Anthony Trollope: Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

the clutches of some archduke whom he had wished to exterminate,

or a French proletaire with distant ideas of sacrificing himself to

the cause of liberty, were always welcome to the modest hospitality

of her house. In after years, when marquises of another caste had

been gracious to her, she became a strong Tory, and thought that

archduchesses were sweet. But with her politics were always an affair

of the heart,--as, indeed, were all her convictions. Of reasoning

from causes, I think that she knew nothing. Her heart was in

every way so perfect, her desire to do good to all around her so

thorough, and her power of self-sacrifice so complete, that she

generally got herself right in spite of her want of logic; but it

must be acknowledged that she was emotional. I can remember now her

books, and can see her at her pursuits. The poets she loved best

were Dante and Spenser. But she raved also of him of whom all such

ladies were raving then, and rejoiced in the popularity and wept

over the persecution of Lord Byron. She was among those who seized

with avidity on the novels, as they came out, of the then unknown

Scott, and who could still talk of the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth.

With the literature of the day she was familiar, and with the poets

of the past. Of other reading I do not think she had mastered much.

Her life, I take it, though latterly clouded by many troubles, was

easy, luxurious, and idle, till my father's affairs and her own

aspirations sent her to America. She had dear friends among literary

people, of whom I remember Mathias, Henry Milman, and Miss Landon;

but till long after middle life she never herself wrote a line for

publication.

In 1827 she went to America, having been partly instigated by the

social and communistic ideas of a lady whom I well remember,--a

certain Miss Wright,--who was, I think, the first of the American

female lecturers. Her chief desire, however, was to establish

my brother Henry; and perhaps joined with that was the additional

object of breaking up her English home without pleading broken

fortunes to all the world. At Cincinnati, in the State of Ohio,

she built a bazaar, and I fancy lost all the money which may have

been embarked in that speculation. It could not have been much, and

I think that others also must have suffered. But she looked about

her, at her American cousins, and resolved to write a book about

them. This book she brought back with her in 1831, and published

it early in 1832. When she did this she was already fifty. When

doing this she was aware that unless she could so succeed in making

money, there was no money for any of the family. She had never before

earned a shilling. She almost immediately received a considerable

sum from the publishers,--if I remember rightly, amounting to two

sums of (pounds)400 each within a few months; and from that moment till

nearly the time of her death, at any rate for more than twenty

years, she was in the receipt of a considerable income from her

writings. It was a late age at which to begin such a career.

The Domestic Manners of the Americans was the first of a series

of books of travels, of which it was probably the best, and was

certainly the best known. It will not be too much to say of it that

it had a material effect upon the manners of the Americans of the

day, and that that effect has been fully appreciated by them. No

observer was certainly ever less qualified to judge of the prospects

or even of the happiness of a young people. No one could have been

worse adapted by nature for the task of learning whether a nation

was in a way to thrive. Whatever she saw she judged, as most women

do, from her own standing-point. If a thing were ugly to her eyes,

it ought to be ugly to all eyes,--and if ugly, it must be bad.

What though people had plenty to eat and clothes to wear, if they

put their feet upon the tables and did not reverence their betters?

The Americans were to her rough, uncouth, and vulgar,--and she

told them so. Those communistic and social ideas, which had been so

pretty in a drawing-room, were scattered to the winds. Her volumes

were very bitter; but they were very clever, and they saved the

family from ruin.

Book followed book immediately,--first two novels, and then a book

on Belgium and Western Germany. She refurnished the house which

I have called Orley Farm, and surrounded us again with moderate

comforts. Of the mixture of joviality and industry which formed

her character, it is almost impossible to speak with exaggeration.

The industry was a thing apart, kept to herself. It was not necessary

that any one who lived with her should see it. She was at her table

at four in the morning, and had finished her work before the world

had begun to be aroused. But the joviality was all for others.

She could dance with other people's legs, eat and drink with other

people's palates, be proud with the lustre of other people's finery.

Every mother can do that for her own daughters; but she could do it

for any girl whose look, and voice, and manners pleased her. Even

when she was at work, the laughter of those she loved was a pleasure

to her. She had much, very much, to suffer. Work sometimes came

hard to her, so much being required,--for she was extravagant, and

liked to have money to spend; but of all people I have known she

was the most joyous, or, at any rate, the most capable of joy.

We continued this renewed life at Harrow for nearly two years,

during which I was still at the school, and at the end of which

I was nearly nineteen. Then there came a great catastrophe. My

father, who, when he was well, lived a sad life among his monks and

nuns, still kept a horse and gig. One day in March, 1834, just as

it had been decided that I should leave the school then, instead

of remaining, as had been intended, till midsummer, I was summoned

very early in the morning, to drive him up to London. He had been

ill, and must still have been very ill indeed when he submitted to

be driven by any one. It was not till we had started that he told

me that I was to put him on board the Ostend boat. This I did,

driving him through the city down to the docks. It was not within

his nature to be communicative, and to the last he never told me

why he was going to Ostend. Something of a general flitting abroad

I had heard before, but why he should have flown first, and flown

so suddenly, I did not in the least know till I returned. When I got

back with the gig, the house and furniture were all in the charge

of the sheriff's officers.

The gardener who had been with us in former days stopped me as I

drove up the road, and with gestures, signs, and whispered words,

gave me to understand that the whole affair--horse, gig, and

barness--would be made prize of if I went but a few yards farther.

Why they should not have been made prize of I do not know. The

little piece of dishonest business which I at once took in hand

and carried through successfully was of no special service to any

of us. I drove the gig into the village, and sold the entire equipage

to the ironmonger for (pounds)17, the exact sum which he claimed as being

due to himself. I was much complimented by the gardener, who seemed

to think that so much had been rescued out of the fire. I fancy

that the ironmonger was the only gainer by my smartness.

When I got back to the house a scene of devastation was in progress,