I wonder whether the novel-reading world—that part of it, at least, which may honour my pages—will be offended if I lay the plot of this story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling against things Irish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need not apply; Irish acquaintances are treated with limited confidence; Irish cousins are regarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irish stories are not popular with the booksellers.
For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about any place, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do strongly protest against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irish cousins I have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; and Irish friends, also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and cherish—almost as well, perhaps, as though they had been born in Middlesex. Irish servants I have had some in my house for years, and never had one that was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate. I have travelled all over Ireland, closely as few other men can have done, and have never had my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked.
At hotels I have seldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessness has never been punished. I doubt whether as much can be said for English inns. Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion in novels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear they are drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good story should not have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why it should not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone; but such is by no means the case.
I was waiting once, when I was young at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching a three-volumed manuscript which I held in my hand. The eminent publisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, but sent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business. "A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman. "Yes," I answered; "a novel." "It depends very much on the subject," said the foreman, with a thoughtful and judicious frown—"upon the name, sir, and the subject;—daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily English life.
Now your historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it's written on." I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as unattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will make the attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, and would fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do not say that word now it will never be said.
About the Author
Anthony Trollope (1815-1882) started his writing career while working in Ireland as a postal surveyor. Travelling around the country, Trollope gained knowledge of the country and its people which proved to be useful material for his first two novels, The Macdermots of Ballycloran (1847) and The Kellys and the O'Kellys (1848). Trollope soon started writing fiercely, producing a series entitled Chronicles of Barsetshire.
The Warden, the first in the series, was published in 1855. Barchester Towers (1857), the comic masterpiece, Doctor Thorne (1858), Framley Parsonage (1861), The Small House at Allington (1864) and The Last Chronicle of Barset (1867) followed, portraying events in an imaginary English county of Barsetshire. In 1867, Trollope left the Post Office to run as a candidate for the Parliament. Having lost at the elections, Trollope focused on his writing.
A satire from his later writing, The Way We Live Now (1875) is often viewed as Trollope's major work, however, his popularity and writing reputation diminished at the later stage of his life. Anthony Trollope died in London in 1882. --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.
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