Evening star., 1944-12-18
This and That
Bu Charles r. Trace,reu


II any one desires to give books for
Christmas, and yet is perplexed by the
wartime offerings, let him or her turn
back to Anthony Trollope.
There is something very clean and
good and businesslike in his books,
something of the breath of old times,
flavor too good to be forgotten.
The Warden" "Barchester Towers, !"
'Framley Parsonage" The Small House
at Abingdon" The Last Chronicle of
BarSet-"
These are some of the better known
ones, favorites of many an older man
and woman. but there are many more,
most of them easily secured in nice
cheap editions.
There was time, certainly, when
Trollope was the forgotten man of all
the famous authors of yesteryear. This
was due, in the main, to his auto
biography. published in 1883 In this
book he was very honest and very
simple about the business of writing.
His frankness as to his earnings deeply
offended the English speaking and
reading world.
One did not, old fellow, talk about
such things. Really, now One did not
even let on that earning money out of
writing had anything to do with 1t at
all. Money was to be made, of course,
In such way, but it was to be spent,
not talked about.
AS result Of public disapproval, both
in England and America, the works of
Anthony Trollope suffered an eclipse.
The man was too far ahead of his age.
1t was simply not the thing to do, in
1883 and for many years after, to de-
clare: THE following is a list of the
books have written, with the dates of
publication and the sums I have re-
ceived for them" The list was all right,
and the dates of publication were cor
rect, but the sums of money!
Nor was this Trollope's only offense
against the good taste of his day.
He actually had the temerity to give
advice to young struggling writer's
and such advice as no successful writer
had ever given. He dared to tell them
that their work was just the same as
any other work! No romantic glory, no
deeps of inspiration, no dream life, but
just plain, common, ordinary hard work.
In all, he said-to his readers of that
day he seemed to boast-his books had
brought him in, to date, the grand total
of 68939 pounds, II shillings and
pence.
ut will not, I am sure, be thought
that, in making my boast as to guam
tity, have endeavored to lay claim to
any literary excellence" he wrote. (We
would hi nd 1,,f hay !,
seemed simply common, my dear)
But I do lay claim" he went on,
"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 bene-
fit of those who may read these pages,
| and when young men 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.
mo gigantic efforts will then be
necessary He need not tie wet towels
around his brow, nor sit for 80 hours
at his desk without moving-as men
have sat, or said they have sat. !"
I have never been slave to this work,
giving due time, if not more than due
time, to the amusements have loved
But I have been constant-and con-
stancy in labour will conquer all diff
culties."
Certainly no man could have been
franker, and time in its revolutions has
brought a genuine appreciation of him
and his works. If any one desires to
give an unusual Christmas present, let
him give one of Anthony Trollope's s
novels, and write in it the words with
which that honest man concluded his
own story: Now stretch out my hand,
and from the further shore bid adieu
to all who have cared to read any
among the many works have written" !"
The hand b sttll stretched out.