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
to remember the little details of the one life or the other. The
parson at Rusticum, with his wife and his wife's mother, and all
his belongings; and our old friend, the Squire, with his family
history; and Farmer Mudge, who has been cross with us, because we
rode so unnecessarily over his barley; and that rascally poacher,
once a gamekeeper, who now traps all the foxes; and pretty Mary
Cann, whose marriage with the wheelwright we did something to
expedite;--though we are alive to them all, do not drive out of our
brain the club gossip, or the memories of last season's dinners, or
any incident of our London intimacies. In our lives we are always
weaving novels, and we manage to keep the different tales distinct.
A man does, in truth, remember that which it interests him to
remember; and when we hear that memory has gone as age has come on,
we should understand that the capacity for interest in the matter
concerned has perished. A man will be generally very old and feeble
before he forgets how much money he has in the funds. There is
a good deal to be learned by any one who wishes to write a novel
well; but when the art has been acquired, I do not see why two or
three should not be well written at the same time. I have never
found myself thinking much about the work that I had to do till
I was doing it. I have indeed for many years almost abandoned the
effort to think, trusting myself, with the narrowest thread of
a plot, to work the matter out when the pen is in my hand. But my
mind is constantly employing itself on the work I have done. Had
I left either Framley Parsonage or Castle Richmond half-finished
fifteen years ago, I think I could complete the tales now with very
little trouble. I have not looked at Castle Richmond since it was
published; and poor as the work is, I remember all the incidents.
Castle Richmond certainly was not a success,--though the plot is a
fairly good plot, and is much more of a plot than I have generally
been able to find. The scene is laid in Ireland, during the famine;
and I am well aware now that English readers no longer like Irish
stories. I cannot understand why it should be so, as the Irish
character is peculiarly well fitted for romance. But Irish subjects
generally have become distasteful. This novel, however, is of
itself a weak production. The characters do not excite sympathy.
The heroine has two lovers, one of whom is a scamp and the other
a prig. As regards the scamp, the girl's mother is her own rival.
Rivalry of the same nature has been admirably depicted by Thackeray
in his Esmond; but there the mother's love seems to be justified
by the girl's indifference. In Castle Richmond the mother strives
to rob her daughter of the man's love. The girl herself has no
character; and the mother, who is strong enough, is almost revolting.
The dialogue is often lively, and some of the incidents are well
told; but the story as a whole was a failure. I cannot remember,
however, that it was roughly handled by the critics when it came
out; and I much doubt whether anything so hard was said of it then
as that which I have said here.
I was now settled at Waltham Cross, in a house in which I could
entertain a few friends modestly, where we grew our cabbages
and strawberries, made our own butter, and killed our own pigs. I
occupied it for twelve years, and they were years to me of great
prosperity. In 1861 I became a member of the Garrick Club, with
which institution I have since been much identified. I had belonged
to it about two years, when, on Thackeray's death, I was invited
to fill his place on the Committee, and I have been one of that
august body ever since. Having up to that time lived very little
among men, having known hitherto nothing of clubs, having even as
a boy been banished from social gatherings, I enjoyed infinitely at
first the gaiety of the Garrick. It was a festival to me to dine
there--which I did indeed but seldom; and a great delight to play
a rubber in the little room up-stairs of an afternoon. I am speaking
now of the old club in King Street. This playing of whist before
dinner has since that become a habit with me, so that unless there
be something else special to do--unless there be hunting, or I am
wanted to ride in the park by the young tyrant of my household--it
is "my custom always in the afternoon." I have sometimes felt sore
with myself for this persistency, feeling that I was making myself
a slave to an amusement which has not after all very much to
recommend it. I have often thought that I would break myself away
from it, and "swear off," as Rip Van Winkle says. But my swearing
off has been like that of Rip Van Winkle. And now, as I think of
it coolly, I do not know but that I have been right to cling to it.
As a man grows old he wants amusement, more even than when he is
young; and then it becomes so difficult to find amusement. Reading
should, no doubt, be the delight of men's leisure hours. Had I to
choose between books and cards, I should no doubt take the books.
