keeping with the character concerned. I would give a pound for every
such instance found by an objector, if he would give me a penny for
every strictly consistent speech or instance I might find in return." I
am quoting from a little book of essays by Street; and it seems to me
that he has here put his finger upon one of Trollope's most remarkable
qualities: his absolute faithfulness. He was a realist, if I understand
the word, but he did not care to deal much with the disagreeable or the
shocking, as those whom we call realists usually do.
His pictures of the clergy, of whom he says that, when he began to
write, he really knew very little, delighted some and offended others.
An English critic, Hain Friswell, a supreme prig, says they are a
disgrace, almost a libel; but the world knows better. On the whole his
clergy are a very human lot, with faults and weaknesses just like our
own. To my mind Mrs. Proudie, the bishop's lady, is a character worthy
of Dickens at his very best. There is not a trace of caricature or
exaggeration about her, and the description of her reception is one of
the most amusing chapters ever written. In another vein, and very
delicate, is the treatment of Mrs. Proudie's death. The old Bishop feels
a certain amount of grief: his mainstay, his lifelong partner has been
taken from him; but he remembers that life with her was not always easy;
one feels that he will be consoled.
Trollope tells an amusing story of Mrs. Proudie. He was writing one day
at the Athenæum Club when two clergymen entered the room, each with a
novel in his hand. Soon they began to abuse what they were reading, and
it turned out that each was reading one of his novels. Said one, "Here
is that Archdeacon whom we have had in every novel that he has ever
written." "And here," said the other, "is that old Duke whom he talked
about till everyone is tired of him. If I could not invent new
characters I would not write novels at all." Then one of them fell foul
of Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for them not to be overheard.
Trollope got up and, standing between them, acknowledged himself to be
the culprit; and as to Mrs. Proudie, said he, "I'll go home and kill her
before the week is out."
"The biographical part of literature is what I love most." After his
death in 1882, his son published an autobiography which Trollope had
written some years before. Swinburne calls it "exquisitely comical and
conscientiously coxcombical." Whatever this may mean, it is generally
thought to have harmed his reputation somewhat. In it he speaks at
length of his novels: tells us how and when and where he wrote them;
expressing his opinion as dispassionately as if he were discussing the
work of an author he had never seen. Painstaking and conscientious he
may have been, but in his autobiography he shows no sign of it--on the
contrary, he stresses quantity rather than quality.
For this very reason a set--what the publishers call a "definitive
edition"--of Trollope will never be published. There is no demand for
one. Editions of him in sumptuous binding, gilt-top, with uncut (and
unopened) edges, under glass, will not be found in the houses of those
who select their books at the same time they make their choice of the
equipment of their billiard-room. The immortality of morocco Trollope
will never have; but on the open shelves of the man or woman whose
leisure hours are spent in their libraries, who know what is best in
English fiction, there will be found invariably six or ten of his novels
in cloth, by this publisher or that, worn and shapeless from much
reading.
There is frequently some discussion as to the sequence in which
Trollope's books should be read. Especially is this true of what his
American publishers, Dodd, Mead & Co., call the "Barsetshire" series and
the "Parliamentary" series. The novels forming what they term the "Manor
House" series have no particular connection with each other. They
recommend the following order:--
THE BARSETSHIRE NOVELS
The Warden
Barchester Towers
Dr. Thorne
Framley Parsonage
The Small House at Allington
The Last Chronicle of Barset
THE PARLIAMENTARY NOVELS
The Eustace Diamonds
Can You Forgive Her?
Phineas Finn
Phineas Redux
The Prime Minister
The Duke's Children
THE MANOR-HOUSE NOVELS
Orley Farm
The Vicar of Bullhampton
Is He Popenjoy?
John Caldigate
The Belton Estate
Good stories all of them; and the enthusiastic Trollopian may wish also
to read "The Three Clerks," in which Chaffanbrass is introduced for the
first time; "The Bertrams," of which Trollope says, "I do not remember
ever to have heard even a friend speak well of it"; "Castle Richmond,"
which is hard going: "Miss MacKenzie," in which there is a description
of a dinner-party _à la Russe_, not unworthy of the author of Mrs.
Proudie's reception in "Barchester Towers."
The list is by no means complete, but by this time we may have enough
and not wish to make Lotta Schmidt's acquaintance, or give a hoot "Why
Frau Frohman Raised Her Prices." I once knew but have forgotten.
Personally, Trollope was the typical Englishman: look at his portrait.
He was dogmatic, self-assertive, rather irritable and hard to control,
as his superiors in the Post-Office, in which he spent the greater part
of his life, well knew; not altogether an amiable character, one would
say. His education was by no means first-class, and his English is the
English we talk rather than the English we write; but he was able to use
it in a way sufficient for his purpose.
