which 
 she threatened, and anxious to save the souls around her 
 from its horrors. And as lier tyranny increased, so did the 
 bitterness of the moments of her repentance increase, in 
 that she knew herself to be a tyrant — till that bitterness 
 killed her. Since her time, others have grown up equally 
 dear to me — Lady Glencora and her husband, for instance; 
 but I have never dissevered myself from Mrs. Proudie, 
 and still live much in company with her ghost. 
 
 I have in a previous chapter said how I wrote '* Can 
 You Forgive Her?" after the plot of a play which had 
 been rejected, which play had been called '*The Noble 
 Jilt." Some year or two after the completion of "The 
 Last Chronicle," I was asked by the manager ot a theater 
 to prepare a piece for his stage, and I did so, taking the 
 plot of this novel. I called the comedy ** Did He Steal 
 ItP" But my friend the manager did not approve of my 
 
212 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 attempt. My mind, at this time, was less attentive to 
 such a matter tlian when dear old George Bartley nearly 
 crushed me by his criticism, so that I forget the reason 
 given. I have little doubt but that the manager was 
 right. That he intended to express a true opinion, and 
 would have been glad to have taken the piece, had he 
 thought it suitable, I am quite sure. 
 
 I have sometimes wished to see, during my lifetime, a 
 combined republication of those tales which are occupied 
 with the fictitious county of Barsetshire. Tliese would be 
 ** The Warden," " Barchester Towers," " Doctor Thorne," 
 "Framley Parsonage," and *'The Last Chronicle of Bar- 
 set." But I have hitherto failed. The copyrights are in 
 the hands of four different persons, including myself, and 
 with one of the four I have not been able to prevail to act 
 in concert with the others.* 
 
 In 1867 I made up my mind to take a step in life which 
 was not unattended with peril, which many would call 
 rash, and which, when taken, I should be sure at some 
 period to regret. This step was the resignation of my 
 place in the Post-oflBce. I have described how it was that 
 I contrived to combine the performance of its duties with 
 my other avocations in life. I got up always very early; 
 but even this did not suffice. I worked always on Sun- 
 days — as to jrhich no scruple of religion made me unhappy 
 — and not unfrequently 1 was driven to work at night. 
 In the winter, when hunting was going on, I had to keep 
 myself very much on the alert. And during the London 
 season, when I was generally two or three days of the week 
 in town, I found the official work to be a burden. I had 
 determined some years previously, after due consideration 
 with my wife, to abandon the. Post-office when I had put 
 by an income equal to the pension to which I should be 
 
 ♦ Since this was written I have made arrangements for doing as I 
 have wished, and the first volume of the series will now very shortly 
 be published. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OV AKTHONT TROLLOPB. 313 
 
 entitled if I remained in the department till I was sixty. 
 That I had now done, and I sighed for liberty. 
 
 The exact ^time chosen, the autumn of 1867, was se- 
 lected because I was then about to undertake other lit- 
 erary work in editing a new magazine, of which I shall 
 speak very shortly. But in addition to these reasons there 
 was another, which was, I think, at last the actuating 
 cause. When Sir Rowland Hill left the Post-office, and 
 my brother-in-law, Mr. Tilley, became secretary in his 
 place, I applied for the vacant office of under-secretary. 
 Had I obtained this I should have given up my hunting, 
 have given up much of my literary work — at any rate, 
 would have edited no magazine — and would have returned 
 to the habit of my youth in going daily to the General 
 Post-office. There was very much against such a change 
 in life. The increase of salary would not have amounted 
 to above £400 a year, and I should have lost much more 
 than that in literary remuneration. I should have felt 
 bitterly the slavery of attendance at an office from which 
 I had then been exempt for five-and-twenty years. I 
 should, too, have greatly missed the sport which I loved. 
 But I was attached to the department, had imbiled my- 
 self with a thorough love of letters — I mean, the letters 
 which are carried by the post — and was anxious for their 
 welfare as though they were all my own. In short, I 
 wished to continue the connection. I did not wish, more- 
 over, that any younger officer should again pass over my 
 head. I believed that I had been a valuable public servant, 
 and I will own to a feeling existing at that time that I 
 had not altogether been well treated. I was probably 
 wrong in this. I had been allowed to hunt, and to do as 
 I pleased,' and to say what I liked, and had in that way 
 received my reward. I applied for the office, but Mr. 
 Scudamore was appointed to it. He, no doubt, was pos- 
 aesfled of gifts which I did not possess. He understood 
 the manipulation of money and the use of figures, and waa 
 
214 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 a great accountant. I think that I might have been more 
 useful in regard to the labors and wages of the immense 
 body of men employed by the Post-oflSce. However, Mr. 
 Scudamore was appointed; and I made up my mind that 
 I would fall back upon my old intention, and leave the 
 department. I think I allowed two years to pass before I 
 took the step; and the day on which I sent the letter was 
 to me most melancholy. 
 
 The rule of the service in regard to pensions is very just. 
 A man shall serve till he is sixty before he is entitled to a 
 pension, unless his health fail him. At that age he is en- 
 titled to one sixtieth of his salary for every year he has 
 served up to forty years. If his health do fail him so that 
 he is unfit for further work before the age named, then he 
 may go with a pension amounting to one sixtietli for every 
 year he has served. I could not say that my heakh had 
 failed me, and therefore I went without any pension. I have 
 since felt, occasionally, that it has been supposed that I 
 left the Post-office under pressure, because I attended to 
 hunting and to my literary work rather than to postal 
 matters. As it had for many years been my ambition to 
 be a thoroughly good servant to the public, and to give to 
 the public much more than I took in the shape of salary, 
 this feeling has sometimes annoyed me. And as I am still 
 a little sore on the subject, and as I would not have it im- 
 agined after my death that I had slighted the public service 
 to which I belonged, I will venture here to give the reply 
 which was sent to the letter containing my resignation. 
 
 General Post-oppice, October 9. 1867. 
 
 '*SiR, — I have received your letter of the 3d inst., in 
 whicli you tender your resignation as Surveyor in the Post- 
 offico service, and state as your reason for this step that 
 you have adopted another profession, the exigencies of 
 which are so great as to make you feel you cannot give to 
 the duties of the Post-office that amount of attention which 
 you consider the Postmaster-general has a right to expect. 
 
 '* You have for many years ranked among the most con- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 215 
 
 spicuous members of the Post-office, which, on several 
 occasions, when you have been employed on large and diffi- 
 cult matters, has reaped much benefit from the great abil- 
 ities which you have been able to place at its disposal; 
 and in mentioning this, I have been especially glad to re- 
 cord that, notwithstanding the many calls upon your time, 
 you have never permitted your other avocations to inter- 
 fere with your Post-office work, which has been faithfully, 
 and, indeed, energetically perfomed." (There was a touch 
 of irony in this word '* energetically," but still it did not 
 displease me.) 
 
 " In accepting your resignation, which he does with 
 much regret, the Duke of Montrose desires me to convey 
 to you his own sense of the value of your services, and to 
 state how alive he is to the loss which will be sustained by 
 the department in which you have long been an ornament, 
 and where your place will with difficulty be replaced. 
 
 (Signed) *' J. Tilley." 
 
 Readers will, no doubt, think that this is official flum- 
 mery; and so, in fact, it is. I do not at all imagine that 
 I was an ornament to the Post-office, and have no doubt 
 that the secretaries and assistant- secretaries very often 
 would have been glad to be rid of me; but the letter may 
 be taken as evidence that I did not allow my literary 
 enterprises to interfere with my official work. A man 
 who takes public money without earning it is to me so 
 odious that I can find no pardon for him in my heart. I 
 have known many such, and some who have craved the 
 power to do so. Nothing would annoy me more than to 
 'think that I should even4)e supposed to have been among 
 the number. 
 
 And so my connection was dissolved with the depart- 
 ment to which I had applied the thirty-throe best years 
 of my life — I must not say devoted, for devotion im- 
 plies an entire surrender, and I certainly had found time 
 for other occupations. It is, however, absolutely tnle 
 that during all those years I had thought very much 
 more about the Post-office than I had of my literary 
 
216 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 work, and had given to it a more unflagging attention. 
 Up to this time I had never been angry, never felt my- 
 self injured or unappreciated in that my literary efforts 
 were slighted. But I had suffered very much bitterness 
 on that score in, reference to the Post-oflSce; and I had 
 suffered not only on my own personal behalf, but also 
 and more bitterly when I could not promise to be done 
 the things which I thought ought to be done for the 
 benefit of others. That the public in little villages should 
 be enabled to buy postage-stamps; that they should have 
 their letters delivered free and at an early hour; that pillar 
 letter-boxes should be put up for them (of which accom- 
 modation in the streets and ways of England I was the 
 originator, having, however, got the authority for the 
 erection or the first at St. Heliers, in Jersey); that the 
 letter-carriers and sorters should not be overworked; that 
 they should be adequately paid, and have some hours to 
 themselves, especially on Sundays; above all, that they 
 should be made to earn their wages; and, latterly, that 
 they should not be crushed by what I thought to be the 
 damnable system of so-called merit — these were the mat- 
 ters by which I was stirred to what the secretary was 
 pleased to call energetic performance of my duties. How 
 I loved, when I was contradicted— as I was very often and, 
 no doubt, very properly — to do instantly as 1 was bid, 
 and then to prove that what I was doing was fatuous, 
 dishonest, expensive, and impracticable! And then there 
 were feuds — such delicious feuds4 I was always an anti- 
 Hillite, acknowledging, indeed, the great thing which 
 Sir Rowland Hill had done for the country, but believing 
 him to be entii«ely unfit to manage men or to arrange labor. 
 It was a pleasure to me to differ from him on all occasions 
 —and looking back now, I think that in all such differences 
 I was right. 
 
 Having so steeped myself, as it were^ in postal waters, I 
 could not go out from them without regret. I wonder 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 217 
 
 wliether I did anything to improve the style of writing in 
 oflBcial reports! I strove to do so gallantly, never being 
 contented with the language of myawn reports unless it 
 seemed to have been so written as to be pleasant to be 
 read. I took extreme delight in writing them, not allow- 
 ing myself to re-copy them, never having them re-copied 
 by others, but sending them up with their original blots 
 and erasures — if blots and erasures there were. It is 
 liardly manly, I think, that a man should search after a 
 fine neatness at the expense of so much waste labor; or 
 that he should not be able to exact from himself the ne- 
 cessity of writing words in the form in which they should 
 be read. If a copy be required, let it be taken afterward 
 — by hand or by machine, as may be. But the writer of 
 a letter, if he wish his words to prevail with the reader, 
 should send them out as written by himself, by his own 
 hand, with his own marks, his own punctuation, correct 
 or incorrect, with the evidence upon them that they have 
 come out from his own mind. 
 
 And so the cord was cut, and I was a free man to run 
 about the world where I would. 
 
 A little before the date of my resignation, Mr. James 
 Virtue, the printer and publisher, had asked me to edit a 
 new magazine for him, and had offered me a salary of 
 £1000 a year for the work, over and above what might be 
 due to me for my own contributions. I had known some- 
 thing of magazines, and did not believe that they were 
 generally very lucrative. They were, I thought, useful to 
 some publishers as bringing grist to the mill; but as Mr. 
 Virtue's business was chiefly that of a printer, in which 
 lie was very successful, this consideration could hardly 
 liave had much weight with him. I very strongly advised 
 him to abandon the project, pointing out to him that a 
 largo expenditure would be necessary to carry on the 
 magazine in accordance with my views — that I could not 
 be coDcerned iu it on any other understanding, and that 
 
218 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 the chances of an adequate return to him of his money 
 were very small. He came down to Waltham, listened to 
 my arguments with great patience, and then told me that 
 if I wonld not do the work he would find some other editor. 
 
 Upon this I consented to undertake the duty. My 
 terms as to salary were those which he had himself pro- 
 posed. The special stipulations which I demanded were: 
 firstly, that I should put whatever I pleased into the maga- 
 zine, or keep whatever I pleased out of it, without inter- 
 ference; secondly, that I should from month to month 
 give in to him a list of payments to be made to contribu- 
 tors, and that he should pay them, allowing me to fix the 
 amounts; and, thirdly, that the arrangement should 
 remain in force, at any rate, for two years. To all this 
 he made no objection; and during the time that he and I 
 were thus bound together, he not only complied with these 
 stipulations, but also with every suggestion respecting the 
 magazine that I made to liim. If the use of large capital, 
 combined with wide liberality and absolute confidence on 
 the part of tiie proprietor, and perpetual good-humor, 
 would have produced success, our magazine certainly 
 would have succeeded. 
 
 In all such enterprises the name is the first great diffi- 
 culty. There is the name which has a meaning and the 
 name which has none — of which two the name that has 
 none is certainly the better, as it never belies itself. The 
 Liberal may cease to be liberal, or The Fortnightly, alas! 
 to come out once a fortnight. But The CornUll and 77 e 
 Argosy are under any set of circumstances as well adapted 
 to these names as under any other. Tlien there is "xhp 
 proprietary name, or possibly the editorial name, which is 
 only amiss because the publication may change hands. 
 Blackwood's has, indeed, always remained BlacJcwooiVs, 
 and Eraser's, though it has been bought and sold, still 
 does not sound amiss. Mr. Virtue, fearing the too at- 
 tractive qualities of his own name, wished the magazine to 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 219 
 
 be called Anthony Trollope's. But to this I objected 
 eagerly* There were then about the town — still are about 
 the town — two or three IHerary gentlemen by whom to 
 have had myself editored would have driven me an exile 
 from my country. After much discussion we settled on 
 St. PauVs as the name for our bantling — not as being in 
 any way new, but as enabling it to fall easily into the 
 ranks with many others. If we were to make ourselves 
 in any way peculiar, it was not by our name that we were 
 desirous of doing so. 
 
 I do not think that we did make ourselves in any way 
 peculiar — and yet there was a great struggle made. On 
 the part of the proprietor, I may say that money was 
 spent very freely. On my own part, I may declare that 
 I omitted nothing which I thought might tend to suc- 
 cess. I read all manuscripts sent to me, and endeavored 
 to judge impartially. I succeeded in obtaining the serv- 
 ices of an excellent literary corps. During the three 
 years and a half of my editorship I was assisted by Mr. 
 Goschen, Captain Brackenbury, Edward Dicey, Percy 
 Fitzgerald, H. A. Layard, AUingham, Leslie Stephen, 
 Mrs. Lynn Linton, my brother, T. A. Trollope, and his 
 wife, Charles Lever, Bi Arnold, Austin Dobson, R. A. 
 Proctor, Lady Pollock, G. H. Lewes, C. Mackay, Hard- 
 man (of the Times), George Macdonald, W. R. Greg, 
 Mrs. Oliphanb, Sir Charles Trevelyan, Leoni Levi, Dut- 
 ton Cook — and others, whose names would make the list 
 too long. It might have been thought that with such 
 aid the St» PauVs would have succeeded. I do not think 
 tilat the failure — for it did fail— arose from bad editing. 
 Perhaps too much editing, might have been the fault. I 
 was too anxious to be^good, and did not enough think of 
 what might be lucrative. . 
 
 It did fail, for it never paid its way. It reached, if I 
 remember right, a circulation of nearly ten thousand — 
 perhaps on one or two occasions may have gone beyond 
 
220 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPB. 
 
 that. But the enterprise had been set on foot on a system 
 too expensive to be made lucrative by anything short of a 
 very large circulation. Literary merit will hardly set a 
 magazine afloat, though when afloat it will sustain it. 
 Time is wanted — or the hubbub, and flurry, and excite- 
 ment created by ubiquitous sesquipedalian advertisement. 
 Merit and time together may be effective, but they must 
 be backed by economy and patience. 
 
 I think, upon the whole, that publishers themselves 
 have been the best editors of magazines, when they have 
 been able to give time and intelligence to the work. Noth- 
 ing, certainly, has ever been done better than Blackwood's, 
 The Cornhill, too, after Thackeray had left it and before 
 Leslie Stephen had taken it, seemed to be in quite efficient 
 hands — those hands being the hands of proprietor and 
 publisher. The proprietor, at any rate, knows what he 
 wants and what he can afford, and is not so frequently 
 tempted to fall into that worst of literary quicksands, the 
 publishing of matter not, for the sake of the readers, but 
 for that of the writer. I did not so sin very often, but 
 often enough to feel that I was a coward. ''My dear 
 friend, my dear friend, this is trash!" It is so hard to 
 speak thus — but so necessary for an editor! We all re- 
 member the thorn in his pillow of which Thackeray com- 
 plained. Occasionally I know that I did give way on 
 behalf of some literary aspirant whose work did not rep- 
 resent itself to me as being good; and as often as I did 
 so, I broke my trust so those \fho employed me. Now, I 
 think that such editors as Thackeray and myself — if I may 
 for the moment be allowed to couple men so unequal — will 
 always be liable to commit such faults, but that the nat- 
 ures of publishers and proprietors will be less soft. 
 
 Nor do I know why the pages of a magazine should be 
 considered to be open to any aspirant who thinks that he 
 can ^rite an article, or why the manager of a magazine 
 should be doomed to read all that may be sent to 'him. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHt 0¥ ANT5QNY TROLLOPB. 221 
 
 The object of the proprietor is to produce a periodical that 
 shall satisfy the public, which he may probably best do by, 
 securing the services of writers of acknowledged ability.— 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 BEVERLEY. 
 
 Very early in life, very soon after j. nad become a clerk 
 in St. Martin's-le-Grand, when I was utterly impecunious 
 and beginning to fall grievously into debt, I was asked by 
 an uncle of mine, who was himself a clerk in the War 
 OflBce, what destination I should like best for my future 
 life. He probably meant to inquire whether I wished to 
 live married or single, whether to remain in the Post-office 
 or to leave it, whether I should prefer the town or the 
 country. I replied that I should like to be a Member of 
 Parliament. My uncle, who was given to sarcasm, re- 
 joined that, as far as he knew, few clerks in the Post-oflBce 
 did become Members of Parliament. I think it was the 
 remembrance of this jeer which stirred me up to look for 
 a seat as soon as I had made myself capable of holding one 
 by leaving the public service. My uncle was dead, but if 
 I could get a seat, the knowleilge that I had done so might 
 travel to that bourne from whence he was not likely to 
 return, and he might there feel that he had done me 
 wrong. 
 
