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essay in a new direction, and, as concerns the main interest of the story it is, in our opinion, a failure. The hero, Louis Trevelyan, goes mad, in a subtle, tangled, sullen way, which demands, for its just handling, strength of a kind different from Mr. Trollope's, and delicacy other than his adroit finesse and circumspection. The bareness of truth is a mistake in this case.

Mr. Trollope does not adorn the man with qualities to inspire interest before his calamity overtakes him, and so he fails to evoke compassion after it has done so. Nobody can care whether Louis Trevelyan is mad or sane, for he is an ill-teinpered snob from the beginning, and his wife is detestable. It is not more possible to pity her than to pity her husband, and this is the more provoking because Mr. Trollope expects us to pity her, and his grateful readers would like to do what he expects. The book abounds in humour; it contains one of the cleverest episodes among the author's innumerable stories of cross-purpose; the American girls are as real as the Dales, and much more charming, though Mr. Trollope has no notion that such is the case. Hugh Stanbury is one of his best characters; Bozzle is, we feel certain, the only true detective who has ever been drawn in a novel. Miss Stanbury is a match for Miss Betsy Trotwood. All the accessories to the story are perfect, but the madman and his wife spoil it all. There is not one touch of the pathetic in this narrative, though it might have been raised to the height of tragedy, and though it is difficult to conceive how the author has contrived to keep it throughout below pathos.

When we contemplate the long line of Mr. Trollope's social novels, we find that he has more than one specialty in portraitpainting. His lawyers, not so numerous as his clergymen, are as distinct and as memorable. Mr. Furnival, Mr. Round, Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, Mr. Theodore Burton, and Sir Thomas Underwood, are quite as admirable in their way as the Barchester people, and as the casual curates whom we find in the not actually clerical novels. The sporting men, the money-lenders, the election-agents, too, every one of them will bear inspection ; though in many instances the author proceeds on the development principle. The “Old Man of the Sea,” who persecutes poor Charley Tudor, one of the “ Three Clerks," is the lowest form of the devourer who gets hold of Phineas Finn, and who hopes Mr. Burgo Fitzgerald “ will be punctual.” We find him in different stages of his evolution in several of these novels, always the same plausible, relentless rogue, but with little touches of differentiation exquisitely humorous--as, for instance, when he eats Phineas Finn's breakfast. Mr. Trollope develops in many other cases also. Charley Tudor's entanglement with th..

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barmaid, who gets a written promise of marriage out of him, is the crude form of that delightfully humorous episode in the history of Johnny Eames, in which he eludes the pursuit of Amelia Roper, which is, in its turn, a rough sketch for the finely-finished skirmishing that ends in the defeat of Madeline Demolines, who is perhaps the most perfect specimen in the author's collection of flirts. Lady Eustace is a more unprincipled and less refined Lady Ongar, and the cousinlover affair in “ The Eustace Diamonds," is the same as the cousin-lover affair in “ The Claverings,” Lucy Morris playing to a nicety the part of Florence. With just confidence in his own powers of varying the sauce and the seasoning Mr. Trollope places similar dishes before us in rapid, unfailing succession, like the pilau and rice of an Eastern feast, or the legs of lamb and spinach of Charles Lamb's famous dinner. We eat them constantly with a tranquil pleasure, not demanding more variety in the flavouring than he gives us, never elated, and never disappointed; without eager appetite, but equally without satiety. We feel, on opening a new book by Mr. Trollope, as soon as we get a glimpse of the story, that we are well acquainted with it; but knowledge no more interferes with our enjoyment than familiarity with the music of an opera injures the pleasure with which we listen to its execution. The series of love stories which began with Adela Gauntlet and Arthur Wilkinson as the model couple, fond but prudent, faithful but calculating, and Caroline Waddington and George Bertram as the terrible example, because they were too prudent, and overdid the calculation, has presented very little alteration in outline ever since. Lucy Morris is suffering at this moment the selfsame agonies as those through which Florence Burton passed safely in 1866; and Clara Belton might have compared notes with Miss Mackenzie, and called Rachel Ray into a three-cornered confidence about “the young man from the brewery,” a year or two earlier. We do not doubt that Mr. Trollope has a plentiful supply of cousins in reserve, developments of George Vavasour and George Hotspur, of “Lizzie's ” Frank, and of “Julia's” Harry; and that we shall take much delight in their difficulties, their debts, their doubts, and their flirtations ; shall listen to their small talk, and read their tepid love-letters, until they or we cease to be. The young men in official situations, of aspiring minds and modern manners, with vices just hinted at, but guiltless of enthusiasm, cool, self-possessed, and selfish, will always be in readiness to "like" the sweet girls, and make up and unmake their minds as to marrying them; and every sweet girl will always have two lovers apiece, one of whom she wants to marry, and one who wants to marry

