Anthony Trollope - Autobiography of Anthony Trollope

simply an idle pastime. They look upon the tellers of stories as

among the tribe of those who pander to the wicked pleasures of a

wicked world. I have regarded my art from so different a point of

view that I have ever thought of myself as a preacher of sermons,

and my pulpit as one which I could make both salutary and agreeable

to my audience. I do believe that no girl has risen from the reading

of my pages less modest than she was before, and that some may have

learned from them that modesty is a charm well worth preserving. I

think that no youth has been taught that in falseness and flashness

is to be found the road to manliness; but some may perhaps have

learned from me that it is to be found in truth and a high but

gentle spirit. Such are the lessons I have striven to teach; and

I have thought it might best be done by representing to my readers

characters like themselves,--or to which they might liken themselves.

Framley Parsonage--or, rather, my connection with the Cornhill--was

the means of introducing me very quickly to that literary world

from which I had hitherto been severed by the fact of my residence

in Ireland. In December, 1859, while I was still very hard at work

on my novel, I came over to take charge of the Eastern District,

and settled myself at a residence about twelve miles from London,

in Hertfordshire, but on the borders both of Essex and Middlesex,--which

was somewhat too grandly called Waltham House. This I took on

lease, and subsequently bought after I had spent about (pounds)1000 on

improvements. From hence I was able to make myself frequent both

in Cornhill and Piccadilly, and to live, when the opportunity came,

among men of my own pursuit.

It was in January, 1860, that Mr. George Smith--to whose enterprise

we owe not only the Cornhill Magazine but the Pall Mall Gazette--gave

a sumptuous dinner to his contributors. It was a memorable banquet

in many ways, but chiefly so to me because on that occasion I first

met many men who afterwards became my most intimate associates.

It can rarely happen that one such occasion can be the first

starting-point of so many friendships. It was at that table, and

on that day, that I first saw Thackeray, Charles Taylor (Sir)--than

whom in latter life I have loved no man better,--Robert Bell, G. H.

Lewes, and John Everett Millais. With all these men I afterwards

lived on affectionate terms;--but I will here speak specially of

the last, because from that time he was joined with me in so much

of the work that I did.

Mr. Millais was engaged to illustrate Framley Parsonage, but this

was not the first work he did for the magazine. In the second number

there is a picture of his accompanying Monckton Milne's Unspoken

Dialogue. The first drawing he did for Framley Parsonage did not

appear till after the dinner of which I have spoken, and I do not

think that I knew at the time that he was engaged on my novel. When

I did know it, it made me very proud. He afterwards illustrated

Orley Farm, The Small House of Allington, Rachel Ray, and Phineas

Finn. Altogether he drew from my tales eighty-seven drawings, and

I do not think that more conscientious work was ever done by man.

Writers of novels know well--and so ought readers of novels to

have learned--that there are two modes of illustrating, either of

which may be adopted equally by a bad and by a good artist. To

which class Mr. Millais belongs I need not say; but, as a good

artist, it was open to him simply to make a pretty picture, or to

study the work of the author from whose writing he was bound to take

his subject. I have too often found that the former alternative

has been thought to be the better, as it certainly is the easier

method. An artist will frequently dislike to subordinate his ideas

to those of an author, and will sometimes be too idle to find out

what those ideas are. But this artist was neither proud nor idle.

In every figure that he drew it was his object to promote the

views of the writer whose work he had undertaken to illustrate, and

he never spared himself any pains in studying that work, so as to

enable him to do so. I have carried on some of those characters from

book to book, and have had my own early ideas impressed indelibly

on my memory by the excellence of his delineations. Those illustrations

were commenced fifteen years ago, and from that time up to this

day my affection for the man of whom I am speaking has increased.

To see him has always been a pleasure. His voice has been a sweet

sound in my ears. Behind his back I have never heard him praised

without joining the eulogist; I have never heard a word spoken

against him without opposing the censurer. These words, should he

ever see them, will come to him from the grave, and will tell him

of my regard,--as one living man never tells another.

Sir Charles Taylor, who carried me home in his brougham that

evening, and thus commenced an intimacy which has since been very

close, was born to wealth, and was therefore not compelled by the

necessities of a profession to enter the lists as an author. But

he lived much with those who did so,--and could have done it himself

had want or ambition stirred him. He was our king at the Garrick

Club, to which, however, I did not yet belong. He gave the best

dinners of my time, and was,--happily I may say is, [Footnote:

Alas! within a year of the writing of this he went from us.]--the

best giver of dinners. A man rough of tongue, brusque in his manners,

odious to those who dislike him, somewhat inclined to tyranny, he

is the prince of friends, honest as the sun, and as openhanded as

Charity itself.

