While I was still learning my duty as an usher at Mr. Drury's
school at Brussels, I was summoned to my clerkship in the London
Post Office, and on my way passed through Bruges. I then saw my
father and my brother Henry for the last time. A sadder household
never was held together. They were all dying; except my mother, who
would sit up night after night nursing the dying ones and writing
novels the while,--so that there might be a decent roof for them
to die under. Had she failed to write the novels, I do not know
where the roof would have been found. It is now more that forty
years ago, and looking back over so long a lapse of time I can tell
the story, though it be the story of my own father and mother, of
my own brother and sister, almost as coldly as I have often done
some scene of intended pathos in fiction; but that scene was indeed
full of pathos. I was then becoming alive to the blighted ambition
of my father's life, and becoming alive also to the violence of the
strain which my mother was enduring. But I could do nothing but go
and leave them. There was something that comforted me in the idea
that I need no longer be a burden,--a fallacious idea, as it soon
proved. My salary was to be (pounds)90 a year, and on that I was to live
in (pounds)ondon, keep up my character as a gentleman, and be happy.
That I should have thought this possible at the age of nineteen,
and should have been delighted at being able to make the attempt,
does not surprise me now; but that others should have thought it
possible, friends who knew something of the world, does astonish
me. A lad might have done so, no doubt, or might do so even in
these days, who was properly looked after and kept under control,--on
whose behalf some law of life had been laid down. Let him pay so
much a week for his board and lodging, so much for his clothes, so
much for his washing, and then let him understand that he has--shall
we say?--sixpence a day left for pocket-money and omnibuses. Any
one making the calculation will find the sixpence far too much. No
such calculation was made for me or by me. It was supposed that a
sufficient income had been secured to me, and that I should live
upon it as other clerks lived.
But as yet the (pounds)90 a year was not secured to me. On reaching London
I went to my friend Clayton Freeling, who was then secretary at
the Stamp Office, and was taken by him to the scene of my future
labours in St. Martin's le Grand. Sir Francis Freeling was the
secretary, but he was greatly too high an official to be seen at
first by a new junior clerk. I was taken, therefore, to his eldest
son Henry Freeling, who was the assistant secretary, and by him
I was examined as to my fitness. The story of that examination is
given accurately in one of the opening chapters of a novel written
by me, called The Three Clerks. If any reader of this memoir would
refer to that chapter and see how Charley Tudor was supposed to have
been admitted into the Internal Navigation Office, that reader
will learn how Anthony Trollope was actually admitted into the
Secretary's office of the General Post Office in 1834. I was asked
to copy some lines from the Times newspaper with an old quill pen,
and at once made a series of blots and false spellings. "That
won't do, you know," said Henry Freeling to his brother Clayton.
Clayton, who was my friend, urged that I was nervous, and asked
that I might be allowed to do a bit of writing at home and bring
it as a sample on the next day. I was then asked whether I was
a proficient in arithmetic. What could I say? I had never learned
the multiplication table, and had no more idea of the rule of three
than of conic sections. "I know a little of it," I said humbly,
whereupon I was sternly assured that on the morrow, should I succeed
in showing that my handwriting was all that it ought to be, I should
be examined as to that little of arithmetic. If that little should
not be found to comprise a thorough knowledge of all the ordinary
rules, together with practised and quick skill, my career in life
could not be made at the Post Office. Going down the main stairs
of the building,--stairs which have I believe been now pulled down
to make room for sorters and stampers,--Clayton Freeling told me
not to be too down-hearted. I was myself inclined to think that I
had better go back to the school in Brussels. But nevertheless I
went to work, and under the surveillance of my elder brother made
a beautiful transcript of four or five pages of Gibbon. With a
faltering heart I took these on the next day to the office. With
my caligraphy I was contented, but was certain that I should come
to the ground among the figures. But when I got to "The Grand,"
as we used to call our office in those days, from its site in
St. Martin's le Grand, I was seated at a desk without any further
reference to my competency. No one condescended even to look at my
beautiful penmanship.