But I find that I can seldom read with pleasure for above an hour
and a half at a time, or more than three hours a day. As I write
this I am aware that hunting must soon be abandoned. After sixty
it is given but to few men to ride straight across country, and I
cannot bring myself to adopt any other mode of riding. I think that
without cards I should now be much at a loss. When I began to play
at the Garrick, I did so simply because I liked the society of the
men who played.
I think that I became popular among those with whom I associated.
I have long been aware of a certain weakness in my own character,
which I may call a craving for love. I have ever had a wish to be
liked by those around me,--a wish that during the first half of
my life was never gratified. In my school-days no small part of my
misery came from the envy with which I regarded the popularity of
popular boys. They seemed to me to live in a social paradise, while
the desolation of my pandemonium was complete. And afterwards,
when I was in London as a young man, I had but few friends. Among
the clerks in the Post Office I held my own fairly for the first
two or three years; but even then I regarded myself as something of
a pariah. My Irish life had been much better. I had had my wife and
children, and had been sustained by a feeling of general respect.
But even in Ireland I had in truth lived but little in society.
Our means had been sufficient for our wants, but insufficient for
entertaining others. It was not till we had settled ourselves at
Waltham that I really began to live much with others. The Garrick
Club was the first assemblage of men at which I felt myself to be
popular.
I soon became a member of other clubs. There was the Arts Club in
Hanover Square, of which I saw the opening, but from which, after
three or four years, I withdrew my name, having found that during
these three or four years I had not once entered the building.
Then I was one of the originators of the Civil Service Club--not
from judgment, but instigated to do so by others. That also I left
for the same reason. In 1864 I received the honour of being elected
by the Committee at the Athenaeum. For this I was indebted to the
kindness of Lord Stanhope; and I never was more surprised than when
I was informed of the fact. About the same time I became a member
of the Cosmopolitan, a little club that meets twice a week in
Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and supplies to all its members,
and its members' friends, tea and brandy and water without charge!
The gatherings there I used to think very delightful. One met
Jacob Omnium, Monckton Mimes, Tom Hughes, William Stirling, Henry
Reeve, Arthur Russell, Tom Taylor, and such like; and generally
a strong political element, thoroughly well mixed, gave a certain
spirit to the place. Lord Ripon, Lord Stanley, William Forster,
Lord Enfield, Lord Kimberley, George Bentinck, Vernon Harcourt,
Bromley Davenport, Knatchbull Huguessen, with many others, used to
whisper the secrets of Parliament with free tongues. Afterwards I
became a member of the Turf, which I found to be serviceable--or
the reverse--only for the playing of whist at high points.
In August, 1861, I wrote another novel for the Cornhill Magazine.
It was a short story, about one volume in length, and was called
The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In this I attempted a
style for which I certainly was not qualified, and to which I never
had again recourse. It was meant to be funny, was full of slang,
and was intended as a satire on the ways of trade. Still I think
that there is some good fun it it, but I have heard no one else
express such an opinion. I do not know that I ever heard any opinion
expressed on it, except by the publisher, who kindly remarked
that he did not think it was equal to my usual work. Though he had
purchased the copyright, he did not republish the story in a book
form till 1870, and then it passed into the world of letters sub
silentio. I do not know that it was ever criticised or ever read.
I received (pounds)600 for it. From that time to this I have been paid at
about that rate for my work--(pounds)600 for the quantity contained in
an ordinary novel volume, or (pounds)3000 for a long tale published in
twenty parts, which is equal in length to five such volumes. I have
occasionally, I think, received something more than this, never
I think less for any tale, except when I have published my work
anonymously. [Footnote: Since the date at which this was written
I have encountered a diminution in price.] Having said so much, I
need not further specify the prices as I mention the books as they
were written. I will, however, when I am completing this memoir,
give a list of all the sums I have received for my literary labours.
I think that Brown, Jones and Robinson was the hardest bargain I
ever sold to a publisher.
In 1861 the War of Secession had broken out in America, and from
the first I interested myself much in the question. My mother
had thirty years previously written a very popular, but, as I had
thought, a somewhat unjust book about our cousins over the water.