 Independently of this, I have always thought that to 
 3it in the British Parliament should be the highest object 
 of ambition to every educated Englishman. I do not by 
 this mean to suggest that every educated Englishman 
 should set before himself a seat in parliament as a prob- 
 able or even a possible career; but tliat the man in parlia- 
 ment has reached a higher position than the man out— 
 that to serve one's country without pay is the grandest 
 work that a man can do— that of all studies the study of 
 
222 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOIH^T TROLLOPB. 
 
 politics is the one in which a man may make himself most 
 useful to his fellow-creatures — and that of all lives, public 
 political lives are capable of the highest efforts. So think- 
 ing — though I was aware that fifty-three was too late an 
 age at which to commence a new career — I resolved with 
 much hesitation that I would make the attempt. 
 
 Writing now, at an age beyond sixty, I can say that my 
 political feelings and convictions have never undergone 
 any change. They are now what they became when I 
 first began to have political feelings and convictions. Nor 
 do I find in myself any tendency to modify them, as I have 
 found generally in men as they grow old. I consider my- 
 self to be an advanced, but still a conservative, Liberal, 
 which I regard not only as a possible but as a rational and 
 consistent phase of political existence. T can, I believe, 
 in a very few words, make known my political theory; and 
 as I am anxious that any who know aught of me should 
 know that, I will endeavor to do so. 
 
 It must, I think, be painful to all men to feel inferi- 
 ority. It should, I think, be a matter of some pain to all 
 men to feel superiority, unless when it has been won by 
 their own efforts. We do not understand the operations 
 of Almighty wisdom, and are therefore unable to tell the 
 causes of the terrible inequalities that we see — why some, 
 why so many, should have so little to make life enjoyable, 
 so much to make it painful, while a few others, not 
 through their own merit, have had gifts poured out to 
 them from a full hand. We acknowledge the hand of 
 God and his wisdom, but still we are struck with awe and 
 horror at the misery of many of our brethren. We who 
 have been born to the superior condition — for in this mat- 
 ter I consider myself to be standing on a platform with 
 dukes and princes, and all others to whom plenty and 
 education and liberty have been given — cannot, I think, 
 look upon the inane, unintellectual, and tost-bound life of 
 those who cannot even feed themselves suflaciently by their 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHOKY TROLLOPB. 223 
 
 sweat, without some feeling of injustice, some feeling of 
 pain. 
 
 This consciousness of wrong has induced in many en- 
 thusiastic but unbalanced minds a desire to set all things 
 right by a proclaimed equality. In their efforts such men 
 have shown how powerless they are in opposing the ordi- 
 nances of the Creator. For the mind of the thinker and 
 the student is driven to admit, though it be awe-struck by 
 apparent injustice, that this inequality is the work of God. 
 Make all men equal to-day, and God has so created them 
 that they shall be all unequal to-morrow. The so-called 
 Conservative, the conscientious, philanthropic Conserva- 
 tive, seeing this, and being surely convinced that such 
 inequalities are of divine origin, tells himself that it is his 
 duty to preserve them. He thinks that the preservation 
 of the welfare of the world depends on the maintenance of 
 those distances between the prince and the peasant by 
 which he finds himself to be suri-ounded; and perhaps I 
 may add, that the duty is not unpleasant, as he feels him- 
 self to be one of the princes. 
 
 Bat this man, though he sees something, and sees that 
 very clearly, sees only a little. The divine inequality is 
 apparent to him, but not the equally divine diminution 
 of that inequality. That such diminution is taking place 
 on all sides is apparent enough; but it is apparent to him 
 as an evil, the consummation of which it is his duty to re- 
 tard. 
 
 He cannot prevent it; and therefore the society to 
 which he belongs is, in his eyes, retrograding. He will 
 even, at times, assist it; and will do so conscientiously, 
 feeling that, under the gentle pressure supplied by him, 
 and with the drags and holdfasts which he may add, the 
 movement would be slower than it would become if sub- 
 jected to his proclaimed and absolute opponents. Such, 
 I think, are Conservatives; and I speak of men who, with 
 the fear of God before their eyes and the love of their neigh- 
 
224 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 bors warm in their hearts, endeavor to do their dutj to 
 the best of their ability. 
 
 Using the term which is now common, and which will 
 be best understood, I will endeavor to explain how the 
 equally conscientious Liberal is opposed to the Conserva- 
 tive. He is equally aware that these distances are of 
 divine origin, equally averse to any sudden disruption of 
 society in quest of some Utopian blessedness; but he is 
 alive to the fact that these distances are day by day be- 
 coming less, and he regards this continual diminution as 
 a series of steps toward that human millennium of which 
 he dreams. He is even willing to help the many to ascend 
 the ladder a little, though he knows, as they come up to- 
 ward him, he must go down to meet them. What is 
 really in his mind is — I will not say equality, for the word 
 is offensive, and presents to the imaginations of men ideas 
 of communism, of ruin, and insane democracy, but — a 
 tendency toward equality. In following that, lK)wever, 
 he knows that he must be hemmed in by safeguards, lest 
 he be tempted to travel too quickly, and therefore he is 
 glad to be accompanied on his way by the repressive ac- 
 tion of a Conservative opponent. Holding such views, I 
 think I am guilty of no absurdity in calling myself an 
 advanced Conservative-Liberal. A man who entertains 
 in his mind any political doctrine, except as a means of 
 improving the condition of his fellows, I regard as a polit- 
 ical intriguer, a charlatan, and a conjurer — as one who 
 thinks that, by a certain amount of wary wire-pulling, he 
 may raise himself in the estimation of the world. 
 
 I am aware that this theory of politics will seem to many 
 to be stilted, overstrained, and, as the Americans would 
 Bay, high-faluten. Many will declare that the majority 
 even of those who call themselves politicians — perhaps 
 even of those who take an active part in politics — are 
 stirred by no such feelings as these, and acknowledge no 
 such motives. Men become Tories or Whigs, Liberals or 
 
XtJTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTH6NY TROLLOPB. 225 
 
 Conservatives, partly by education— following their fathers 
 — partly by chance, partly as openings come, partly in ac- 
 cordance with the bent of their minds, but still without 
 any far-fetched reasonings as to distances and the diminu- 
 tion of distances. No doubt it is so; and in the battle of 
 politics, as it goes, men are led further and further away 
 from first causes, till at last a measure is opposed by one 
 simply because it is advocated by another, and Members 
 of Parliament swarm into lobbies, following the dictation 
 of their leaders, and not their own individual judgments. 
 But the principle is at work throughout. To many, 
 though hardly acknowledged, it is still apparent. On 
 almost all it has its effect; though there are the intriguers, 
 the clever conjurers, to whom politics is simply such a 
 game as is billiards or rackets, only played with greater 
 results. To the minds that create and lead and sway 
 political opinion, some such theory is, I think, ever present. 
 The truth of all this I had long since taken home to 
 myself. I had now been tjiinking of it for thirty years, 
 and had never doubted. But I had always been aware of 
 a certain visionary weakness about myself m regard to 
 politics. A man, to be useful in Parl'ament, must be able 
 to confine himself and conform himself, to be satisfied 
 with doing a little bit of a little thing at a time. He 
 must patiently o-et up everything connected with the duty 
 on mushrooms, and then be satisfied with himself when at 
 last he has induced a Chancellor of the Exchequer to say 
 that he will consider the impost at the first opportunity. 
 He must be content to be beaten six times in order that, 
 on a seventh, his work may be found to be of assistance 
 to some one else. He must remember that he is one out 
 of 650, and be content with l-650th part of the attention 
 of the nation. If he have grand ideas, he must keep them 
 to himself, unless by chance he can work his way up to 
 the top of the tree. In short, he must be a practical jnan. 
 Now I knew that in politics I could never become a prac- 
 
226 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOIST TROLLOPB, 
 
 ticcal man. I should never be satisfied with a soft word 
 from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but would always 
 be flinging my over-taxed catchup in his face. 
 
 Nor did it seem to me to be possible tliat I should ever 
 become a good sneaker. I had no special gifts that way, 
 and had not studied the art early enough in life to over- 
 come natural difiSculties. I had found that, with infinite 
 labor, I could learn a few sentences by heart, and deliver 
 them, monotonously, indeed, but clearly. Or, again, if 
 there were something special to be said, I could say it in 
 a commonplace fashion, but always as though I were in a 
 hurry, and with the fear before me of being thought to be 
 prolix. But I had no power of combining, as a public 
 speaker should always do, that which I had studied with 
 that which occurred to me at this moment. It must be 
 all lesson, which I found to be best; or else all impromptu, 
 which was very bad indeed, unless I had something special 
 on my mind. I was thus aware that I could do no good 
 by going into parliament; that the time for it, if there 
 could have been a time, had gone by. But still I had an 
 almost insane desire to sit tliere, and be able to assure 
 myself that my uncle's scorn had not been deserved. 
 
 In 18G7 it had been suggested to me that, in the event 
 of a dissolution, I should stand for one division of the 
 County of Essex; and I had promised that I would do so, 
 though the promise at that time was as rash a one as a 
 man could make. I was instigated to this by the late 
 Charles Buxton, a man whom I greatly loved, and who 
 was verv anxious that the county for which his brother sat, 
 and with which the family were connected, should be 
 relieved from what he regarded as the thralldom of Tory- 
 ism. But there was no dissolution then. Mr. Disraeli 
 passed his Reform Bill, by the help of the Liberal member 
 for Newark, and the summoning of a new parliament was 
 postponed till the next year. By this new Reform Bill 
 Essex was portioned out into three instead of two electoral 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 227 
 
 divisions, one of which — that adjacent to London — would, 
 it was thought, be altogether Liberal. After the promise 
 which I had given, the performance of which would have 
 cost me a large sum of money absolutely in vain, it was 
 felt by some that I should be selected as one of the candi- 
 dates for the new division, and as such I was proposed by 
 Mr. Charles Buxton. But another gentleman, who would 
 have been bound by previous pledges to support me, was 
 put forward, by what I believe to have been the defeating 
 interest, and I had to give way. At the election tliis 
 gentleman, with another Liberal, who had often stood for 
 the county, were returned without a contest. Alas! alas! 
 They were both unseated at the next election, when the 
 great Conservative reaction took place. 
 
 In the spring of 1868 I was sent lo the United States on 
 a postal mission, of which I will speak presently. While 
 I was absent the dissolution took place. On my return I 
 was somewhat too late to look out for a sent, but I had 
 friends who knew the weakness of my ambition; and it was 
 not likely, therefore, that I should escape the peril of 
 being put forward for some impossible borough as to which 
 the Liberal party would not choose that it should go to the 
 Conservatives without a struggle. At last after one or 
 two others, Beverley was proposed to me, and to Beverley 
 I went. 
 
 I must, however, exculpate the gentleman who acted as 
 my agent from undue persuasion exercised toward me. 
 He was a man who thoroughly understood parliament, 
 having sat there himself — and he sits there now at this 
 moment. He understood Yorkshire — or. at least, the 
 Kast Hiding of Yorkshire, in which Beverley is situated — 
 certainly better than any one alive. He understood all the 
 mysteries of canvassing, and he know well the traditions, 
 the condition, and the prospect of the Liberal party. 1 
 will not give his name, but they who knew Yorkshire in 
 J<s(;8 will not bo at a loss to lind it. ** So," suid ho, ''you 
 
228 AUTOBIOGUAPHY OF ANTHOJi^Y TROLLOPB. 
 
 are going to stand for Beverley?" I replied gravely that 
 I was thinking of doing so. '* You don't expect to get 
 in?" he said. Again I was grave. I would not, I said, 
 be sanguine, but nevertheless I was disposed to hope for 
 the best. ''Oh, no!" continued he, with good-humored 
 raillery, "you won't get in. I don't suppose yoH really 
 expect it. But there is a fine career open to you. You 
 will spend £1000, and lose the election. Then you will 
 petition, and spend another £1000. You will throw out 
 the elected members. There will be a commission, and 
 the borough will be disfranchised. For a beginner, such 
 as you are, that will be a great success." And yet, in the 
 teeth of this, from a man who knew all about it, I per- 
 sisted in going to Beverley! 
 
 The borough, wliich returned two members, had long 
 been represented by Sir Henry Edwards, of whom, I think, 
 I am justified in saying that he had contracted a close 
 intimacy with it for the sake of the seat. There had been 
 many contests, many petitions, many void elections, many 
 members, but, through it all. Sir Henry had kept his seat, 
 if not with permanency, yet with a fixity of tenure next 
 door to permanence. I fancy that, with a little manage- 
 ment between the parties, the borough might at this time 
 have returned a member of each color quietly; but there 
 were spirits there who did not love political quietude, and 
 it was at last decided that there should be two Liberal and 
 two Conservative candidates. Sir Henry was joined by a 
 young man of fortune in quest of a seat, and I was grouped 
 with Mr. Maxwell, the eldest son of Lord Herries, a' 
 Scotch Roman Catholic peer who lives in the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 When the time came I went down to canvass, and spent, 
 I think, the most wretched fortnight of my manhood. In 
 the first place, I was subject to a bitter tyranny from 
 grinding, vulgar tyrants. They were doing what they 
 could, or said that they were doing so, to secure me aseat 
 
AtrrOBIOGRAPHT OF ANTHOlTY TROLLOPB. 229 
 
 in Parliament, and I was to be in their hands, for, at any 
 rate, the period of my candidature. On one day both of 
 us, Mr. Maxwell and I, wanted to go out hunting. We 
 proposed to ourselves but the one holiday during this 
 period of intense labor; but I was assured, as was he also, 
 by a publican who was working for us, that if we com- 
 mitted such a crime he and all Beverley would desert us." 
 From morning to evening, every day, I was taken round 
 the lanes and by-ways of that uninteresting town, canvass- 
 ing every voter, exposed to the rain, up to my knees in 
 slush, and utterly unable to assume that air of triumph- 
 ant joy with which a jolly, successful candidate should be 
 invested. At night, every nigh^, I had to speak some- 
 where—which was bad; and to listen to the speaking of 
 others — which was much worse. When, on one Sunday 
 I proposed to go to the Minster Church, I was told that 
 was quite useless, as the Church party were all certain 
 to support Sir Henry! "Indeed," said the publican, my 
 tyrant; '' he goes there in a kind of oflScial profession, 
 and you had better not allow yourself to be seen in the 
 same place." So I stayed away and omitted my prayers. 
 No Church of England church in Beverley would on such 
 an occasion have welcomed a Liberal candidate. I felt 
 myself to be a kind of pariah in the borough, to whom 
 was opposed all that was pretty, and all that was nice, 
 and all that was— ostensibly— good. 
 
 But, perhaps, my strongest sense of discomfort arose 
 from the conviction that my political ideas were all leather 
 and prunella to the men whose votes I was soliciting. 
 They cared nothing for my doctrines, and could not be 
 made to understand that I should have any. I had been 
 brought to Beverley either to beat Sir Henry Edwards— 
 which, however, no one probably thought to be feasible — 
 or to cause him the greatest possible amount of trouble, 
 inconvenience, and expense. There were, indeed, two 
 points on which ^a portion of my wished-for supporters 
 
230 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 seemed to have opinions, and on both these two pointfl. 
 I was driven by my opinions to oppose them. Some were 
 anxious for the ballot — which had not then become law — 
 and some desired the Permissive Bill. I hated, and do 
 hate, both these measures, thinking it to be unworthy of 
 a great people to free itself from the evil results of vicious 
 conduct by unmanly restraints* Undue influence on 
 voters is a great evil, from which this country had already 
 done much to emancipate itself by extended electoral 
 divisions and by an increase of independent feeling. 
 These, I thought, and not secret voting, were the weap- 
 ons by which electoral intimidation should be overcome. 
 And as for drink, I believe in no parliamentary restraint; 
 but I do believe in the gradual effect of moral teaching 
 and education. But a Liberal, to do any good at Bever- 
 ley, should have been able to swallow such gnats as those. 
 I would swallow nothing,and was altogether the wrong man. 
 
 I knew, from the commencement of my candidature, 
 how it would be. Of course that well-trained gentleman 
 who condescended to act as my agent had understood the 
 case, and I ought to have taken his thoroughly kind ad- 
 vice. He had seen it all, and had told himself that it was 
 wrong that one so innocent in such ways as I, so utterly 
 unable to fight such a battle, should be carried down into 
 Yorkshire merely to spend money and to be annoyed. He 
 could not have said more than he did say, and 1 suffered 
 for my obstinacy. Of course, I was not elected. Sir Henry 
 Edwards and his comrade became members for Beverley, 
 and I was at the bottom of the poll. I paid £400 for my 
 expenses, and then returned to London. 
 
 My friendly agent in his raillery had, of course, exag- 
 gerated the cost. He had, when I arrived at Beverley, 
 asked me for a check for £400, and told mo that that sum 
 would suffice. It did suffice. How it came to pass that 
 exactly that sum should be required I never knew, but 
 such was the case. Then there came a petition— not from 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 231 
 
 me, but from the town. The inquiry was made, the two 
 gentlemen were unseated, the borough was disfranchised, 
 Sir Henry Edwards was put on his trial for some kind of 
 parliamentary offense, and was acquitted. In this way 
 Beverley's privilege as a borough and my parliamentary 
 ambition were brought to an end at the same time. 
 
 When I knew the result I did not altogether regret it. 
 It may be that Beverley might have been brought to- 
 political confusion and Sir Henry Edwards relegated to 
 private life without the expenditure of my hard-earned 
 money, and without that fortnight of misery; but con- 
 necting the things together, as it was natural that I should 
 do, I did flatter myself that I had done some good. It 
 had seemed to me that nothing could be worse, nothing 
 more unpatriotic, nothing more absolutely opposed to the 
 system of representative government, than the time- 
 honored practices of the borough of Beverley. It had 
 come to pass that political cleanliness was odious to the 
 citizens. There was something grand in the scorn with 
 which a leading Liberal there turned up his nose at me 
 when I told him that there should be no bribery, no treat- 
 ing, not even a pot of beer on one side. It was a matter 
 for study to see how at Beverley politics were appreciated 
 because they might subserve electoral purposes, and how 
 little it was understood that electoral purposes, which are 
 in themselves a nuisance, should he endured in order that 
 they may subserve politics. And then the time, the money 
 the mental energy, which had been expended in making the 
 borough a secure seat for a gentleman who had realized the 
 idea that it would become him to bo a member of Parlia- 
 ment! This use of the borough seemed to be realized and 
 approved in the borough generally. The inhabitants had 
 taught themselves to think that it was for such purposes 
 tiiat boroughs were intended! To have assisted in putting 
 an end to this, even in one town, was to a certain extent a 
 satisfaction. 
 
232 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPIJ. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE AMERICAN POSTAL TREATY. — THE QUESTION OF COPY- 
 RIGHT WITH AMERICA. — FOUR MORE NOVELS. 
 
