y_, he let the public into the
story of his method, of his mechanical writing so many words per hour,
of his beginning a new tale the day after he finished the last, of his
having no particular plot, and hardly thinking about a plot, and all
the little trade secrets of his factory, the public felt some disgust
and was almost inclined to think it had been cheated out of its 70,000
pounds.

Anthony Trollope was not a fraud, nor even a mere tradesman. His
reputation may perhaps partially revive, and some of his best work may
be read in the next century. His best work will of course be a mere
residuum of his sixty books, as is the best of nearly all prolific
writers. I am inclined to think the permanent survival may be limited
to the _Barchester_ cycle, with _Orley Farm_ and the two _Phineas
Finns_. In any case, his books will hereafter bear a certain
historical interest, as the best record of actual manners in the higher
English society between 1855 and 1875. That value nothing can take
away, however dull, _connu_, and out of date the books may now seem to
our new youth. It is a curious problem why our new youth persists in
filling its stomach with the poorest trash that is "new"--_i.e._
published in 1895, whilst it will not look at a book that is "old
"--_i.e._ published in 1865, though both are equally unknown to the
young reader. If our new youth ever could bring itself to take up a
book having 1865 on its title-page, it might find in the best of
Anthony Trollope much subtle observation, many manly and womanly
natures, unfailing purity of tone, and wholesome enjoyment.

[1] This anecdote has been doubted, on the ground that such rapid
composition is impossible. But Trollope in his _Autobiography_ asserts
this fact, exactly as he told George Eliot, except that the first half
hour was occupied by re-reading the work of the previous day. The
average morning's work was thus 2500 words, written in two and a half
hours.

X

GEORGE ELIOT

It will be the duty of the more serious criticism of another generation
in some degree to revive the reputation of George Eliot as an abiding
literary force--a reputation which the taste of the hour is rather
disposed to reduce. Five-and-twenty years ago the tendency was towards
excessive praise: many judges, of trained literary insight, proclaimed
her as the greatest genius of the age, one of the brightest stars of
English literature, nay, said some of them, quite