That was the way in which candidates for the Civil Service were
examined in my young days. It was at any rate the way in which I
was examined. Since that time there has been a very great change
indeed;--and in some respects a great improvement. But in regard
to the absolute fitness of the young men selected for the public
service, I doubt whether more harm has not been done than good. And
I think that good might have been done without the harm. The rule
of the present day is, that every place shall be open to public
competition, and that it shall be given to the best among the
comers. I object to this, that at present there exists no known
mode of learning who is best, and that the method employed has no
tendency to elicit the best. That method pretends only to decide
who among a certain number of lads will best answer a string of
questions, for the answering of which they are prepared by tutors,
who have sprung up for the purpose since this fashion of election
has been adopted. When it is decided in a family that a boy shall
"try the Civil Service," he is made to undergo a certain amount of
cramming. But such treatment has, I maintain, no connection whatever
with education. The lad is no better fitted after it than he was
before for the future work of his life. But his very success fills
him with false ideas of his own educational standing, and so far
unfits him. And, by the plan now in vogue, it has come to pass that
no one is in truth responsible either for the conduct, the manners,
or even for the character of the youth. The responsibility was
perhaps slight before; but existed, and was on the increase.
There might have been,--in some future time of still increased
wisdom, there yet may be,--a department established to test the
fitness of acolytes without recourse to the dangerous optimism of
competitive choice. I will not say but that there should have been
some one to reject me,--though I will have the hardihood to say
that, had I been so rejected, the Civil Service would have lost
a valuable public servant. This is a statement that will not, I
think, be denied by those who, after I am gone, may remember anything
of my work. Lads, no doubt, should not be admitted who have none of
the small acquirements that are wanted. Our offices should not be
schools in which writing and early lessons in geography, arithmetic,
or French should be learned. But all that could be ascertained
without the perils of competitive examination.
The desire to insure the efficiency of the young men selected, has
not been the only object--perhaps not the chief object--of those
who have yielded in this matter to the arguments of the reformers.
There had arisen in England a system of patronage, under which it
had become gradually necessary for politicians to use their influence
for the purchase of political support. A member of the House of
Commons, holding office, who might chance to have five clerkships
to give away in a year, found himself compelled to distribute them
among those who sent him to the House. In this there was nothing
pleasant to the distributer of patronage. Do away with the system
altogether, and he would have as much chance of support as another.
He bartered his patronage only because another did so also. The
beggings, the refusings, the jealousies, the correspondence, were
simply troublesome. Gentlemen in office were not therefore indisposed
to rid themselves of the care of patronage. I have no doubt their
hands are the cleaner and their hearts are the lighter; but I do
doubt whether the offices are on the whole better manned.
As what I now write will certainly never be read till I am dead, I
may dare to say what no one now does dare to say in print,--though
some of us whisper it occasionally into our friends' ears. There
are places in life which can hardly be well filled except by
"Gentlemen." The word is one the use of which almost subjects one
to ignominy. If I say that a judge should be a gentleman, or a
bishop, I am met with a scornful allusion to "Nature's Gentlemen."
Were I to make such an assertion with reference to the House of
Commons, nothing that I ever said again would receive the slightest
attention. A man in public life could not do himself a greater
injury than by saying in public that the commissions in the army or
navy, or berths in the Civil Service, should be given exclusively
to gentlemen. He would be defied to define the term,--and would
fail should he attempt to do so. But he would know what he meant,
and so very probably would they who defied him. It may be that the
son of a butcher of the village shall become as well fitted for
employments requiring gentle culture as the son of the parson.
Such is often the case. When such is the case, no one has been more
prone to give the butcher's son all the welcome he has merited than
I myself; but the chances are greatly in favour of the parson's son.
The gates of the one class should be open to the other; but neither
to the one class nor to the other can good be done by declaring
that there are no gates, no barrier, no difference. The system of
competitive examination is, I think, based on a supposition that
there is no difference.
I got into my place without any examining. Looking back now, I think
I can see with accuracy what was then the condition of my own mind
and intelligence. Of things to be learned by lessons I knew almost
less than could be supposed possible after the amount of schooling
I had received. I could read neither French, Latin, nor Greek.
I could speak no foreign language,--and I may as well say here as
elsewhere that I never acquired the power of really talking French.
