So far there has been nothing looking toward the novel-writer. But now we
learn that from the age of fifteen to twenty-six Anthony kept a journal,
which, he says, "convicted me of folly, ignorance, indiscretion, idleness,
and conceit, but habituated me to the rapid use of pen and ink, and taught
me how to express myself with facility." In addition to this, and more to
the purpose, he had formed an odd habit. Living, as he was forced to do,
so much to himself, if not by himself, he had to play, not with other
boys, but with himself; and his favorite play was to conceive a tale, or
series of fictitious events, and to carry it on, day after day, for months
together, in his mind. "Nothing impossible was ever introduced, or
violently improbable. I was my own hero, but I never became a king or a
duke, still less an Antinous, or six feet high. But I was a very clever
person, and beautiful young women used to be very fond of me. I learned in
this way to live in a world outside the world of my own material life."
This is pointedly, even touchingly, characteristic. Never, to the day of
his death, did Mr. Trollope either see or imagine anything impossible, or
violently improbable, in the world.
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