Listen to the conclusion of his Autobiography:--
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 five-pound note over a card-table--of what
matter is that to any reader? I have betrayed no woman. Wine has
brought me 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 is 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.
To trust for happiness chiefly to work and books,--to taste the sweet
and leave the bitter untasted,--some may call such a scheme of life
commonplace; but the most eventful lives are not the happiest--probably
few authors have led happier lives than Anthony Trollope.
One final word I am forced to say. Since this awful war broke out, I
read him in a spirit of sadness. The England that he knew and loved and
described with such pride is gone forever. It will, to the coming
generation, seem almost as remote as the England of Elizabeth. The
Church will go, the State will change, and the common people will come
into their own. The old order of things among the privileged class, much
pay for little work, will be reversed. It will be useless to look for
entailed estates and a leisure class--for all that made England a
delightful retreat to us. If England is to continue great and powerful,
as I earnestly hope and believe she is, England must be a better place
for the poor and not so enervating for the rich, or both rich and poor
are valiantly fighting her battles in vain.
+-------------------------------------+
| For the row that I prize is yonder, |
| Away on the unglazed shelves, |
| The bulged and the bruised octavos, |
| The dear and the dumpy twelves. |
| |
| Austin Dobson. |
+-------------------------------------+
X
TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW
The King of England is not a frequent visitor to the City of London,
meaning by "the City" that square mile or so of old London whose
political destinies are in the keeping of the Lord Mayor, of which the
Bank of England is almost the exact centre, St. Paul's the highest
ground, and Temple Bar the western boundary.
It might be said that the King is the only man in England who has no
business in the City. His duties are in the West End--in Westminster;
but to the City he goes on state occasions; and it so happened that
several years ago I chanced to be in London on one of them.
I had reached London only the night before, and I did not know that
anything out of the ordinary was going on, until over my breakfast of
bacon and eggs--and such bacon!--I unfolded my "Times" and learned that
their Majesties were that morning going in state to St. Paul's Cathedral
to give thanks for their safe return from India. It was not known that
they had been in any great peril in India; but royal progresses are, I
suppose, always attended with a certain amount of danger. At any rate
the King and Queen had reached home safely, and wanted to give thanks,
according to historic precedent, in St. Paul's; and the ceremony was set
for that very morning.
Inquiring at the office of my hotel in Pall Mall, I learned that the
Royal procession would pass the doors in something over an hour, and
that the windows of a certain drawing-room were at my disposal. It would
have been more comfortable to view the Royal party from a drawing-room
of the Carlton; but what I wanted to see would take place at Temple Bar;
so, my breakfast dispatched, I sallied forth to take up my position in
the crowded street.
It was in February--a dark, gloomy, typical London morning. The bunting
and decorations, everywhere apparent, had suffered sadly from the
previous night's rain and were flapping dismally in the cold, raw air;
and the streets, though crowded, wore a look of hopeless dejection.
I am never so happy as in London. I know it well, if a man can be said
to know London well, and its streets are always interesting to me; but
the Strand is not my favorite street. It has changed its character sadly
in recent years. The Strand no longer suggests interesting shops and the
best theatres, and I grieve to think of the ravages that time and Hall
Caine have made in the Lyceum, which was once Irving's, where I saw him
so often in his, and my, heyday. However, my way took me to the Strand,
and, passing Charing Cross, I quoted to myself Dr. Johnson's famous
remark: "Fleet Street has a very animated appearance; but the full tide
of human existence is at Charing Cross." As I neared the site of
Temple Bar, however, I observed that, for this morning, at any rate, the
tide was setting toward the City.
[Illustration: TEMPLE BAR AS IT IS TO-DAY]
My progress through the crowd was slow, but I finally reached my
objective point, the Griffin, which marks the spot where for many
centuries Temple Bar stood. Taking up my position just in front of the
rather absurd monument, which forms an "island" in the middle of the
street, I waited patiently for the simple but historic and picturesque
ceremony to begin.
Before long the city dignitaries began to arrive. First came the
Sheriffs and Aldermen in coaches of state, wearing their
scarlet-and-ermine robes. Finally, a coach appeared, out of the window
of which protruded the end of the great mace, emblem of City authority;
and at last the Lord Mayor himself, in all his splendor, in a coach so
wonderful in its gold and color that one might have supposed it had been
borrowed from Cinderella for the occasion.
While I was wondering how many times and under what varying conditions
this bit of pageantry had been enacted on this very spot, a slight wave
of cheering down the Strand apprised me of the approach of the Royal
procession. The soldiers who lined both sides of the street became, at a
word of command, more immovable than ever, standing at "attention," if
that is the word which turns men into statues. At the same time a band
began the national anthem, and this seemed the signal for the Mayor and
his attendants to leave their coaches and group themselves just east of
the monument. A moment later the Royal party, in carriages driven by
postilions with outriders, swept by; but the state carriage in which sat
the King and Queen was brought to a halt immediately in front of the
City party.
