Part 9

During the first half of September, the sun in Ceylon and India, and also in the West Indies, presented at rising and setting the appearance of a green or greenish-blue disc. Even when at his highest the sun appeared pale blue in Ceylon (from the other places no account of the sun’s aspect at high noon has reached me). On September 2, at Trinidad, the sun looked like a blue globe after five in the evening, “and after dark,” says the report, “we thought there was a fire in the town, from the bright redness of the heavens.” At Ongole, as the sun approached the horizon, his disc passed from a bluish tinge to green, which became tinged with yellow as he approached the horizon. “After he had set, light yellow and orange appeared in the west, a very deep red remaining for more than an hour after sunset; whereas, under ordinary conditions, all traces of color leave the sky in this latitude,” says the narrator, “within half an hour after the sun disappears.” These accounts, from both the eastern and western hemispheres, seem clearly to associate the green sun which attracted so much attention in the tropics early in September, with the remarkable sunsets seen in Arabia, in Africa (North and South), and throughout Europe during October and November. For we see that whatever may have been the explanation of the green sun, the phenomenon must have been produced by some cause capable of producing after sunset a brilliant red and orange glow, for a time much exceeding the usual duration of the twilight afterglow. The occurrence of the afterglow, with the same remarkable tints and similar exceptional duration elsewhere—though some weeks later—shows that a similar cause was at work.

Two points are clear. First, the cause alike of the greenness of the sun and the ruddy afterglow was in the air, not outside; and, secondly, the matter, whatever it was, which made the sun look green when he was seen through it, and which under his rays looked red, was high above the surface of the earth. It can readily be shown, so far as this last point is concerned, that matter at a lower level than sixteen miles could not have caught the sun’s rays so long after sunset as the glow was seen. On the other point it suffices, of course, to note that if some cause in the sun himself had been at work, the whole earth would have seen the green sun, while the afterglow would have found no explanation at all.

As to the actual cause to which both phenomena are to be ascribed, we must, I think, exculpate Krakatoa from all part or share in producing these strange effects. The appearance of a blue sun at Trinidad, followed two or three days later by a green sun in the East Indies, can not possibly be associated with the occurrence of an earthquake on the Javan shore a few days earlier. Beside, it must be remembered that we should have to explain two incongruous circumstances; first, how the exceedingly fine matter ejected from Krakatoa could have so quickly reached the enormous height at which the matter actually producing the afterglow certainly was; and, secondly, how having been able to traverse still air so readily one way, that matter failed to return as readily earthward under the attraction of gravity. Again the explanation, which at first seems a most probable one, that unusually high strata of moist air, with accompanying multitudes of ice particles, caused the phenomena alike of absorption and of reflection, seems negatived—first, by the entire absence of any other evidence of extraordinary meteorological conditions in September, October and November last; and, secondly, by the entire absence of any of the optical phenomena which necessarily accompany the transmission of sunlight through strata of air strewn with many ice particles.

We seem obliged then to adopt a theory, first advanced, I believe, by Mr. A. C. Ranyard, that the phenomena were caused by a cloud of meteoric dust encountered by the earth, and received into the upper regions of the air, thence to penetrate slowly (mayhap not till many months have passed) to the surface of the earth. Mr. Ranyard calls attention to the circumstance that probably the early snows of the winter 1883-’84 would bring down the advanced guard of such meteoric dust; and even as I write I learn that Mr. W. Mathieu Williams has followed the suggestion. He carefully collected the snow which fell in his garden, eighty yards from his chimneys and half a mile from any to windward. Slicing off a top film of the snow with a piece of glass he thawed it, and found a sediment of fine brownish-black powder. Ferrocyanide of potassium added to the snow-water produced no change of color, showing the absence of iron in solution, nor was there any visible reaction on the black dust till he added some hydrochloric acid. Then the blue compound indicating iron was abundantly formed all round the granules, and presently, as their solution was effected, a bluish-green deposit was formed, and the whole liquid deeply tinged with the same color. “It was not,” says Mr. Williams, “the true Prussian-blue reaction of iron alone, but just the color that would be produced by mixing small quantities of the cyanide of nickel (yellowish green) and the cyanide of cobalt (brownish white) with a preponderating amount of Prussian blue.”

