But, when applied to love with a capital L, and to dropped pins
despairing, a little sane realistic disdain will not be amiss,
particularly in this isle. I want to see the rise of a new school of love
poetry in England. And I believe I shall see it.
TROLLOPE'S METHODS
[_23 Sep. '09_]
I am reminded of Anthony Trollope and a recent article on him, in the
_Times_, which was somewhat below the high level of the _Times_ literary
criticism. Said the _Times_: "Anthony Trollope died in the December of
1882, and in the following year a fatal, perhaps an irreparable, blow to
his reputation was struck by the publication of his autobiography." The
conceit of a blow which in addition to being fatal is perhaps also
irreparable is diverting. But that is not my point. What the _Times_
objects to in the Autobiography is the revelation of the clock-work
methods by which Trollope wrote his novels. It appears that this horrid
secret ought to have been for ever concealed. "Fatal admission!" exclaims
the _Times_. Fatal fiddlesticks! Trollope said much more than the _Times_
quotes. He confessed that he wrote with a watch in front of him, and
obliged himself to produce 250 words every quarter of an hour. And what
then? How can the confession affect his reputation? His reputation rests
on the value of his novels, and not in the least on the manner in which he
chose to write them.
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