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MR. TROLLOPE'S CARICATURE :—RACHEL RAY." WE have heard it maintained,—we think quite erroneously,—that Mr. Trollope's great power as a novelist lies in his cynicism. Now, literary cynicism shows itself in that subtle intellectual affinity for the latent evil in human motives, the predominance of which fills an author's pictures with a pervading flavour of melancholy scorn, and may, for instance, be attributed in very large measure to Mr. Thackeray, as to all genuine satirists. But Mr. Trollope is not a satirist. In many respects his Power fills a place intermediate be- tween the genius of Thackeray and Dickens ; but in this respect especially he inclines rather to Dickens's side of literary power— that his powers fit him less for satire than for caricature. It may, perhaps, be said that the one does not exclude the other,—that Mr. Thackeray has often written something very like broad farce,—as, for example, in "Lovel the Widower,"—and that Mr. Dickens has caricatured sanctimonious vice with that bitterness of spirit which is the peculiar characteristic of satire. Still, though a great satirist generally exaggerates, and must exaggerate, some elements in his pictures, and a great caricaturist generally finds occasion to caricature evil as well as eccentricity, the principle of their genius remains quite distinct. The art of satire consists in a sort of subtle cruelty, that delights in plunging the probe, as if accidentally, into the exposed nerves of selfish feeling, in order to show them quivering and throbbing with a pain to which the patient had affected to be superior ;—the art of caricature, on the other hand, consists,—not in this triumphant exposure of moral poverty and selfishness, but in a fine sense of false proportions, which can tell exactly where a slight exaggera- tion—a slight swelling of one feature,—will make the whole at once supremely like and supremely unlike itself, so as to fill the mind with false analogies and grotesque suggestions. Caricature may have, of course, much of' the effect of ridicule, but it is different in kind from cynical ridicule; for if directed at a vice, instead of mak- ing a hidden wound, its tendency will be to merge the evil in the absurdity. The picture of Becky Sharpe, or even of young Pen- dennis, fills the reader with a distrust of human nature and a scorn even for oneself. The picture of Mr. Pecksniff saying, " Charity, my dear, when you give me my bed-candlestick to-night, remind me to pray for Mr. Jones Chuzzlewit, who has done me an in- jury," makes hypocrisy so absurd and grotesque a quality that, instead of feeling inwardly tainted with it ourselves, we laugh at it as at Chinese perspective. No one thinks it possible he should publicly request that his prayers might be associated with his bed- candlestick, and hence the picture rather relieves one personally from the fear of hypocrisy, while it makes one feel towards the hypocrite rather the amusement caused by pantomime than the sense of inward wounds which the satirist manages to connect with the thrusts of his dissecting-knife.

Now, Mr. Trollope, as he shows himself not only in this clever little tale but in his greatest efforts,—" Barchester Towers," for instance, and "Framley Parsonage,"—though he rarely caricatures, often feels the temptation to caricature, and sometimes yields to it. But we have never seen any sign of that morbid love of ex- posing decay in the root, which is the sign of a great satirist. His sketches are generally exceedingly life-like, painting men as they are, not as they ought to be, and certainly not disguising their selfish weaknesses. But whatever exaggeration there is, is not the morbid magnifying of the latent evil within, but the humorous magnifying of the external grotesqueness, so that his pictures, instead of rendering us uneasy by their inuendoes, oftener make us laugh at their finely managed carica- ture. Instead of a comic mask, such as Dickens puts upon most of his best characters, Mr. Trollope contrives to give us the very fac simile of real life, but with an elastic feature here and there, and the power of either expanding one or con- tracting the other, so that you have every now and then a flash, and only a flash of caricature,—which immediately relapses again into such minute fidelity to nature that our laughter is scarcely ended before we begin to doubt whether it was caricature at all. Such was the caricature of Mr. Slope and Bertie in " Barchester Towers," of Mrs. Proudie in that tale and in " Framley Parsonage," and such, too, is the caricature of Rev. Samuel Prong, and, perhaps, of Mrs. Ray herself, with her "lupine" theory of young men, in the tale before us. There is not only no vestige at all of that malice of feeling towards human nature which constitutes the virus of satire; but there is much of that good-humoured enjoyment of the grotesque side of every human * Roast say. A hovel By Anthony Trollop.. Two who. London : Chapman

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frailty, the natural effect of which is,—less cynicism than a species of worldly complacency with man as lie is,—nnquestion- ably the tendency of Mr. Dickens's writings, and generally of all humourist views of life. No one can long amuse himself with bad or vulgar qualities without in a sense reconciling himself to their existence, even though he makes them ridiculous. You can scarcely gravely condemn what you heartily laugh at. And to laugh heartily and sneer with true satirical inuendo at the same time is utterly impossible.