I have been able to order my dinner and take a railway ticket, but
never got much beyond that. Of the merest rudiments of the sciences
I was completely ignorant. My handwriting was in truth wretched. My
spelling was imperfect. There was no subject as to which examination
would have been possible on which I could have gone through an
examination otherwise than disgracefully. And yet I think I knew
more than the average young men of the same rank who began life at
nineteen. I could have given a fuller list of the names of the poets
of all countries, with their subjects and periods,--and probably
of historians,--than many others; and had, perhaps, a more accurate
idea of the manner in which my own country was governed. I knew the
names of all the Bishops, all the Judges, all the Heads of Colleges,
and all the Cabinet Ministers,--not a very useful knowledge indeed,
but one that had not been acquired without other matter which was
more useful. I had read Shakespeare and Byron and Scott, and could
talk about them. The music of the Miltonic line was familiar to
me. I had already made up my mind that Pride and Prejudice was the
best novel in the English language,--a palm which I only partially
withdrew after a second reading of Ivanhoe, and did not completely
bestow elsewhere till Esmond was written. And though I would
occasionally break down in my spelling, I could write a letter. If
I had a thing to say, I could so say it in written words that the
readers should know what I meant,--a power which is by no means
at the command of all those who come out from these competitive
examinations with triumph. Early in life, at the age of fifteen,
I had commenced the dangerous habit of keeping a journal, and this
I maintained for ten years. The volumes remained in my possession
unregarded--never looked at--till 1870, when I examined them, and,
with many blushes, destroyed them. They convicted me of folly,
ignorance, indiscretion, idleness, extravagance, and conceit. But
they had habituated me to the rapid use of pen and ink, and taught
me how to express myself with faculty.
I will mention here another habit which had grown upon me from
still earlier years,--which I myself often regarded with dismay
when I thought of the hours devoted to it, but which, I suppose,
must have tended to make me what I have been. As a boy, even as a
child, I was thrown much upon myself. I have explained, when speaking
of my school-days, how it came to pass that other boys would not
play with me. I was therefore alone, and had to form my plays
within myself. Play of some kind was necessary to me then, as it
always has been. Study was not my bent, and I could not please
myself by being all idle. Thus it came to pass that I was always
going about with some castle in the air firmly build within my
mind. Nor were these efforts in architecture spasmodic, or subject
to constant change from day to day. For weeks, for months, if
I remember rightly, from year to year, I would carry on the same
tale, binding myself down to certain laws, to certain proportions,
and proprieties, and unities. Nothing impossible was ever
introduced,--nor even anything which, from outward circumstances,
would seem to be violently improbable. I myself was of course my own
hero. Such is a necessity of castle-building. But I never became a
king, or a duke,--much less when my height and personal appearance
were fixed could I be an Antinous, or six feet high. I never was
a learned man, nor even a philosopher. But I was a very clever
person, and beautiful young women used to be fond of me. And I
strove to be kind of heart, and open of hand, and noble in thought,
despising mean things; and altogether I was a very much better
fellow than I have ever succeeded in being since. This had been
the occupation of my life for six or seven years before I went to
the Post Office, and was by no means abandoned when I commenced
my work. There can, I imagine, hardly be a more dangerous mental
practice; but I have often doubted whether, had it not been my
practice, I should ever have written a novel. I learned in this way
to maintain an interest in a fictitious story, to dwell on a work
created by my own imagination, and to live in a world altogether
outside the world of my own material life. In after years I have
done the same,--with this difference, that I have discarded the
hero of my early dreams, and have been able to lay my own identity
aside.
I must certainly acknowledge that the first seven years of my
official life were neither creditable to myself nor useful to the
public service. These seven years were passed in London, and during
this period of my life it was my duty to be present every morning
at the office punctually at 10 A.M. I think I commenced my quarrels
with the authorities there by having in my possession a watch
which was always ten minutes late. I know that I very soon achieved
a character for irregularity, and came to be regarded as a black
sheep by men around me who were not themselves, I think, very
good public servants. From time to time rumours reached me that if
I did not take care I should be dismissed; especially one rumour
in my early days, through my dearly beloved friend Mrs. Clayton
Freeling,--who, as I write this, is still living, and who, with
tears in her eyes, besought me to think of my mother. That was during
the life of Sir Francis Freeling, who died,--still in harness,--a
little more than twelve months after I joined the office. And yet
the old man showed me signs of almost affectionate kindness, writing
to me with his own hand more than once from his death-bed.