 • In the spring of 186S — before the affair of Beverley, 
 which, as being the first direct result of my resignation of 
 office, has been brought in a little out of its turn — I was re- 
 quested to go over to the United States and make a postal 
 treaty at Washington. This, as I had left the service, I. re- 
 garded as a compliment, and of course I went. It was my 
 third visit to America, and 1 have made two since. As far 
 as the Post-office work was concerned, it was very far from 
 being agreeable. I found myself located at Washington, a 
 place I do not love, and was harassed by delays, annoyed by 
 incompetence, and opposed by what I felt to be persona] 
 and not national views. I had to deal with two men — 
 with one who was a working officer of the American Post- 
 office, than whom I have never met a more zealous, or, as 
 far as I could judge, a more honest, public servant. He 
 had his views and I had mine, each of us having at heart 
 the welfare of the service in regard to his own country — 
 each of us also having certain orders which we were bound 
 to obey. But the other gentleman, who was in rank the 
 superior — whose executive position was dependent on his 
 official status, as is the case with our own ministers— did 
 not recommend himself to me equally. He would make 
 appointments with me and then not keep them, which at 
 last offended me so grievously that I declared at the Wash- 
 ington Post-office that if this treatment were continued, I 
 would write home to say that any further action on my 
 part was impossible. 1 think I should have done so had 
 it not occurred to me tliat I might in this way serve his 
 purpose, rather than my own, or the purposes of thoflO 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPS. 
 
 233 
 
 who had sent me. The treaty, however, was at last made 
 —the purport of which was, that everything possible 
 should be done, at a heavy expenditure on the part of 
 England, to expedite the mails from England to America, 
 and that nothing should be done by America to expedite 
 the mails from thence to us. The expedition I believe to 
 be now equal both ways; but it could not be maintained 
 as it is without the payment of a heavy subsidy from Great 
 Britain, whereas no subsidy is paid by the States.* 
 
 I had also a commission from the Foreign Office, for 
 which I had asked, to make an effort on behalf of an 
 international copyright between the United States and 
 Great Britain— the want of which is the one great im- 
 pediment to pecuniary success which still stands in the way 
 of successful English authors. I cannot say that I have 
 never had a shilling of American money on behalf of 
 reprints of my work; but I have been conscious of no such 
 payment. Having found many years ago— in 1861, when 
 T made a struggle on the subject, being then in the States, 
 the details of which are sufficiently amusing f— that I could 
 not myself succeed in dealing with American booksellers, 
 I have sold all foreign right to the English publishers; and 
 though I do not know that I have raised my price against 
 
 * This was a state of things which may probably have appeared 
 to American politicians to be exactly that which they should try to 
 obtain. The whole arrangement has again been altered smce the 
 time of which I have spoken. 
 
 f In answer to a question from myself, a certain American pub- 
 lisher—he who usually reprinted my works— promised me that if 
 any other American publisher republished my work on "America 
 before he had dme so, he would not bring out a competing edition, 
 though there would be no law to hinder him. I then entered mto 
 an agreement with another American publisher, stipulating to 
 BUDDlv him with early sheets; and he stipulating to supply me a 
 certain royalty on his sales, and to supply me with accounts hulf- 
 vearlv. 1 sent the sheets with energetic punctuality, and the work 
 was brought out with equal energy and precision— by my old Amer- 
 ican publishers. The gentleman who made the promise had not 
 broken his word. No other American edition had come out before 
 his. I never got any account, ftnd, of course, never rece;vert n, 
 dollar, 
 
234 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPK 
 
 them on that score, I may in tliis way have had some in- 
 direct advantage from the American market. But I do 
 know tliat what the publishers have received here is very 
 trifling. I doubt whether Messrs. Chapman & Hall, my 
 pi-esent publishers, get for early sheets sent to the States 
 as much as five per cent, on the price they pay me for my 
 manuscript. But the American reaaers are more nu- 
 merous than the English, and, taking them all through, 
 are probably more wealthy. If I can get £1000 for a book 
 here (exclusive of their market), I ought to be able to get 
 as much there. If a man su^oply 600 customers with 
 shoes in place of 300, there is no question as to such 
 result. Why not, then, if I can supply 60, 000 'readers in- 
 stead of 30,000? 
 
 I fancied that I knew that the opposition to an inter- 
 national copyright was by no meaus an American feeling, 
 but was confined to the bosoms of a few interested Ameri- 
 cans. All that I did and liearJ in reference to the subject 
 on tliis further visit — and having a certain authority from 
 the British Secretary of State with me I could hear and do 
 something — altogether confirmed me in this view. I have 
 no doubt that if I could poll American readers, or Ameri- 
 can senators — or even American representatives, if the 
 polling could be unbiased — or American booksellers,* 
 that an assent to an international copyright would be the 
 result. The state of things as it is is crushing to Ameri- 
 can authors, as the publishers will not pay them on a 
 liberal scale, knowing that they can supply their customers 
 with modern English literature without paying for it. The 
 English amount of production so much exceeds the Ameri- 
 can, that the rate at which the former can be published 
 rules the market. It is equally injurious to American 
 booksellers — except to two or three of the greatest houses. 
 
 * I might also say American publishers, if I might count them by 
 tlie number of heads, and not by the amount of work done by the 
 iirms. 
 
ATJTOBIOaRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 236 
 
 No small man can now acquire the exclusive right of 
 printing and selling an English book, li such a one at- 
 tempt it, the work is printed instantly by one of the 
 leviathans, who alone are the gainers. The argument of 
 course is, that the American readers are the gainers— that 
 as they can get for nothing tlie use of certain property, 
 they would be cutting their own throats were they to pass 
 a law debarring ihemselves from the power of such appro- 
 priation. In this argument all idea of honesty is thrown 
 to the winds. It is not that they do not approve of a sys- 
 tem of copyright — as many great men have disapproved — 
 for their own law of copyright is as stringent as is ours. A 
 bold assertion is made that they like to appropriate the 
 goods of other people; and that, as in this case they can 
 do so with impunity, they will continue to do so. But 
 the argument, as far as I have been able to judge, comes 
 not from the people, but from the bookselling levia- 
 thans, and from those politicians whom the leviathans 
 are able to attach to their interests. The ordinary Ameri- 
 can purchaser is not much affected by sUght variations in 
 price. He is, at any rate, too high-hearted to be affected 
 by the prospect of such variation. It is the man who 
 wants to make money, not he who fears that he may be 
 called upon to spend it, who controls such matters as this 
 in the United States. Itjs the large speculator who be- 
 comes powerful in the lobbies of the House, and under- 
 stands how wise it may be to incur a great expenditure 
 either in the creation of a great business, or in protecting 
 that which he has created from competition. Nothing was 
 done in 1868 — and nothing has been done since (up to 
 1876). A royal commission on the law of copyright is 
 now about to sit in this country, of which I have consented 
 to be a member; and the question must then be handled, 
 though nothing done by a royal commission here can af- 
 fect American legislators. But I do believe that if the 
 measure be consistently and judiciously urged, the eu- 
 
23c AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHOKY TkOLLOPE. 
 
 emies to it in the States will gradually be overcome. 
 )Sonie years since we had some quasi private meetings, 
 nuder the presidency of Lord Stanhope, in Mr. John 
 Murray's dining-room, on the subject of international 
 copyright. At one of these I discussed this matter of 
 American international copyright with Charles Dickens, 
 who strongly declared his conviction that nothing would 
 induce an American to give up the power he possesses of 
 pirating British literature. But lie was a man who, seeing 
 clearly what was before him, would not realize the possi- 
 bility of shifting views. Because in this matter the Amer- 
 ican decision had been, according to his thinking, dis- 
 honest, therefore, no other than dishonest decision was to 
 be expected from Americans. Against that idea I pro- 
 tested, and now protest. American dishonesty is rampant; 
 but it is rampant only among a few. It is the great mis- 
 fortune of the community that those few have been able 
 to dominate so large a portion of the population among 
 which all men can vote, but so few can understand for 
 what they are voting. 
 
 Since this was written the commission on the law of 
 copyright has sat and made its report. With the great 
 body of it I agree, and could serve no reader by alluding 
 liere at length to matters which are discussed there. But 
 in regard to this question of international copyright with 
 the United States, I think that we were incorrect in the 
 expression of an opinion that fair justice, or justice ap- 
 proaching to fairness, is now done by American publishers 
 to English authors by payments made by them for early 
 sheets, I have just found that £20 was paid to my pub- 
 lisher in England for the use of the early sheets of a novel 
 for which I received £1600 in England. When asked why 
 he accepted so little, he assured me that the firm with 
 whom he dealt would not give more. *' Why not go to 
 another firm?" I asked.. No other firm would give a 
 dollar; because no other firm would care to run counter to 
 
AtTTOBIOGKAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 237 
 
 that great firm whicli had assumed to itself the right of 
 publishing my books. I soon after received a copy of my 
 own novel in the American form, and found that it was 
 published for 7^d, That a great sale was expected can be 
 argued from the fact that without a great sale the paper 
 and printing necessary for the republication of a three- 
 volume novel could not bo supplied. ]\Iany thousand 
 copies must have been sold. But from these the author 
 received not one shilling. I need hardly point out that 
 the sum of £20 would not do more than compensate the 
 publisher for his trouble in making the bargain. The 
 publisher here, no doubt, might have refused to supply, 
 the early sheets, but he had no means of exacting a higher 
 price than that offered. I mention the circumstance here 
 because it has been boasted, on behalf of the American 
 publishers, that though there is no international copy- 
 right, they deal so liberally with English authors as to 
 make it unnecessary that the English author should be so 
 protected. With the fact of the £20 just brought to my 
 knowledge, and with the copy of my bobk publised at '7^(1. 
 now in my hands, I feel that an international copyright is 
 very necessary for my protection. 
 
 They among Englishmen who best love and most admire 
 the United States, have felt themselves tempted to use the 
 strongest language in denouncing the sins of Americans. 
 Who can but love their personal generosity, their active 
 and far-seeking philanthropy, their love of education, their 
 liatred of ignorance, the general conviction in the minds 
 of all of them that a man should be enabled to walk up- 
 right, fearing no one, and conscious that he is responsible 
 for his own actions? In what country have grander ef- 
 forts been made by private munificence to relievo 
 the sufferings of humanity? Where can the English 
 traveler find any more anxious to assist him than the 
 normal American, when once the American shall have 
 found the Englishman to bo neither sullen nor fasti- 
 
238 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 dious? Who, lastly, is so mucli an object of heart- 
 felt admiration of the American man and the American 
 woman as the well -mannered and well-educated English- 
 woman or Englishman? These arc the ideas which I say 
 spring uppermost in the minds of the nnprejndiced English 
 traveler as he makes acquaintance witli these near relatives. 
 Then he becomes cognizant of their official doings, of 
 their politics, of their municipal scandals, of their great 
 ring-robberies, of their lobbyings and briberies, and the 
 infinite baseness of their public life. There, at the top of 
 everything, he finds the very men who are the least fit to 
 occupy high places. American public dishonesty is so 
 glaring that the very friends he has made in the country 
 are not slow to acknowledge it — speaking of public life as 
 a thing apart from their own existence, as a state of dirt 
 in which it would be an insult to suppose that they are 
 concerned! In the midst of it all the stranger, who sees 
 so much that he hates and so much that he loves, hardly 
 knows how to express himself. 
 
 "It is not enough that you are personally clean," he 
 says, with what energy and courage he can command — 
 '* not enough though the clean outnumber the foul as 
 greatly as those gifted with eyesight outnumber the blind, 
 if you that can see allow the blind to lead you. It is not 
 by the private lives of the millions that the outside world 
 will judge you, but by the public career of those units 
 whose venality is allowed to debase the name of your 
 country. There never was plainer proof given than is 
 given here, that it is the duty of every honest citizen to 
 look after the honpr of his state." 
 
 Personally, I have to own that 1 have met Americans — 
 men, but more frequently women — who have in all re- 
 spects come up to what my ideas of what men and women 
 should be; energetic, having opinions of their own, quick 
 in speech, witli some dash of sarcasm at their -command, 
 ftlwaysjntelligent, sweet to look at (I speak of the womon), 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 239 
 
 fond of pleasure, and each with a personality of his or her 
 own which makes no effort necessary on my own part in 
 remembering the difference between Mrs. Walker and Mrs. 
 Green, or between Mr. Smith and Mr. Johnson. They 
 have faults. They are self-conscious, and are too prone to 
 prove by ill-concealed struggles that they are as good as 
 you— whereas you, perhaps, have been long acknowledging 
 to yourself that they are much better. And there is some- 
 times a pretense at personal dignity among those who 
 think themselves to have risen high in the world, wliich is 
 deliciously ludicrous. I remember two old gentlemen, the 
 owners of names which stand deservedly high in public 
 estimation, whose deportment at a public funeral turned 
 the occasion into one for irresistible comedy. They are 
 suspicious at first, and fearful of themselves. They lack 
 that simplicity of manners wliich with us has become a 
 habit from our childhood. But they are never fools, and 
 I think that they are seldom ill-natured. 
 
 There is a woman, of whom not to speak in a work pur- 
 porting to be a memoir of my own life would be to omit 
 all allusion to one of the chief pleasures which has graced 
 my later years. In the last fifteen years she has been, out 
 of my family, my most chosen friend. She is a ray of light 
 to me, from which I can always strike a spark by thinking 
 of her. I do not know that I should please her or do any 
 good by naming lier. But not to allude to her in these 
 pages would amount almost to a falsehood. I* could not 
 write truly of myself without saying that such a friend had 
 been vouchsafed to me. I trust she may live to read the 
 words I have now written, and to wipe away a tear as she 
 thinks of my feeling while I write them. 
 
 I was absent on this occasion something over three 
 months, and on my return I went back with energy to my 
 work at the iSY. Paul's Magazine* The first novel in i^ 
 from my own pen was called '" Phineas Finn," in whicli I 
 commenced a series of semi-political tulcs. As I was 
 
240 AUTOBIOGllAPHY OF ANTHONY XllOLLOPB. 
 
 debarred from expressing my opinions in the House of 
 Commons, I took this method of declaring myself. And 
 as I could not take my setit on those benches where I 
 might possibly have been shone upon by the Speaker's 
 eye, I had humbly to crave his permission for a scat in 
 the gallery, so that I might thus become conversant with 
 the ways and doings of the House in which some of my 
 scenes were to be placed. The speaker was very gracious, 
 and gave me a running order for, I think, a couple of 
 months. It was enough, at any rate, to enable me often 
 to be very tired, and, as I have been assured by members, 
 to talk of the proceedings almost as well as though Fortune 
 had enabled me to fall asleep within the House itself. 
 
 In writing ^' Phineas Finn," and also some other novels 
 which followed it, I was conscious that I could not make 
 a tale pleasing chiefly, or perhaps in any part, by politics. 
 If I write politics for my own sake, I must put in love 
 and intrigue, social incidents, with perhaps a dash of 
 sport, for the benefit of my readers. In this way I think 
 I made my political hero interesting. It was certainly a 
 blunder to take him from Ireland — into which I was led 
 by the circumstance that I created the scheme of the book 
 during a visit to Ireland. There was nothing to be gained 
 by the peculiarity, and there was an added diflSculty in 
 obtaining the sympathy and affection for a politician be- 
 longing to a nationality whose politics are not respected in 
 England. .But in spite of this Phineas succeeded. It 
 was not a brilliant success, because men and women not 
 conversant with political matters could not care much for 
 a hero who spent so much of his time either in the House 
 of Co.Timons or in a public office. But the men who 
 would have lived with Phineas Finn read the book, and 
 tlie women who would have lived with Lady Laura Stand- 
 ish read it also. As this was what I had intended, I was 
 contented. It is all fairly good except the ending, as to 
 which till I got to it I made no provision, As I fully iu« 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 24l 
 
 tended to bring my hero again into the world, I was wrong 
 to marry him to a simple, pretty Irish girl, who could only 
 be felt as an incumbrance on such return. When he did 
 return I had no alternative but to kill the simple pretty 
 Irish girl, which was an unpleasant and awkward necessity. 
 In writing *' Phineas Finn '* I had constantly before 
 me the necessity of progression in character — of marking 
 the changes in men and women which would naturally be 
 produced by the lapse of years. In most novels the 
 writer can have no such duty, as the period occupied is 
 not long enough to allow of the change of which I speak. 
 In **Ivanhoe," all the incidents of which are included 
 in less than a month, the characters should "be, as they 
 are, consistent throughout. Novelists who have under- 
 taken to write the life of a hero or heroine have generally 
 considered their work completed at the interesting period 
 of marriage, and have contented themselves with the 
 advance in taste and manners which are com.mon to all 
 boys and girls as they become men and women. Fielding, 
 no doubt, did more than this in ** Tom Jones,'* which is 
 one of the greatest novels in the English language, for 
 there he has shown how a noble and sanguine nature may 
 fall away under temptation and be again strengthened 
 and made to stand upright. But I do not think that 
 novelists have often set before themselves the state of pro- 
 gressive change — nor should I have done it, had I not 
 found myself so frequently allured back to my old 
 friends. So much of my inner life was passed in their 
 company, that I was continually asking myself how this 
 woman would act when this or that event had passed over 
 her head, or how that man would carry himself when his 
 youth had become manhood, or his manhood declined to 
 old ago. It was in regard to the old Duke of Omnium, 
 of his nephew and heir, and of his heir's wife, Lady 
 Glencora, that I was anxious to carry out this idea; but 
 Qthei*9 added themselves to my mind as I went on^ aud J 
 
242 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 got round me a circle of persons as to whom I knew not 
 only their present characters, but how those characters 
 were to be affected by years and circumstances. The 
 happy, motherly life of Violet Effingham, which was due 
 to the girl's honest, but long-restrained love; the tragic 
 misery of Lady Laura, which was equally due to the sale 
 she made of herself in her wretched marriage; and the 
 long suffering but final success of the hero, of which he 
 had deserved the first by his vanity, and the last by his 
 constant honesty, had been foreshadowed to me from the 
 first. As to the incidents of the story, the circumstances 
 by which these personages were to be affected, I knew 
 nothing. They were created for the most part as they 
 were described. I never could arrange a set of events 
 before me. 'But the evil and the good of my puppets, 
 and how the evil would always lead to evil, and the good 
 produce good — that was clear .to me as the stars on a sum- 
 mer night. 
 
