Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

wanted to ride in the park by the young tyrant of my household--it

is "my custom always in the afternoon." I have sometimes felt sore

with myself for this persistency, feeling that I was making myself

a slave to an amusement which has not after all very much to

recommend it. I have often thought that I would break myself away

from it, and "swear off," as Rip Van Winkle says. But my swearing

off has been like that of Rip Van Winkle. And now, as I think of

it coolly, I do not know but that I have been right to cling to it.

As a man grows old he wants amusement, more even than when he is

young; and then it becomes so difficult to find amusement. Reading

should, no doubt, be the delight of men's leisure hours. Had I to

choose between books and cards, I should no doubt take the books.

But I find that I can seldom read with pleasure for above an hour

and a half at a time, or more than three hours a day. As I write

this I am aware that hunting must soon be abandoned. After sixty

it is given but to few men to ride straight across country, and I

cannot bring myself to adopt any other mode of riding. I think that

without cards I should now be much at a loss. When I began to play

at the Garrick, I did so simply because I liked the society of the

men who played.

I think that I became popular among those with whom I associated.

I have long been aware of a certain weakness in my own character,

which I may call a craving for love. I have ever had a wish to be

liked by those around me,--a wish that during the first half of

my life was never gratified. In my school-days no small part of my

misery came from the envy with which I regarded the popularity of

popular boys. They seemed to me to live in a social paradise, while

the desolation of my pandemonium was complete. And afterwards,

when I was in London as a young man, I had but few friends. Among

the clerks in the Post Office I held my own fairly for the first

two or three years; but even then I regarded myself as something of

a pariah. My Irish life had been much better. I had had my wife and

children, and had been sustained by a feeling of general respect.

But even in Ireland I had in truth lived but little in society.

Our means had been sufficient for our wants, but insufficient for

entertaining others. It was not till we had settled ourselves at

Waltham that I really began to live much with others. The Garrick

Club was the first assemblage of men at which I felt myself to be

popular.

I soon became a member of other clubs. There was the Arts Club in

Hanover Square, of which I saw the opening, but from which, after

three or four years, I withdrew my name, having found that during

these three or four years I had not once entered the building.

Then I was one of the originators of the Civil Service Club--not

from judgment, but instigated to do so by others. That also I left

for the same reason. In 1864 I received the honour of being elected

by the Committee at the Athenaeum. For this I was indebted to the

kindness of Lord Stanhope; and I never was more surprised than when

I was informed of the fact. About the same time I became a member

of the Cosmopolitan, a little club that meets twice a week in

Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and supplies to all its members,

and its members' friends, tea and brandy and water without charge!

The gatherings there I used to think very delightful. One met

Jacob Omnium, Monckton Mimes, Tom Hughes, William Stirling, Henry

Reeve, Arthur Russell, Tom Taylor, and such like; and generally

a strong political element, thoroughly well mixed, gave a certain

spirit to the place. Lord Ripon, Lord Stanley, William Forster,

Lord Enfield, Lord Kimberley, George Bentinck, Vernon Harcourt,

Bromley Davenport, Knatchbull Huguessen, with many others, used to

whisper the secrets of Parliament with free tongues. Afterwards I

became a member of the Turf, which I found to be serviceable--or

the reverse--only for the playing of whist at high points.

In August, 1861, I wrote another novel for the Cornhill Magazine.

It was a short story, about one volume in length, and was called

The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In this I attempted a

style for which I certainly was not qualified, and to which I never

had again recourse. It was meant to be funny, was full of slang,

and was intended as a satire on the ways of trade. Still I think

that there is some good fun it it, but I have heard no one else

express such an opinion. I do not know that I ever heard any opinion

expressed on it, except by the publisher, who kindly remarked

that he did not think it was equal to my usual work. Though he had

purchased the copyright, he did not republish the story in a book

form till 1870, and then it passed into the world of letters sub

silentio. I do not know that it was ever criticised or ever read.

I received (pounds)600 for it. From that time to this I have been paid at

about that rate for my work--(pounds)600 for the quantity contained in

an ordinary novel volume, or (pounds)3000 for a long tale published in

twenty parts, which is equal in length to five such volumes. I have

occasionally, I think, received something more than this, never

I think less for any tale, except when I have published my work

anonymously. [Footnote: Since the date at which this was written

I have encountered a diminution in price.] Having said so much, I

need not further specify the prices as I mention the books as they

were written. I will, however, when I am completing this memoir,

give a list of all the sums I have received for my literary labours.

I think that Brown, Jones and Robinson was the hardest bargain I

ever sold to a publisher.

In 1861 the War of Secession had broken out in America, and from

the first I interested myself much in the question. My mother

had thirty years previously written a very popular, but, as I had

thought, a somewhat unjust book about our cousins over the water.

She had seen what was distasteful in the manners of a young people,

but had hardly recognised their energy. I had entertained for

many years an ambition to follow her footsteps there, and to write

another book. I had already paid a short visit to New York City and

State on my way home from the West Indies, but had not seen enough

then to justify me in the expression of any opinion. The breaking

out of the war did not make me think that the time was peculiarly

fit for such inquiry as I wished to make, but it did represent itself

as an occasion on which a book might be popular. I consequently

consulted the two great powers with whom I was concerned. Messrs.

Chapman & Hall, the publishers, were one power, and I had no difficulty

in arranging my affairs with them. They agreed to publish the book

on my terms, and bade me God-speed on my journey. The other power

was the Postmaster-General and Mr. Rowland Hill, the Secretary of

the Post Office. I wanted leave of absence for the unusual period

of nine months, and fearing that I should not get it by the ordinary

process of asking the Secretary, I went direct to his lordship.

"Is it on the plea of ill-health?" he asked, looking into my face,

which was then that of a very robust man. His lordship knew the

Civil Service as well as any one living, and must have seen much

of falseness and fraudulent pretence, or he could not have asked

that question. I told him that I was very well, but that I wanted