The Lord Mayor, carrying his jeweled sword in his hand, bowed low before
his sovereign, who remained seated in the open carriage. Words, I
presume, were spoken. I saw the Lord Mayor extend his greetings and
tender his sword to the King, who, saluting, placed his hand upon its
hilt and seemed to congratulate the City upon its being in such safe
keeping. The crowd cheered--not very heartily; but history was in the
making, and the true Londoner, although he might not like to confess it,
still takes a lively interest in these scenes which link him to the
past.
While the City officials, their precious sword--it was a gift from Queen
Elizabeth--still in their keeping, were returning to their coaches and
taking their places, there was a moment's delay, which gave me a good
opportunity of observing the King and his consort, who looked very much
like the pictures of them we so frequently see in the illustrated
papers. The King looked bored, and I could not help noticing that he was
not nearly as interested in me as I was in him. I felt a trifle hurt
until I remembered that his father, King Edward, had in the same way
ignored Mark Twain, that day when the King was leading a procession in
Oxford Street, and Mark was on top of an omnibus, dressed to kill in
his new top-coat. Evidently kings do not feel bound to recognize men in
the street whom they have never seen before.
The Lord Mayor and his suite, having resumed their places, were driven
rapidly down Fleet Street toward St. Paul's, the Royal party following
them. The whole ceremony at Temple Bar, the shadow of former ceremonies
hardly more real, had not occupied much over five minutes. The crowd
dispersed, Fleet Street and the Strand immediately resumed their wonted
appearance except for the bunting and decorations, and I was left to
discuss with myself the question, what does this King business really
mean?
Many years ago Andrew Carnegie wrote a book, "Triumphant Democracy," in
which, as I vaguely remember, he likened our form of government to a
pyramid standing on its base, while a pyramid representing England was
standing on its apex. There is no doubt whatever that a pyramid looks
more comfortable on its base than on its apex; but let us drop these
facile illustrations of strength and weakness and ask ourselves, "In
what way are we better off, politically, than the English?"
In theory, the king, from whom no real authority flows, may seem a
little bit ridiculous, but in practice how admirably the English have
learned to use him! If he is great enough to exert a powerful influence
on the nation for good, his position gives him an immense opportunity.
How great his power is, we do not know,--it is not written down in
books,--but he has it. If, on the other hand, he has not the full
confidence of the people, if they mistrust his judgment, his power is
circumscribed: wise men rule and Majesty does as Majesty is told to do.
"We think of our Prime Minister as the wisest man in England for the
time being," says Bagehot. The English scheme of government permits,
indeed, necessitates, her greatest men entering politics, as we call it.
Is it so with us?
Our plan, however excellent it may be in theory, in practice results in
our having constantly to submit ourselves--those of us who must be
governed--to capital operations at the hands of amateurs who are
selected for the job by drawing straws. That we escape with our lives is
due rather to our youth and hardy constitution than to the skill of the
operators.
To keep the king out of mischief, he may be set the innocuous task of
visiting hospitals, opening expositions, or laying corner-stones.
Tapping a block of granite with a silver trowel, he declares it to be
"well and truly laid," and no exception can be taken to the masterly
manner in which the work is done. Occasionally, once a year or so, plain
Bill Smith, who has made a fortune in the haberdashery line, say, bends
the knee before him and at a tap of a sword across his shoulder arises
Sir William Smith. Bill Smith was not selected for this honor by the
king himself; certainly not! the king probably never heard of him; but
the men who rule the nation, those in authority, for reasons sufficient
if not good, selected Smith for "birthday honors," and he is given a
stake in the nation.
And so it goes. The knight may become a baronet, the baronet a baron,
the baron a duke--this last not often now, only for very great service
rendered the Empire; and with each advance in rank comes increases of
responsibility--in theory, at least. Have our political theories worked
out so well that we are justified in making fun of theirs as we
sometimes do? I think not. After our country has stood as well as
England has the shocks which seven or ten centuries may bring it, we may
have the right to say, "We order these things better at home."
* * * * *
While musing thus, the Strand and Temple Bar of a century and a half ago
rise up before me, and I notice coming along the footway a tall, burly
old man, walking with a rolling gait, dressed in a brown coat with metal
buttons, knee-breeches, and worsted stockings, with large silver buckles
on his clumsy shoes. He seems like a wise old fellow, so I approach him
and tell him who I am and of my perplexities.
"What! Sir, an American? They are a race of convicts and ought to be
thankful for anything we allow them short of hanging." And then, seeing
me somewhat disconcerted, he adds less ferociously: "I would not give
half a guinea to live under one form of government rather than another."
