Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - Anthony Trollope

entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympathy with the joys

and troubles of individuals 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 his 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 consequences 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 nothing but satire should write but

little,--or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his

own caustic nature than from the sins of the world in which he

lives. I myself regard Esmond as the greatest novel in the English

language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language,

on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of

its delineations in regard to the tine selected, and on its great

pathos. There are also in it a few scenes so told that even Scott

has never equalled 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 honoured 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 Good Words

had been established under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman

Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. In 1863 he

asked me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me that

his principles did not teach him to confine his matter to religious

subjects, and paying me the compliment of saying that he would feel

himself quite safe in my hands. 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 different from

that which was usual to me. As worldly and--if any one thought me

wicked--as wicked as I had heretofore 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

to him, and shortly afterwards received it back--a considerable

portion having been printed--with an intimation that it would not

do. A letter more full of wailing and repentance 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, described, no doubt,

with that approval of the amusement which I have always entertained;

and it was this to which my friend demurred. It is more true of

novels than perhaps of anything 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 order that I might be strong in my

purpose, I took for my heroine a very unattractive old maid, who

was overwhelmed 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 violence 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 establishing a

periodical Review, in which some of us trusted much, and from which

we expected great things. There was, however, 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 conservative 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 denying or questioning the divinity of

Christ. It was a most preposterous claim to make for such a publication

as we proposed, and it at once drove from us one or two who had

proposed to join us. But we went on, and our company--limited--was

formed. We subscribed, I think, (pounds)1250 each. I at least subscribed

that amount, and--having agreed to bring out our publication every

fortnight, after the manner of the well-known French publication,--we

called it The Fortnightly. 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 payments for our literature should be

made on a liberal and strictly ready-money system. We carried out

our principles 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 fortnightly 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 The 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 responsible.

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, freethinking, 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 conjunction with liberalism, free-thinking, and open

inquiry. 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 The Fortnightly with which I do not myself agree, I

may safely say that the publication has assured an individuality,

and asserted for itself a position in our periodical literature,

which is well understood and highly respected.

As to myself and my own hopes in the matter,--I was 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,

admitting 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 favour of

political writing do not extend themselves also to writing on other

subjects. Much 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 favour,--and are trusted by editors to the criticism

of the incompetent. If the names of the critics were demanded,

editors would be more careful. But I fear the effect would be that

we should get but little criticism, 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 recommendation

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 it will be inserted adds much to the

author's industry and care. It debars him also from illegitimate

license and dishonest 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