If this explanation of the green sun and the extraordinary sunsets should be confirmed, it appears to me that a most interesting result will have been achieved. Of course, it is no new thing that as the earth rushes onward through space she encounters yearly many millions of meteoric bodies, large and small; nor ought it to be regarded as strange that beside these separate bodies, millions of millions in the form of fine cosmical dust should be encountered; but the actual evidence, derived from the behavior of sunlight (the red and yellow rays reflected and relative superabundance of green and blue rays therefore transmitted), would be an interesting and important addition to our knowledge of matters meteoric.—_The Contemporary Review._

ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

By W. W. GIST.

A peep into a literary workshop is always interesting. There is always some curiosity to know how a man of letters does his work. This fascinating autobiography gives us a clear insight into Anthony Trollope’s manner of study, and states many other facts that are intensely interesting.

Anthony Trollope’s parents were both of a literary turn of mind. His father had no business capacity, and everything he attempted went wrong. His mother and brother came to America and opened a bazar at Cincinnati, hoping to amass a fortune. This proved a failure, and upon returning to England, Mrs. Trollope wrote a book on America, which brought a fair compensation. For years she supported the family by her pen. There is indeed something heroic in her watching by the bedside of her dying husband and son, and writing her books during the intervals that the sick did not demand her attention. Her first book was written when she was fifty years of age. She wrote in all one hundred and fourteen volumes.

Anthony Trollope’s school advantages were poor, and the trials of his childhood were greater than those of the average youth. In 1834, at the age of nineteen, he entered the postal service and continued in it for thirty-three years, effecting many valuable reforms and proving himself an efficient government officer.

His literary work was done in such a manner as not to interfere in the least with his duties as inspector of postoffices. Few men have the power of will to hold themselves to the rigid, exacting plan of study that he imposed upon himself. He hired a man to call him at 5:30 each morning, and his literary work was done between that hour and 8:30, before he dressed for breakfast. He did not, however, spend the whole of the three hours in writing. During the first half hour he read aloud what he had written the day before, so that his ear could detect any lack of harmony in expression, and that he might catch the spirit of his last day’s work. Can anything be more systematic than his method of writing a book, as told in his own language:

“When I commenced a new book I always prepared a diary, divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered, day by day, the number of pages I have written, so that if at any time I have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness has been there staring me in the face and demanding of me increased labor, so that the deficiency might be supplied.… I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty words; and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as I went. In the bargains I have made with publishers, I have—not, of course, with their knowledge, but in my own mind—undertaken always to supply them with so many words, and I have never put a book out of hand short of the number by a single word. I may also say that the excess has been very small. I have prided myself on completing my work exactly within the proposed dimensions. But I have prided myself especially in completing it within the proposed time—and I have always done so. There has ever been the record before me, and a week passed with an insufficient number of pages has been a blister to my eye, and a month so disgraced would have been a sorrow to my heart.”

He was not satisfied to hold himself rigidly to specified hours. Much of the time he wrote with his watch open before him, and his task was to complete a page every fifteen minutes. “I have found that the two hundred and fifty words have been forthcoming as regularly as my watch went.” He seems to feel that the one only who has acquired a facile style can expect to produce a given quantity in a given time. “His language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of the great performer’s fingers; as words come from the mouth of the indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bells form themselves to the ear of the telegrapher.”

In comparing himself with the authors who follow no systematic method of work, he says: “They have failed to write their best because they have seldom written at ease. I have done double their work—though burdened with another profession—and have done it almost without an effort. I have not once, through all my literary career, felt myself even in danger of being late with my task. I have known no anxiety as to copy.”

In another connection he speaks of having three unpublished novels in his desk, and adds: “One of these has been six years finished, and has never seen the light since it was first tied up in the wrapper which now contains it. I look forward with some grim pleasantry to its publication after another period of six years, and to the declaration of the critics that it has been the work of a period of life at which the power of writing novels had passed from me.”

His method in writing enabled him to produce books quite rapidly, and this accounts in part for the unpublished works on hand. Only once did he permit a story to appear as a serial. In all other cases the story was completed before the printer saw any part of it.