She had seen what was distasteful in the manners of a young people,
but had hardly recognised their energy. I had entertained for
many years an ambition to follow her footsteps there, and to write
another book. I had already paid a short visit to New York City and
State on my way home from the West Indies, but had not seen enough
then to justify me in the expression of any opinion. The breaking
out of the war did not make me think that the time was peculiarly
fit for such inquiry as I wished to make, but it did represent itself
as an occasion on which a book might be popular. I consequently
consulted the two great powers with whom I was concerned. Messrs.
Chapman & Hall, the publishers, were one power, and I had no difficulty
in arranging my affairs with them. They agreed to publish the book
on my terms, and bade me God-speed on my journey. The other power
was the Postmaster-General and Mr. Rowland Hill, the Secretary of
the Post Office. I wanted leave of absence for the unusual period
of nine months, and fearing that I should not get it by the ordinary
process of asking the Secretary, I went direct to his lordship.
"Is it on the plea of ill-health?" he asked, looking into my face,
which was then that of a very robust man. His lordship knew the
Civil Service as well as any one living, and must have seen much
of falseness and fraudulent pretence, or he could not have asked
that question. I told him that I was very well, but that I wanted
to write a book. "Had I any special ground to go upon in asking for
such indulgence?" I had, I said, done my duty well by the service.
There was a good deal of demurring, but I got my leave for nine
months,--and I knew that I had earned it. Mr. Hill attached to
the minute granting me the leave an intimation that it was to be
considered as a full equivalent for the special services rendered
by me to the department. I declined, however, to accept the grace
with such a stipulation, and it was withdrawn by the directions of
the Postmaster-General. [Footnote: During the period of my service
in the Post Office I did very much special work for which I never
asked any remuneration,--and never received any, though payments
for special services were common in the department at that time.
But if there was to be a question of such remuneration, I did not
choose that my work should be valued at the price put upon it by
Mr. Hill.]
I started for the States in August and returned in the following
May. The war was raging during the time that I was there, and the
country was full of soldiers. A part of the time I spent in Virginia,
Kentucky, and Missouri, among the troops, along the line of attack.
I visited all the States (excepting California) which had not then
seceded,--failing to make my way into the seceding States unless I
was prepared to visit them with an amount of discomfort I did not
choose to endure. I worked very hard at the task I had assigned to
myself, and did, I think, see much of the manners and institutions
of the people. Nothing struck me more than their persistence in
the ordinary pursuits of life in spite of the war which was around
them. Neither industry nor amusement seemed to meet with any check.
Schools, hospitals, and institutes were by no means neglected
because new regiments were daily required. The truth, I take it,
is that we, all of us, soon adapt ourselves to the circumstances
around us. Though three parts of London were in flames I should
no doubt expect to have my dinner served to me if I lived in the
quarter which was free from fire.
The book I wrote was very much longer than that on the West Indies,
but was also written almost without a note. It contained much
information, and, with many inaccuracies, was a true book. But it
was not well done. It is tedious and confused, and will hardly,
I think, be of future value to those who wish to make themselves
acquainted with the United States. It was published about the
middle of the war,--just at the time in which the hopes of those
who loved the South were I most buoyant, and the fears of those who
stood by the North were the strongest. But it expressed an assured
confidence--which never quavered in a page or in a line--that the
North would win. This assurance was based on the merits of the
Northern cause, on the superior strength of the Northern party,
and on a conviction that England would never recognise the South,
and that France would be guided in her policy by England. I was
right in my prophecies, and right, I think, on the grounds on which
they were made. The Southern cause was bad. The South had provoked
the quarrel because its political supremacy was checked by the election
of Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency. It had to fight as a little man
against a big man, and fought gallantly. That gallantry,--and a
feeling based on a misconception as to American character that the
Southerners are better gentlemen than their Northern brethren,--did
create great sympathy here; but I believe that the country was too
just to be led into political action by a spirit of romance, and
I was warranted in that belief. There was a moment in which the
Northern cause was in danger, and the danger lay certainly in the
prospect of British interference. Messrs. Slidell and Mason,--two
men insignificant in themselves,--had been sent to Europe by the
Southern party, and had managed to get on board the British mail
steamer called "The Trent," at the Havannah. A most undue importance
was attached to this mission by Mr. Lincoln's government, and
efforts were made to stop them. A certain Commodore Wilkes, doing
duty as policeman on the seas, did stop the "Trent," and took the
men out. They were carried, one to Boston and one to New York,
and were incarcerated, amidst the triumph of the nation. Commodore
Wilkes, who had done nothing in which a brave man could take glory,
was made a hero and received a prize sword. England of course
demanded her passengers back, and the States for a while refused
to surrender them. But Mr. Seward was at that time the Secretary
of State, and Mr. Seward, with many political faults, was a wise
man. I was at Washington at the time, and it was known there that
the contest among the leading Northerners was very sharp on the
matter. Mr. Sumner and Mr. Seward were, under Mr. Lincoln, the two
chiefs of the party. It was understood that Mr. Sumner was opposed
to the rendition of the men, and Mr. Seward in favour of it. Mr.
