This mortal plane of things never
dissolved before his gaze and revealed the mysteries of absolute Being;
his heavens were never rolled up as a scroll, and his earth had no bubbles
as the water hath. He took things as he found them; and he never found
them out. But if the light that never was on sea or land does not
illuminate the writings of Mr. Trollope, there is generally plenty of that
other kind of light with which, after all, the average reader is more
familiar, and which not a few, perhaps, prefer to the transcendental
lustre. There is no modern novelist who has more clearly than Trollope
defined to his own apprehension his own literary capabilities and
limitations. He is thoroughly acquainted with both his fortes and his
foibles; and so sound is his good sense, that he is seldom beguiled into
toiling with futile ambition after effects that are beyond him. His proper
domain is a sufficiently wide one; he is inimitably at home here; and when
he invites us there to visit him, we may be sure of getting good and
wholesome entertainment. The writer's familiarity with his characters
communicates itself imperceptibly to the reader; there are no difficult or
awkward introductions; the toning of the picture (to use the painter's
phrase) is unexceptionable; and if it be rather tinted than colored, the
tints are handled in a workmanlike manner.
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