 Lady Laura Standish is the best character in '^Phineas 
 Finn " and its sequel " Phineas Kedux" — of which I will 
 speak here together. They are, in fact, but one novel, 
 though they were brought out at a considerable interval 
 of time, and in different form. The first was commenced 
 in the SL Paul's Magazine in 1867, and the other was 
 brought out in the Graphic in 1873. In this there was 
 much bad arrrangement, as I had no right to expect that 
 novel-readers would remember the characters of a story 
 after an interval of six years, or that any little interest 
 which might have been taken in the career of my hero 
 could then have been renewed. I do not know that such 
 interest was renewed. But I found that the sequel en- 
 joyed the same popularity as the former part, and among 
 the same class of readers. Phineas, and Lady Laura, and 
 Lady Chiltern— as Violet had become-— and the old duko 
 — whom I killed gracefully, and the new duke, and the 
 young duchess, either kept their old frieuds or made new 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOXY TROLLOPE. ^43 
 
 friends for themselves. "Phineas Finn," I certainly 
 think, was successful from first to last. I am aware, how- 
 ever, that there was nothing in it to touch the heart like 
 the abasement of Lady Mason when confessing her guilt 
 to her old lover, or any approach in delicacy of delineation 
 to the character of Mr. Crawley. 
 
 " Phineas Finn," tlie first part of the story, was completed 
 in May, 1807. In June and July I wrote ''Linda Tressel ** 
 for BlachwoocVs Magazine, of which I hate already spoken. 
 In September and October I wrote a short novel, called 
 I' The Golden Lion of Granpere," which was intended also 
 for Blackwood— mt\\ a view of being published anony- 
 mously; but Mr. Blackwood did not find the arrangement 
 to be profitable, and the story remained on my hands, un- 
 read and unthought of, for a few years. It appeared sub- 
 sequently in Good Words, It was written on the model of 
 ''Nina Balatka " and "Linda Tressel," but is very in- 
 ferior to either of them. In November of the same year, 
 1867, I began a very long novel, which I called "He 
 Knew He Was Right," and which was brought out by Mr. 
 Virtue, the proprietor of the St. PauVs Magazine, in six- 
 penny numbers, every week. I do not know that in any 
 literary effort I ever fell more completely short of my own 
 intention than in this story. It was my purpose to create 
 sympathy for the unfortunate man who, while endeavoring 
 to do his duty to all around him, should be led constantly 
 astray by his unwillingness to submit his own judgment to 
 the opinion of others. The man is made to be unfortunate 
 enough, and the evil which he does is apparent. So far I 
 did not fail, but the sympathy has not been created yet. 
 I look upon the story as being nearly altogether bad. It 
 is in part redeemed by certain scenes in the house and 
 vicinity of an old maid in Exeter. But a novel which in 
 its main parts is bad cannot, in truth, be redeemed by the 
 vitality of subordinate characters. 
 
 This work was fintshed while I was at Washington in 
 
^44 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLXOPE. 
 
 the spring of 1868, and on the day after I finished it I 
 commenced ''The Vicar of Bullhampton," a novel which 
 I wrote for Messrs. Bradbury & Evans. This I completed 
 in November, 1868, and at once began "Sir Harry Hot- 
 spur of Humblethwaite," a story which I was still writing 
 at tlie close of the year. I look upon these two years, 1867 
 and 1868, of which I have given a somewhat confused ac- 
 count in this and the two preceding chapters, as the busiest 
 in my life. I had, indeed, left the Post-office, but though 
 I had left it I had been employed by it during a consider- 
 able portion of the time. I had established the SL PauVsr 
 Magazine, in reference to which I had read an enormous 
 amount of manuscript, and for which, independently of 
 my novels, I had written articles almost monthly. I had 
 stood for Beverley and had made many speeches. I had 
 also written five novels, and had hunted three times a 
 week during each of the winters. And how happy I was 
 with it all! I had suffered at Beverley, but I had suffered 
 as a part of the work which I was desirous of doing, and I 
 had gained my experience. I had suffered at Washington 
 with that wretched American postmaster, and with the 
 mosquitoes, not having been able to escape from that capital 
 till July; but all that had added to the activity of my life. 
 I had often groaned over those manuscripts; but I had read 
 them, considering it— perhaps foolishly — to be a part of 
 my duty as editor. And though in the quick production 
 of my novels I had always ringing in my ears that terrible 
 condemnation and scorn produced by the great man in 
 Paternoster Row, I was nevertheless proud of having done 
 80 much. I always had a pen in my hand. Whether 
 crossing the seas, or fighting with American officials, or 
 tramping about the streets of Beverley, I could do a little, 
 and generally more than a little. I had long since con. 
 Tinced myself that in such work as mine the great secret 
 consisted in acknowledging myself to be bound to rules of 
 labor similar to those which an artisan or a mechanic is 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPS. 245 
 
 forced to obey. A shoemaker when he has finished one 
 pair of shoes does not sit down and contemphite liis work 
 in idle satisfaction. ** There is my pair of shoes finislied 
 at last! What a pair of shoes it is!" The shoemaker who 
 80 indulged himself would be without wages half his time. 
 It is the same with a professional writer of books. An 
 -author may, of course, want time to study a new subject. 
 He will, at any rate, assure himself that there is some 
 such good reason why he should pause. He doe? pause, 
 and will be idle for a month or two, while he tells him- 
 self how beautiful is that last pair of shoes which he has 
 finished! Having thought much of all this, and having 
 made up my mind that I could be really happy only when 
 I was at work, I had now quite accustomed myself to 
 begin a second pair as soon as the first was out of my 
 hands. 
 
 CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 ''the vicar OF BULLHAMPTON." — ''SIR HARRY HOT- 
 SPUR." — " AN editor's tales." — '' C^SAR." 
 
 In 1869 I was called on to decide, in council with my 
 two boys and their mother, what should be their destina- 
 tion in life. In June of that year the elder, who was then 
 twenty-three, was called to the Bar; and as he had gone 
 through the regular courses of lecturing, tuition, and 
 study, it might be supposed that his course was already 
 decided. But, just as he was called, there seemed to be 
 an opening for him in another direction; and this, joined 
 to the terrible uncertainty of the Bar, the terror of which 
 was not in his case lessened by any peculiar forensic 
 aptitude, induced us to sacrifice dignity in quest of suc- 
 cess. Mr. Frederic Chapman, who was then the sole rep- 
 resentative of the publishing' house known as Messrs. 
 Chapman & Hall, wanted a partner, and my son Heriry 
 Vfent into the firm. He remained there three years and a 
 
246 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 half; but he did not like it, nor do I tliin'k ho made a very 
 good publisher. At any rate, he left the business with 
 perhaps more pecuniary success than might have been 
 expected from the short period of his labors, and has since 
 taken himself to literature as a profession. Whether he 
 will work at it so hard as his father, and write as many 
 books, may be doubted. 
 
 My second son, Frederic, had very early in life gone out 
 to Australia, having resolved on a colonial career when he 
 found that boys who did not grow so fast as he did got 
 above him at school. This departure was a great pang to 
 his mother and me; but it was permitted on the under- 
 standing that he was to come back when he was twenty- 
 one, and then decide whether he would remain in England 
 or return to the Colonies. In the winter of 1868 he did 
 come to England, and had a season's hunting in the old 
 country; but there was no doubt in'his own mind as to his 
 settling in Australia. His purpose was fixed, and in the 
 spring of 1869 he made his second journey out. As I have 
 since tliat date ?nade two journeys to see him — of one of 
 which, at any rate, I shall have to speak, as I wrote a long 
 book on the Australasian Colonies — I* will have an oppor- 
 tunity of saying a word or two further on of him and his 
 doings. 
 
 *' The Vicar of Bullhampton " was written in 1868, for 
 publication mO)ice a Week, a periodical then belonging to 
 Messrs. Bradbury & Evans. It was not to come out till 
 1869, and I, as was my wont, had made^my terms long pre- 
 viously to the proposed date. I had made my terms and 
 written my story and sent it to the publisher long before 
 it was wanted; and so far my mind was at rest. The 
 date fixed was the first of July, which date had been 
 named in accordance with thc^ exigencies of the ed- 
 itor of the periodical. An author who writes for these 
 publications is bound to suit himself to these exigen- 
 cies, and can generally do so without pereoual loss or 
 
i^UTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 247 
 
 inconvenience, if he will only take time by the fore- 
 lock. With all the pages that I have written for 
 magazines I have never been a day late, nor have I ever 
 caused inconvenience by sending less or more matter than 
 I had stipulated to supply. But I have sometimes found 
 myself compelled to suffer by the irregularity of others. 
 I have endeavored to console myself by reflecting that such 
 must ever be the fate of virtue. The industrious must 
 feed the idle. The honest and simple will always be the 
 prey of the cunning and fraudulent. Tlie punctual, who 
 keep none waiting for them, are doomed to wait perpetually 
 for the unpunctual. But these earthly sufferers know 
 that they are making their way heavenward, and their 
 oppressors their way elseward. If the former reflection 
 does not sufiBce for consolation, the deficiency is made up 
 by the second. I was terribly aggrieved on the matter of 
 the publication of my new Vicar, and had to think very 
 much of the ultimate rewards of punctuality and its oppo- 
 site. About the end of March, 1869, I got a dolorous 
 letter from the e(?itor. All the Once a Week people were 
 in a terrible trouble. They had bought the right of trans- 
 lating one of Victor Hugo's modern novels, ** L'Homme 
 Qui Kit;" they had fixed a date, relying on positive pledges 
 from the French publishers; and now the great French 
 author had postponed his work from week to week and 
 from month to month, and it had so come to pass tliat the 
 Frenchman's grinning hero would have to appear exactly 
 at the same time as my clergyman. Was it not quite ap- 
 parent to me, the editor asked, that Once aWeek co\.\\^ not 
 hold the two? Would I allow my clergyman to make his 
 appearance in the Oentleman^s Magazine instead? 
 
 My disgust at this proposition was, I think, chiefly due 
 to Victor Hugo's later novels, which I regard as pre- 
 tentious and untrue to nature. To this, perhaps, was 
 added some feeling of indignation that I should be asked 
 to give way to a Frenchman. The Frenchman had broken 
 
248 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AKTHONT TROLLOPB. 
 
 his engagement. He had failed to have his work finished 
 by the stipulated time. From week to week and from 
 month to mouth he had put off the fulfillment of his duty. 
 And because of these laches on his part — on the part of 
 this sententious French Radical — I was to be thrown over! 
 Virtue sometimes finds it difficult to console herself even 
 with the double comfort. I would not [come out in the 
 Gentleman's Magazine, and as the Grinning Man could 
 not be got out of the way, my novel was published in 
 separate numbers. 
 
 The same thing has occurred to me more than once 
 since. ** You. no doubt, are regular," a publisher has 
 
 said to me, **butMr. is irregular. He has thrown 
 
 me out, and I cannot be ready for you till three months 
 after the time named." In these emergencies I have 
 given perhaps half what was wanted, and have refused 
 to give the other half. I have endeavored to fight my 
 own battle fairly, and at the same time not to make 
 myself unnecessarily obstinate. But the circumstances 
 have impressed on my mind the great need there is that 
 men engaged in literature should feel themselves to be 
 bound to their industry as men know that they are 
 bound in other callings. There does exist, I fear, a feel- 
 ing that authors, because they are authors, are relieved 
 from the necessity of paying attention to everyday rules. 
 A writer, if he be making XSOO a year, does not think 
 himself bound 'to live modestly on £600, and put by the 
 remainder for his wife and children. He does not under- 
 stand that he should sit down at his desk at a certain 
 hour. He imagines that publishers and booksellers should 
 keep all their engagements with him to the letter; but 
 hat he, as a brain-worker, and conscious of the subtile 
 ature of the brain, should be able to exempt himself 
 itor bonds when it suits him. He has his own theory 
 publibspiration, which will not always come— especially 
 cies, and ^^ if wine-cups over night h^y^ be^u too deep, 
 
AtJTOB^OGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 249 
 
 All this has ever been odious to me, as being unmanly. A, 
 man may be frail in health, and therefore unable to do as 
 he has contracted, in whatever grade of life. He who 
 has been blessed with physical strength to work day by 
 day, year by year— as has been my case— should pardon 
 deficiencies caused by sickness or infirmity. I may in this 
 respect have been a little hard on others, and, if so, I here 
 record my repentance. But I think that no allowance 
 should be given to claims for exemption from punctuality, 
 made, if not absolutely on* the score, still, with the convic- 
 tion, of intellectual superiority. 
 
 *'The Vicar of Bullhampton " was written chiefly with 
 the object of exciting not only pity, but sympathy, for a 
 fallen woman, and of raising a feeling of forgiveness for 
 such in the minds of other women. I could not venture 
 to make this female the heroine of my story. To have 
 made her a heroine at all would have been directly op- 
 posed to my purpose. It was necessary, therefore, that 
 she should be a second-rate personage in the tale; but it 
 was with reference to her life that the tale was written, 
 and the hero and the heroine, with their belongings, are 
 all subordinate. To this novel I affixed a preface— in 
 doing which I was acting in defiance of my old-established 
 principle. I do not know that any one read it; but as I wish 
 to have it read, I will insert it here again: 
 
 **I have introduced in *The Vicar of Bullhampton ' the 
 character of a girl whom I will call— for want of a truer 
 word that shall noji in its truth be offensive— a castaway. 
 I have endeavored to endow her with ({ualities that may 
 create sympathy, and I have brought her back at last from 
 degradation, at least to decency. I have not married her 
 to a wealthy lover, and I have endeavored to explain that 
 though there was possible to her a way out of perdition, still 
 things could not be with her as they would have been had 
 she not fallen. 
 
250 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 *' There arises, of coarse, the question whether a novel- 
 ist, who professes to write for the amusement of the 
 young of both sexes, should allow himself to bring upon 
 his stage a character such as that of Carry Brattle. It is 
 not long since — it is well within the memory of the author 
 — that the very existence of such a condition of life as was 
 hers was supposed to be unknown to our sisters and daugh- 
 ters, and was, in truth, unknown to many of them. Whether 
 that ignorance was good may be questioned; but that it 
 exists no longer is beyond question. Then arises the fur- 
 ther question — how far the condition of such unfortunates 
 should be made a matter of concern to the sweet young 
 hearts of those whose delicacy and cleanliness of thought 
 is a matter of pride to so many of us. Cannot women 
 who are good pity the sufferings of the vicious, and do 
 something, perhaps, to mitigate and shorten them, with- 
 out contamination from the vice? It will be admitted, 
 probably, by most men who have thought upon the sub- 
 ject, that no fault among us is punished so heevily as 
 that fault; often so light in itself, but so terrible in its 
 consequences to the less faulty of the two offenders, by 
 which a woman falls. All her own sex is against her, and 
 all those of the other sex in whose veins runs the blood 
 which she is thought to have contaminated, and who, of 
 nature, would befriend her were her trouble any other 
 than it is. 
 
 '*She is what she is, and she remains in her abject, 
 pitiless, unutterable misery, because this sentence of the 
 world has placed her beyond the helping hand of Love 
 and Friendship. It maybe said, no)loubt, that the se- 
 verity of this judgment acts as a protection to female 
 virtue — deterring, as all known punishments do deter, 
 from vice. But this punishment, which is horrible be- 
 yond the conception of those who have not regarded it 
 closely, is not known beforehand. Instead of the pun- 
 ishment, there is seen a false glitter of gaudy life— a glitter 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 251 
 
 which is damnably false — and which, alas! has been more 
 often portrayed in glowing colors, for the injury of young 
 girls, than have those horrors which ought to deter, with 
 the dark shadowings which belong to them. 
 
 "To write in fiction of one so fallen as the noblest of 
 her sex, as one to be rewarded because of her weakness, 
 as one whose life is happy, bright, and glorious, is cer- 
 tainly to allure to vice and misery. But it may, perhaps, 
 be possible that if the matter be handled with truth to 
 life, some girl, who would have been thouglitless, may be 
 made thoughtful, or some parent's heart may be softened." 
 
 Those were my ideas when I conceived tlie story, and 
 with that feeling I described the characters of Carry Brat- 
 tle and of her family. I have not introduced her lover on 
 the scene, nor have I presented her to the reader in the 
 temporary enjoyment of any of those fallacious luxuries, 
 the longing for which is sometimes more seductive to evil 
 than love itself. She is introduced as a poor, abased 
 creature, who hardly knows how false were her dreams, 
 with very little of the Magdalene about her — because, 
 though there may be Magdalenes, they are not often found 
 — but with an intense horror of the sufferings of her posi- 
 tion. Such being her condition, will they who naturally 
 are her friends protect her? The vicar, who has taken her 
 by the hand, endeavors to excite them to charity; but 
 fatrfier and brother and sister are alike hard-hearted. It 
 had been my purpose at first that the hand of every Brat- 
 tle should be against herj but my own heart was too soft 
 to enable me to make the mother cruel — or the unmarried 
 sister, who had been the early companion of the forlorn one. 
 
 As regards all the Brattles, the story is, I think, well 
 told. The characteiis are true, and the scenes at the mill 
 are in keeping with human nature. For the rest of the 
 book I have little to say. It is not very bad, and it cer- 
 taiuly is not very good. As I have myself forgotten what 
 
252 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOXY TROLLQPB. 
 
 the heroine does and says — except that she tumbles into a 
 ditch — I cannot expect that any one else should remember 
 her. But I have forgotten nothing that was done or said 
 by any of the Brattles. 
 
 The question brought in argument is one of fearful im- 
 portance. As to the view to be taken first, there can, I 
 think, be no doubt. In regard to a sin common to the 
 two sexes, almost all the punishment and all the disgrace 
 is heaped upon the one who in nine cases out of ten has 
 been the least sinful. And the punishment inflicted is of 
 such a nature that it hardly allows room for repentance. 
 How is the woman to return to decency to whom no decent 
 door is opened? Then comes the answer: It is to the 
 severity of the punishment alone that we can trust to keep 
 women from falling. Such is the argument used in favor 
 of the existing practice, and such the excuse given for 
 their severity by women who will relax nothing of their 
 harshness. But, in truth, the severity of the punishment 
 is not known beforehand; it is not in the least understood 
 by women in general, except by those who suffer it. The 
 gaudy dirt, the squalid plenty, the contumely of famil- 
 iarity, the absence of all good words and all good things, 
 the banishment from honest labor, the being compassed 
 round with lies, the flaunting glare of fictitious revelry, 
 the weary pavement, the horrid slavery to some horrid 
 tyrant — and then the quick depreciation of that one ware 
 of beauty, the substituted paint, garments bright without 
 but foul within, like painted sepulchers, hunger, thirst, 
 and strong drink, life without a hope, without the cer- 
 tainty even of a morrow's breakfast, utterly friendless, 
 disease, starvation, and a quivering fear of that comijig 
 hell which still can hardly be worse than all that is suf- 
 fered here! This is the life to which we doom our erring 
 daughters, when because of their error we close our door 
 upon them! But for our erring sons wo find pardon easily 
 enough! 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 253 
 
 Of course there are houses of refuge, from which it ha« 
 been thought expedient to banish everything pleasant, as 
 though the only repentance to which we can afford to give 
 a. place must necessarily be one of sackcloth and ashes. 
 It is hardly thus that we can hope to recall those to de- 
 cency who, if they are to be recalled at all, must be in^ 
 duced to obey the summons before they have reached the 
 last stage of that misery which I have attempted to de- 
 scribe. To mc the mistake which we too often make seems, 
 to be this— that the girl who has gone astray is put out of 
 sight, out of mind, if possible, at any rate, out of speech, 
 as though she had never existed, and that this ferocity 
 comes not only from hatred of the sin, but in part also 
 from a dread of the taint which the sin brings with it. 
 Very low as is the degradation to which a girl is brought 
 when she falls through love or vanity, or perhaps from a 
 longing for luxurious ease, still much lower is that to 
 which she must descend perforce when, through the hard- 
 ness of the world around her, she converts that sin into a 
 trade. Mothers and sisters, when the misfortune comes 
 upon them of a fallen female from among their number, 
 should remember this, and not fear contamination so 
 strongly as did Carry Brattle's married sister and sister-in- 
 law. 
 
