What I Remember, Volume 2

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What I Remember, Volume 2

The Project Gutenberg eBook, What I Remember, Volume 2, by Thomas Adolphus Trollope
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Title: What I Remember, Volume 2
Author: Thomas Adolphus Trollope
Release Date: May 28, 2004 [eBook #12471]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT I REMEMBER, VOLUME 2 ***
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WHAT I REMEMBER
BY
THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II
1887

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND
CHAPTER II.
JOURNEY IN BRITTANY
CHAPTER III.
AT PENRITH.--AT PARIS
CHAPTER IV.
IN WESTERN FRANCE.--AGAIN IN PARIS
CHAPTER V.
IN IRELAND.--AT ILFRACOMBE--IN FLORENCE
CHAPTER VI.
IN FLORENCE
CHAPTER VII.
CHARLES DICKENS
CHAPTER VIII.
AT LUCCA BATHS
CHAPTER IX.
THE GARROWS.--SCIENTIFIC CONGRESSES.--MY FIRST MARRIAGE
CHAPTER X
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
CHAPTER XI.
REMINISCENCES AT FLORENCE
CHAPTER XII.
REMINISCENCES AT FLORENCE
CHAPTER XIII.
LETTERS FROM PEARD--GARIBALDI--LETTERS FROM PULSZKY
CHAPTER XIV.
WALTER S. LANDOR.--G.P. MARSH
CHAPTER XV.
MR. AND MRS. LEWES
CHAPTER XVI.
LETTERS FROM MR. AND MRS. LEWES
CHAPTER XVII.
MY MOTHER.--LETTERS OF MARY MITFORD.--LETTERS OF T.C. GRATTAN
CHAPTER XVIII.
THEODOSIA TROLLOPE
CHAPTER XIX.
DEATH OF MR. GARROW--PROTESTANT CEMETERY.--ANGEL IN THE HOUSE NO MORE
CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION
INDEX
CHAPTER I.
No! as I said at the end of the last chapter but one, before I was led away by the circumstances of that time to give the world the benefit of my magnetic reminiscences--valeat quantum!--I was not yet bitten, despite Colley Grattan's urgings, with any temptation to attempt fiction, and "passion, me boy!" But I am surprised on turning over my old diaries to find how much I was writing, and planning to write, in those days, and not less surprised at the amount of running about which I accomplished.
My life in those years of the thirties must have been a very busy one. I find myself writing and sending off a surprising number of "articles" on all sorts of subjects--reviews, sketches of travel, biographical notices, fragments from the byeways of history, and the like, to all kinds of periodical publications, many of them long since dead and forgotten. That the world should have forgotten all these articles "goes without saying." But what is not perhaps so common an incident in the career of a penman is, that I had in the majority of cases utterly forgotten them, and all about them, until they were recalled to mind by turning the yellow pages of my treasured but almost equally forgotten journals! I beg to observe, also, that all this pen-work was not only printed, but paid for. My motives were of a decidedly mercenary description. "Hic scribit fama ductus, at ille fame." I belonged emphatically to the latter category, and little indeed of my multifarious productions ever found its final resting place in the waste-paper basket. They were rejected often, but re-despatched a second and a third time, if necessary, to some other "organ," and eventually swallowed by some editor or other.
I am surprised, too, at the amount of locomotion which I contrived to combine with all this scribbling. I must have gone about, I think, like a tax-gatherer, with an inkstand slung to my button-hole! And in truth I was industrious; for I find myself in full swing of some journey, arriving at my inn tired at night, and finishing and sending off some article before I went to my bed. But it must have been only by means of the joint supplies contributed by all my editors that I could have found the means of paying all the stage-coaches, diligences, and steamboats which I find the record of my continually employing. "Navibus atque Quadrigis petimus bene vivere!" And I succeeded by their means in living, if not well, at least very pleasantly.
For I was born a rambler.
I heard just now a story of a little boy, who replied to the common question, "What he would like to be when he grew up?" by saying that he should like to be either a giant or a retired stockbroker! I find the qualifying adjective delicious, and admire the pronounced taste for repose indicated by either side of the alternative. But my propensities were more active, and in the days before I entered my teens I used always to reply to similar demands, that I would be a "king's messenger"! I knew no other life which approached so nearly to perpetual motion. "The road" was my paradise, and it is a true saying that the child is father to the man. The Shakespearian passage which earliest impressed my childish mind and carried with it my heartiest sympathies was the song of old Autolycus:
"Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: Your merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a."
Over how many miles of "foot-path way," under how many green