resting novelettes, ‘Nina Balatka’ and ‘Linda Tressel,’ contributed to ‘Blackwood's Magazine’ in 1867 and 1868. They appeared anonymously, and, as no one thought of crediting Trollope with the knowledge they evince of Prague and Nuremberg respectively, their authorship remained unsuspected until discovered by the sagacity of R. H. Hutton, editor of the ‘Spectator.’ In fact Trollope had been recently visiting both these cities, yet the versatility of this most English of writers in adapting himself to a foreign atmosphere was remarkable. They were followed by ‘He knew he was Right’ (1869) and ‘The Vicar of Bullhampton’ (1870).
In 1868 Trollope, although retired from the post-office, was sent to Washington to negotiate a postal convention, in which he succeeded. In the winter of the same year he became a candidate for the representation of Beverley in parliament; he was defeated by unscrupulous bribery, but had the satisfaction of seeing the borough disfranchised in consequence. In 1870 he wrote a biography of Cæsar for Blackwood's ‘Ancient Classics,’ and in 1879 one of Thackeray for ‘English Men of Letters’—labours of love, the undertaking of which was more creditable than the performance. In 1875–6 he wrote the autobiography, published after his death, which is the main authority for his life. It is nearly as remarkable an instance of frank candour as of innocent vanity; but there is too much sermonising, and the book would gain greatly by compression. Trollope went on writing till disabled in November 1882 by a stroke of paralysis, which proved fatal on 6 Dec. He had latterly resided at Harting, a village on the confines of Sussex and Hampshire, but continued to be a frequent traveller. He was survived by his widow and by two sons.
His later novels included: ‘Mary Gresley’ (1871), ‘Ralph the Heir’ (1871), ‘The Golden Lion of Granpère’ (1872), ‘Harry Heathcote: a Story of Australian Bush Life’ (1874), ‘Lady Anna’ (1874), ‘John Caldigate’ (1879), ‘An Eye for an Eye’ (1879), ‘Cousin Henry’ (1879), ‘The Duke's Children’ (1880), ‘Ayala's Angel’ (1881), ‘Dr. Wortle's School’ (1881), ‘The Fixed Period’ (1882), ‘Kept in the Dark’ (1882), ‘Marion Fay’ (1882). At the time of his death a novel, ‘Mr. Scarborough's Family,’ was running through ‘All the Year Round,’ and he left one, ‘The Land-Leaguers,’ nearly, and another, ‘An Old Man's Love,’ entirely complete in manuscript. All were published. Up to 1879 Trollope had made nearly 70,000l. by his writings, a result which he considered fairly satisfactory, but not brilliant. This looks like cupidity; in fact, however, reckoning from the date of his first publication, his annual receipts had not greatly exceeded 2,000l., a sum such as is often paid to a barrister in a single case. The higher rewards of successful authorship were valued by him below their worth.
Trollope is a master of humour and pathos. His best novels keep the reader for pages together in a round of delighted amusement, and when he chooses to be pathetic he affects the reader with sympathy and compassion. His favourite situation of this kind, the agony of some erring man who has from weakness deeply compromised himself, but who still trembles on the verge between ruin and redemption, appeals to the sympathies with much tragic power. Talent such as this almost amounts to genius, and yet Trollope was no genius; he never creates—he only depicts. His views of his art were of the most material description; he insists that the author is a mere workman; ridicules the idea of an extraneous inspiring influence; and scoffs at the man who cannot rise regularly at half-past five and write 2,500 words before breakfast, as he did. His work, accordingly, is mechanical, and devoid of all poetical and spiritual qualities. But within its own limits it is not only strong but wonderful. If to represent reality is to be a realist, Trollope is one of the greatest realists that ever wrote. His absolute fidelity to fact is miraculous; never does one of his innumerable personages utter anything inconsistent with his character, or behave in any given situation otherwise than the character and the situation require. His success in delineating the members of social classes, such as the episcopal, of which he can have had but little personal knowledge, is most extraordinary, and seems to suggest not merely preternatural quickness of observation and retentiveness of memory, but some special instinct. His plots are indifferent, his diction is careless, he is full of technical defects, his penetration goes but a little way below the surface; but no one has exhibited the outward aspects of the England of his day—saints and sages excluded on the one hand, and abject vagabonds on the other—as Anthony Trollope has done. His works may fall into temporary oblivion, but when the twentieth century desires to estimate the nineteenth, they will be disinterred and studied with an attention accorded to no contemporary work of the kind, except, perhaps, George Eliot's ‘Middlemarch.’
In form Trollope was burly, in manner boisterous. His vociferous roughness repelled many, but was the disguise of real
