Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  Civil Service as well as any one living, and must have seen much

  of falseness and fraudulent pretence, or he could 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 my leave for nine

  months,--and I knew that I had earned it. Mr. Hill attached to

  the minute granting me the leave an intimation that it was to be

  considered as a full equivalent for the special services rendered

  by me to the department. I declined, however, to accept the grace

  with such a stipulation, and it was withdrawn by the directions of

  the Postmaster-General. [Footnote: During the period of my service

  in the Post Office I did very much special work for which I never

  asked any remuneration,--and never received any, though payments

  for special services were common in the department at that time.

  But if there was to be a question of such remuneration, I did not

  choose that my work should be valued at the price put upon it by

  Mr. Hill.]

  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 visited all the States (excepting California) which had not then

  seceded,--failing to make my way into the seceding 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 persistence in

  the ordinary pursuits of life in spite of the war which was around

  them. Neither industry nor amusement seemed to 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 me 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 future value to those who wish to make themselves

  acquainted with the United States. It was published about the

  middle of the war,--just at the time in which the hopes of those

  who loved the South were I 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 recognise 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 believe that the country was too

  just to be led into political action by a spirit of romance, and

  I was warranted in that belief. There was a moment in which the

  Northern cause was in danger, and the danger lay certainly in the

  prospect of British interference. Messrs. Slidell and Mason,--two

  men insignificant in themselves,--had been sent to Europe by the

  Southern party, and had managed to get on board the British mail

  steamer called "The Trent," at the Havannah. 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 seas, did stop the "Trent," and took the

  men out. They were carried, one to Boston and one to New York,

  and were incarcerated, amidst the triumph of the nation. Commodore

  Wilkes, who had done nothing in which a brave man could take glory,

  was made a hero and received a prize sword. England of course

  demanded her passengers back, and the States for a while refused

  to surrender them. But Mr. Seward was at that time the Secretary

  of State, and 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. Lincoln, the two

  chiefs of the party. It was understood that Mr. Sumner was opposed

  to the rendition of the men, and Mr. Seward in favour 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 coincide. I think

  that the highest merit which a novel can have consists in perfect

  delineation of character, rather than in plot, or humour, or pathos,

  and I shall before long mention a subsequent work in which I think

  the main character of the story is so well developed as to justify

  me in asserting its claim above the others. The plot 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 unravelled 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 gentlemen,

  are all good. The hunting is good. The lawyer's talk is good. Mr.

  Moulder carves his turkey admirably, and Mr. Kantwise sells his

  tables and chairs with spirit. I 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 London in 1834, and towards which

  I made my first attempt when I began the Macdermots in 1843. I had

  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 include many luxuries. From this

  time for a period of twelve years my income averaged (pounds)4500 a year.

  Of this I spent about two-thirds, and put by one. I ought perhaps

  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 shame because I was so slow in forcing

  myself to the work which they demanded,--that I have felt some pride

  in having 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 rigour of necessity from opening one's hands, perhaps

  foolishly, to one's friends;--all this to me has been essential to

  the comfort of life. I have enjoyed the comfort 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 insure 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. When, 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 realised. 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 the 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 them punctually.

  But my hope to rise had always been 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 distinguished 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-informed

  men than the son of a tradesman. The graces come easier to the

  wife of him who has had great-grandfathers than they do to her

  whose husband has been less,--or more fortunate, as he may think

  it. The discerning man will recognise the information and the graces

  when they are achieved without such assistance, and will honour

  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 as 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 honour 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 friendship admits of no standing but that

  of equality. I cannot be the Sovereign's friend, nor probably the

  friend of many very much beneath the Sovereign, because such equality

  is impossible.

  When I first came to Waltham Cross in the winter of 1859-1860, I had

  almost made 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 into 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 analyse to my

  own satisfaction. In the first place, even now, I know very little

  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 fox has gone this way or that. Indeed all the

  notice I take of hounds is not to ride over them. My eyes are so
>
  constituted that I can never see the nature of a fence. I either

  follow some one, or ride at it with the full conviction 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 now old for such work, being so stiff

  that I cannot get on to 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 can not, with all her riches, have given me anything better

  than when I have gone through a long run to the finish, keeping a

  place, not of glory, but of credit, among my juniors.

  CHAPTER X "THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON," "CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?" "RACHEL RAY," AND THE "FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW"

  During the early months of 1862 Orley Farm was still being brought

  out in numbers, and at the same time Brown, Jones and Robinson was

  appearing in the Cornhill Magazine. In September, 1862, the Small

  House at Allington began its career in the same periodical. The

  work on North America had also come out in 1862. 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

  produced in the ordinary volume form, called Rachel Ray. In addition

  to these I published during the time two volumes 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 periodical I 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 notice.