Sir Francis Freeling was followed at the Post Office by Colonel
Maberly, who certainly was not my friend. I do not know that I
deserved to find a friend in my new master, but I think that a man
with better judgment would not have formed so low an opinion of
me as he did. Years have gone by, and I can write now, and almost
feel, without anger; but I can remember well the keenness of my
anguish when I was treated as though I were unfit for any useful
work. I did struggle--not to do the work, for there was nothing
which was not easy without any struggling--but to show that I
was willing to do it. My bad character nevertheless stuck to me,
and was not to be got rid of by any efforts within my power. I do
admit that I was irregular. It was not considered to be much in
my favour that I could write letters--which was mainly the work of
our office--rapidly, correctly, and to the purpose. The man who
came at ten, and who was always still at his desk at half-past four,
was preferred before me, though when at his desk he might be less
efficient. Such preference was no doubt proper; but, with a little
encouragement, I also would have been punctual. I got credit for
nothing and was reckless.
As it was, the conduct of some of us was very bad. There was a
comfortable sitting-room up-stairs, devoted to the use of some one
of our number who in turn was required to remain in the place all
night. Hither one or two of us would adjourn after lunch, and
play ecarte for an hour or two. I do not know whether such ways
are possible now in our public offices. And here we used to have
suppers and card-parties at night--great symposiums, with much
smoking of tobacco; for in our part of the building there lived a
whole bevy of clerks. These were gentlemen whose duty it then was
to make up and receive the foreign mails. I do not remember that
they worked later or earlier than the other sorting-clerks; but
there was supposed to be something special in foreign letters,
which required that the men who handled them should have minds
undistracted by the outer world. Their salaries, too, were higher
than those of their more homely brethren; and they paid nothing
for their lodgings. Consequently there was a somewhat fast set in
those apartments, given to cards and to tobacco, who drank spirits
and water in preference to tea. I was not one of them, but was a
good deal with them.
I do not know that I should interest my readers by saying much of
my Post Office experiences in those days. I was always on the eve
of being dismissed, and yet was always striving to show how good a
public servant I could become, if only a chance were given me. But
the chance went the wrong way. On one occasion, in the performance
of my duty, I had to put a private letter containing bank-notes on
the secretary's table,--which letter I had duly opened, as it was
not marked private. The letter was seen by the Colonel, but had
not been moved by him when he left the room. On his return it was
gone. In the meantime I had returned to the room, again in the
performance of some duty. When the letter was missed I was sent
for, and there I found the Colonel much moved about his letter, and
a certain chief clerk, who, with a long face, was making suggestions
as to the probable fate of the money. "The letter has been taken,"
said the Colonel, turning to me angrily, "and, by G----! there has
been nobody in the room but you and I." As he spoke, he thundered
his fist down upon the table. "Then," said I, "by G----! you have
taken it." And I also thundered my fist down;--but, accidentally,
not upon the table. There was there a standing movable desk, at
which, I presume, it was the Colonel's habit to write, and on this
movable desk was a large bottle full of ink. My fist unfortunately
came on the desk, and the ink at once flew up, covering the Colonel's
face and shirt-front. Then it was a sight to see that senior clerk,
as he seized a quite of blotting-paper, and rushed to the aid of his
superior officer, striving to mop up the ink; and a sight also to
see the Colonel, in his agony, hit right out through the blotting-paper
at that senior clerk's unoffending stomach. At that moment there
came in the Colonel's private secretary, with the letter and the
money, and I was desired to go back to my own room. This was an
incident not much in my favour, though I do not know that it did
me special harm.
I was always in trouble. A young woman down in the country had
taken it into her head that she would like to marry me,--and a very
foolish young woman she must have been to entertain such a wish.
I need not tell that part of the story more at length, otherwise
than by protesting that no young man in such a position was ever
much less to blame than I had been in this. The invitation had
come from her, and I had lacked the pluck to give it a decided
negative; but I had left the house within half an hour, going away
without my dinner, and had never returned to it. Then there was a
correspondence,--if that can be called a correspondence in which
all the letters came from one side. At last the mother appeared at
the Post Office. My hair almost stands on my head now as I remember
the figure of the woman walking into the big room in which I sat
with six or seven other clerks, having a large basket on her arm and
an immense bonnet on her head. The messenger had vainly endeavoured
to persuade her to remain in the ante-room. She followed the man
in, and walking up the centre of the room, addressed me in a loud
voice: "Anthony Trollope, when are you going to marry my daughter?"
