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What I Remember, Volume 1

What I Remember, Volume 1
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Title: What I Remember, Volume 1
Release Date: 2018-12-26
Type book: Text
Copyright Status: Public domain in the USA.
Date added: 27 March 2019
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WHAT I REMEMBER

VOL. I.

{i} 

{ii} 

Printed in Paris
THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPEFrom a painting by Maria TaylorLondon: Richard Bentley & SonPrinted in Paris
THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE
From a painting by Maria Taylor
London: Richard Bentley & Son

WHAT I REMEMBER

BY
THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE



IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I

SECOND EDITION

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1887
{iv}
Richard Clay and Sons,
london and bungay.

{v}

OMNIBUS WICCAMICIS

T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE
B. M. DE WINTON PROPE WINTON COLL.
OLIM ALUMNUS
GRATO ANIMO
D. D. D.

{vi} 

{vii} 

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
 PAGE
EARLY DAYS IN LONDON1
CHAPTER II.
EARLY DAYS IN LONDON28
CHAPTER III.
AT HARROW57
CHAPTER IV.
AT HARROW81
CHAPTER V.
AT WINCHESTER94
CHAPTER VI.
AT WINCHESTER125
CHAPTER VII.
VISIT TO AMERICA150
CHAPTER VIII.
VISIT TO AMERICA168
CHAPTER IX.{viii}
AT OXFORD190
CHAPTER X.
OLD DIARIES221
CHAPTER XI.
OLD DIARIES228
CHAPTER XII.
OLD DIARIES243
CHAPTER XIII.
OLD DIARIES.—AT PARIS261
CHAPTER XIV.
AT BRUGES.—AT HADLEY290
CHAPTER XV.
GERMAN TOUR.—IN AUSTRIA306
CHAPTER XVI.
IN AUSTRIA328
CHAPTER XVII.
AT BIRMINGHAM344
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS355
CHAPTER XIX.
MESMERIC EXPERIENCES362
INDEX:A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I,J,K,L,M,N,O,P,Q,R,S,T,U,V,W,Y,Z397

{1}

WHAT I REMEMBER

CHAPTER I.

I have no intention of writing an autobiography. There has been nothingin my life which could justify such a pretension. But I have lived along time. I remember an aged porter at the monastery of the “SagroEremo,” above Camaldoli, who had taken brevet rank as a saint solely onthe score of his ninety years. His brethren called him and consideredhim as Saint Simon simply because he had been porter at that gate formore than sixty years. Now my credentials as a babbler of reminiscencesare of a similar nature to those of the old porter. I have been here somany, many years. And then those years have comprised the best part ofthe nineteenth century—a century during which change has been morerapidly at work among all the surroundings of Englishmen than probablyduring any other century of which social history has to tell.

Of course middle-aged men know, as well as we ancients, the fact thatsocial life in England—or{2} rather let me say in Europe—is verydifferent from what it was in the days of their fathers, and areperfectly well acquainted with the great and oftentimes celebratedcauses which have differentiated the Victorian era from all others. Butonly the small records of an unimportant individual life, only thememories which happen to linger in an old man’s brain, like bits ofdrift-weed floating round and round in the eddies of a back-water, canbring vividly before the young of the present generation those ways andmanners of acting and thinking and talking in the ordinary every-dayaffairs of life which indicate the differences between themselves andtheir grandfathers.

I was born in the year 1810 at No. 16, Keppel Street, Russell Square.The region was at that time inhabited by the professional classes,mainly lawyers. My father was a barrister of the Middle Temple to thebest of my recollection, but having chambers in the Old Square,Lincoln’s Inn. A quarter of a century or so later, all the district inquestion became rather deteriorated in social estimation, but has, I amtold, recently recovered itself in this respect under the careful andjudicious administration of the Duke of Bedford. The whole regionappeared to me, when I was recently in London, about the least changedpart of the London of my youthful days. As I walked up Store Street,which runs in a line from Keppel Street to Tottenham Court Road, I spiedthe name of “Pidding, Confectioner.” I immediately entered the shop and{3}made a purchase at the counter. “I did not in the least want this tart,”said I to the girl who was serving in the shop. “Why did you take it,then?” said she, with a little toss of her head. “Nobody asked you tobuy it.” “I bought it,” rejoined I, “because I used to buy pastry of Mr.Pidding in this shop seventy years ago.” “Lor’, sir!” said the girl,“did you really?” She probably considered me to be the Wandering Jew.

I remember well that my father used to point out to me houses in RussellSquare, Bedford Square, and Bloomsbury Square in which judges and othernotable legal luminaries used to live. But even in those days thelocalities in question, especially the last named of them, werebeginning to be deserted by such personages, who were already movingfarther westward. The occasion of these walks with my father through thesquares I have named—to which Red Lion Square might have beenadded—was one the painful nature of which has fixed it in my memoryindelibly.

“Infandam memoria jubes renovare dolorem.”

