Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

think, 2000 copies circulated of the first expensive edition; and

then the book was divided into four little volumes, which were

published separately, and which again had a considerable circulation.

That some facts were stated inaccurately, I do not doubt; that many

opinions were crude, I am quite sure; that I had failed to understand

much which I attempted to explain, is possible. But with all these

faults the book was a thoroughly honest book, and was the result of

unflagging labour for a period of fifteen months. I spared myself

no trouble in inquiry, no trouble in seeing, and no trouble in

listening. I thoroughly imbued my mind with the subject, and wrote

with the simple intention of giving trustworthy information on

the state of the Colonies. Though there be inaccuracies,--those

inaccuracies to which work quickly done must always be subject,--I

think I did give much valuable information.

I came home across America from San Francisco to New York, visiting

Utah and Brigham Young on the way. I did not achieve great intimacy

with the great polygamist of the Salt Lake City. I called upon

him, sending to him my card, apologising for doing so without an

introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like

to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had

heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to

enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him

that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I

told him I did. "I guess you're a miner," said he. I again assured

him that I was not. "Then how do you earn your bread?" I told him

I did so by writing books. "I'm sure you're a miner," said he. Then

he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the

door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive

that he would have heard my name.

I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any resolution made

to the contrary, my mind was full of hunting as I came back. No

real resolutions had in truth been made, for out of a stud of four

horses I kept three, two of which were absolutely idle through the

two summers and winter of my absence. Immediately on my arrival

I bought another, and settled myself down to hunting from London

three days a week. At first I went back to Essex, my old country,

but finding that to be inconvenient, I took my horses to Leighton

Buzzard, and became one of that numerous herd of sportsmen who rode

with the "Baron" and Mr. Selby Lowndes. In those days Baron Meyer

was alive, and the riding with his hounds was very good. I did not

care so much for Mr. Lowndes. During the winters of 1873, 1874, and

1875, I had my horses back in Essex, and went on with my hunting,

always trying to resolve that I would give it up. But still I

bought fresh horses, and, as I did not give it up, I hunted more

than ever. Three times a week the cab has been at my door in London

very punctually, and not unfrequently before seven in the morning.

In order to secure this attendance, the man has always been invited

to have his breakfast in the hall. I have gone to the Great Eastern

Railway,--ah! so often with the fear that frost would make all my

exertions useless, and so often too with that result! And then,

from one station or another station, have travelled on wheels at

least a dozen miles. After the day's sport, the same toil has been

necessary to bring me home to dinner at eight. This has been work

for a young man and a rich man, but I have done it as an old man

and comparatively a poor man. Now at last, in April, 1876, I do

think that my resolution has been taken. I am giving away my old

horses, and anybody is welcome to my saddles and horse-furniture.

"Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes;

Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ladum;

Tendunt extorquere poemata."

"Our years keep taking toll as they move on;

My feasts, my frolics, are already gone,

And now, it seems, my verses must go too."

This Is Conington's translation, but it seems to me to be a little

flat.

"Years as they roll cut all our pleasures short;

Our pleasant mirth, our loves, our wine, our sport,

And then they stretch their power, and crush at last

Even the power of singing of the past."

I think that I may say with truth that I rode hard to my end.

"Vixi puellis nuper idoneus,

Et militavi non sine gloria;

Nunc arma defunctumque bello

Barbiton hic paries habebit."

"I've lived about the covert side,

I've ridden straight, and ridden fast;

Now breeches, boots, and scarlet pride

Are but mementoes of the past."

CHAPTER XX "THE WAY WE LIVE NOW" AND "THE PRIME MINISTER"--CONCLUSION

In what I have said at the end of the last chapter about my hunting,

I have been carried a little in advance of the date at which I

had arrived. We returned from Australia in the winter of 1872, and

early in 1873 I took a house in Montagu Square,--in which I hope

to live and hope to die. Our first work in settling there was to

place upon new shelves the books which I had collected round myself

at Waltham. And this work, which was in itself great, entailed

also the labour of a new catalogue. As all who use libraries know,

a catalogue is nothing unless it show the spot on which every

book is to be found,--information which every volume also ought to

give as to itself. Only those who have done it know how great is

the labour of moving and arranging a few thousand volumes. At the

present moment I own about 5000 volumes, and they are dearer to

me even than the horses which are going, or than the wine in the

cellar, which is very apt to go, and upon which I also pride myself.

