Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - Anthony Trollope
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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 labour for a period of fifteen months. I spared myself
no trouble in inquiry, no trouble in seeing, and no trouble in
listening. I thoroughly 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 inaccuracies,--those
inaccuracies to which work quickly done must always be subject,--I
think I did give much valuable information.
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, apologising 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 asking 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
I did so by writing books. "I'm sure you're a miner," said he. Then
he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the
door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive
that he would have heard my name.
I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any resolution made
to the contrary, my mind was full of hunting as I came back. No
real resolutions had in truth been 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! so often with the fear that frost would make all my
exertions useless, and so often too with that result! And then,
from one station or another station, have travelled on wheels at
least a dozen miles. After the day's sport, the same toil has been
necessary to bring me home to dinner at eight. This has been work
for a young man and a rich man, but I have done it as an old man
and comparatively a poor man. Now at last, in April, 1876, I do
think that my resolution has been taken. I am giving away my old
horses, and anybody is welcome to my saddles and horse-furniture.
"Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes;
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ladum;
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 defunctumque bello
Barbiton hic 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
early 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 upon new shelves the books which I had collected round myself
at Waltham. And this work, which was in itself great, entailed
also the labour 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,--information which every volume also ought to
give as to itself. Only those who have done it know how great is
the labour 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 going, 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 sufficiently 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 considered 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. Carlyle,--nor
in Mr. Ruskin and his other followers. The loudness and extravagance
of their lamentations, the wailing 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 cannot
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 have intended. It is regarded simply
as Carlylism to say that the English-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 dishonesty is not disgraceful,
and the 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 puffing 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 or verse. The accusations are exaggerated.
The vices are coloured, so as to make effect rather than to 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. The Beargarden 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 imbue them
both with interest. 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 Roger 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 Graphic for a Christmas 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
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