We have all had our worst moments, and that was one of my worst. I
lived through it, however, and did not marry the young lady. These
little incidents were all against me in the office.
And then a certain other phase of my private life crept into official
view, and did me a damage. As I shall explain just now, I rarely
at this time had any money wherewith to pay my bills. In this state
of things a certain tailor had taken from me an acceptance for, I
think, (pounds)12, which found its way into the hands of a money-lender.
With that man, who lived in a little street near Mecklenburgh Square,
I formed a most heart-rending but a most intimate acquaintance.
In cash I once received from him (pounds)4. For that and for the original
amount of the tailor's bill, which grew monstrously under repeated
renewals, I paid ultimately something over (pounds)200. That is so common
a story as to be hardly worth the telling; but the peculiarity of
this man was that he became so attached to me as to visit me every
day at my office. For a long period he found it to be worth his
while to walk up those stone steps daily, and come and stand behind
my chair, whispering to me always the same words: "Now I wish you
would be punctual. If you only would be punctual, I should like
you to have anything you want." He was a little, clean, old man,
who always wore a high starched white cravat inside of which he
had a habit of twisting his chin as he uttered his caution. When I
remember the constant persistency of his visits, I cannot but feel
that he was paid very badly for his time and trouble. Those visits
were very terrible, and can have hardly been of service to me in
the office.
Of one other misfortune which happened to me in those days I must
tell the tale. A junior clerk in the secretary's office was always
told off to sleep upon the premises, and he was supposed to be the
presiding genius of the establishment when the other members of
the Secretary's department had left the building. On an occasion
when I was still little more than a lad,--perhaps one-and-twenty
years old,--I was filling this responsible position. At about seven
in the evening word was brought to me that the Queen of,--I think
Saxony, but I am sure it was a Queen,--wanted to see the night
mails sent out. At this time, when there were many mail-coaches,
this was a show, and august visitors would sometimes come to see
it. But preparation was generally made beforehand, and some pundit
of the office would be at hand to do the honours. On this occasion
we were taken by surprise, and there was no pundit. I therefore
gave the orders, and accompanied her Majesty around the building,
walking backwards, as I conceived to be proper, and often in great
peril as I did so, up and down the stairs. I was, however, quite
satisfied with my own manner of performing an unaccustomed and most
important duty. There were two old gentlemen with her Majesty, who,
no doubt, were German barons, and an ancient baroness also. They
had come and, when they had seen the sights, took their departure
in two glass coaches. As they were preparing to go, I saw the two
barons consulting together in deep whispers, and then as the result
of that conversation one of them handed me a half-a-crown! That
also was a bad moment.
I came up to town, as I said before, purporting to live a jolly
life upon (pounds)90 per annum. I remained seven years in the General Post
Office, and when I left it my income was (pounds)140. During the whole
of this time I was hopelessly in debt. There were two intervals,
amounting together to nearly two years, in which I lived with
my mother, and therefore lived in comfort,--but even then I was
overwhelmed with debt. She paid much for me,--paid all that I
asked her to pay, and all that she could find out that I owed. But
who in such a condition ever tells all and makes a clean breast of
it? The debts, of course, were not large, but I cannot think now
how I could have lived, and sometimes have enjoyed life, with such
a burden of duns as I endured. Sheriff's officers with uncanny
documents, of which I never understood anything, were common
attendants on me. And yet I do not remember that I was ever locked
up, though I think I was twice a prisoner. In such emergencies some
one paid for me. And now, looking back at it, I have to ask myself
whether my youth was very wicked. I did no good in it; but was there
fair ground for expecting good from me? When I reached London no
mode of life was prepared for me,--no advice even given to me. I
went into lodgings, and then had to dispose of my time. I belonged
to no club, and knew very few friends who would receive me into
their houses. In such a condition of life a young man should no
doubt go home after his work, and spend the long hours of the evening
in reading good books and drinking tea. A lad brought up by strict
parents, and without having had even a view of gayer things, might
perhaps do so. I had passed all my life at public schools, where I
had seen gay things, but had never enjoyed them. Towards the good
books and tea no training had been given me. There was no house in
which I could habitually see a lady's face and hear a lady's voice.