For the object of these walks was the rendering an account of themorning’s studies. I was about six years old, when under my father’sauspices I was first introduced to the Eton Latin Grammar. He was aWykehamist, had been a fellow of New College, and had held a VinerianFellowship. And his great ambition was, that his eldest son, myself,should tread in his steps and pursue the same{4} career. Dîs alitervisum!—as regards at least the latter stages of that career. For I didbecome, and am, a Wykehamist, as much as eight years at Coll. B. M.Winton prope Winton can make me.

Of which more anon.

For the present I see myself alone in the back drawing-room of No. 16,Keppel Street, in which room the family breakfast took place—probablyto avoid the necessity of lighting another fire in the dining-roombelow—at 7 A.M., on my knees before the sofa, with my head in my handsand my eyes fixed on the Eton Latin Grammar laid on the sofa cushionbefore me. My parents had not yet come down to breakfast, nor had thetea urn been brought up by the footman. Nota bene.—My father was apoor man, and his establishment altogether on a modest footing. But itnever would have occurred to him or to my mother that they could get onwithout a man-servant in livery. And though this liveried footman serveda family in which two tallow candles with their snuffer dish suppliedthe whole illumination of the evening, had the livery been an inventedone instead of that proper to the family, the circumstance would havebeen an absurdity exciting the ridicule of all the society in which myparents lived. Tempora mutantur! Certainly at the present day anequally unpretending household would be burthened by no footman. But onthe morning which memory is recalling to me the footman was coming upwith the urn, and my parents were coming down to breakfast, probablysimultaneously; and the{5} question of the hour was whether I could getthe due relationship of relative and antecedent into my little headbefore the two events arrived.

And that, as I remember it, was the almost unvaried routine for morethan a year or two. I think, however, that the walks of which I wasspeaking when this retrospect presented itself to me must have belongedto a time a little, but not much later; for I had then advanced to themaking of Latin verses. We used to begin in those days by making“nonsense verses.” And many of us ended in the same way! The nextstep—Gradus ad Parnassum—consisted in turning into Latin versecertain English materials provided for the purpose, and so cunninglyprepared as to fall easily and almost inevitably into the required form.And these were the studies which, as I specially remember, were thesubject of rehearsal during those walks from Lincoln’s Inn to KeppelStreet.

My father was in the habit of returning from his chambers to a fiveo’clock dinner—rather a late hour, because he was an industrious andlaborious man. Well! we, that is my next brother (not the one whose namebecame subsequently well known in the world, but my brother Henry, whodied early) and myself, used to walk from Keppel Street to Lincoln’sInn, so as to arrive in time to walk back with my father. He was a fastwalker; and as we trotted along one on each side of him, the repetitionof our morning’s poetical achievements did not tend, as I well remember,to facilitate the difficulty of “keeping our wind.{6}

But what has probably fixed all this in my mind during nearly threequarters of a century was my father’s pat application of one of ourlines to the difficulties of those peripatetic poetizings. “Muse andsound of wheel do not well agree,” read the cunningly preparedoriginal, which the alumnus with wonderful sagacity was to turn into,“Non bene conveniunt Musa rotæque sonus.” “That,” said my father, ashe turned sharp round the corner into the comparative quiet ofFeatherstone Buildings, “is exactly why I turned out of Holborn!”

I do not know whether children of eight years old, or thereabouts, wouldat the present day be allowed to range London so freely as we were. Butour great amusement and delight was to take long exploring walks in asdistant parts of the huge (though then comparatively small) city ascould be compassed within the time at our disposition. One especiallyfavourite excursion, I well remember, was to the White Horse Cellar inPiccadilly to see the coaches start or arrive. I knew all their names,and their supposed comparative speed. By this means, indeed, came myfirst introduction to English geography. Formal lessons on such athoroughly “commercial academy” subject were not, of course, thought offor an aspiring Wykehamist. But for the due enjoyment of the White HorseCellar spectacle it was necessary to know the whereabouts of the cities,their distance from London, and the routes by which they were reached.It thus came to pass that our geographical notions were of a{7} curiouslypartial description—tolerably copious and accurate as regards the southand west of England, far less so as regards the north. For the northcountry coaches did not start from Piccadilly. On the opposite side ofthe way to the White Horse Cellar there was another coaching inn, theWhite Bear, on which I remember we used to look with much contempt, fromthe belief, whether in any degree well founded I know not, that thecoaches which stopped there on their way out of town, or arrived there,were mainly slow coaches.

One does not traverse well nigh four score years without havingexperienced longings for the unattainable on several occasions. But Ihave no remembrance of any such eager, craving longing as the chroniclonging of those days to make one of the great-coated companies who weredeparting to their various destinations by those “Telegraphs,”“High-Flyers,” “Magnets,” and “Independents.” (The more suggestive namesof the “Wonder,” and its rival the “No Wonder!” once celebrated on thenorth-western road, belonged to a later day.) Had I been offered a seaton any of these vehicles my choice would have been dictated solely byconsiderations of distance—Falmouth for choice, as the westward UltimaThule of coaching experience. With what rapture should I have climbed,in my little round jacket as I was, and without a thought of any otherprotection, to the roof of the Falmouth mail—the mail for choice, theDevonport “Quicksilver” being then in the womb of the

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