Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

the matter, and, thinking that the Government was right, I was

inclined to defend them as far as my small powers went. S. G. O.

(Lord Sydney Godolphin Osborne) was at that time denouncing the

Irish scheme of the Administration in the Times, using very strong

language,--as those who remember his style will know. I fancied

then,--as I still think,--that I understood the country much better

than he did; and I was anxious to show that the steps taken for

mitigating the terrible evil of the times were the best which the

Minister of the day could have adopted. In 1848 I was in London,

and, full of my purpose, I presented myself to Mr. John Forster,--who

has since been an intimate and valued friend,--but who was at that

time the editor of the Examiner. I think that that portion of the

literary world which understands the fabrication of newspapers

will admit that neither before his time, nor since, has there been

a more capable editor of a weekly newspaper. As a literary man, he

was not without his faults. That which the cabman is reported to

have said of him before the magistrate is quite true. He was always

"an arbitrary cove." As a critic, he belonged to the school of

Bentley and Gifford,--who would always bray in a literary mortar

all critics who disagreed from them, as though such disagreement

were a personal offence requiring personal castigation. But that

very eagerness made him a good editor. Into whatever he did he put

his very heart and soul. During his time the Examiner was almost

all that a Liberal weekly paper should be. So to John Forster I

went, and was shown into that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields in which,

some three or four years earlier, Dickens had given that reading of

which there is an illustration with portraits in the second volume

of his life.

At this time I knew no literary men. A few I had met when living

with my mother, but that had been now so long ago that all such

acquaintance had died out. I knew who they were as far as a man

could get such knowledge from the papers of the day, and felt myself

as in part belonging to the guild, through my mother, and in some

degree by my own unsuccessful efforts. But it was not probable that

any one would admit my claim;--nor on this occasion did I make any

claim. I stated my name and official position, and the fact that

opportunities had been given me of seeing the poorhouses in Ireland,

and of making myself acquainted with the circumstances of the

time. Would a series of letters on the subject be accepted by the

Examiner? The great man, who loomed very large to me, was pleased

to say that if the letters should recommend themselves by their

style and matter, if they were not too long, and if,--every reader

will know how on such occasions an editor will guard himself,--if

this and if that, they should be favourably entertained. They were

favourably entertained,--if printing and publication be favourable

entertainment. But I heard no more of them. The world in Ireland

did not declare that the Government had at last been adequately

defended, nor did the treasurer of the Examiner send me a cheque

in return.

Whether there ought to have been a cheque I do not even yet know.

A man who writes a single letter to a newspaper, of course, is not

paid for it,--nor for any number of letters on some point personal

to himself. I have since written sets of letters to newspapers, and

have been paid for them; but then I have bargained for a price. On

this occasion I had hopes; but they never ran high, and I was not

much disappointed. I have no copy now of those letters, and could

not refer to them without much trouble; nor do I remember what I

said. But I know that I did my best in writing them.

When my historical novel failed, as completely as had its predecessors,

the two Irish novels, I began to ask myself whether, after all,

that was my proper line. I had never thought of questioning the

justice of the verdict expressed against me. The idea that I was

the unfortunate owner of unappreciated genius never troubled me. I

did not look at the books after they were published, feeling sure

that they had been, as it were, damned with good reason. But still

I was clear in my mind that I would not lay down my pen. Then and

therefore I determined to change my hand, and to attempt a play.

I did attempt the play, and in 1850 I wrote a comedy, partly in

blank verse, and partly in prose, called The Noble Jilt. The plot

I afterwards used in a novel called Can You Forgive Her? I believe

that I did give the best of my intellect to the play, and I must

own that when it was completed it pleased me much. I copied it,

and re-copied it, touching it here and touching it there, and then

sent it to my very old friend, George Bartley, the actor, who had

when I was in London been stage-manager of one of the great theatres,

and who would, I thought, for my own sake and for my mother's, give

me the full benefit of his professional experience.

I have now before me the letter which he wrote to me,--a letter

which I have read a score of times. It was altogether condemnatory.

"When I commenced," he said, "I had great hopes of your production.

I did not think it opened dramatically, but that might have been

remedied." I knew then that it was all over. But, as my old friend

warmed to the subject, the criticism became stronger and stronger,

till my ears tingled. At last came the fatal blow. "As to the

character of your heroine, I felt at a loss how to describe it,

but you have done it for me in the last speech of Madame Brudo."

Madame Brudo was the heroine's aunt. "'Margaret, my child, never

play the jilt again; 'tis a most unbecoming character. Play it

with what skill you will, it meets but little sympathy.' And this,

be assured, would be its effect upon an audience. So that I must

reluctantly add that, had I been still a manager, The Noble Jilt

is not a play I could have recommended for production." This was a

blow that I did feel. The neglect of a book is a disagreeable fact

which grows upon an author by degrees. There is no special moment

of agony,--no stunning violence of condemnation. But a piece of

criticism such as this, from a friend, and from a man undoubtedly

capable of forming an opinion, was a blow in the face! But I

accepted the judgment loyally, and said not a word on the subject

to any one. I merely showed the letter to my wife, declaring my

conviction, that it must be taken as gospel. And as critical gospel

it has since been accepted. In later days I have more than once

read the play, and I know that he was right. The dialogue, however,

I think to be good, and I doubt whether some of the scenes be not

the brightest and best work I ever did.

Just at this time another literary project loomed before my eyes,

and for six or eight months had considerable size. I was introduced

to Mr. John Murray, and proposed to him to write a handbook for

Ireland. I explained to him that I knew the country better than

most other people, perhaps better than any other person, and could

do it well. He asked me to make a trial of my skill, and to send

him a certain number of pages, undertaking to give me an answer

within a fortnight after he should have received my work. I came

back to Ireland, and for some weeks I laboured very hard. I "did"

the city of Dublin, and the county of Kerry, in which lies the