Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

to write a book. "Had I any special ground to go upon in asking for

such indulgence?" I had, I said, done my duty well by the service.

There was a good deal of demurring, but I got my leave for nine

months,--and I knew that I had earned it. Mr. Hill attached to

the minute granting me the leave an intimation that it was to be

considered as a full equivalent for the special services rendered

by me to the department. I declined, however, to accept the grace

with such a stipulation, and it was withdrawn by the directions of

the Postmaster-General. [Footnote: During the period of my service

in the Post Office I did very much special work for which I never

asked any remuneration,--and never received any, though payments

for special services were common in the department at that time.

But if there was to be a question of such remuneration, I did not

choose that my work should be valued at the price put upon it by

Mr. Hill.]

I started for the States in August and returned in the following

May. The war was raging during the time that I was there, and the

country was full of soldiers. A part of the time I spent in Virginia,

Kentucky, and Missouri, among the troops, along the line of attack.

I visited all the States (excepting California) which had not then

seceded,--failing to make my way into the seceding States unless I

was prepared to visit them with an amount of discomfort I did not

choose to endure. I worked very hard at the task I had assigned to

myself, and did, I think, see much of the manners and institutions

of the people. Nothing struck me more than their persistence in

the ordinary pursuits of life in spite of the war which was around

them. Neither industry nor amusement seemed to meet with any check.

Schools, hospitals, and institutes were by no means neglected

because new regiments were daily required. The truth, I take it,

is that we, all of us, soon adapt ourselves to the circumstances

around us. Though three parts of London were in flames I should

no doubt expect to have my dinner served to me if I lived in the

quarter which was free from fire.

The book I wrote was very much longer than that on the West Indies,

but was also written almost without a note. It contained much

information, and, with many inaccuracies, was a true book. But it

was not well done. It is tedious and confused, and will hardly,

I think, be of future value to those who wish to make themselves

acquainted with the United States. It was published about the

middle of the war,--just at the time in which the hopes of those

who loved the South were I most buoyant, and the fears of those who

stood by the North were the strongest. But it expressed an assured

confidence--which never quavered in a page or in a line--that the

North would win. This assurance was based on the merits of the

Northern cause, on the superior strength of the Northern party,

and on a conviction that England would never recognise the South,

and that France would be guided in her policy by England. I was

right in my prophecies, and right, I think, on the grounds on which

they were made. The Southern cause was bad. The South had provoked

the quarrel because its political supremacy was checked by the election

of Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency. It had to fight as a little man

against a big man, and fought gallantly. That gallantry,--and a

feeling based on a misconception as to American character that the

Southerners are better gentlemen than their Northern brethren,--did

create great sympathy here; but I believe that the country was too

just to be led into political action by a spirit of romance, and

I was warranted in that belief. There was a moment in which the

Northern cause was in danger, and the danger lay certainly in the

prospect of British interference. Messrs. Slidell and Mason,--two

men insignificant in themselves,--had been sent to Europe by the

Southern party, and had managed to get on board the British mail

steamer called "The Trent," at the Havannah. A most undue importance

was attached to this mission by Mr. Lincoln's government, and

efforts were made to stop them. A certain Commodore Wilkes, doing

duty as policeman on the seas, did stop the "Trent," and took the

men out. They were carried, one to Boston and one to New York,

and were incarcerated, amidst the triumph of the nation. Commodore

Wilkes, who had done nothing in which a brave man could take glory,

was made a hero and received a prize sword. England of course

demanded her passengers back, and the States for a while refused

to surrender them. But Mr. Seward was at that time the Secretary

of State, and Mr. Seward, with many political faults, was a wise

man. I was at Washington at the time, and it was known there that

the contest among the leading Northerners was very sharp on the

matter. Mr. Sumner and Mr. Seward were, under Mr. Lincoln, the two

chiefs of the party. It was understood that Mr. Sumner was opposed

to the rendition of the men, and Mr. Seward in favour of it. Mr.

Seward's counsels at last prevailed with the President, and England's

declaration of war was prevented. I dined with Mr. Seward on the

day of the decision, meeting Mr. Sumner at his house, and was told

as I left the dining-room what the decision had been. During the

afternoon I and others had received intimation through the embassy

that we might probably have to leave Washington at an hour's

notice. This, I think, was the severest danger that the Northern

cause encountered during the war.

But my book, though it was right in its views on this subject,--and

wrong in none other as far as I know,--was not a good book. I can

recommend no one to read it now in order that he may be either

instructed or amused,--as I can do that on the West Indies. It

served its purpose at the time, and was well received by the public

and by the critics.

Before starting to America I had completed Orley Farm, a novel which

appeared in shilling numbers,--after the manner in which Pickwick,

Nicholas Nickleby, and many others had been published. Most of

those among my friends who talk to me now about my novels, and are

competent to form an opinion on the subject, say that this is the

best I have written. In this opinion I do not coincide. I think

that the highest merit which a novel can have consists in perfect

delineation of character, rather than in plot, or humour, or pathos,

and I shall before long mention a subsequent work in which I think

the main character of the story is so well developed as to justify

me in asserting its claim above the others. The plot of Orley Farm

is probably the best I have ever made; but it has the fault of

declaring itself, and thus coming to an end too early in the book.

When Lady Mason tells her ancient lover that she did forge the

will, the plot of Orley Farm has unravelled itself;--and this she

does in the middle of the tale. Independently, however, of this the

novel is good. Sir Peregrine Orme, his grandson, Madeline Stavely,

Mr. Furnival, Mr. Chaffanbrass, and the commercial gentlemen,

are all good. The hunting is good. The lawyer's talk is good. Mr.

Moulder carves his turkey admirably, and Mr. Kantwise sells his

tables and chairs with spirit. I do not know that there is a dull

page in the book. I am fond of Orley Farm;--and am especially fond

of its illustrations by Millais, which are the best I have seen in