 In 1870 I brought out three books— or, rather, of the 
 latter of the three I must say that it was brought out by 
 other*, for I had nothing to do with it except to write it. 
 These were **Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite," *' An 
 Editor's Tales," and a little volume on Julius Caesar. 
 '* Sir Harry Hotspur " was written on the same plan as 
 "NinaBalatka'* and ** Linda Tressel," apd had for its 
 object the telling of some pathetic incident in life rather 
 than the portraiture 6f a number of human beings. 
 '* Nina " and '' Linda Tressel " and '* The Golden Lion '' 
 bad been placed in foreign countries, and this was an 
 English story. In other respects it is of the same nature, 
 
254 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 and was not, I think, by any means a failure. There is 
 much of pathos in the fove of the girl, and of paternal 
 dignity and affection in the father. 
 
 It was published first in Macmillan^s Magazine, by the 
 intelligent proprietor of which I have since been told that 
 it did not make either his fortune or that of his magazine. 
 I am sorry that it should have been so; but I fear that the 
 same thing may be said of a good many of my novels. 
 When it had passed through the magazine, the subsequent 
 use of it was sold to other publishers by Mr. Macmilhin, 
 and then I learned that it was to be bronght out by them 
 as a novel in two vohimes. Now, it had been sold by me 
 a& a novel in one volume, and heuce there arose a cor- 
 respondence. 
 
 I found it very hard to make the purchasers understand 
 that I had reasonable ground for objection to the process. 
 What was it to me? How could it injure me if they 
 stretched my pages, by means of lead and margin, into 
 double the number I had intended. I have heard the 
 same argument on other occasions. When I have pointed 
 out that in this way the public would have to suffer, see- 
 ing that they would have to pay Mudie for the use of two 
 volumes, in reading that which ought to have been given 
 to them in one. I have been assured that the public are 
 pleased with literary short measure, that it is the object 
 of novel-readers to get through novels as fast as they can^ 
 and that the shorter each volume is the better! Even 
 this, however, did not overcome me, and I stood to my 
 guns. "Sir Harry " was published in one volume, con- 
 taining something over the normal 300 pages, with an 
 average of 220 -words to a page, which I had settled with 
 my conscience to be the proper length of a novel volume. 
 I may here mention that on one occasion, and on one oc- 
 casion only, a publisher got the better of me in a matter 
 of volumes. He had a two-volume novel of mine running 
 through a certain magazine, and had it printed complete 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 265 
 
 in three volumes before I knew where I was, before I had 
 seen a sheet of the letterpress. I stormed for a while, but 
 I had not the heart to make him break up the type. 
 
 The *' Editor's Tales" was a volume republished from 
 the St PauVs Magazine, and professed to give an editor's 
 experience of his dealings with contributors. I do not 
 think that there is a single incident in the book which 
 could bring buck to any one concerned the memory of a 
 past event. And yet there is not an incident in it the out- 
 line of ^lich was not presented to my mind by the remem- 
 brance of some fact— how an ingenious gentlemen got 
 into conversation with me, I not knowing that he knew 
 me to be an editor, and pressed his little article on my 
 notice; how I was addressed by a lady with a becoming 
 pseudonym, and with much equally becoming audacity; 
 how I was appealed to by the dearest of little women, whom 
 here I have called Mary Gresley; how in my own early days 
 there was a struggle over an abortive periodical, which 
 was intended to be the best thing ever done; how terrible 
 was the tragedy of a poor drunkard, who, with infinite 
 learning at this command, made one sad final effort to re- 
 claim himself, and perished while he was making it; and 
 lastly, how a poor, weak editor was driven nearly to mad- 
 ness, by threatened litigation from a rejected contributor. 
 Of these stories "The Spotted Dog," with the struggles 
 of the drunkard scholar, is the best. I know now, how- 
 ever, that when the things were good they came out too 
 quick one upon another to gain much attention— and so 
 also, luckily, when they were bad. 
 
 The " Caesar" was a thing of itself. My friend John 
 Blackwood had set on foot a series of small volumes called 
 '* Ancient Classics for English Readers," and had placed 
 the editing of them, and the compiling of many of them, 
 in the hands of William Lucas Collins, a clergyman who, 
 from my connection with the series, became a most inti- 
 mate friend. The " Iliad " and the " Odyssey " had al- 
 
256 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. _, 
 
 ready come out when I was at Edinburgh with John 
 Blackwood, and, on my expressing my very strong admira- 
 tion for those two little volumes — which I here recom- 
 mend to all young ladies as the most charming tales they 
 can read — he asked me whether I would not undertake 
 one myself. "Herodotus" was in the press, but, if I 
 could get it ready, mine should be next. Whereupon I 
 offered- to say what might be said to the readers of English 
 on " The Commentaries of Julius Caesar." 
 
 I at once went to work, and in three months ivom that 
 day the little book had been written. I began by reading 
 through the " Commentaries " twice, which I did without 
 any assistance either by translation or English notes. 
 Latin was not so familiar to me then as it has since be- 
 come, for from that date I have almost daily spent an 
 hour with some Latin author, and on many days many 
 hours. After the reading what my author had left bdiind 
 him, I fell into the reading of what others had written 
 about him, in Latin, in English, and even in French; for 
 I went through much of that most futile book by the late 
 Emperor of the French. I do not know tliat, for a short 
 period, I ever worked harder. The amount I had to write 
 was nothing. Three weeks would have done it easily. 
 But I was most anxious, in this soaring out of my own 
 peculiar line, not to disgrace myself. I do not think that 
 I did disgrace myself. Perhaps I was anxious for some- 
 thing more. If so, I was disappointed. 
 
 The book I think to be a good little book. It is readable 
 by all, old and young, and it gives, I believe accurately, 
 both an account of '* Ctesar's Commentaries" — which, of 
 course, was the primary intention — and the chief circum- 
 stances of the great Roman's life. A well-educated girl 
 who had read it and remembered it would, perhaps, know 
 as much about Caesar and his writings as slie need know. 
 Beyond the consolation of thinking as I do about it, I got 
 Tery little gratification from the work. Nobody praised 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TRO^rLOPE. 257 
 
 it. One very old and yery learned friend to whom I sent 
 it thanked me for my " comic Caesar," but said no more. 
 I do not suppose that he intended to run a dagger into 
 me. Of any suffering from such wounds, I think, while 
 living, I never showed a sign; but still I have suffered oc- 
 casionally. There was, however, probably present to my 
 friend's mind, and to that of others, a feeling that a man 
 who had spent his life in writing English novels could not 
 be fit to write about Caesar. It was as when an amateur 
 gets a picture hung on the walls of the Academy. What 
 business had I there? Ne sutor ultra crepidam. In the 
 press it was most faintly damned by most faint praise. 
 Nevertheless, having read the book again within the last 
 month or two, I make bold to say that it is a good book. 
 The series, I believe, has done very well. I am sure that 
 it ought to do well in years to come, for, putting aside 
 '*C»sar/* the work has been done with infinite scholar- 
 ship, and very generally with a light hand. With the 
 leave of my sententious and sonorous friend, who had not 
 endured that subjects which had been grave to him should 
 be treated irreverently, I will say that such a work, unless 
 it be light, cannot answer the purpose for which it is in- 
 tended. It was not exactly a school-book that was wanted, 
 but something that would carry the purposes of the school- 
 room even into the leisure hours of adult pupils. Nothing 
 was ever better suited for such a purpose than the " Iliad " 
 and the " Odyssey," as done by Mr. Collins. The " Vir- 
 gil," also done by him, is very good; and so is the ** Aris- 
 tophanes," by the same hand. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "EALPH THE HEIK."->*'THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS."— 
 ''LADY ANNA."— ''AUSTRALIA." 
 
 In the spring of 1871 we- 1 and my wife -had decided 
 that we would go to Australia to visit our shepherd son. 
 
258 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHOKT TROLLOPB. 
 
 Of course, before doing so, I made a contract with a pub- 
 lisher for a book about the colonies. For such a work as 
 this I had always been aware that I could not fairly de- 
 mand more than half the price that would be given for 
 the same amount of fiction; and as such books have an 
 indomitable tendency to stretch themselves, so that more 
 is given than what is sold, and as the cost of traveling is 
 heavy, the writing of them is not remunerative. This 
 tendency to stretch comes not, I think, generally from the 
 ambition of the writer, but from his inability to comprise 
 the different parts in their allotted spaces. If you have 
 to deal with a country, a colony, a city, a trade, or a 
 political opinion, it is so .much easier to deal with it in 
 twenty than in twelve pages! I also made an engagement 
 with the editor of a London daily paper to supply him 
 with a series of articles— which were duly written, duly 
 published, and duly paid for. But, with all this, travel- 
 ing with the object of writing is not a good trade. If the 
 traveling author can pay his bills, he must be a good man- 
 ager on the road. 
 
 Before starting there came upon us the terrible necessity 
 of coming to some resolution about our house at Waltham. 
 It had beeu first hired, and then bought, primarily be- 
 cause it suited my Post-office avocations. To this reason 
 had been added other attractions — in the shape of hunting, 
 gardening, and suburban hospitalities. Altogether the 
 house had been a success, and the scene of much happi- 
 ness. But there arose questions as to expense. Would 
 not a house in London be cheaper? There could be no 
 doubt that my income would decrease, and was decreasing. 
 I had thrown the Post-office, as it were, away, and the 
 writing of novels could not go on forever, Some of my 
 friends told me already that at fifty-five I ought to give up 
 the fabrication of love-stories. The hunting, I thought, 
 must soon go, and I would not therefore allow that to 
 keep me in the country. And then, why should I live at 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB, 259 
 
 Waltham Cross now, seeing that I had fixed on that place 
 in reference to the Post-oflBce? It was therefore deter- 
 mined .that we would flit, and as we were to be away for 
 eighteen months, we determined also to sell our furniture. 
 So there was a packing- up, with many tears and consulta- 
 tions as to what should be saved out of the things we 
 loved. 
 
 As must take place on such an occasion, there was some 
 heart-felt grief. But the thing was done, and orders were 
 given for the letting or sale of the house. I may as well 
 say here that it never was let, and that it remained unoc- 
 cupied for two years before it was sold. I lost by the 
 transaction about £800. As I continually hear that other 
 men make money by buying and selling houses, 1 presume 
 I am not well adapted for transactions of that sort. I 
 have never made money by selling anything except a man- 
 uscript. In matters of horseflesh I am so inefficient that 
 I have generally given away horses that I have not wanted: 
 
 When we started from Liverpool, in May, 1871, "Ralph 
 the Heir" was running through the SL PauVs. This was 
 the novel of which Charles Reade afterward took the plot 
 and made on it a play. I have always thought it to be 
 one of the worst novels I have written, and almost to have 
 justified that dictum that a novelist after fifty should not 
 write love-stories. It was in part a political novel; and 
 that part which appertains to politics, and which recounts 
 the electioneering experiences of the candidates at Percy- 
 cross, is well enough. Percycross and Beverley were,- of 
 course, one and the same place. Neefit, the breeches- 
 maker, and his daughter, are also good in their way; and 
 Moggs, the daughter's lover, who was not only lover, but 
 also one of the candidates at Percycross as well. But the 
 main thread of the story— that which tells of the doings 
 of the young gentlemen and young ladies — the heroes 
 and heroines^ — is not good. Ralph the heir has not much 
 life about hiin; while Ralph who is not the heir, but is 
 
260 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHOKY TROLLOPE. 
 
 intended to be the real hero, has none. The same maybe 
 said of the young ladies, of whom one — she who was meant 
 to be the chief — has passed utterly out of my mind, with- 
 out leaving a trace of remembrance behind. 
 
 I also left in the hands of the editor of The Fortnightly, 
 ready for production on the 1st of July following, a story 
 called "The Eustace Diamonds." In that I think that my 
 friend's dictum was disproved. There is not much love in 
 it, but what there is, is good. The character of Lucy 
 Morris is pretty; and her love is as genuine and as well 
 told as that of Lucy Robarts or Lily Dale. 
 
 But "The Eustace Diamonds" achieved the success 
 which it certainly did attain, not as a love-story, but as a 
 record of a cunning little woman of pseudo-fashion, to 
 whom, in her cunning, there came a series of adventures, 
 unpleasant enough in themselves, but pleasant to the 
 reader. As I wrote the book, the idea constantly pre- 
 sented itself to me that Lizzie Eustace was but a second 
 Becky Sharpe; but in planning the character I had not 
 thought of this, and I believe that Lizzie would have 
 been just as she is though Becky Sharpe had never been 
 described. The plot of the diamond necklace is, I think, 
 well arranged, though it produced itself without any fore- 
 thought. I had no idea of setting thieves after the bauble 
 till I had got my heroine to bed in the inn at Carlisle; nor 
 of the disappointment of the thieves, till Lizzie had been 
 wakened in the morning with the news that her door had 
 been broken open. All these things, and many more, 
 "Wilkie Collins would have arranged before with infinite 
 labor, preparing things present so that they should fit in 
 with things to come. I have gone on the very much easier 
 plan of making everything as it comes fit in with what 
 has gone before. At any rate, the book was a suocees, 
 and did much to repair the injury which I felt had come 
 to my reputation in the novel-market by the works of the 
 last few years. I doubt whether I had written anything 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 261 
 
 BO successful as "The Eustace Diamonds" since "The 
 Small House at Allington." I had written what was much 
 better— as, for instance, "Phineas Finn" and "Nina 
 Balatka;" but that is by no means the same thing. 
 
 I also left behind, in a strong-box, the manuscript of 
 " Phineas Redux," a novel of which I have already spoken, 
 and which I subsequently sold to the proprietors of the 
 Graphic newspaper. The editor of that paper greatly dis- 
 liked the title, assuring me that the public would take 
 Redux for the gentleman's surname— and was dissatisfied 
 with me when I replied that I had no objetion to them 
 doing so. The introduction of a Latin word, or of a 
 word"" from any other language, into the title of an 
 English novel is undoubtedly in bad taste; but after turn- 
 ing the matter much over in my own mind, I could find 
 no other suitable name. 
 
 I also left behind me, in the same strong-box, another 
 novel, called "An Eye for an Eye," which then had been 
 some time written, and of which, as it has not even yet 
 been published, I will not further speak. It will prob- 
 ably be published some day, though, looking forwai'd, I 
 can see no room for it, at any rate, for the next two 
 
 years. 
 
 If, therefore, the Great Britain, in which we sailed for 
 Melbourne, had gone to the bottom, I had so provided 
 that there would be new novels ready to come out under 
 my name for some years to come. This consideration, 
 however, did not keep me idle while I was at sea. When 
 making long journeys, I have always succeeded in getting 
 a desk put up in my cabin, and this was done ready for 
 me in the Great Britain, so that I could go to work the 
 day after we left Liverpool. This I did; and before I 
 reached Melbourne I had finished a story called " Lady 
 Anna." Every word of this was written at sea, during the 
 two months required for our voyage, and was done day by 
 auy_-vyith the intermission of one day's illness— for eight 
 
2Q2 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TBOLLOPE, 
 
 weeks, at the rate of sixty-six pages of manuscript in each 
 week, every page of manuscript containing two hundred 
 and fifty words. Every word was counted. I have seen 
 work come back to an author from the press with terrible 
 deficiencies as to the amount supplied. Thirty-two pages 
 have perhaps been wanted for a number, and the printers, 
 with all their art, could not stretch the matter to more 
 than twenty-eight or nine! The work of filling up must 
 be very dreadful. I have sometimes been ridiculed for 
 the methodical details of my business. But by these con- 
 trivances I have been preserved from many troubles; and 
 I have saved others with whom I have worked — editors, 
 publishers, and printers — from much trouble also. 
 
 A month or two after my return home ^' Lady Anna" 
 appeared in TJie Fortnightly ^ following " The Eustace 
 Diamonds." In it a young girl, who is really a lady of 
 high rank and great wealth, though in her youth she en- 
 joyed none of the privileges of wealth or rauk, marries a 
 tailor who had been good to her, and whom she had loved 
 when she was poor and neglected. A fine young noble 
 lover is provided for her, and all the charms of sweet liv-' 
 ipg with nice people are thrown in her way, in order that 
 she may be made to give up the tailor. And the charms 
 are very powerful with her. But the feeling that she is 
 bound by her troth to the man who had always been true 
 to her overcomes everything — and she marries the tailor. 
 It was my wish, of course, to justify her in doing so, and 
 to carry my readers along with me in my sympathy with 
 her. But everybody found fault with me for marrying 
 her to the tailor. What would they have said if I had 
 allowed her to jilt the tailor and marry the good-looking 
 young lord? How much louder, then, would have been 
 the censure I The book was read, and I was satisfied! If 
 I had not told my story well, there would have been no 
 feeling in favor of the young lord. The horror which was 
 expressed to me at the evil thing I had done^ in giving the 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 263 
 
 girl to the tailor, was the strongest testimony I could re- 
 ceive of the merits of the story. 
 
 I went to Australia chiefly in order that I might see my 
 son among his sheep. I did see him among his sheep, and 
 remained with him for four or five very happy weeks. He 
 was not making money, nor has he made money since. I 
 grieve to say that several thousands of pounds which I 
 had squeezed out of the pockets of perhaps too-liberal 
 publishers have been lost on the venture. But I rejoice to 
 shy that this has been in no way due to any fault of his. 
 I never knew a man work with more persistent honesty at 
 his trade than he has done. 
 
