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Updated: May 27, 2025
Even without, much humor Trollope's books have been a vast pleasure to me through their simple truthfulness. Perhaps if they were more humorous they would not be so true to the British life and character present in them in the whole length and breadth of its expansive commonplaceness.
The contemptuous manner in which she treated Blackwood and Macmillan, and the indignant dash with which she flung Trollope's last novel down, showed that she had not been yet corrupted by the light reading of the age.
Harding does dine with him very often, which means going to the palace at three and remaining till ten. Barchester Towers "Barchester Towers" shares with "The Warden" the distinction of containing Trollope's most original, freshest, and best work, and in the character of Mr. Proudie a new specimen was added to English fiction.
She will send it here for me." The carriage was at that instant announced. David went down the stairs with Agnes and handed her in. He said nothing. Mrs. Rennes watched the pair from the window and nodded her farewell with much gravity. When David returned to her, he found her reading peacefully Trollope's last novel. It was for these graces that he loved her most.
These are discriminative and thoughtful, while sufficiently cordial in their praise to satisfy even the most exacting American; and at the time of their appearance these books unquestionably did much to soothe the irritation which Mrs. Trollope's hard hitting had provoked.
She read Sismondi's History of the Italian Republics, Tenneman's History of Philosophy, T.A. Trollope's Beata, Hallam on the Study of Roman Law in the Middle Ages, Gibbon on the Revival of Greek Learning, Burlamachi's Life of Savonarola; also Villari's life of the great preacher, Mrs.
Oh the quaint, delightful old hedge-lined road, deep down below the level of the fields on either side a green lane shut in with fragrance and delicious quiet! The hedges, perched upon the bank, tower high above our heads, and there is no break in them save at rustic gates. We meet characters on the road who have just stepped out of Trollope's novels.
Roby took this rebuke good-humouredly. She had meant, she owned to glance through the book; but she had been so absorbed in a novel of Trollope's that "No one reads Trollope now," Mrs. Ballinger interrupted impatiently. Mrs. Roby looked pained. "I'm only just beginning," she confessed. "And does he interest you?" Mrs. Plinth inquired. "He amuses me." "Amusement," said Mrs.
Proudie, who was so well known and so little loved by the readers of Mr. Trollope's novels, is one of those occasions which ought not to be allowed to pass away without being improved. To many men it will suggest many things. She was a type. As a type ought to be, she was perfect and full-blown. But her characteristics enter into other women in varying degrees, and with all sorts of minor colors.
I wonder whether it be really true, as I have more than once seen suggested, that the publication of Anthony Trollope's autobiography in some degree accounts for the neglect into which he and his works fell so soon after his death. I should like to believe it, for such a fact would be, from one point of view, a credit to "the great big stupid public."
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