Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

that I have sometimes wondered at the obduracy with which people

have spoken of the permanent ill condition of the country. Wages

are now nearly double what they were then. The Post Office, at any

rate, is paying almost double for its rural labour,--9s. a week

when it used to pay 5s., and 12s. a week when it used to pay 7s.

Banks have sprung up in almost every village. Rents are paid with

more than English punctuality. 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 impossible in any part of Ireland. Home-rule, no doubt, is a

nuisance,--and especially a nuisance because the professors 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 prostrated were Home-rule to have its way as the

twenty Irish members who profess to support it in the House of

Commons. 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 rebellion at the close of the

last century; it is better than the treachery of the Union; less

troublesome than O'Connell's monster meetings; less dangerous than

Smith O'Brien and the battle of the cabbage-garden at Ballingary,

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 finished. In

July, 1845, I took it with me to the north of England, and intrusted

the MS. to my mother to do with it the best she could among the

publishers in London. No one had read it but my wife; nor, as far

as I am aware, has any other friend of mine ever 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 to read a line; nor have I ever read a

word of my own writing aloud,--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 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 written

much,--those long ecclesiastical descriptions,--quite unsuccessfully.

My mother had become one of the popular 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 afterwards without her name,

and was called Chollerton. I could perceive 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 soon 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 undertaking. I can, with truth, declare that I expected nothing.

And I got nothing. Nor did I expect fame, or even acknowledgment.

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 agreement with me,

in duplicate, and one or two preliminary notes; but beyond that I

did not have a word from Mr. Newby. I am sure that he did not wrong

me in that he paid me nothing. It is probable that he did not sell

fifty 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 publication 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 Office. 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 Marlborough

Street, and I believe created the business which is now carried on

by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett. He had previously 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 superior in the mode of telling.

Again I held my tongue, and not only said nothing but felt nothing.

Any success 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 circumstance which

set my mind to work on a subject which has exercised it much ever

since. I made my first acquaintance 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 had 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 thank a

critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my own heart, for