Seward's counsels at last prevailed with the President, and England's
declaration of war was prevented. I dined with Mr. Seward on the
day of the decision, meeting Mr. Sumner at his house, and was told
as I left the dining-room what the decision had been. During the
afternoon I and others had received intimation through the embassy
that we might probably have to leave Washington at an hour's
notice. This, I think, was the severest danger that the Northern
cause encountered during the war.
But my book, though it was right in its views on this subject,--and
wrong in none other as far as I know,--was not a good book. I can
recommend no one to read it now in order that he may be either
instructed or amused,--as I can do that on the West Indies. It
served its purpose at the time, and was well received by the public
and by the critics.
Before starting to America I had completed Orley Farm, a novel which
appeared in shilling numbers,--after the manner in which Pickwick,
Nicholas Nickleby, and many others had been published. Most of
those among my friends who talk to me now about my novels, and are
competent to form an opinion on the subject, say that this is the
best I have written. In this opinion I do not coincide. I think
that the highest merit which a novel can have consists in perfect
delineation of character, rather than in plot, or humour, or pathos,
and I shall before long mention a subsequent work in which I think
the main character of the story is so well developed as to justify
me in asserting its claim above the others. The plot of Orley Farm
is probably the best I have ever made; but it has the fault of
declaring itself, and thus coming to an end too early in the book.
When Lady Mason tells her ancient lover that she did forge the
will, the plot of Orley Farm has unravelled itself;--and this she
does in the middle of the tale. Independently, however, of this the
novel is good. Sir Peregrine Orme, his grandson, Madeline Stavely,
Mr. Furnival, Mr. Chaffanbrass, and the commercial gentlemen,
are all good. The hunting is good. The lawyer's talk is good. Mr.
Moulder carves his turkey admirably, and Mr. Kantwise sells his
tables and chairs with spirit. I do not know that there is a dull
page in the book. I am fond of Orley Farm;--and am especially fond
of its illustrations by Millais, which are the best I have seen in
any novel in any language.
I now felt that I had gained my object. In 1862 I had achieved that
which I contemplated when I went to London in 1834, and towards which
I made my first attempt when I began the Macdermots in 1843. I had
created for myself a position among literary men, and had secured
to myself an income on which I might live in ease and comfort,--which
ease and comfort have been made to include many luxuries. From this
time for a period of twelve years my income averaged (pounds)4500 a year.
Of this I spent about two-thirds, and put by one. I ought perhaps
to have done better,--to have spent one-third, and put by two; but
I have ever been too well inclined to spend freely that which has
come easily.
This, however, has been so exactly the life which my thoughts and
aspirations had marked out,--thoughts and aspirations which used
to cause me to blush with shame because I was so slow in forcing
myself to the work which they demanded,--that I have felt some pride
in having attained it. I have before said how entirely I fail to
reach the altitude of those who think that a man devoted to letters
should be indifferent to the pecuniary results for which work is
generally done. An easy income has always been regarded by me as
a great blessing. Not to have to think of sixpences, or very much
of shillings; not to be unhappy because the coals have been burned
too quickly, and the house linen wants renewing; not to be debarred
by the rigour of necessity from opening one's hands, perhaps
foolishly, to one's friends;--all this to me has been essential to
the comfort of life. I have enjoyed the comfort for I may almost
say the last twenty years, though no man in his youth had less
prospect of doing so, or would have been less likely at twenty-five
to have had such luxuries foretold to him by his friends.
