Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

had become--and the old duke,--whom I killed gracefully, and the

new duke, and the young duchess, either kept their old friends or

made new friends for themselves. Phineas Finn, I certainly think,

was successful from first to last. I am aware, however, that there

was nothing in it to touch the heart like the abasement of Lady

Mason when confessing her guilt to her old lover, or any approach

in delicacy of delineation to the character of Mr. Crawley.

Phineas Finn, the first part of the story, was completed in

May, 1867. In June and July I wrote Linda Tressel for Blackwood's

Magazine, of which I have already spoken. In September and October

I wrote a short novel, called The Golden Lion of Granpere, which

was intended also for Blackwood,--with a view of being published

anonymously; but Mr. Blackwood did not find the arrangement to be

profitable, and the story remained on my hands, unread and unthought

of, for a few years. It appeared subsequently in Good Words. It

was written on the model of Nina Balatka and Linda Tressel, but

is very inferior to either of them. In November of the same year,

1867, I began a very long novel, which I called He Knew He Was

Right, and which was brought out by Mr. Virtue, the proprietor of

the St. Paul's Magazine, in sixpenny numbers, every week. I do not

know that in any literary effort I ever fell more completely short

of my own intention than in this story. It was my purpose to create

sympathy for the unfortunate man who, while endeavouring to do

his duty to all around him, should be led constantly astray by his

unwillingness to submit his own judgment to the opinion of others.

The man is made to be unfortunate enough, and the evil which he

does is apparent. So far I did not fail, but the sympathy has not

been created yet. I look upon the story as being nearly altogether

bad. It is in part redeemed by certain scenes in the house and

vicinity of an old maid in Exeter. But a novel which in its main

parts is bad cannot, in truth, be redeemed by the vitality of

subordinate characters.

This work was finished while I was at Washington in the spring of

1868, and on the day after I finished it, I commenced The Vicar of

Bullhampton, a novel which I wrote for Messrs. Bradbury & Evans.

This I completed in November, 1868, and at once began Sir Harry

Hotspur of Humblethwaite, a story which I was still writing at the

close of the year. I look upon these two years, 1867 and 1868, of

which I have given a somewhat confused account in this and the two

preceding chapters, as the busiest in my life. I had indeed left

the Post Office, but though I had left it I had been employed by

it during a considerable portion of the time. I had established the

St. Paul's Magazine, in reference to which I had read an enormous

amount of manuscript, and for which, independently of my novels, I

had written articles almost monthly. I had stood for Beverley and

had made many speeches. I had also written five novels, and had

hunted three times a week during each of the winters. And how happy

I was with it all! I had suffered at Beverley, but I had suffered

as a part of the work which I was desirous of doing, and I had gained

my experience. I had suffered at Washington with that wretched

American Postmaster, and with the mosquitoes, not having been able

to escape from that capital till July; but all that had added to

the activity of my life. I had often groaned over those manuscripts;

but I had read them, considering it--perhaps foolishly--to be a

part of my duty as editor. And though in the quick production of my

novels I had always ringing in my ears that terrible condemnation

and scorn produced by the great man in Paternoster Row, I

was nevertheless proud of having done so much. I always had a pen

in my hand. Whether crossing the seas, or fighting with American

officials, or tramping about the streets of Beverley, I could do a

little, and generally more than a little. I had long since convinced

myself that in such work as mine the great secret consisted

in acknowledging myself to be bound to rules of labour similar to

those which an artisan or a mechanic is forced to obey. A shoemaker

when he has finished one pair of shoes does not sit down and

contemplate his work in idle satisfaction. "There is my pair of

shoes finished at last! What a pair of shoes it is!" The shoemaker

who so indulged himself would be without wages half his time. It

is the same with a professional writer of books. An author may of

course want time to study a new subject. He will at any rate assure

himself that there is some such good reason why he should pause.

He does pause, and will be idle for a month or two while he tells

himself how beautiful is that last pair of shoes which he has

finished! Having thought much of all this, and having made up my

mind that I could be really happy only when I was at work, I had

now quite accustomed myself to begin a second pair as soon as the

first was out of my hands.

In 1869 I was called on to decide, in council with my two boys and

their mother, what should be their destination in life. In June of

that year the elder, who was then twenty-three, was called to the

Bar; and as he had gone through the regular courses of lecturing

tuition and study, it might be supposed that his course was already

decided. But, just as he was called, there seemed to be an opening

for him in another direction; and this, joined to the terrible

uncertainty of the Bar, the terror of which was not in his case

lessened by any peculiar forensic aptitudes, induced us to sacrifice

dignity in quest of success. Mr. Frederic Chapman, who was then

the sole representative of the publishing house known as Messrs.

Chapman & Hall, wanted a partner, and my son Henry went into the

firm. He remained there three years and a half; but he did not like

it, nor do I think he made a very good publisher. At any rate he

left the business with perhaps more pecuniary success than might

have been expected from the short period of his labours, and has

since taken himself to literature as a profession. Whether he will

work at it so hard as his father, and write as many books, may be

doubted.

My second son, Frederic, had very early in life gone to Australia,

having resolved on a colonial career when he found that boys who did

not grow so fast as he did got above him at school. This departure

was a great pang to his mother and me; but it was permitted on the

understanding that he was to come back when he was twenty-one, and

then decide whether he would remain in England or return to the

Colonies. In the winter of 1868 he did come to England, and had a

season's hunting in the old country; but there was no doubt in his

own mind as to his settling in Australia. His purpose was fixed,

and in the spring of 1869 he made his second journey out. As I

have since that date made two journeys to see him,--of one of which

at any rate I shall have to speak, as I wrote a long book on the

Australasian Colonies,--I will have an opportunity of saying a word

or two further on of him and his doings.

The Vicar of Bullhampton was written in 1868 for publication in Once

a Week, a periodical then belonging to Messrs. Bradbury & Evans.

It was not to come out till 1869, and I, as was my wont had made