Tag: Trollope

A Little Scholarship is the Best Fortune

~ Erik ~ Leave a comment

Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage chp. 22:

“Oh, yes, there is nothing here but this young gentleman’s library,”
said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books on to the table.
“I hope he’ll forgive me for moving them.”

“They are not Bob’s,–at least, not the most of them,–but mine,”
said the girl.

“But some of them are mine,” said the boy; “ain’t they, Grace?”

“And are you a great scholar?” asked Lucy, drawing the child to her.

“I don’t know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. “I am in Greek
Delectus and the irregular verbs.”

“Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!” And Lucy put up her hands
with astonishment.

“And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said Bob.

“An ode of Horace!” said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced
female prodigy close to her knees.

“It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apologetically.
“A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come in my way,
and I endeavour to share that with my children.”

“I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can have,”
said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace and the
irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious forcing in a
young lady of nine years old.

Does Pile Size Matter?

~ Erik ~ Leave a comment
Anthony Trollope,
An Autobiography, Chapter XX:

And so I end the record of my literary performances,—which I think are more in amount than the works of any other living English author. If any English authors not living have written more—as may probably have been the case—I do not know who they are. I find that, taking the books which have appeared under our names, I have published much more than twice as much as Carlyle. I have also published considerably more than Voltaire, even including his letters. We are told that Varro, at the age of eighty, had written 480 volumes, and that he went on writing for eight years longer. I wish I knew what was the length of Varro’s volumes; I comfort myself by reflecting that the amount of manuscript described as a book in Varro’s time was not much. Varro, too, is dead, and Voltaire; whereas I am still living, and may add to the pile.

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A Little Scholarship is the Best Fortune

~ Erik ~ 2 Comments

Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage chp. 22:

“Oh, yes, there is nothing here but this young gentleman’s library,”
said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books on to the table.
“I hope he’ll forgive me for moving them.”

“They are not Bob’s,–at least, not the most of them,–but mine,”
said the girl.

“But some of them are mine,” said the boy; “ain’t they, Grace?”

“And are you a great scholar?” asked Lucy, drawing the child to her.

“I don’t know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. “I am in Greek
Delectus and the irregular verbs.”

“Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!” And Lucy put up her hands
with astonishment.

“And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said Bob.

“An ode of Horace!” said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced
female prodigy close to her knees.

“It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apologetically.
“A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come in my way,
and I endeavour to share that with my children.”

“I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can have,”
said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace and the
irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious forcing in a
young lady of nine years old.

Trollope vs. Varro: Who Has the Biggest Pile?

~ Erik ~ Leave a comment

“And so I end the record of my literary performances,—which I think are more in amount than the works of any other living English author. If any English authors not living have written more—as may probably have been the case—I do not know who they are. I find that, taking the books which have appeared under our names, I have published much more than twice as much as Carlyle. I have also published considerably more than Voltaire, even including his letters. We are told that Varro, at the age of eighty, had written 480 volumes, and that he went on writing for eight years longer. I wish I knew what was the length of Varro’s volumes; I comfort myself by reflecting that the amount of manuscript described as a book in Varro’s time was not much. Varro, too, is dead, and Voltaire; whereas I am still living, and may add to the pile.”

-Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography, Chapter XX