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- Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - 46/46 -

Nina Balatka, 1867 450 0 0 Linda Tressel, 1868 450 0 0 Phineas Finn, 1869 3200 0 0 He Knew He Was Right, 1869 3200 0 0 Brown, Jones, and Robinson, 1870 600 0 0 The Vicar of Bullhampton, 1870 2500 0 0 An Editor's Tales, 1870 378 0 0 Caesar (Ancient Classics), 1870 0 0 0 [Footnote: This was given by me as a present to my friend John Blackwood]

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite, 1871 750 0 0 Ralph the Heir, 1871 2500 0 0 The Golden Lion of Granpere, 1872 550 0 0 The Eustace Diamonds, 1873 2500 0 0 Australia and New Zealand, 1873 1300 0 0 Phineas Redux, 1874 2500 0 0 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil, 1874 450 0 0

Carry forward, 48,389 17 5

Names of Works. Date of Publication. Total Sums Received.

Brought forward, 48,389 17 5 Lady Anna, 1874 1200 0 0 The Way We Live Now, 1875 3000 0 0 The Prime Minister, 1876 2500 0 0 The American Senator, 1877 1800 0 0 Is He Popenjoy? 1878 1600 0 0 South Africa, 1878 850 0 0 John Caldigate, 1879 1800 0 0 Sundries, 7800 0 0 ____________ 68,939 17 5 ------------

It will not, I am sure, be thought that, in making my boast as to the quantity, I have endeavoured to lay claim to any literary excellence. That, in the writing of books, quantity without quality is a vice and a misfortune, has been too manifestly settled to leave a doubt on such a matter. But I do lay claim to whatever merit should be accorded to me for persevering diligence in my profession. And I make the claim, not with a view to my own glory, but for the benefit of those who may read these pages, and when young may intend to follow the same career. Nulla dies sine linea. Let that be their motto. And let their work be to them as is his common work to the common labourer. No gigantic efforts will then be necessary. He need tie no wet towels round his brow, nor sit for thirty hours at his desk without moving,--as men have sat, or said that they have sat. More than nine-tenths of my literary work has been done in the last twenty years, and during twelve of those years I followed another profession. I have never been a slave to this work, giving due time, if not more than due time, to the amusements I have loved. But I have been constant,--and constancy in labour will conquer all difficulties. Gutta cavat lapidem non vi, sed saepe cadendo.

It may interest some if I state that during the last twenty years I have made by literature something near 70,000. As I have said before in these pages, I look upon the result as comfortable, but not splendid.

It will not, I trust, be supposed by any reader that I have intended in this so-called autobiography to give a record of my inner life. No man ever did so truly,--and no man ever will. Rousseau probably attempted it, but who doubts but that Rousseau has confessed in much the thoughts and convictions rather than the facts of his life? If the rustle of a woman's petticoat has ever stirred my blood; if a cup of wine has been a joy to me; if I have thought tobacco at midnight in pleasant company to be one of the elements of an earthly paradise; if now and again I have somewhat recklessly fluttered a 5 note over a card-table;--of what matter is that to any reader? I have betrayed no woman. Wine has brought me to no sorrow. It has been the companionship of smoking that I have loved, rather than the habit. I have never desired to win money, and I have lost none. To enjoy the excitement of pleasure, but to be free from its vices and ill effects,--to have the sweet, and leave the bitter untasted,--that has been my study. The preachers tell us that this is impossible. It seems to me that hitherto I have succeeded fairly well. I will not say that I have never scorched a finger,--but I carry no ugly wounds.

For what remains to me of life I trust for my happiness still chiefly to my work--hoping that when the power of work be over with me, God may be pleased to take me from a world in which, according to my view, there can be no joy; secondly, to the love of those who love me; and then to my books. That I can read and be happy while I am reading, is a great blessing. Could I remember, as some men do, what I read, I should have been able to call myself an educated man. But that power I have never possessed. Something is always left,--something dim and inaccurate,--but still something sufficient to preserve the taste for more. I am inclined to think that it is so with most readers.

Of late years, putting aside the Latin classics, I have found my greatest pleasure in our old English dramatists,--not from any excessive love of their work, which often irritates me by its want of truth to nature, even while it shames me by its language,--but from curiosity in searching their plots and examining their character. If I live a few years longer, I shall, I think, leave in my copies of these dramatists, down to the close of James I., written criticisms on every play. No one who has not looked closely into it knows how many there are.

Now I stretch out my hand, and from the further shore I bid adieu to all who have cared to read any among the many words that I have written.

Autobiography of Anthony Trollope - 46/46

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