 I had, however, the further intentions of writing a book 
 about the entire group of Australasian colonies; and in 
 order that I might be enabled to do that with sufficient 
 information, I visited them all. Making my headquarters 
 at Melbourne, I went to Queensland, New South Wales, 
 Tasmania, then to the very little known territory of West- 
 ern Australia, and then, last of all, to New Zealand. I 
 was absent in all eighteen months, and think that I did 
 succeed in learning much of the political, social, and 
 material condition of these countries. I wrote my book 
 as I was traveling, and brought it back with me to Eng- 
 land all but completed in December, 1872. 
 
 It was a better book than that which I had written 
 eleven years before on the American States, but not so 
 good as that on the West Indies, in 1859. As regards the 
 information given, there was much more to be said about 
 Australia than the West Indies. Very much more is said, 
 and very much more may be learned from the latter than 
 from the former book. I am sure that any one who will 
 take the trouble to read the book on Australia will learn 
 mnch from it. But the West Indian volume was readable. 
 I am not sure that either of the other works are, in the 
 proper sense of that word. When I go back to them I find 
 that the pages drag with me; and if so with me, how must 
 
264 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AKTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 it be with others who have none of that love which a father 
 feels even for his ill-favored offspring. Of all the needs a 
 book has the chief need is that it be readable. 
 
 Feeling that these volumes on Australia were dull and 
 long, I was surprised to find that they had an extensive 
 sale. There were, I think, 2000 copies circulated of the 
 first expensive edition; and then the book was divided into 
 four little volumes, which were published separately, and 
 ■which again had a considerable circulation. That some 
 facts were stated inaccurately, I do not doubt; that many 
 opinions were crude, I am quite sure; that I had failed to 
 understand much which I attempted to explain, is possible. 
 But with all these faults the book was a thoroughly honest 
 book, and was the result of unflagging labor for a period 
 of fifteen months. I spared myself no trouble in inquiry, 
 no trouble in seeing, and no trouble in listening. I thor- 
 oughly imbued my mind with the subject, and wrote with 
 the simple intention of giving trustworthy information 
 on the state of the Colonies. Though there be inaccura- 
 cies — those inaccuracies to which work quickly done must 
 always be subject — I think I did give much valuable in- 
 formation. 
 
 I came home across America from San Francisco to New 
 York, visiting Utah and Brigham Young on the way. I 
 did not achieve great intimacy with the great polygamist 
 of the Salt Lake City. I called upon him, sending to him 
 my card, apologizing for doing so without an introduction, 
 and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass 
 through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had 
 heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not ask- 
 ing me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. 
 When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me 
 whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. " I guess 
 you're a miner," said he. I again assured him that I was 
 not. **Then how do you earn your bread?" I told him 
 that I did so by writing books. " I'm sure you^*e a miner/' 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 265 
 
 said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the 
 house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as 
 I was Tain enough to conceive that he would have heard 
 my name. 
 
 I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any reso- 
 lution made to the contrary, my mind was full of hunting 
 as I came back. No real resolutions had, in truth, beei) 
 made, for out of a stud of four horses I kept three, two 
 of which were absolutely idle through the two summers 
 and winter of my absence. Immediately on my arrival I 
 bought another, and settled myself down to hunting from 
 London three days a week. At first I went back to Essex, 
 my old country," but finding that to be inconvenient, I 
 took my horses to Leighton Buzzard, and became one of 
 that numerous herd of sportsmen who rode with the 
 "Baron" and Mr. Selby Lowndes. In those days Baron 
 Meyer was alive, and the riding with his hounds was very 
 good. I did not care so much for Mr. Lowndes. During 
 the winters of 1873. 1874, and 1875 I had my horses back 
 in Essex, and went on with my hunting, always trying to 
 resolve that I would give it up. But still I bought fresh 
 horses, and, as I did not give it up, I hunted more than 
 ever. Three times a week the cab has been at my door in 
 London very punctually, and not unfrequently before 
 seven in the morning. In order to secure this attendance, 
 the man has always been invited to have his breakfast in 
 the hall. I have gone to the Great Eastern Railway— ah! 
 BO often with the fear that frost would make all my exer- 
 tions useless, and so often, too, with that result!— and 
 then, from one station or another station, have traveled 
 on wheels at least a dozen miles. After the day's sport, 
 the same toil has been necessary to bring me home to din- 
 ner at eight. This has been work for a young man and a 
 rich man, but I have done it as an old man and compara- 
 tively a poor man. Now at last, in April, 1876, 1 do think 
 thftt my rwlutiou Uh been tekow, t m giving u.viiy my 
 
266 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF Al^THONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 old horses^ and anybody is welcome to my saddles and 
 horse-furniture. 
 
 " Singula de nobis anni prsedantur euntes; 
 Elipuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum; 
 Tendunt extorquere poemata." 
 
 " Our years keep taking toll as they move on 
 My feasts, my frolics, are already gone, 
 And now, it seems, my verses must go too." 
 
 This is Conington's translation, but it seems to me to be 
 a little flat. 
 
 ** Years as they roll cut all our pleasures short; 
 Our pleasant mirth, our loves, our wine, our sport. 
 And then they stretch their power and crush at last. 
 Even the power of singing of the past." 
 
 I think that I may say with truth that I rode hard to 
 my end. 
 
 " Vixi puellis nuper idoneus, 
 Et militavi non sine gloria; 
 Nunc arma defunctiimque bello 
 Barbiton hie paries habebit." 
 
 " I've lived about the covert side. 
 
 I've ridden straight, and ridden fast; 
 Now breeches, boots, and scarlet pride 
 Are but mementoes of the past." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "THE WAY WE LIVE NOW " AND ''THE PRIME MINISTER." 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 In what I have said at the end of the last chapter, 
 about my hunting, I have been carried a little in advance 
 of the date at which I had arrived. We returned from 
 Australia in the winter of 1872, and eady in 1873 I took a 
 house in Montagu Square — in which I hope to live and 
 hope, to die. Our first work in settling there was to place 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 267 
 
 upon new shelves the books which I had collected round 
 myself at Waltham. And this work, which was in itself 
 great, entailed also the labor of a new catalogue. As all 
 who use libraries know, a catalogue is nothing unless it 
 show the spot on which every book is to be found— in- 
 formation which every volume also ought to give as to 
 itself. Only those who have done it know how great is the 
 labor of moving and arranging a few thousand volumes. 
 At the present moment I own about 5000 volumes, and 
 they are dearer to me even than the horses which are go- 
 ing, or than the wine in the cellar, which is very apt to 
 go, and upon which I also pride myself. 
 
 When this was done, and the new furniture had got 
 into its place, and my little book-room was settled suffi- 
 ciently for work, I began a novel, to the writing of which 
 I was instigated by what I conceived to be the commercial 
 profligacy of the age. Whether the world does or does 
 not become more wicked as years go on, is a question 
 which probably has disturbed the minds of thinkers since 
 the world began to think. That men have become less 
 cruel, less violent, less selfish, less brutal, there can be no 
 doubt; but have they become less honest? If so, can a 
 world, retrograding from day to day in honesty, be con- 
 sidered to be in a state of progress. We know the opinion 
 on this subject of our philosopher Mr. Carlyle. If he be 
 right, we are all going straight away to darkness and the 
 dogs. But then we do not put very much faith in Mr. Car- 
 lyle, nor in Mr. Ruskin, and his other followers. The 
 loudness and extravagance of their lamentations, the wail- 
 ing and gnashing of teeth which comes from them, over a 
 world which is supposed to have gone altogether shoddy- 
 wards, are so contrary to the convictions of men who can- 
 not but see how comfort has been increased, how health 
 has been improved, and education extended, that the 
 general effect of their teaching is the opposite of what 
 they haye intended. It is regarded simply us Carlylism to 
 
268 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP ANTHONY TROLLOPH, 
 
 say that the Euglish-speaking world is growing worse 
 from day to day. And it is Carlylism to opine that the 
 general grand result of increased intelligence is a tendency 
 to deterioration. 
 
 Nevertheless a certain class of dishonesty — dishonesty 
 magnificent in its proportions, and climbing into high 
 places — has become at the same time so rampant and so 
 splendid that there seems to be reason for fearing that 
 men and women will be taught to feel that dishonesty, if 
 it can become splendid, will cease to be abominable. If 
 dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace, with pictures on 
 all its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with marble 
 and ivory in all its corners, and can give Apician dinners, 
 and get into Parliament, and deal in millions, then dis- 
 honesty is not disgraceful, and tlie man dishonest after 
 such a fashion is not a low scoundrel.. Instigated, I say, 
 by some such reflections as these, I sat down in my new 
 house to write *' The Way We Live Now." And as I had 
 ventured to take the whip of the satirist into my hand, I 
 went beyond the iniquities of the great speculator who 
 robs everybody, and made an onslaught also on other vices 
 — on the intrigues of girls who want to get married, on 
 the luxury of young men who prefer to remain single, and 
 on the puflBng propensities of authors who desire to cheat 
 the public into buying their volumes. 
 
 The book has the fault which is to be attributed to 
 almost all satires, whether in prose jot verse. The accu- 
 sations are exaggerated, the vices are colored, so as to 
 make effect rather than represent truth. Who, when the 
 lash of objurgation is in his hands, can so moderate his 
 arm as never to strike harder than justice would require? 
 The spirit which produces the satire is honest enough, 
 but the very desire which moves the satirist to do his work 
 energetically makes him dishonest. In other respects 
 " The Way We Live Now " was, as a satire, powerful 
 and good. The character of Melmotte is well maintained, 
 
JLUTX^IOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 269 
 
 The bear-garden is amusing, and not untrue. The 
 Longestaffe girls and their friend, Lady Monogram, are 
 amusing, but exaggerated. Dolly Longestaffe is, I think, 
 very good. And Lady Carbury's literary efforts are, I 
 am sorry to say, such as are too frequently made. But 
 here again the young lady with her two lovers is weak and 
 vapid. I almost doubt whether it be not impossible to 
 have two absolutely distinct parts in a novel, and to im- 
 bue them both with iuterest. If they be distinct, the one 
 will seem to be no more than padding to the other. And 
 so it was in " The Way We Live Now." The interest of 
 the story lies among the wicked and foolish people, with 
 Melmotte and his daughter, with Dolly and his family, 
 with the American woman, Mrs. Hurtle, and with John 
 Crumb and the girl of his heart. But Koger Carbury, 
 Paul Montague, and Henrietta Carbury are uninteresting. 
 Upon the whole, I by no means look upon the book as 
 one of my failures; nor was it taken as a failure by the 
 public or the press. 
 
 While I was writing **The Way We Live Now" I was 
 called upon by the proprietors of the GrapJiic for a Christ- 
 mas story. I feel, with regard to literature,, somewhat as 
 I suppose an upholsterer and undertaker feels when he is 
 called upon to supply a funeral. He has to supply it, 
 however distasteful it may be. It is his business, and he 
 will starve if he neglect it. So have I felt that, when any- 
 thing in the shape of a novel was required, I was bound to 
 , produce it. Nothing can be more distasteful to me than 
 to have to give a relish of Christmas to what I write. I 
 feel the humbug implied by the nature of the order. A 
 Christmas story, in the proper sense, should be the ebul- 
 lition of some inind anxious to instill others with a desire 
 for Christmas religious thought, or Christmas festivities, 
 or, better still, with Christmas charity. Such was the 
 case with Dickens when he wrote "his first two Christmas 
 stories. But since that the things written anDually—all 
 
270 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPl, 
 
 of which have been fixed to Christmas like children's toys 
 to a Christmas-tree — have had no real savor of Christmas 
 about them. I had done two or three before. Alas! at 
 this very moment I have one to write, which I haveprom- 
 to supply within three weeks of this time — the picture- 
 makers always requiring a long interval — as to which I 
 have in vain been cudgeling my brain for the last month. 
 I can't send away the order to another shop, but I do not 
 know how I shall ever get the coffin made. 
 
 For the Graphic, in 1873, I wrote a little story about 
 Australia. Christmas at the antipodes is of course mid- 
 summer, and I was not loath to describe the troubles to 
 which my own son had been subjected, by the mingled 
 accidents of heat and bod neighbors, on his station in the 
 bush. So I wrote ** Harry Heathcote of Gangoil," and 
 was well through my labor on that occasion. I only wish 
 I may have no worse success in that which now hangs 
 over my head. 
 
 When '* Harry Heathcote " was over, I returned with a 
 full heart to Lady Glencora and her husband. I had never 
 yet drawn the completed picture of such a statesman as 
 my imagination had conceived. The personages with 
 whose names my pages had been familiar, and, perhaps, 
 even the minds of some of my readers — the Brocks, De 
 Terriers, Monks, Greshams, and Daubeneys — had been 
 more or less portraits, not of living men, but of living 
 political characters. The strong-minded, thick-skinned, 
 useful, ordinary member, either of the Government or of 
 the Opposition, had been very easy to describe, and had 
 required no imagination to conceive. The character re- 
 produces itself from generation to generation; and, as it 
 does 80, becomes shorn in a wonderful way of those little 
 touches of humanity which would be destructive of its 
 purposes. Now and again there comes a burst of human 
 nature, as in the quarrel between Burke and Fox; but, as 
 a rule, the men submit themselves to be shaped and fash- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 0* ANTHONY TROLLOPB. 271 
 
 ioned, and to be formed into tools, which are used either 
 for building up or pulling down, and can generally bear to 
 be changed from this box into the other, without, at any 
 rate, the appearance of much personal suffering. Four- 
 and-twenty gentlemen will amalgamate themselves into 
 one whole, and work for one purpose, having each of them 
 to set aside his own idiosyncrasy, and to endure the close 
 pei'sonal contact of men who must often be personally dis- 
 agreeable, having been thoroughly taught that in no other 
 way can they serve either their country or their own am- 
 bition. These are the men who are publicly useful, and 
 whom the necessities of the age supply — as to whom I 
 have never ceased to wonder that stones of such strong 
 caliber should be so quickly worn down to the shape and 
 smoothnees of rounded pebbles. 
 
 Such have been to me the Brocks and the Mildmays, 
 about whom I have written with great pleasure, having 
 had my mind much exercised in watching them. But I 
 had also conceived the character of a statesman of a dif- 
 ferent nature — of a man who should be in something, per- 
 haps, superior, but in very much inferior, to these men; 
 of one who could not become a pebble, having too strong 
 an identity of his own. To rid one's self of fine scruples 
 — to fall into the traditions of a party — to feel the need of 
 subservience, not only in acting, but also, even, in think- 
 ing — to be able to be a bit, and at first only a very little 
 bit — these are the necessities of the growing statesman. 
 The time may come, the glorious time, when some great 
 self-action shall be possible, and shall be even demanded 
 — as when Peel gave up the Corn Laws; but the rising 
 man, as he puts on his harness, should not allow himself 
 to dream of this. To become a good, round, smooth, hard, 
 useful pebble is his duty; and to achieve this he must 
 harden his skin and swallow his scruples. But every now 
 and again we see the attempt made by men who cannot get 
 their akins to be hard, who, after a little while^ generally 
 
272 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB, 
 
 fall out of the ranks. The statesman of whom I was 
 thinking — of whom I had long thought — was one who did 
 not fall out of the ranks, even though his skin would not 
 become hard. He should have rankand intellect and par- 
 liamentary habits, by which to bind him to the service of his 
 country; and he should also have unblemished, unextin- 
 guishable, inexhaustible love of country. That virtue I 
 attribute to our statesmen generally. They who are with- 
 out it are, I think, mean indeed. This man should have 
 it as tlie ruling principle of his life; and it should so rule 
 him that all other things should be made to give way to 
 it. But he should be scrupulous, and, being scrupulous, 
 weak. 
 
 When called to the highest place in the council of 
 his sovereign, iie should feel with true modesty his own 
 insuflQciency; but not the less should the greed of power 
 grow upon him when he had once allowed himself to taste 
 and enjoy it. Such was the character I endeavored to de- 
 pict in describing the triumph, the troubles, and the fail- 
 ure of my Prime Minister, And I think that I have suc- 
 ceeded. What the public may think, or what the press 
 may say, I do not yet know, the work having, as yet, run 
 but half its course.* 
 
 That the man's character should be understood as I un- 
 derstand it — or that of his wife, the delineation of which 
 has also been a matter of much happy care to me — I have 
 no right to expect, seeing that the operation of describing 
 has not been confined to one novel, which might, perhaps, 
 be readthrough by the majority of those who commenced 
 
 ♦ Writing this note in 1878, after a lapse of nearly three years, I 
 am oblipred to say that, as regards the public, " The Prime Minister " 
 ■was a failure. It was worse spoken of by the press than any novel I 
 had written. T was specially hurt by a criticism on it in the Spect.a- 
 t<yr. The critic who wrote the article I know to be a good critic, in- 
 clined to be more than fair to mo; but in this case I could not agree 
 with him, so much do 1 love the man whose character I hftd en« 
 d(^4vorecl to portray. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AKTHONY TROLLOPB. 273 
 
 it. It has been carried on through three or four, each of 
 which will be forgotten, even by the most zealous reader, 
 almost as soon as read. In " The Prime Minister," my 
 Prime Minister will not allow his wife to take oflBce among, 
 or even over, those ladies who are attached by office to the 
 queen's court. ** I should not choose," he says to her, 
 "that my wife should have any duties unconnected with 
 our joint family and home." Who will remember in read- 
 ing those words that, in a former story, published some 
 years before, he tells his wife, when she has twitted him 
 with his willingness to clean the Premier's shoes, that he 
 would even allow her to clean them if it were for the good 
 of the country? And yet it is by such details as these 
 that I have, for many years past, been manufacturing 
 within my own mind the characters of the man and his 
 wife. 
 
 I think that Plantagenet Palliser, Duke of Omnium, is 
 a perfect gentleman. If he be not, then am I unable to 
 describe a gentleman. She is by no means a perfect lady; 
 but if she be not all over a woman, then am I not able to 
 describe a woman. I do not think it probable that my 
 name will remain among those who in the next century 
 will be known as the writers of English prose fiction; but 
 if it does, that permanence of success will probably rest on 
 the character of Plantagenet Palliser, Lady Glencora, and 
 the Rev. Mr. Crawley, 
 
 I have now come to the end of that long series of books 
 written by myself, with which the public is already ac- 
 quainted. Of those which I may hereafter be able to add 
 to them I cannot speak; though I have an idea that I shall 
 even yet once more have recourse to my political hero as 
 the mainstay of another story. When "The Prime Min- 
 ister" was finished I at once began another novel, which 
 ia now completed, in three volumes, and which is called 
 ^*l8 He Popenjoy?" Thore are two Popenjoys in the 
 booki oue succeeding to the title held b^ the other; but aa 
 
274 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 they are both babies, and do not in the course of the story 
 progress beyond babyhood, the future readers, should the 
 tale ever be published, will not be much interested in 
 them. Nevertheless the story, as a story, is not, I think, 
 amiss. Since that I have written still another three- 
 volume novel, to which, very much in opposition to my 
 publisher, I have given the name of ^^The American 
 Senator.'* ''• It is to appear in Temple Bar, and is to com- 
 mence its appearance on the first of next month. Such 
 being its circumstances, I do not know that I can say any- 
 thing else about it here. 
 
