Had he succumbed, he would often have
fallen away from sober fidelity to Nature. As the matter stands, his
great felicity is that he never goes beyond his depth,--and this, not so
much from fear, as from ignorance. His insight is anything but profound.
He has no suspicion of deeper waters. Through the whole course of the
present story, he never attempts to fathom Crosbie's feelings, to
retrace his motives, to refine upon his character. Mr. Trollope has
learned much in what is called the realist school; but he has not taken
lessons in psychology. Even while looking into Crosbie's heart, we never
lose sight of Courcy Castle, of his Club, of his London life; we cross
the threshold of his inner being, we knock at the door of his soul, but
we remain within call of Lily Dale and the Lady Alexandrina. We never
see Crosbie the man, but always Crosbie the gentleman, the Government
clerk. We feel at times as if we had a right to know him better,--to
know him at least as well as he knew himself. It is significant of Mr.
Trollope's temperament--a temperament, as it seems to us, eminently
English--that he can have told such a story with so little preoccupation
with certain spiritual questions.
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