When this was done, and the new furniture had got into its place,

and my little book-room was settled sufficiently for work, I

began a novel, to the writing of which I was instigated by what I

conceived to be the commercial profligacy of the age. Whether the

world does or does not become more wicked as years go on, is a

question which probably has disturbed the minds of thinkers since

the world began to think. That men have become less cruel, less

violent, less selfish, less brutal, there can be no doubt;--but

have they become less honest? If so, can a world, retrograding from

day to day in honesty, be considered to be in a state of progress?

We know the opinion on this subject of our philosopher Mr. Carlyle.

If he be right, we are all going straight away to darkness and the

dogs. But then we do not put very much faith in Mr. Carlyle,--nor

in Mr. Ruskin and his other followers. The loudness and extravagance

of their lamentations, the wailing and gnashing of teeth which comes

from them, over a world which is supposed to have gone altogether

shoddy-wards, are so contrary to the convictions of men who cannot

but see how comfort has been increased, how health has been improved,

and education extended,--that the general effect of their teaching

is the opposite of what they have intended. It is regarded simply

as Carlylism to say that the English-speaking world is growing

worse from day to day. And it is Carlylism to opine that the general

grand result of increased intelligence is a tendency to deterioration.

Nevertheless a certain class of dishonesty, dishonesty magnificent

in its proportions, and climbing into high places, has become at

the same time so rampant and so splendid that there seems to be

reason for fearing that men and women will be taught to feel that

dishonesty, if it can become splendid, will cease to be abominable.

If dishonesty can live in a gorgeous palace with pictures on all

its walls, and gems in all its cupboards, with marble and ivory

in all its corners, and can give Apician dinners, and get into

Parliament, and deal in millions, then dishonesty is not disgraceful,

and the man dishonest after such a fashion is not a low scoundrel.

Instigated, I say, by some such reflections as these, I sat down

in my new house to write The Way We Live Now. And as I had ventured

to take the whip of the satirist into my hand, I went beyond the

iniquities of the great speculator who robs everybody, and made an

onslaught also on other vices;--on the intrigues of girls who want

to get married, on the luxury of young men who prefer to remain

single, and on the puffing propensities of authors who desire to

cheat the public into buying their volumes.

The book has the fault which is to be attributed to almost all

satires, whether in prose or verse. The accusations are exaggerated.

The vices are coloured, so as to make effect rather than to represent

truth. Who, when the lash of objurgation is in his hands, can

so moderate his arm as never to strike harder than justice would

require? The spirit which produces the satire is honest enough, but

the very desire which moves the satirist to do his work energetically

makes him dishonest. In other respects The Way We Live Now

was, as a satire, powerful and good. The character of Melmotte is

well maintained. The Beargarden is amusing,--and not untrue. The

Longestaffe girls and their friend, Lady Monogram, are amusing,--but

exaggerated. Dolly Longestaffe, is, I think, very good. And Lady

Carbury's literary efforts are, I am sorry to say, such as are too

frequently made. But here again the young lady with her two lovers

is weak and vapid. I almost doubt whether it be not impossible to

have two absolutely distinct parts in a novel, and to imbue them

both with interest. If they be distinct, the one will seem to be

no more than padding to the other. And so it was in The Way We Live

Now. The interest of the story lies among the wicked and foolish

people,--with Melmotte and his daughter, with Dolly and his family,

with the American woman, Mrs. Hurtle, and with John Crumb and the

girl of his heart. But Roger Carbury, Paul Montague, and Henrietta

Carbury are uninteresting. Upon the whole, I by no means look upon

the book as one of my failures; nor was it taken as a failure by

the public or the press.

While I was writing The Way We Live Now, I was called upon by the

proprietors of the Graphic for a Christmas story. I feel, with regard

to literature, somewhat as I suppose an upholsterer and undertaker

feels when he is called upon to supply a funeral. He has to supply