No allurement to decent respectability came in my way. It seems to
me that in such circumstances the temptations of loose life will
almost certainly prevail with a young man. Of course if the mind be
strong enough, and the general stuff knitted together of sufficiently
stern material, the temptations will not prevail. But such minds
and such material are, I think, uncommon. The temptation at any
rate prevailed with me.
I wonder how many young men fall utterly to pieces from being turned
loose into London after the same fashion. Mine was, I think, of
all phases of such life the most dangerous. The lad who is sent
to mechanical work has longer hours, during which he is kept from
danger, and has not generally been taught in his boyhood to anticipate
pleasure. He looks for hard work and grinding circumstances.
I certainly had enjoyed but little pleasure, but I had been among
those who did enjoy it and were taught to expect it. And I had
filled my mind with the ideas of such joys.
And now, except during official hours, I was entirely without
control,--without the influences of any decent household around me.
I have said something of the comedy of such life, but it certainly
had its tragic aspect. Turning it all over in my own mind, as I
have constantly done in after years, the tragedy has always been
uppermost. And so it was as the time was passing. Could there be
any escape from such dirt? I would ask myself; and I always answered
that there was no escape. The mode of life was itself wretched. I
hated the office. I hated my work. More than all I hated my idleness.
I had often told myself since I left school that the only career in
life within my reach was that of an author, and the only mode of
authorship open to me that of a writer of novels. In the journal which
I read and destroyed a few years since, I found the matter argued
out before I had been in the Post Office two years. Parliament was
out of the question. I had not means to go to the Bar. In Official
life, such as that to which I had been introduced, there did not
seem to be any opening for real success. Pens and paper I could
command. Poetry I did not believe to be within my grasp. The drama,
too, which I would fain have chosen, I believed to be above me. For
history, biography, or essay writing I had not sufficient erudition.
But I thought it possible that I might write a novel. I had resolved
very early that in that shape must the attempt be made. But the
months and years ran on, and no attempt was made. And yet no day was
passed without thoughts of attempting, and a mental acknowledgment
of the disgrace of postponing it. What reader will not understand
the agony of remorse produced by such a condition of mind?
The gentleman from Mecklenburgh Square was always with me in the
morning,--always angering me by his hateful presence,--but when the
evening came I could make no struggle towards getting rid of him.
In those days I read a little, and did learn to read French and
Latin. I made myself familiar with Horace, and became acquainted with
the works of our own greatest poets. I had my strong enthusiasms,
and remember throwing out of the window in Northumberland Street,
where I lived, a volume of Johnson's Lives of the Poets, because
he spoke sneeringly of Lycidas. That was Northumberland Street by
the Marylebone Workhouse, on to the back-door of which establishment
my room looked out--a most dreary abode, at which I fancy I must
have almost ruined the good-natured lodging-house keeper by my
constant inability to pay her what I owed.
How I got my daily bread I can hardly remember. But I do remember
that I was often unable to get myself a dinner. Young men generally
now have their meals provided for them. I kept house, as it were.
Every day I had to find myself with the day's food. For my breakfast
I could get some credit at the lodgings, though that credit would
frequently come to an end. But for all that I had often breakfast
to pay day by day; and at your eating-house credit is not given. I
had no friends on whom I could sponge regularly. Out on the Fulham
Road I had an uncle, but his house was four miles from the Post
Office, and almost as far from my own lodgings. Then came borrowings
of money, sometimes absolute want, and almost constant misery.