He defends his habit of work as follows: “I have been told that such appliances are beneath the notice of a man of genius. I have never fancied myself to be a man of genius, but had I been so I think I might well have subjected myself to these trammels. Nothing, surely, is so potent as a law that may not be disobeyed. It has the force of the water-drop that hollows the stone. A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.”

His duties as a government officer required him to travel a great deal, and he soon learned to do much of his literary work while on his journeys. He wrote on a tablet while riding in the cars; one story was written while traveling on three different continents; “Lady Anna” was written while making a voyage from Liverpool to Australia.

Anthony Trollope had very positive views on the subject of criticism. Early in his literary career he reached this conclusion: “I made up my mind then that, should I continue this trade of authorship, I would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I would neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would I ever thank a critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my heart, for censure.” A critic of the _Times_ once commended his books very highly. The critic afterward ventured to inform Mr. Trollope that he was the author of the criticism. The blunt reply was to the effect that he was under no obligations for the complimentary notice.

He once censured a professional critic for accepting a handsome present from an author whose works the critic had commended. His idea was that the man who has received a present for praising a book will not feel free to criticise adversely the next book by the same author. He states his views at length on this point: “I think it may be laid down as a golden rule in literature that there should be no intercourse at all between an author and his critic. The critic, as critic, should not know his author, nor the author, as author, his critic.… Praise let the author try to obtain by wholesome effort; censure let him avoid, if possible, by care and industry. But when they come, let him take them as coming from some source which he cannot influence, and with which he should not meddle.”

He once made an earnest plea that the critic’s name should be appended to his article, believing that this would make the writer more careful both of his censure and praise, and that the reader could determine the value of the criticism. On the subject of critical dishonesty he says: “If the writer will tell us what he thinks, though his thoughts be absolutely vague and useless, we can forgive him; but when he tells us what he does not think, actuated either by friendship or animosity, then there should be no pardon for him. This is the sin in modern English criticism of which there is most reason to complain.”

Anthony Trollope thinks that it is wrong that a literary name should carry so much favor with it. He says: “I, indeed, had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats, to whom the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much favor. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine, and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.”

Mr. Trollope is undoubtedly right in his general statement. While as a rule literary productions stand on their merits, the name of Tennyson or some other writer of equal fame will insure the sale of an article which, if written by an unknown writer, would be promptly rejected. Young writers need not complain of this. Distinguished names render articles marketable, and give them a commercial value that publishers can not ignore. To test the correctness of his theory, Mr. Trollope wrote two novels anonymously, which were not received with favor.

Mr. Trollope’s success in a pecuniary point of view was very slow. During the first ten years of his literary career he did not receive compensation enough to buy the pens, ink and paper he used. Twelve years passed before he received any appreciable increase of salary from his books. From that time his compensation was good. His books brought him in all something like $350,000.

The chapter that he devotes to the English novelists of his day is very interesting. He places Thackeray first, George Eliot second, and Dickens third. Most readers would perhaps reverse this order. Of Thackeray’s great work he says: “I myself regard ‘Esmond’ as the greatest novel in the English language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language, on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of its delineations in regard to the time selected, and on its great pathos.” He pays a high tribute to Charlotte Bronte, and then adds: “‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Esmond,’ and ‘Adam Bede,’ will be in the hands of our grandchildren, when ‘Pickwick’ and ‘Pelham’ and ‘Harry Lorrequer’ are forgotten; because the men and women depicted are human in their aspirations, human in their sympathies, and human in their actions.” He commends Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade quite highly, but thinks the latter has no clear conception of literary honesty.

Mr. Trollope relates an amusing incident concerning one of his favorite characters. He was seated in a club room, when two clergymen entered and commenced to criticise his works. “The gravamen of their complaint lay in the fact that I introduced the same characters so often. ‘Here,’ said one, ‘is the archdeacon whom we have had in every novel he has ever written.’ ‘And here,’ said the other, ‘is the old duke whom he has talked about till everybody is tired of him. If I could not invent new characters, I would not write novels at all.’ Then one of them fell foul of Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for me not to hear their words, and almost impossible to hear them and be quiet. I got up, and standing between them, I acknowledged myself to be the culprit. ‘As to Mrs. Proudie,’ I said, ‘I will go home and kill her before the week is over.’ And so I did. The two gentlemen were utterly confounded, and one of them begged me to forget his frivolous observations. I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my delight in writing about Mrs. Proudie, … and I still live much in company with her ghost.”