Saying which, he turns into a court off Fleet Street and is lost to
view.
It was only after he had disappeared that I realized that I had been
speaking to Dr. Johnson.
Just when the original posts, bars, and chains gave way to a building
known as Temple Bar, we have no means of knowing. Honest John Stow,
whose effigy in terra cotta still looks down on us from the wall of the
Church of St. Andrew Undershaft, published his famous "Survay of
[Elizabethan] London" in 1598. In it he makes scant mention of Temple
Bar; and this is the more remarkable because he describes so accurately
many of the important buildings, and gives the exact location of every
court and lane, every pump and well, in the London of his day.
Stow assures his readers that his accuracy cost him many a weary mile's
travel and many a hard-earned penny, and his authority has never been
disputed. He refers to the place several times, but not to the gate
itself. "Why this is, I have not heard, nor can I conjecture," to use a
phrase of his; but we know that a building known as Temple Bar must have
been standing when the "Survay" appeared; for it is clearly indicated in
Aggas's pictorial map of London, published a generation earlier;
otherwise we might infer that in Stow's time it was merely what he terms
it, a "barre" separating the liberties of London from Westminster--the
city from the shire. It is obvious that it gets its name from that large
group of buildings known as the Temple, which lies between Fleet Street
and the river, long the quarters of the Knights Templar, and for
centuries past the centre of legal learning in England.
Referring to the "new Temple by the Barre," Stow tells us that "over
against it in the high streets stand a payre of stockes"; and adds that
the whole street "from the Barre to the Savoy was commanded to be paved
in the twenty-fourth year of the reign of King Henry the Sixt" (this
sturdy lad, it will be remembered, began to "reign" when he was only
nine months old), with "tole to be taken towards the charges thereof."
This practice of taking "tole" from all non-freemen at Temple Bar
continued until after the middle of the nineteenth century, and fine
confusion it must have caused. The charge of two pence each time a cart
passed the City boundary finally aroused such an outcry against the
"City turnpike" that it was done away with. Whoever received this
revenue must have heartily bewailed the passing of the good old days;
for a few years before the custom was abandoned, the toll collected
amounted to over seven thousand pounds per annum.
[Illustration: OLD TEMPLE BAR
Demolished in 1666]
The first reference which seems to suggest a building dates back to the
time when "Sweet Anne Bullen" passed from the Tower to her coronation at
Westminster, at which time the Fleet Street conduit poured forth red
wine, and the city waits--or minstrels--"made music like a heavenly
noyse." We know, too, that it was "a rude building," and that it was
subsequently replaced by a substantial timber structure of classic
appearance, with a pitched roof, spanning the street and gabled at each
end. Old prints show us that it was composed of three arches--a large
central arch for vehicular traffic, with smaller arches, one on each
side, over the footway. All of the arches were provided with heavy oaken
doors, studded with iron, which could be closed at night, or when unruly
mobs, tempted to riot, threatened--and frequently carried out their
threat--to disturb the peace of the city.
The City proper terminated at Lud Gate, about halfway up Ludgate Hill;
but the jurisdiction of the City extended to Temple Bar, and those
residing between the two gates were said to be within the liberties of
the City and enjoyed its rights and privileges, among them that of
passing through Temple Bar without paying toll. Although Lud Gate was
the most important gate of the old city, originally forming a part of
the old London wall, from time immemorial Temple Bar has been the great
historic entrance to the City. At Temple Bar it was usual, upon an
accession to the throne, the proclamation of a peace, or the overthrow
of an enemy, for a state entry to be made into the City. The sovereign,
attended by his trumpeters, would proceed to the closed gate and demand
entrance. From the City side would come the inquiry, "Who comes here?"
and the herald having made reply, the Royal party would be admitted and
conducted to the lord mayor.
With the roll of years this custom became slightly modified. When Queen
Elizabeth visited St. Paul's to return thanks for the defeat of the
Spanish Armada, we read that, upon the herald and trumpeters having
announced her arrival at the Gate, the Lord Mayor advanced and
surrendered the city sword to the Queen, who, after returning it to him,
proceeded to St. Paul's. On this occasion--as on all previous
occasions--the sovereign was on horseback, Queen Elizabeth having
declined to ride, as had been suggested, in a vehicle drawn by horses,
on the ground that it was new-fangled and effeminate. For James I, for
Charles I and Cromwell and Charles II, similar ceremonies were enacted,
the coronation of Charles II being really magnificent and testifying to
the joy of England in again having a king.
Queen Anne enters the City in a coach drawn by eight horses, "none with
her but the Duchess of Marlborough, in a very plain garment, the Queen
full of jewels," to give thanks for the victories of the duke abroad;
and so the stately historic procession winds through the centuries,
always pausing at Temple Bar, right down to our own time.
* * * * *