Mr. Trollope's greatest value we take to be that he is so purely a
novelist. The chief requisite for writing a novel in the present age
seems to be that the writer should be everything else. It implies that
the story-telling gift is very well in its way, but that the inner
substance of a tale must repose on some direct professional experience.
This fashion is of very recent date. Formerly the novelist had no
personality; he was a simple chronicler; his accidental stand-point was
as impertinent as the painter's attitude before his canvas. But now the
main question lies in the pose, not of the model, but of the artist. It
will fare ill with the second-rate writer of fiction, unless he can give
conclusive proof that he is well qualified in certain practical
functions. And the public is very vigilant on this point. It has become
wonderfully acute in discriminating true and false lore. The critic's
office is gradually reduced to a search for inaccuracies. We do not stop
to weigh these truths; we merely indicate them. But we confess, that, if
Mr. Trollope is somewhat dear to us, it is because they are not true of
him.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367