Mr. Trollope made a number of visits to the United States, and was in Washington at the time of the Mason and Slidell controversy. Mr. Sumner was opposed to giving up the men. Mr. Seward’s counsel prevailed with President Lincoln, and the men were released. He says that this “was the severest danger that the Northern cause encountered during the war.” He describes a visit to Brigham Young as follows:

“I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologizing for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. ‘I guess you’re a miner,’ said he. I again assured him that I was not. ‘Then how do you earn your bread?’ I told him that I did so by writing books. ‘I’m sure you’re a miner,’ said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name.”

This autobiography is a delightful book. The candor with which the writer speaks of his own books, pointing out their defects and calling attention to their merits, the freedom with which he speaks of his early struggles, his method of work, and his success, the spirit of fairness with which he criticises his contemporaries—all these reveal a mind healthy in tone, and call forth our hearty admiration.

SABBATH CHIMES.

By PHEBE A. HOLDER.

O’er the city’s restless surges, Heaving like the ocean tide, Steals the night with hush of silence, And the waves of toil subside. Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain, While the mighty throbbings cease, Starry eyes watch o’er the city Sleeping in the depths of peace.

Comes the morning fair and radiant, Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm, Heaven’s blue dome a benediction, With its pure, unspotted calm, Like Jerusalem, the golden, Coming down to earth from heaven, Clad in robes of bridal beauty Seems this morn the Lord has given.

As I tread the streets, still peaceful, Turning to the house of God, Drinking in this wondrous beauty, And this glory of the Lord, Through the crystal air of morning Ring the bells with mellow chime, In a strain of sweetest music, Hallowed as the Sabbath time.

Like the songs I heard in childhood, Or a sainted mother’s psalm, Fell those chimes upon my spirit With a holy, restful calm. Like the tones of angel voices, Sounding from seraphic choir, Seemed this call our God to worship In this holy house of prayer.

Still entranced I paused to listen To the chiming, silvery, clear— When the thrilling strain had ended Yet I waited—fixed to hear; While upon my listening spirit Came a sense unfelt before, Of our Lord’s most precious blessing In the Sabbath’s holy power.

Coming like a guest from heaven To our earthly, toil-worn lives, A sweet influence, pure, uplifting, To our struggling souls it gives. Pointing with prophetic finger To the perfect Sabbath rest In the fair, Celestial City Of the sainted and the blest,—

As with angel voice it calls us, Now to seek that home of light Where the gates of pearl shall open To the pure with garments white. Day beloved! thy blessed service In the temple of our God, Draws us nearer—ever nearer, To our glorious, risen Lord.

Still that soft and mellow cadence Lingers like a sacred charm, Resting on my waiting spirit With a touch of heavenly calm. Like a sweet-toned voice still calling From our home that is to be, While from out its unseen glory Floats celestial harmony.

EIGHT CENTURIES WITH WALTER SCOTT.

By WALLACE BRUCE.

Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1602. James the Sixth, of Scotland, became James the First of the United Kingdoms. According to ancient prophecy the Scottish kings were to follow the Stone of Scone, which, it will be remembered, was removed to London by Edward the First. The prophecy was three hundred years in being fulfilled. The same strange Nemesis of fate, which, in the last generation, placed the grandson of Josephine upon the throne of France, handed the scepter of the haughty Elizabeth to the son of her unfortunate rival, Mary, Queen of Scots. But the good fortune of James only emphasizes the general misfortune of the Stuart family. His ancestral record was not a cheerful retrospect. James the First of Scotland was murdered. James the Second was killed by the bursting of a cannon. James the Third was privately slain. James the Fourth fell on the disastrous field of Flodden. James the Fifth died of a broken heart. Mary was beheaded. His father Darnley was murdered.