Before I tell how it came about that I left this wretched life,
I must say a word or two of the friendships which lessened its
misfortunes. My earliest friend in life was John Merivale, with whom
I had been at school at Sunbury and Harrow, and who was a nephew
of my tutor, Harry Drury. Herman Merivale, who afterwards became my
friend, was his brother, as is also Charles Merivale, the historian
and Dean of Ely. I knew John when I was ten years old, and am happy
to be able to say that he is going to dine with me one day this
week. I hope I may not injure his character by stating that in those
days I lived very much with him. He, too, was impecunious, but he
had a home in London, and knew but little of the sort of penury
which I endured. For more than fifty years he and I have been close
friends. And then there was one W---- A----, whose misfortunes in
life will not permit me to give his full name, but whom I dearly
loved. He had been at Winchester and at Oxford, and at both places
had fallen into trouble. He then became a schoolmaster,--or perhaps
I had better say usher,--and finally he took orders. But he was
unfortunate in all things, and died some years ago in poverty. He
was most perverse; bashful to very fear of a lady's dress; unable
to restrain himself in anything, but yet with a conscience that
was always stinging him; a loving friend, though very quarrelsome;
and, perhaps, of all men I have known, the most humorous. And he
was entirely unconscious of his own humour. He did not know that
he could so handle all matters as to create infinite amusement out
of them. Poor W---- A----! To him there came no happy turning-point
at which life loomed seriously on him, and then became prosperous.
W---- A----, Merivale, and I formed a little club, which we called
the Tramp Society, and subjected to certain rules, in obedience to
which we wandered on foot about the counties adjacent to London.
Southampton was the furthest point we ever reached; but Buckinghamshire
and Hertfordshire were more dear to us. These were the happiest
hours of my then life--and perhaps not the least innocent, although
we were frequently in peril from the village authorities whom we
outraged. Not to pay for any conveyance, never to spend above five
shillings a day, to obey all orders from the elected ruler of the
hour (this enforced under heavy fines), were among our statutes.
I would fain tell here some of our adventures:--how A---- enacted
an escaped madman and we his pursuing keepers, and so got ourselves
a lift in a cart, from which we ran away as we approached the
lunatic asylum; how we were turned out of a little town at night,
the townsfolk frightened by the loudness of our mirth; and how we
once crept into a hayloft and were wakened in the dark morning by
a pitchfork,--and how the juvenile owner of that pitchfork fled
through the window when he heard the complaints of the wounded man!
But the fun was the fun of W---- A----, and would cease to be fun
as told by me.
It was during these years that John Tilley, who has now been for
many years the permanent senior officer of the Post Office, married
my sister, whom he took with him into Cumberland, where he was
stationed as one of our surveyors. He has been my friend for more
than forty years; as has also Peregrine Birch, a clerk in the House
of Lords, who married one of those daughters of Colonel Grant who
assisted us in the raid we made on the goods which had been seized
by the Sheriff's officer at Harrow. These have been the oldest and
dearest friends of my life, and I can thank God that three of them
are still alive.
When I had been nearly seven years in the Secretary's office of
the Post Office, always hating my position there, and yet always
fearing that I should be dismissed from it, there came a way of
escape. There had latterly been created in the service a new body
of officers called surveyors' clerks. There were at that time
seven surveyors in England, two in Scotland and three in Ireland.
To each of these officers a clerk had been lately attached, whose
duty it was to travel about the country under the surveyor's orders.
There had been much doubt among the young men in the office whether
they should or should not apply for these places. The emoluments
were good and the work alluring; but there was at first supposed
to be something derogatory in the position. There was a rumour that
the first surveyor who got a clerk sent the clerk out to fetch his
beer, and that another had called upon his clerk to send the linen
to the wash. There was, however, a conviction that nothing could be
worse than the berth of a surveyor's clerk in Ireland. The clerks
were all appointed, however. To me it had not occurred to ask for
anything, nor would anything have been given me. But after a while
there came a report from the far west of Ireland that the man sent
there was absurdly incapable. It was probably thought then that
none but a man absurdly incapable would go on such a mission to the
west of Ireland. When the report reached the London office I was
the first to read it. I was at that time in dire trouble, having
debts on my head and quarrels with our Secretary-Colonel, and a
full conviction that my life was taking me downwards to the lowest
pits. So I went to the Colonel boldly, and volunteered for Ireland
if he would send me. He was glad to be so rid of me, and I went.
This happened in August, 1841, when I was twenty-six years old. My
salary in Ireland was to be but (pounds)100 a year; but I was to receive
fifteen shillings a day for every day that I was away from home,
and sixpence for every mile that I travelled. The same allowances
were made in England; but at that time travelling in Ireland was
done at half the English prices. My income in Ireland, after paying
my expenses, became at once (pounds)400. This was the first good fortune
of my life.