Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

by Anthony Trollope

  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 themselves to this

  practice who are neither vindictive nor ordinarily 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 Dillsborough Herald, and, again, so

  much for C by that powerful metropolitan organ the Evening Pulpit,

  and is told also that A and B and C have been favoured 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 himself to be influenced

  by other considerations than the duty h owes to the public, all

  sense of critical or of editorial honesty falls from him at once.

  Facilis descensus Averni. 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 conduct, 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! How glorious to assist struggling young authors,

  especially if the young author be also a pretty woman! How gracious

  to 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 ensure for himself

  a continuation of hospitable favours?

  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. It 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 both

  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 say, if it be ever

  noticed at all, will be taken as a straining at gnats, as a pretence

  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 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 made 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 practice would gradually fall into the hands only of

  the lowest, and that which is done only by the lowest soon becomes

  despicable even to them. The sin, when perpetuated with unflagging

  labour, 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 dishonoured,--or she. It

  may perhaps 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, should 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 criticisms 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 effort; censure let him avoid, if

  possible, by care and industry. But when they come, let him take

  them as coming from some source which he cannot influence, and with

  which be should not meddle.

  I know no more disagreeable trouble into which an author may plunge

  himself than of a quarrel with his critics, or any more useless

  labour than that of answering them. It is wise to presume, at any

  rate, that the reviewer 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 he confirmed by

  others. Or if, unfortunately, the criticism 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 it. 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 metaphor, of a dull chapter, or even of a borrowed heroine,

  will leave on the m
inds 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 honour, if the author be

  accused of falsehood or of personal motives 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 the day

  has been vehemently abused. I have heard it said that to the public

  it is a false guide, and that 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 produce them,--with power sufficient to entitle them to

  speak with authority. These great men have declared, tanquam ex

  cathedra, 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 labour 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 place of critic to a newspaper, generally some young

  writer, who for so many shillings a column shall review whatever

  book is sent to him and express an opinion,--reading the book through

  for the purpose, if the amount of honorarium as measured with the

  amount of labour will enable him to do so. A labourer must measure

  his work by his pay or he cannot live. From criticism such as this

  must far the most part be, the general 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 on Saturday to the criticisms

  of the week, they will enable 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 on 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 bought that new book on the tapis, and who, not

  improbably, obtained his information from the same source.

  As an author, I have paid careful attention to the reviews 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 newspaper and its

  staff. Among it all there is much chaff, which I have learned bow

  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 still living at

  Waltham Cross. I had some time since bought the house there which

  I had at first hired, and added rooms to it, and made it for our

  purposes very comfortable. It was, however, a rickety old place,

  requiring much repair, and occasionally not as weathertight as it

  should be. We had a domain there sufficient for the cows, and for

  the making of our butter and hay. For strawberries, asparagus, green

  peas, out-of-door peaches, for roses especially, and such everyday

  luxuries, no place was ever more excellent. It was only twelve

  miles from London, 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 that 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. Few men, I think, ever lived

  a fuller life. And I attribute the power of doing this altogether

  to the virtue of early hours. It was my practice to be at my table

  every morning at 5.30 A. M.; and it was also my practice to allow

  myself no mercy. An old groom, whose business it was to call me,

  and to whom I paid (pounds)5 a year extra for the duty, allowed himself no

  mercy. During all those years at Waltham Cross he 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 any

  one else for the success I have had. By beginning 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 labourers,--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 necessary for him to si
t 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 had 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. But 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 read twice at least before it goes to the printers,

  I take to be a matter of course. But by reading what he has last

  written, just before he recommences 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 publisher in Paternoster Row, and which

  must at any rate be felt to be quite as much as the novel-readers

  of the world can want from the hands of one man.

  I have never written three novels 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 hand,--for some 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 Minister, half

  of which has only yet been issued. One of these has been six years

  finished, and has never seen the light since it was first tied up

  in the wrapper which now contains it. I look forward with some grim

  pleasantry to its publication after another period of six years,

  and to the declaration of the critics that it has been the work of