her. The latter delightfully difficult situation will be infinitely varied, and so we shall go on, no more resenting the sameness than we resent the monotony of hot rolls at breakfast.

While Mr. Trollope is free from the faults of many novelists who undertake to depict "high life,”- while he does not descend to the ludicrous vulgarities of “Lothair,” or stuff his books with coroneted millinery and upholstery, like the lady novelists,—but makes his lords and ladies real persons, exactly like life, and, when needs be, quite as contemptible, we do think he does injustice to the world in general, à propos of these lords and ladies. There is such a thing as the cant of satire; and it is enticing, because facile. Mr. Thackeray was a great proficient in it. He scattered it about with the lavishness of a tract distributor; and its favourite formulas were those which declared toadyism and tuft-hunting to be universal. His typical snob is the man who, with a week-kneed abjectness, dearly loves a lord. Of course, such a man is a snob; but we think he is likewise a rare specimen of the order of mean creatures, and that snobbism may exist at the other extreme, in the man, to wit, who hates a lord because he is a lord,—the man who troubles himself in any way about the rank of people with whom he is not personally concerned. Mr. Trollope is infected by this easy kind of cant, and injures some of his very best effects by its admission. When Mary Thorne, on intimate terms with the Misses Gresham, meets their cousins, the Ladies De Courcy, for the first time, she expects to be snubbed by them; and the Ladies De Courcy snub the young lady whom they meet as a visitor in their aunt's house, as a matter of course. Alice Vavasor, whose own near relatives are people of title, keeps aloof from them because they are so, and Mr. Trollope praises her for it; whereas, it seems to us that the deprecatory, peevish, uneasy suspicion which is perpetually conscious of social inferiority, and perpetually imputing vulgar arrogance to persons of rank, is a very unworthy sentiment, and much more humiliating than any exterior offence could be. If people with titles were to be constantly thinking of them, constantly enjoying the idea that they can humble and spite, insult, domineer over, or buy their untitled fellow creatures in virtue of them, titles would cease to be harmless distinctions, and become a moral plague. If people without titles were to be always envious, suspicious, embarrassed, false, flattering, or self-depreciatory in the presence of people whodo possess them; or if, on the other hand, they were persistently to refuse respect to respectable persons because they are ranged in a different order of nomenclature from their own, untitled people would establish the cynical theory that snobbisin is the prevailing feature of middle-class English society. We do not greatly overstate our case against Mr. Trollope when we say that he does establish some such division on the general scale in his books. His special, avowed favourite, Lily Dale, who is not ours, for she is pert, and in this particular respect, vulgar, is not only touched with this cant of satiro upon rank, but she is, like her mother and sister, wrong upon the point of the fitting estimate of money also. When Lily Dale "chaffs" Adolphus Crosbie about the grandeur of De Courcy Castle, and talks about their own comparative insignificance, as she knows nothing about the De Courcys, as she has not the reader's opportunities of learning that they are a despicable family, she does an ill-bred thing; and when she resists her uncle's kind. ness because he is rich and she is poor, she does, not a noble, but an ignoble thing. “The Small House at Allington” is considered by many of his readers to be Mr. Trollope's very best book. We do not hold it in such high esteem, though it contains some of his very best writing, and its humour is unsurpassed. Lord de Guest's adventure with Lambkin is enough to make the book memorable, especially that supremo touch, where the earl directs the butler to send“ two or three men” to bring in Johnny Eames's hat; and, in reply to the man's wondering “two or three men, my