I have now come to the end of that long series of books written by myself with which the public is already acquainted. Of those which I may hereafter be able to add to them I cannot speak; though I have an idea that I shall even yet once more have recourse to my political hero as the mainstay of another story. When The Prime Minister was finished, I at once began another novel, which is now completed in three volumes, and which is called Is He Popenjoy? There are two Popenjoys in the book, one succeeding to the title held by the other; but as they are both babies, and do not in the course of the story progress beyond babyhood, the future readers, should the tale ever be published, will not be much interested in them. Nevertheless the story, as a story, is not, I think, amiss. Since that I have written still another three-volume novel, to which, very much in opposition to my publisher, I have given the name of The American Senator. [Footnote: The American Senator and Popenjoy have appeared, each with fair success. Neither of them has encountered that reproach which, in regard to The Prime Minister, seemed to tell me that my work as a novelist should be brought to a close. And yet I feel assured that they are very inferior to The Prime Minister.] It is to appear in Temple Bar, and is to commence its appearance on the first of next month. Such being its circumstances, I do not know that I can say anything else about it here.
And so I end the record of my literary performances,—which I think are more in amount than the works of any other living English author. If any English authors not living have written more—as may probably have been the case—I do not know who they are. I find that, taking the books which have appeared under our names, I have published much more than twice as much as Carlyle. I have also published considerably more than Voltaire, even including his letters. We are told that Varro, at the age of eighty, had written 480 volumes, and that he went on writing for eight years longer. I wish I knew what was the length of Varro’s volumes; I comfort myself by reflecting that the amount of manuscript described as a book in Varro’s time was not much. Varro, too, is dead, and Voltaire; whereas I am still living, and may add to the pile.
The following is a list of the books I have written, with the dates of publication and the sums I have received for them. The dates given are the years in which the works were published as a whole, most of them having appeared before in some serial form.
Names of Works. Date of Publication. Total Sums Received.
The Macdermots of Ballycloran, 1847 48 6 9
The Kellys and the O’Kellys, 1848 123 19 5
La Vendee, 1850 20 0 0
The Warden, 1855 \ 727 11 3
Barchester Towers, 1857 /
The Three Clerks, 1858 250 0 0
Doctor Thorne, 1858 400 0 0
The West Indies and the
Spanish Main, 1859 250 0 0
The Bertrams, 1859 400 0 0
Carried forward, 2219 16 17
Names of Works. Date of Publication. Total Sums Received.
Brought Forward, 2219 16 17
Castle Richmond, 1860 600 0 0
Framley Parsonage, 1861 1000 0 0
Tales of All
Countries—1st Series, 1861 \
” “ 2d 1863 > 1830 0 0
” “ 3d 1870 /
Orley Farm, 1862 3135 0 0
North America, 1862 1250 0 0
Rachel Ray, 1863 1645 0 0
The Small House at Allington, 1864 3000 0 0
Can You Forgive Her? 1864 3525 0 0
Miss Mackenzie, 1865 1300 0 0
The Belton Estate, 1866 1757 0 0
The Claverings, 1867 2800 0 0
The Last Chronicle of Barset, 1867 3000 0 0
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