Robert Bell has now been dead nearly ten years. As I look back

over the interval and remember how intimate we were, it seems odd

to me that we should have known each other for no more than six

years. He was a man who had lived by his pen from his very youth;

and was so far successful that I do not think that want ever came

near him. But he never made that mark which his industry and talents

would have seemed to ensure. He was a man well known to literary

men, but not known to readers. As a journalist he was useful

and conscientious, but his plays and novels never made themselves

popular. He wrote a life of Canning, and he brought out an annotated

edition of the British poets; but he achieved no great success.

I have known no man better read in English literature. Hence his

conversation had a peculiar charm, but he was not equally happy

with his pen. He will long be remembered at the Literary Fund

Committees, of which he was a staunch and most trusted supporter.

I think it was he who first introduced me to that board. It has

often been said that literary men are peculiarly apt to think that

they are slighted and unappreciated. Robert Bell certainly never

achieved the position in literature which he once aspired to fill,

and which he was justified in thinking that he could earn for

himself. I have frequently discussed these subjects with him, but

I never heard from his mouth a word of complaint as to his own

literary fate. He liked to hear the chimes go at midnight, and he

loved to have ginger hot in his mouth. On such occasions no sound

ever came out of a man's lips sweeter than his wit and gentle

revelry.

George Lewes,--with his wife, whom all the world knows as George

Eliot,--has also been and still is one of my dearest friends.

He is, I think, the acutest critic I know,--and the severest. His

severity, however, is a fault. His intention to be honest, even when

honesty may give pain, has caused him to give pain when honesty has

not required it. He is essentially a doubter, and has encouraged

himself to doubt till the faculty of trusting has almost left him.

I am not speaking of the personal trust which one man feels in

another, but of that confidence in literary excellence, which is,

I think, necessary for the full enjoyment of literature. In one

modern writer he did believe thoroughly. Nothing can be more charming

than the unstinted admiration which he has accorded to everything

that comes from the pen of the wonderful woman to whom his lot has

been united. To her name I shall recur again when speaking of the

novelists of the present day.

Of "Billy Russell," as we always used to call him, I may say

that I never knew but one man equal to him in the quickness and

continuance of witty speech. That one man was Charles Lever--also

an Irishman--whom I had known from an earlier date, and also with

close intimacy. Of the two, I think that Lever was perhaps the

more astounding producer of good things. His manner was perhaps a

little the happier, and his turns more sharp and unexpected. But

"Billy" also was marvellous. Whether abroad as special correspondent,

or at home amidst the flurry of his newspaper work, he was a charming

companion; his ready wit always gave him the last word.

Of Thackeray I will speak again when I record his death.

There were many others whom I met for the first time at George

Smith's table. Albert Smith, for the first, and indeed for the last

time, as he died soon after; Higgins, whom all the world knew as

Jacob Omnium, a man I greatly regarded; Dallas, who for a time was

literary critic to the Times, and who certainly in that capacity

did better work than has appeared since in the same department;

George Augustus Sala, who, had he given himself fair play, would

have risen to higher eminence than that of being the best writer

in his day of sensational leading articles; and Fitz-James Stephen,

a man of very different calibre, who had not yet culminated, but

who, no doubt, will culminate among our judges. There were many

others;--but I cannot now recall their various names as identified

with those banquets.

Of Framley Parsonage I need only further say, that as I wrote it I

became more closely than ever acquainted with the new shire which

I had added to the English counties. I had it all in my mind,--its

roads and railroads, its towns and parishes, its members of Parliament,

and the different hunts which rode over it. I knew all the great

lords and their castles, the squires and their parks, the rectors

and their churches. This was the fourth novel of which I had placed

the scene in Barsetshire, and as I wrote it I made a map of the

dear county. Throughout these stories there has been no name given

to a fictitious site which does not represent to me a spot of which I

know all the accessories, as though I had lived and wandered there.

When I had half-finished Framley Parsonage, I went back to my other

story, Castle Richmond, which I was writing for Messrs. Chapman &

Hall, and completed that. I think that this was the only occasion

on which I have had two different novels in my mind at the same

time. This, however, did not create either difficulty or confusion.

Many of us live in different circles; and when we go from our friends

in the town to our friends in the country, we do not usually fail