 And so I end the record of my literary performances, 
 which 1 think are more in amount than the works of any 
 other living English author. If any English authors not 
 living have written more — as may probably have been the 
 case — I do not know who they are. I find that, taking 
 the books which have appeared under our names, I have 
 published much more than twice as much as Carlyle. I 
 have also published considerably more than Voltaire, even 
 including his letters. We are told that Varro, at the age 
 of eighty, had written 480 volumes, and that he went on 
 writing for eight years longer. I wish I knew what was 
 the length of Varro*s volumes; I eomfoi-t myself by reflect- 
 ing that the amount of manuscript described as a book in 
 Varro*s time was not much. Varro, too, is dead, and 
 Voltaire; whereas I am still living, and may add to the 
 pile. 
 
 The following is a list of the books I have written, with 
 the dates of publication and the sums I have received for 
 them. The dates given are the years in which the works 
 were published as a whole, most of them having appeared 
 before in some serial form. 
 
 * " The American Senator" and " Popenjoy "have appeared, each 
 with fair success. Neither of them has encountered that reproach 
 which, in regard to "The Prime Minister," seemed to tell me that 
 my work as a novelist should be brought to a close. And yet 1 feel 
 asBured that tliey are very inferior to " The Prime Minister. 
 
AUTOBIOGEAPHY OV ANTHOKT TROLLOPH. 275 
 
 Names of Works. Pu?hSti^^n. 
 
 The Macdermots of Ballycloran 1847 
 
 The Kellys and the O'Kellys 1848 
 
 La Vendee 1850 
 
 The Warden 1855 
 
 Barchester Towers 1857 
 
 The Three Clerks 1858 
 
 Doctor Thorne 1858 
 
 The West Indies and the Spanish Main 1859 
 
 The Bertrams 1859 
 
 Castle Richmond : 1860 
 
 Framlev Parsonage 1861 
 
 Tales of All Countries— 1st Series 1861 
 
 2d " 1863 
 
 3d " 1870 
 
 Orley Farm 1863 
 
 North America 1862 
 
 Rachel Ray 1863 
 
 The Small House at Allington 1864 
 
 Can You Forgive Her? 1864 
 
 Miss Mackenzie 1865 
 
 The Belton Estate 1866 
 
 The Claverings 1867 
 
 The Last Chronicle of Barset 1867 
 
 Nina Balatka 1867 
 
 Linda Tressel 1868 
 
 fhineas Finn 1869 
 
 He Knew He Was Right 1869 
 
 Brown, Jones, and Robinson 1870 
 
 The Vicar of BuUhampton 1870 
 
 An Editor's Tales 1870 
 
 Caesar (Ancient Classics) 1870* 
 
 Str Harry Hotspur of Humblelhwaite 1871 
 
 Ralph the Heir 1871 
 
 The Golden Lion of Granp^re 1872 
 
 The Eustace Diamonds 1873 
 
 Australia and New Zealand 1873 
 
 Phineas Redux 1874 
 
 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil 1874 
 
 Lady Anna 1874 
 
 The Way We Live Now 1875 
 
 The Prime Minister 1876 
 
 The American Senator 1877 
 
 Is He Popenjoy? 1878 
 
 South Africa 1878 
 
 John Caldigate 1879 
 
 Sundries 
 
 * Tliis was given by me as a present to my friend John Blackwood. 
 
 Total Sums 
 
 Received. 
 
 £48 
 
 6d 
 
 123 19 6 
 
 20 
 
 
 
 727 11 3 
 
 250 
 
 
 
 400 
 
 
 
 250 
 
 
 
 400 
 
 
 
 600 
 
 
 
 1000 
 
 
 
 1830 
 
 
 
 3135 
 
 
 
 1250 
 
 
 
 1645 
 
 
 
 3000 
 
 
 
 3525 
 
 
 
 1300 
 
 
 
 1757 
 
 00 
 
 2800 
 
 
 
 3000 
 
 
 
 450 
 
 
 
 450 
 
 
 
 3200 
 
 
 
 3200 
 
 
 
 600 
 
 
 
 2500 
 
 
 
 378 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 750 
 
 
 
 2500 
 
 
 
 550 
 
 
 
 2500 
 
 00 
 
 1300 
 
 
 
 2500 
 
 
 
 450 
 
 
 
 1200 
 
 
 
 3000 
 
 00 
 
 2500 
 
 
 
 J800 
 
 
 
 IGOO 
 
 
 
 850 
 
 
 
 ,1800 
 
 
 
 7800 
 
 
 
 £68,989 17 5 
 
276 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ANTHONY TROLLOPB* 
 
 It will not, I am sure, be thought that, in making my 
 boast as to quantity, I have endeavored to lay claim to any 
 literary excellence. That, in the writing of books, quan- 
 tity without quality is a vice and a misfortune, has been 
 too manifestly settled to leave a doubt on such a mat- 
 ter. 
 
 But I do lay claim to whatever merit should be accorded 
 to me for persevering diligence in my profession. And I 
 make the claim, not with a view to my own glory, but for 
 the benefit of those who may read these pages, and when 
 young may intend to follow the same career. Nulla dies 
 sine lined. Let that be their motto. And let their work 
 be to them as is his common work to the common laborer. 
 No gigantic efforts will then be necessary. He need tie 
 no wet towels round his brow, nor sit for thirty hours at 
 his desk without moving — as men have sat, or said that 
 they have sat. More than nine tenths of my literary 
 work has been done in the last twenty years, and 
 during tv/elve of those years I followed another profes- 
 sion. 
 
 I have never been a slave to this work, giving due time, if 
 not more than due time, to the amusements T have loved. 
 But I have been constant— and constancy in labor will 
 conquer all difficulties. Outta cavat lapidem non vi, sed 
 s(Bpe cadendo. 
 
 It may interest some if I state that during the last 
 twenty years I have made by literature something near 
 £70,000. As I have said before in these pages, I look 
 upon the result as comfortable, but not splendid. 
 
 It will not, I trust, be supposed by any reader that I 
 have intended in this so-called autobiography to give a 
 record of my inner life. No man ever did so truly—and 
 no man ever will. Rousseau probably attempted it, but 
 who doubts but that Rousseau has confessed in much the 
 thoughts and convictions rather than the facts of hia 
 life? 
 
ATJTOBIOQRAPHY OF ANTHOIJY TROLLOPS, 277 
 
 If the rustle of a woman's petticoat has ever stirred my 
 blood; if a cup of wine has been a joy to me; if I have 
 thought tobacco at midnight in pleasant company. to be 
 one of the elements of an earthly paradise; if now and 
 again I have somewhat recklessly fluttered a £5 note over 
 a card table; of what matter is that to any reader? J have 
 betrayed no woman. Wine has brought me to no sorrow. 
 It has been the companionship of smoking that I have 
 loved, rather than the habit. I have never desired to win 
 money, and I have lost none. To enjoy the excitement 
 of pleasure, but to be free from its vices and ill effects— to 
 have the sweet, and leave the bitter untasted— that has 
 been my study. 
 
 The preachers tell us that this is impossible. It 
 seems to me that hitherto I have succeeded fairly well. 
 I will not say that I have never scorched a finger— but I 
 carry no ugly wounds. 
 
 For what remains to me of life I trust for my happiness 
 still chiefly to my work— hoping, that when the power of 
 work be over with me, God may be pleased to take me 
 from a world in which, according to my view, there can be 
 no joy; secondly, to the love of those who love me; and 
 then, to my books. That I can read, and be happy while 
 I am reading, is a great blessing. Could I remember, as 
 some men do, what I read, I should have been able to call 
 myself an educated man. But that power I have never 
 possessed. Something is always left— something dim and 
 inaccurate— but still something sufficient to preserve the 
 taste for more. I am inclined to think that it is so with 
 most readers. 
 
 Of late years, putting aside the Latin classics, I have 
 found my greatest pleasure in our old English dramatists 
 —not from any excessive love of their work, which often 
 irritates me by its want of truth to nature, even while it 
 shames me by its language— but from curiosity in search- 
 ing their plots and examining their character. If I live a 
 
278 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AXTHONY TROLLOPB. 
 
 few years longer, I shall, I think, leave, in my copies of 
 these dramatists, down to the close of James I., written 
 criticisms on every play. No one who has not looked 
 closely into it knows how many there are. 
 
 Now I stretch out my hand, and from the further shore 
 I bid adieu to all who have cared to read any among the 
 many words that I have written. 
 
 THE END. 
 
p. O. Box 3751. 
 
 The Se aside L ibrary. 
 
 ORDirVARV EOITION. 
 
 GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 
 
 »x 3751. 17 to «7 Vandewater Street, New YorK. 
 
 The foUowin^ works contained in The Seaside LrBRAKTOr^^^^^^^ 
 are for sale by all newsdea ers, or will ^^J^.^^f^^fs^o? doutle lumbers, by the 
 
 MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. pric^e^ 
 
 30 Her Dearest Foe 20 
 
 36 The Wooing O't 20 
 
 46 The Heritage of LaDgdale ^q 
 
 370 Ralph Wilton's Weird 20 
 
 400 Which Shall it Be? ;^q 
 
 532 Maid. Wife, or Widow? 20 
 
 1231 The Freres 10 
 
 1259 Valerie's Fate 20 
 
 1391 Look Before You Leap ^0 
 
 1502 The Australian Aunt 2q 
 
 1595 The Admiral's Ward 
 
 WILLIAM BLACK'S WORKS. 
 
 13 A Princess of Thule . q 
 
 28 A Daughter of Heth .^ 
 
 47 In Silk Attire • • • '^' '\ 10 
 
 48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton J^ 
 
 51 Kilmeny ;'/-v 10 
 
 53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane Jf 
 
 79 Madcap Violet (small type) ^ 
 
 604 Madcap Violet (large type) :?JJ 
 
 242 The Three Feathers ,*;:,:.•' V/ -J* "*' Vf-ii "^^' in 
 
 390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 
 
 417 Macleod of Dare "l^ 
 
 451 Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart :|J: 
 
 668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly |" 
 
 816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance |^. 
 
 826 Oliver Goldsmith Xfi 
 
 950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times ^^ 
 
 1025 The Pupil of Aurelius :j^ 
 
 1082 That Beautiful Wretch fj 
 
 1161 The Four MacNicols •/ ' VV- \"; * ' i ift 
 
 1264 Mr. Pisislratus Brown. M.P.. m the Highlands^ . . ... .... lU 
 
 1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Yt>ung Peojile 10^ 
 
 1656 Shandon Bells JJ 
 
 1688 Yolande »».........,.,»•••• ^ 
 
n THE SEASWE LIBRARY.— Or dincvry Bdttion, 
 
 ■ ■ ' - m 
 
 CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE'S WORKS. 
 
 8 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 
 
 396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 
 
 162 Shirlev 20 
 
 311 The Professor 10 
 
 329 Wuthcring Heights 10 
 
 438 Villette 20 
 
 967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 
 
 1098 Agnes G rey 20 
 
 MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS. 
 
 26 Aurora Floyd 20 
 
 69 To the Bitter End 20 
 
 89 The Lovels of Ardea 20 
 
 95 Dead Men's Shoes 20 
 
 109 Eleanor's Victory 20 
 
 114 Darrell Markham 10 
 
 i40 The Lady Lisle 10 
 
 171 Hostages to Fortune 20 
 
 190 Henry Dunbar 20 
 
 215 Birds of Prey 20 
 
 235 An Open Verdict,. 20 
 
 251 Lady Audley's Secret 20 
 
 254 The Octoroon 10 
 
 260 Charlotte's Inheritance 20 
 
 287 Leightnn Grange 10 
 
 295 Lost for Love 20 
 
 322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 
 
 459 The Doctor's Wife 20 
 
 469 Rupert Godwin 20 
 
 481 Vixen 20 
 
 482 The Cloven Foot 20 
 
 500 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 
 
 519 Weavers and Weft 10 
 
 525 Sir Jasper's Tenant 20 
 
 539 A Strange World : 2(1 
 
 550 Fenton's Quest 20 
 
 562 John Marchmont's Legacy 2(3 
 
 572 The Lady's Mile 2C 
 
 579 Strangers and Pilgrims x:0 
 
 581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 2C 
 
 619 Taken at the Flood 20' 
 
 641 Only a Clod 20 
 
 649 Publicans and Sinners 20 
 
 656 George Caultield's Journey 10 
 
 665 The Shildow in the Corner 10 
 
 666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 
 
 701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Ml'sery 20 
 
 705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 
 
 734 Diavola: or. Nobody's Daughter. Part 1 20 
 
 m nuvolft; or, NoVPfif ^ Daughter. Part II . . 80 
 
TEE SEASIDE LlBBABT.^ Ordinary Edition. m 
 
 MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS.— Continuea. 
 
 811 Dudley Carleon 10 
 
 828 The Fatal Marriage 10 
 
 837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 
 
 942 Asphodel 20 
 
 1154 The Misletoe Bough 20 
 
 1265 Mount Royal 20 
 
 1469 Flower and Weed 10 
 
 1553 The Golden Calf 20 
 
 1638 Married in Haste (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 
 
 RHODA BROUGHTONS WORKS. 
 
 186 " Good-Bye, Sweetheart " 10 
 
 269 Red as a Rose is She 20 
 
 285 Cometh Up as a Flower 10 
 
 402 "Not Wisely, But Too Well" 20 
 
 458 Nancy 20 
 
 526 Joan 20 
 
 762 Second Thoughts 20 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS' WORKS. 
 
 10 The Woman in White 20 
 
 14 The Dead Secret 20 
 
 22 Man and Wife ,....: 20 
 
 32 The Queen of Hearts 20 
 
 88 Antonina 20 
 
 42 Hide-and-Seek 20 
 
 76 The New Magdalen 10 
 
 94 The Law and The Lady 20 
 
 180 Armadale 20 
 
 191 My Lady's Money 10 
 
 225 The Two Destinies 1(^ 
 
 250 No Name 20 
 
 286 After Dark 10 
 
 409 The Haunted Hotel 10 
 
 433 A Shocking Story 10 
 
 487 A Rogue's Life 10 
 
 551 The Yellow Mask 10 
 
 583 Fallen Leaves 20 
 
 654 Poor Miss Finch 20 
 
 675 The Moonstone 20 
 
 696 Jezebel's Daughter 20 
 
 713 The Captain's Last Love 10 
 
 721 Basil 20 
 
 745 The Magic Spectacles 10 
 
 905 Duel In Heme Wood 10 
 
 928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 
 
 971 The Frozen Deep 10 
 
 990 The Black Robe 20 
 
 1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 
 
 ^644 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 
 
IV T3E SEASIDE LTBBART.—Ordina/ny SdUion. 
 
 J. FENIMORE COOPER'S WORKS. 
 
 222 Last of the Mobicans 20 
 
 224 The Deerslayer 20 
 
 226 The Pathfinder -. 2(1 
 
 229 The Pioneers 20 
 
 231 The Prairie 20 
 
 233 Tlie Pilot 20 
 
 685 The Water- Witch 20 
 
 590 The Two Admirals 20 
 
 615 The Ked Rover 20 
 
 761 WingandWing *. 20 
 
 940 The Spy 20 
 
 1066 Tiie Wyandotte 20 
 
 1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 
 
 1262 Miles Walliugford (Seq'iel to "Afloat and Ashore") 20 
 
 1569 The Headsman ; or. The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 
 
 1605 TheMonikins 20 
 
 1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 
 
 the Rhine 20 
 
 1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan's Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 
 
 100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 
 
 102 Hard Times 10 
 
 118 Great Expectations 20 
 
 187 David Copperfield 20 
 
 200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 
 
 213 Barnaby Rudge 20 
 
 218 Dorabey and Son 20 
 
 239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 
 
 247 Martin Cljuzzlewit 20 
 
 272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 
 
 284 Oliver Twist 20 
 
 289 A Christmas Carol 10 
 
 297 The Haunted Man 10 
 
 804 Little Dorrit 20 
 
 308 The Chimes 10 
 
 817 The Battle of Life 10 
 
 825 Our Mutual Friend 20 
 
 337 Bleak House 20 
 
 852 Pickwick Papers 20 
 
 359 Somebody's Luggage JO 
 
 867 Mrs. Lirripcr's Lodgings 10 
 
 372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 
 
 875 Mugby Junction 10 
 
 403 Tom Tiddler's Ground 10 
 
 498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 
 
 621 Master Humphrey's Clock 10 
 
 626 Sketches by Boz 20 
 
 639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 
 
 827 TheMudfog Papers, &c 10 
 
TME SEASIDE LIBBAIi T.-'Ordinary Edition. l 
 
 ■ -ii -■■■ ■ .. ■ 
 
 CHAKLES DICKENS' WORKS.-Continued. 
 
 160 The Mvstery of Edwin Drood 20 
 
 900 Pictures From Italy 10 
 
 an A Child's History of England 20 
 
 1464 The Picnic Papers k 20 
 
 1568 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 
 
 1682 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Miscel- 
 • lanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Prefaced, 
 and Annotated by Richard Heme Shepherd. First half. 20 
 1682 The Plays and Poems of Cliarles Dickens, with a few Mis- 
 cellanies in Prose, now First Collected. Edited, Pref- 
 aced, and Annotated by Richard Heme Shepherd. Sec- 
 ond half ; 20 
 
 WORKS BY THE AFTHOR OF " DORA THORNE." 
 
 449 More Bitter than Death 10 
 
 618 Madolin's Lover 20 
 
 656 A Golden Dawn 10 
 
 678 A Dead Heart 10 
 
 718 Lord Lynne's Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 
 
 746 Which Loved Him Best 20 
 
 846 Dora Thorne 20 
 
 •921 At War with Herself 10 
 
 931 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 
 
 1013 Lady Gwendoline's Dream . 10 
 
 1018 Wife in Name Only 20 
 
 1044 Like No Other Love 10 
 
 1060 A Woman's War 10 
 
 1072 Hilary's Folly 10 
 
 1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 
 
 1077AGilded Sin 10 
 
 1081 ABridgeof Love 10 
 
 1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 
 
 1099 Wedded and Parted 10 
 
 1107 A Bride From thp Sea 10 
 
 1110 A Rose in Thorn*.. . > 10 
 
 1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 
 
 1122 Redeemed by Love 10 
 
 1126 The Stoity of a Wedding Ring iO 
 
 1127 Love's Warfare 20 
 
 1182 Repented at Leisure 20 
 
 1179 From Gloom to Sunlight 20 
 
 1209 Hilda 20 
 
 1218 A Golden Heart 20 
 
 1266 Ingledew House 10 
 
 1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 
 
 1806 Love For a Day ; or, Under the Lilacs 10 
 
 1867 The Wife's Secret 10 
 
 1893 Two Kisses 10 
 
 1460 Between Two Sins 10 
 
 1640 The Cost of Her Love 20 
 
 1064 Romance of a Black Veil 20 
 
Tt THE SEASIDE LIBRAR Y. — Ordina/ry Edition. 
 