But though the money has been sweet, the respect, the friendships, and
the mode of life which has been achieved, have been much sweeter.
In my boyhood, when I would be crawling up to school with dirty
boots and trousers through the muddy lanes, I was always telling
myself that the misery of the hour was not the worst of it, but
that the mud and solitude and poverty of the time would insure me
mud and solitude and poverty through my life. Those lads about me
would go into Parliament, or become rectors and deans, or squires
of parishes, or advocates thundering at the Bar. They would not
live with me now,--but neither should I be able to live with them
in after years. Nevertheless I have lived with them. When, at the
age in which others go to the universities, I became a clerk in
the Post Office, I felt that my old visions were being realised. I
did not think it a high calling. I did not know then how very much
good work may be done by a member of the Civil Service who will show
himself capable of doing it. The Post Office at last grew upon me
and forced itself into my affections. I became intensely anxious
that people should have their letters delivered to them punctually.
But my hope to rise had always been built on the writing of novels,
and at last by the writing of novels I had risen.
I do not think that I ever toadied any one, or that I have acquired
the character of a tuft-hunter. But here I do not scruple to say
that I prefer the society of distinguished people, and that even the
distinction of wealth confers many advantages. The best education
is to be had at a price as well as the best broadcloth. The son
of a peer is more likely to rub his shoulders against well-informed
men than the son of a tradesman. The graces come easier to the
wife of him who has had great-grandfathers than they do to her
whose husband has been less,--or more fortunate, as he may think
it. The discerning man will recognise the information and the graces
when they are achieved without such assistance, and will honour
the owners of them the more because of the difficulties they have
overcome;--but the fact remains that the society of the well-born
and of the wealthy will as a rule be worth seeking. I say this
now, because these are the rules by which I have lived, and these
are the causes which have instigated me to work.
I have heard the question argued--On what terms should a man of
inferior rank live with those who are manifestly superior to him?
If a marquis or an earl honour me, who have no rank, with his
intimacy, am I in my intercourse with him to remember our close
acquaintance or his high rank? I have always said that where the
difference in position is quite marked, the overtures to intimacy
should always come from the higher rank; but if the intimacy be
ever fixed, then that rank should be held of no account. It seems
to me that intimate friendship admits of no standing but that
of equality. I cannot be the Sovereign's friend, nor probably the
friend of many very much beneath the Sovereign, because such equality
is impossible.
When I first came to Waltham Cross in the winter of 1859-1860, I had
almost made up my mind that my hunting was over. I could not then
count upon an income which would enable me to carry on an amusement
which I should doubtless find much more expensive in England than
in Ireland. I brought with me out of Ireland one mare, but she was
too light for me to ride in the hunting-field. As, however, the
money came in, I very quickly fell back into my old habits. First
one horse was bought, then another, and then a third, till it became
established as a fixed rule that I should not have less than four
hunters in the stable. Sometimes when my boys have been at home
I have had as many as six. Essex was the chief scene of my sport,
and gradually I became known there almost as well as though I had
been an Essex squire, to the manner born. Few have investigated more
closely than I have done the depth, and breadth, and water-holding
capacities of an Essex ditch. It will, I think, be accorded to me
by Essex men generally that I have ridden hard. The cause of my
delight in the amusement I have never been able to analyse to my
own satisfaction. In the first place, even now, I know very little
about hunting,--though I know very much of the accessories of the
field. I am too blind to see hounds turning, and cannot therefore
tell whether the fox has gone this way or that. Indeed all the
notice I take of hounds is not to ride over them. My eyes are so
constituted that I can never see the nature of a fence. I either
follow some one, or ride at it with the full conviction that I
may be going into a horse-pond or a gravel-pit. I have jumped into
both one and the other. I am very heavy, and have never ridden
expensive horses. I am also now old for such work, being so stiff
that I cannot get on to my horse without the aid of a block or a
bank. But I ride still after the same fashion, with a boy's energy,
determined to get ahead if it may possibly be done, hating the
roads, despising young men who ride them, and with a feeling that
life can not, with all her riches, have given me anything better
than when I have gone through a long run to the finish, keeping a
place, not of glory, but of credit, among my juniors.