An Autobiography of Anthony TrollopeTrollope, Anthony
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An Autobiography of Anthony Trollope
Trollope, Anthony
Novelists, English -- 19th century -- Biography; Trollope, Anthony, 1815-1882
From the date of their marriage up to 1827, when my mother went to
America, my father's affairs had always been going down in the world.
She had loved society, affecting a somewhat liberal _rôle_, and
professing an emotional dislike to tyrants, which sprung from the
wrongs of would-be regicides and the poverty of patriot exiles. An
Italian marquis who had escaped with only a second shirt from the
clutches of some archduke whom he had wished to exterminate, or a
French _prolétaire_ with distant ideas of sacrificing himself to
the cause of liberty, were always welcome to the modest hospitality
of her house. In after years, when marquises of another caste had
been gracious to her, she became a strong Tory, and thought that
archduchesses were sweet. But with her politics were always an affair
of the heart,--as, indeed, were all her convictions. Of reasoning
from causes, I think that she knew nothing. Her heart was in every
way so perfect, her desire to do good to all around her so thorough,
and her power of self-sacrifice so complete, that she generally
got herself right in spite of her want of logic; but it must be
acknowledged that she was emotional. I can remember now her books,
and can see her at her pursuits. The poets she loved best were Dante
and Spenser. But she raved also of him of whom all such ladies
were raving then, and rejoiced in the popularity and wept over the
persecution of Lord Byron. She was among those who seized with
avidity on the novels, as they came out, of the then unknown Scott,
and who could still talk of the triumphs of Miss Edgeworth. With the
literature of the day she was familiar, and with the poets of the
past. Of other reading I do not think she had mastered much. Her
life, I take it, though latterly clouded by many troubles, was easy,
luxurious, and idle, till my father's affairs and her own aspirations
sent her to America. She had dear friends among literary people, of
whom I remember Mathias, Henry Milman, and Miss Landon; but till long
after middle life she never herself wrote a line for publication.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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