 »'THE DUCHESS'" WORKS. 
 
 S58 Phyllis (small type) .' 10 
 
 689 Phyllis (large type) 20 
 
 393 Molly Bawn 20 
 
 446 The Baby '. 10 
 
 499 "Airy Fairy Lilian " 20 
 
 771 Beauty's Daughters 20 
 
 855 How Snooks Got Out of It 10 
 
 1010 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 
 
 1169 Faith and Unfaith : 20 
 
 1518 Portia; or, " By Passions Rocked." 20 
 
 1587 Monica, and A Rose Distill'd 10 
 
 1666 Loys, Lord Berresf ord, and Other Tales 20 
 
 ALEXANDER DUMAS' WORKS. 
 
 144 The Twin Lieutenants 10 
 
 151 The Russian Gipsy 10 
 
 155 The Count of Monte Cristo (Quadruple Number) 40 
 
 160 The Black Tulip 10 
 
 167 The Queen's Necklace 20 
 
 172 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge 20 
 
 184 The Countess de Charny 20 
 
 188 Nanon 10 
 
 193 Joseph Balsarao; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 
 
 194 The Conspirators 10 
 
 198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 
 
 201 Catherine Blum 10 
 
 223 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 
 
 997 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 
 
 228 The Regent's Daughter 10 
 
 244 The Three Guardsmen 20 
 
 268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 
 
 276 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 
 
 278 Six Tears Later ; or. Taking the Bastile 20 
 
 283 Twenty Years After 20 
 
 298 Captain Paul 10 
 
 306 Three Strong Men 10 
 
 318 Ingenue 10 
 
 331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 
 
 331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 
 
 342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 
 
 1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (large type) 20 
 
 1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 
 
 1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 
 
 1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 
 
 844 Ascanio 10 
 
 608 The Watchmaker 20 
 
 616 The Two Dianas 20 
 
 622 Andree de Taverney 20 
 
 664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (1st Series) 20 
 
 864 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series). . .^. 30 
 
THE SEASIDE LIBRlRT.—Ordina/ry Edition. vn 
 
 ALEXANDER DUMAS' WORKS— Continued. 
 
 664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 
 
 664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4tli Series) 20 
 
 688 Chicot, the Jester 20 
 
 849 Doctor Basilius 20 
 
 1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of "The 
 
 Mohicans of Paris." Vol. 1 20 
 
 1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of " The 
 
 Mohicans of Paris." Vol.11 20 
 
 1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of " The 
 
 Mohicans of Paris." Vol. Ill 20 
 
 1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of " The 
 
 Mohicans of Paris. "- Vol. IV 20 
 
 1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of "The 
 
 Mohicans of Paris." Vol. V 20 
 
 1561 The Corsican Brothers 10 
 
 1592 Marguerite de Valois. An Historical Romance 20 
 
 GEORGE EBERS' WORKS. 
 
 712 Uarda: A Romance of Ancient Egypt 20 
 
 756 Homo Sum 10 
 
 812 An Egyptian Princess 20 
 
 880 The Sisters 20 
 
 1120 The Emperor 20 
 
 1397 The Burgomaster's Wife. A Tale of the Siege of Leyden. 20 
 1594 Only a Word 20 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT'S WORKS. 
 
 7 Adam Bede 20 
 
 11 The Mill on the Floss (small type) 10 
 
 941 The Mill on the Floss (large type) 20 
 
 15 Romola 20 
 
 35 Felix Holt, the Radical 20 
 
 58 Silas Marner 10 
 
 70 Middlemarch 20 
 
 80 Daniel Deronda 20 
 
 202 Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 10 
 
 217 Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton 10 
 
 277 Brother Jacob 10 
 
 309 Janet's Repentance 10 
 
 527 Impressions of Theophrastus Such 10 
 
 1276 The Spanish Gypsy: A Poem 20 
 
 MRS. FORRESTER'S WORKS. 
 
 895 Fair Women 20 
 
 481 Diana Car«w ; ao 
 
 474 Viva 20 
 
 504 Rbona 20 
 
nn THE 8EASIBE LIBRARY.— Or diria/ry Edition, 
 
 MRS. FORBESTER'S WORKS.-Contiiined. 
 
 638 A YouDg Man's Fancy 10 
 
 556 Miguon JiO 
 
 573 The Turn of Fortune's Wheel 10 
 
 600 Dolores 20 
 
 620 In a Country House 10 
 
 632 Queen Elizabeth's Garden IC 
 
 858 Roy and Viola 2C 
 
 894 My Hero 
 
 1163 My Lord and My Lady 
 
 1471 1 Have Lived and Loved 20 
 
 1588 From Olympus to Hades 20 
 
 EMILE GABORIAU'S WORKS. 
 
 408 File No. 113 *. 20 
 
 465 Monsieur Lecoq. First half 20 
 
 465 Monsieur Lecoq. Second half 20 
 
 476 The Slaves of Paris. First half 20 
 
 476 The Slaves of Paris. Second half 20 
 
 490 Marriage at a Venture 10 
 
 494 The Mystery of Orcival 20 
 
 501 Other People's Money 20 
 
 509 Within an Inch of His Life 20 
 
 515 The Widow Leroujre 20 
 
 523 The Clique of Gold 20 
 
 671 The Count's Secret. Part 1 20 
 
 671 The Count's Secret. Part II 20 
 
 704 Captain Contanceau ; or, The Volunteers of 1792 10 
 
 741 The Downward Path; or. A House Built on Sand (La 
 
 Degringolade ). Part I 20 
 
 741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La 
 
 Degringolade ). Part II 20 
 
 758 The LiitleOld Man of the BatignoUes 10 
 
 778 The Men of the Bureau 10 
 
 789 Promises of Marriage 10 
 
 813 The 13th Hussars 10 
 
 834 A Thousand Francs Reward 10 
 
 899 Max's Marriage ; or, The Vicomte's Choice 10 
 
 1184 The Marquise de Brinvilliers 20 
 
 MARY CECIL HAY'S WORKS. 
 
 8 The Arundel Motto 10 
 
 407 The Arundel Motto (in large type) 20 
 
 9 Old Myddclton's Money 10 
 
 427 Old Myildelton's Money (in huge type) 20 
 
 17 Hidden Perils TO 
 
 484 HiddAi Perils (in large type) 20 
 
 28 The Squire's Legacy 10 
 
 616 The Squire's Legacy (in large type). 2| 
 
THE SEASIDE LTBBAnT—Ordirut/ry Edition. 
 
 MARY CECIL HAI'S WORKS.-Continued. 
 
 27 Victor and Vanquished ~J 
 
 29 Nora's Love Test ^^ 
 
 421 Nora's Love Test (in large type) :*" 
 
 275 A Shadow on the Threshold tri 
 
 363 Reaping the Whirlwind *- :[^ 
 
 384 Back to the Old Home tTi 
 
 415 A Dark Inheritance /;• T'^' '• -.T 'iVw-ii in 
 
 440 The Sorrow of a Secret, and Lady Carmichael s Will lu 
 
 686 Brenda Yorke J" 
 
 724 For Her Dear Sake tri 
 
 852 Missing ri 
 
 855 Dolfs Big Brother •••"'■ A' ; in 
 
 980 In the Holidays, and The Name Cat on a Gale iJJ 
 
 935 Under Life's Key, and Other Stories • -J^ 
 
 972 Into the Shade, and Other Stories *^ 
 
 1011 MvFirst Offer -•••a:; in 
 
 1014 Told in New England, and Other 1 ales ^^ 
 
 1016 At the Seaside; or, A Sister's Sacrifice ^ 
 
 1220 Dorothy's Venture 'zi. 
 
 1221 Among the Ruins, and Other Stones ;[" 
 
 1431 " A Little Aversion " ]}{ 
 
 1549 Bid Me Discourse 
 
 THOMAS HUGHES' WORKS. 
 
 492 Tom Brown's Schooldays at Rugby 20 
 
 698 The Manliness of Christ jJJ 
 
 640 Tom Brown at Oxford ^J: 
 
 1041 Rugby— Tennessee ^^ 
 
 CHARLES LEVER'S WORKS. 
 
 20 
 98 Harry Lorrequer *^ 
 
 132 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman -JJ 
 
 137 A.Rent in a Cloud 'r;.' : \" -ir " \" \ -a 
 
 146 Charles O'^Malley, the Irish Dragoon (Triple Number) oO 
 
 152 Arthur O'Leary f 
 
 ^68 Con Cregan ;^ 
 
 169 St. Patrick's Eve ^ 
 
 174 Kate O'Donoghue fj^ 
 
 257 That Boy of Norcott's. . ...•••. i" 
 
 296 Tom Burke of Ours. First half ^ 
 
 296 Tom Burke of Ours. Second half jJJ 
 
 319 Davenport Dunn. First half ^ 
 
 319 Davenport Dunn. Second half jjj 
 
 464 Gerald Fitzgerald ^5^ 
 
 470 The Fortunes of Qlencore -^ 
 
 629 Lord Kilgobbin ^ 
 
 646 Maurice Tiernay '^ 
 
 666 A Day's Ride ^^ 
 
T THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Or dimry Edition. 
 
 ^ — • ^ , 
 
 CHARLES LEVER'S WORKS.-Coiitinued. 
 
 609 Barrington 20 
 
 633 Sir Jasper Caiew, Knight 20 
 
 657 The Martins of Cro' Martin. Part 1 20 
 
 657 The Martins of Cro' Martin. Part II 20 
 
 822 Tony Butler 20 
 
 872 Luttrell of Arran. Part 1 20 
 
 872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 20 
 
 951 Paul Gosslett's Confessions 10 
 
 965 One of Them. First half 20 
 
 965 One of Them. Second half 20 
 
 989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part 1 20 
 
 989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 20 
 
 1235 The Bramleighs of Bishoo's Folly 20 
 
 1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half ' 20 
 
 1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. Second half 20 
 
 1342 Horace Templeton 20 
 
 1394 Roland Cashel. First half XO 
 
 1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 20 
 
 1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads m Life. First half 20 
 
 1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. Second half 20 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER'S WORKS. 
 
 33 Handy Andy 20 
 
 66 Rory O'More 20 
 
 123 Irish Legends 10 
 
 158 He Would be a Gentleman 20 
 
 293 Tom Crosbie 10 
 
 SIR BULWER LITTON'S WORKS. 
 
 6 The Last Days of Pompeii *. 20 
 
 587 Zanoni i20 
 
 689 Pilgrims of the Rhine • 10 
 
 714 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
 
 781 Rienzi, The Last of the Tribunes CO 
 
 955 Eugene Aram ^ ) 
 
 979 Ernest Maltravers 20 
 
 tool Alice; or, The Mysteries *^^ » 
 
 1064 The Caxtons '^0 
 
 1089 My Novel. First half '0 
 
 1089 My Novel Second half ;:'0 
 
 1205 Kenelm Chillingly: His Adventures and Opinions. 20 
 
 1316 Pelham ; or, The Adventures of a Gentleman 'JO 
 
 1454 The Last of the Barons. First half 20 
 
 1454 The Last of the Barons. Second half ^ :lH) 
 
 1529 A Strantre Story W 20 
 
 1690 What Will He Do With It? First half. . .l<^ 20 
 
 1690 What Will He Do With It? Second half, . . T.', ,'. *, r.,\t. 30 
 
The Seaside liibpary. 
 
 FOCKET iiDlTION. 
 
 VO. PRICE. 
 
 1 Yolande. By William Black siO 
 
 2 Mollv Bavvn. B7 "The Duchess".... 20 
 
 3 The Mill OQ the Floss. Bv Geori?e Eliot 20 
 
 4 Under Two Flags. B}- *• Ouida " 20 
 
 5 Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 
 
 6 Portia. Bs'-The Duchess" 20 
 
 7 File No. 113. B.y Emile Gaboriau 20 
 
 8 East Lynne. Bv Mrs. Henrv Wood. ... 2i) 
 
 9 Wanda. Bv • Ouida " ' ... 20 
 
 10 The Old Ciiriositv Shop. By Dickens. 20 
 
 11 Joha Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss 
 
 Mulock 20 
 
 12 Other Peoples 31 .aev. By Gaboriau. 2G 
 
 13 Eyres Acquittal. Bv Helen B. Mathers 10 
 
 14 Airy Fairv hiliaa. Bv "The Duchess " 20 
 
 15 Jane Eyre. Bv Cuariotte Brout6 20 
 
 16 Phyllis. By " The Duchess " 20 
 
 17 The Wooin? Ot 3v Mrs. Alexander. .. 20 
 
 18 Shandon Balls By William Black ... 20 
 
 19 Her Mothers Sin. By the Author of 
 
 " Dora Thome " 20 
 
 30 Within au Inch of His Life. By Emile 
 
 Gaboriau 20 
 
 21 Sunrise. Bv William Black 20 
 
 22 David Opperfield. Dickens. Vol.1.. 20 
 
 22 David Copperfleld. Dickens. Vol. II. 20 
 
 23 A Princess of Thuie. By William Black 20 
 34 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol.1... 20 
 34 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol.11.. 20 
 
 25 Mrs. Geoflfrey. By " The Duche.-s "... 20 
 
 26 Monsieur Lecoq. Bv Gaboriau. Vol. I 20 
 
 26 Monsieur Lecoq, By Gaboriau. Vol.11. 20 
 
 27 Vanity Fair. Bv William M. Thackeray 20 
 
 28 Ivanhoe. Bv Sir Walter Scott 20 
 
 29 Beautv's Daughters. By " The Duch- 
 
 ess " 20 
 
 30 Faith and Unfaith. Bv " The Duchess " 20 
 
 31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 
 
 83 The Clique of Gold. Bv Emile Gaboriau 20 
 
 34 D.iniel D^ronda By George Eliot ... 30 
 
 35 L idv .\udley's Secret. By Mi.ss M. E. 
 
 Brad.lon 20 
 
 36 Adam Bede Bv George Eliot 20 
 
 87 Nicholas Nicklebv. By Charles Dickens 30 
 
 38 The Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau.. 20 
 
 39 In Silk Attire. Bv William Black 20 
 
 40 The Last Davs of Pompeii. By Sir E. 
 
 Bulwer Lytton 20 
 
 41 Oliver Twist. Bv Charles Dickens. . . . 20 
 
 42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 
 
 48 The Mystery of Orcival. By Emile 
 
 Gaboriau 20 
 
 44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black. . 20 
 46 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant. . . 10 
 
 46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. . 20 
 
 47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant. . 20 
 
 48 Thicker Than Water. By James Pay n. 20 
 
 49 That Beautiful Wretch. By William 
 
 Black 2o 
 
 NO. PRICK. 
 
 50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 
 
 By William Black 20 
 
 51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of " Her 
 
 Mothers Sin " 20 
 
 52 The New Magdalen. Bv Wilkie Collins 20 
 
 53 The Story of Ida. By ^raocesca 10 
 
 54 A Broken Wedding Ring. By the Au- 
 
 thor of " Dora Thorne " 20 
 
 55 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas... 20 
 
 56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. E. 
 
 Braddon 20 
 
 57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 
 
 58 By the Gate of the Sea. By David 
 
 10 I 
 
 Christie Murray 
 
 .59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 
 
 60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper. . . 20 
 
 61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. . 10 
 
 62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 20 
 
 63 The Spy. Bv J. Penimore Cooper 20 
 
 64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon. . . 10 
 
 65 Back to the Old Home. By Mary Cecil 
 Hay 10 
 
 66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 
 By Octave Feuillet 10 
 
 67 Loma Doone. 3y R D. Blackmore. . . 30 
 
 68 A Queen Amongst Women, By the 
 Author of " Dora Thorne " 10 
 
 69 Madolin's Lover. By the Author of 
 "Dora Thorne' 20 
 
 70 White Wings. By William Black 20 
 
 71 A Struggle for Fame. By Mrs. J. H. 
 Bidden 20 
 
 72 Old Myddeiton's Money. By Mary. 
 Cecil Hay 20 
 
 73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 
 " Dora Thorne " 20 
 
 74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
 
 75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas — 20 
 
 76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 
 " Dora Thorne " 2( 
 
 77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens 2i 
 
 78 Madcap Violet. By William Black.... 20 
 
 79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author .1 
 of •' Dora Thorne " IC j 
 
 80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 2 { 
 
 81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black. ' i 
 
 82 Sealed Lips. By F Du Boisgobey. .. . ' , 
 
 83 A Strange Story. By Sir E. Bulwer 
 Lj'tton - 
 
 84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens.... V i 
 
 85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell ... * ; 
 
 86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 ^ 
 
 87 Dick Sand ; or. A Captain at Fifteen. 
 Bv Jules Verne 20 
 
 88 The Privateersman. Captain Marryat 20 
 
 90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. Bulwer 
 Lytton — ^ 
 
 91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 30 
 
 The above books are for sale by all newedealers. or will bo sentto any addresH postage pre- 
 oaid. by the publlHher. on rrceJpt of 12 cents for single numberfl, and jr. cents for d«'ublp numhera. 
 Parties wlshfnB the Pocket Kdithmot ThbSbasipk Libkauy must be careful to mention the Pocket 
 Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will Ixi sent. Adtlress. 
 
 (JEORfJE iVlIINKO, PiihllMher, ^ *. v- 1 
 
 P. O. Box 3751 . 17 to 'iT Vandewiit«r Street, New York. 
 
 J 
 
This book is a preservation facsimile produced for 
 Library of Congress 
 
 In compliance with current copyright law, Etherington 
 
 Conservation Services produced this replacement volume 
 
 on paper that meets ANSI Standard Z39.48-1992 and ISO 
 
 9706. Preservation facsimile printing and binding 
 
 by Etherington Conservation Services 
 
 North Manchester, Indiana. 
 
 www.thehfgroup.com 
 
 2007 
 
 00 
 
 Uffi 
 
 HtRINGTON 
 
 Conservation Services 
 

 Wi -<?>'\^ %^P J ^^C'^^^ °-^P*' 'V*''^ %^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 '^l \/ /^ = %<^ f A ^'^ "-'^''