lord”? says testily, “somebody's been teasing the bull.” The whole story of Adolphus Crosbie is admirable. The episode of the weddingday, and the brief, well-merited, blank failure of the married life of the pair; the scenes at Mrs. Roper's boarding-house; the mental struggles of Cradell between his fear of Lupex and his ambition to be regarded as a gallant, gay Lothario, dangerous to domestic peace-struggles which resemble those of Mr. Winkle when he ran away from Mr. Dowling just as Mr. Dowling was running away from him ;—the office life, in which Johnny Eames distinguishes himself, are all full of the wise, pleasant, knowing humour peculiar to the author. We are disposed to rank"Doctor Thorne” higher than “The Small House." The story of the Scatcherds, father and son, is an abler achievement than anything in the history of the Dales, and Miss Dunstable's rejection of Frank Gresham is Mr. Trollope's masterpiece in one of his principal lines. It is worth remarking how effective this great novelist can be without the aid of picturesqueness. From external nature ho very rarely asks assistance. He looks at it with the eye of a sportsman, or a farmer, and he uses it in that sense to illustrate character, taking his sporting men across country, and his farming men, Lord de Guest, or Lucius Mason, round the fields and farmyards; but he sets no pictures of sentiment or passion in a framework of beautiful Nature. The most rustic sentimental incident in all his novels is the not impres. sive one of Johnny Eames loitering on the little bridge near the small house and cutting Lily Dale's initials on the handrail. Mr. Trollope uses few accessories of any kind, and has no tricks of style. He deals with human beings, human lives, human events, absolutely; and though he sometimes over-crowds, he never over-colours bis canvas. The women whom he draws for us are not, taken en masse, equal to the men. His girl-portraits have too much sameness, for, though the ordinary training of English girls does not admit of much individuality, they have more than he allows them. We can appreciate the difficulties and the temptations of a male novelist in narrating innumerable love-stories, describing proposals, and relating the vagaries of eccentric and vacillating courtships—we can understand that he must suffer from the embarrassment to which his heroes are subjected; but he abuses the position when he allots so disproportionate a share of the love-making to the ladies. They are nice girls generally—not stupid, not sillylady-like and proper when he means them to be so; but they all say the same thing to their lovers, and about them, and they all write letters exactly on the same pattern, just as all Mr. Wilkie Collins's people keep journals, and keep them after an identical method. His young

ladies are more interesting and more various in their relations with each other and the outer world than in their relations with their lovers. Alice Vavasor is contemptible, except as Lady Glencora Palliser's friend, and Nora Rowley is the best of sisters. The avowed flirts are more amusing than the good young ladies, and the matrons are more interesting than either class. Lady Mason, Mrs. Orme, Mrs. Furnival, Lady De Courcy, Mrs. Grantly, Mrs. Crawley, Mrs. Proudie, Lady Clavering, and others, too many to enumerate, are, each for a different reason, more important and pleasant to the reader than the girls. Who would not give all the women in the book, except perhaps poor Lady Glencora, for Aunt Greenow, the delightful widow in “ Can You Forgive Her”? In this case Mr. Trollope has not developed one of his own former characters, he has taken his mother's best creation, the Widow Barnaby, modernized her, trimmed away some of the redundancies of her exuberant vulgarity, retained all her charming characteristics, and fitted her into a sequence of circumstances which exhibits her to perfection. Mrs. Greenow has the florid good looks, the taste for good living, the passion for display, the shrewd, hard, vulgar sense of the consideration and the servility which are to be had for money, the coarse-mindedness and the bouncing

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