Rachel Ray stands in literary merit about half-way down the list of Mr. Trollope's works. It is inferior to most of the serials in scope and force, and much inferior to " The Warden" and "Barchester Towers ;" but it will rank higher than " Castle Richmond," or his other Irish tale, and has more finish and more humour, if less power, than "The Bertrams." It works to some extent a new vein, and works it with great ability. The Tappitts of the brewery, in the little Devonshire town of Baslehurst, are people much above the level of Mr•. Moulder and Mr. Kantwise, the commercial travellers whose ways Mr. Trollope made so amusing in ," Orley Farm ;" but they are far from being educated people, and the interest which attaches to their proceedings is apt often to be decidedly of the nature of comedy. Dickens would, probably, have made broad caricature of their life, if he had made it really visible to us at all. Mr. Trollope just touches it with a half-perceptible gleam of caricature here and there, so as to fill us with laughter without falsifying the picture in any material degreo. For example, the following scene takes place in Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt's bed-room, when the lady is bent upon persuading her husband to spend a little more than usual ou his girls' dresses for a coming party :- "Mrs. Tappitt knew that she had done well, and prepared for his din- ner that day a beefsteak pie, made with her own hands. Tappitt was not

altogether a dull man, and understood these little signs. said he,

6 I wonder how much that pie is to cost me Oh, T., how can you say such things As if you didn't have beef-steak pie as often as it's

good for you.'—The pie, however, had its effect, as also did the exceeding boilishness' of the water which was brought in for his gin toddy that night ; and it was known throughout the establishment that papa was in a good humour, and that mamma had been very clever.—' The girls must have had new dresses any way before the month was out,' Mrs. Tappitt said to her husband the next morning, before he had left the conjugal chamber.= Do you mean to say that they're to have gowns made on purpose for this party 2' said the brewer; and it seemed by the tone of his voice that the hot gin and water had lost its kindly effects.

My dear, they must be dressed, you know. I'm sure no girls in Baslehurst cost less in the way of finery. In the ordinary way they'd have had new frocks almost immediately.'—` Bother P Mr. Tappitt was shaving just at this moment, and dashed aside his razor for a moment to utter this one word. He intended to signify how perfectly well he was aware that a muslin frock prepared for an evening party would not fill the place of a substantial morning dress.—' Well, my dear, I'm sure the gills ain't unreasonable ; nor am I. Five-and-thirty shillings apiece fur them would do it all. And I shan't want anything myself this year in September.'—Now Mr. Tappitt, who was a man of sentiment, always gave his wife some costly article of raiment on the 1st of Septem- ber, calling her his partridge and his bird,—for on that day they had been married. Mrs. Tappitt had frequently offered to intromit the ceremony when calling upon his generosity for other• purposes, but the September gift had always been forthcoming. ' Will thirty-five shillings

apiece do it said he, turning round with his face all covered with lather. Then again he went to work with his razor just under his right ear.— Well, yes ; I think I will. Two pounds each for the three shall do it any way.'—Mr. Tappitt gave a little jump at this increased demand for fifteen shillings, and not being in a good position for jumping, encountered an unpleasant accident, and uttered a somewhat vehement

exclamation. There,' said he, ' now I've cut myself, and it's your fault. Oh dear ; oh dear I When I cut myself there it never stops. It's no good doing that, Margaret ; it only makes it worse. There ; now you've got the soap and blood all down inside my shirt.'"

Now, amusing as this is, it would not be even in the faintest degree caricature, but for the subtle exaggeration given to the physical facts of the interview by pointing out to the reader much that would never have even attracted the attention of Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. The parties to this dialogue would certainly not have noted for themselves Mr. Tappitt's various shaving manoeuvres,—for instance, that "he went to work again with his razor just under his right ear,"—and the only caricature consists in the funny distortion of the moral proportions of the interview caused by narrating it not as it would have appeared to Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt, but as an invisible spectator unaccustomed to Mr. Tappitt's shaving operations would inevitably have seen it. Mr. Trollope has used the same valuable expedient before, in recording the interviews between Archdeacon Grantly and . his wife in the sanctuary of their bed-room, and with no less success. It is ono of the subtlest instruments of caricature to vary the proportions of events by introducing an invisible and impossible witness of an interview, and describing all that he would notice, and in the way in which lie would notice it, instead of viewing everything through the minds of those naturally present. No exaggeration of fact is thus needed,—but the lights and shadows being thrown in quite a new and impossible direction, the caricature is as real as if there were real ex- aggeration.

In the sketch of the Rev. Mr. Prong—a clergyman who has never been through any regular University course,—in short, one of Dr. Bailey's Birkenhead clergymen, we suppose, there is more of the ordinary kind of caricature, namely, conscious, though slight, exaggeration of some of the features. The scene in which Mrs. Prime breaks off her engagement to Mr. Prong is as good as any- thing of the kind in Dickens's own writings ; but then the reverend gentleman's carefully closed eyes, with the corner open to watch Mrs. Prime's movements, are painted not from life, but from Mr. Trollope's own laughing imagination, which has shut close, for his own comic purposes, the drooping lids of pastoral humility. And so, too, we think Mrs. Ray's unconscious humour in commenting to her second daughter on her eldest daughter's engagement to Mr. Prong is unintentionally caricatured a little in the style of Dickens's picture of Mrs. Nickleby :--

"'Your sister is going to be married to Mr. Prong.'—' Dolly ?'— Yea, my dear. It's a great venture ; but if any woman can live happy with such a man, she can do so. She's troubled about her money;

that's Marry Mr. Prong ! I suppose she may if she likes. Oh dear ! I can't think I shall ever like him.'—' I never spoke to him yet, so, perhaps, I oughtn't to say; but he doesn't look a nice man to my eyes. But what are looks, my dear ? They're only skin deep ; we ought all of us to remember that; always, Rachel; they're only skin deep; and if, as she says, she only wants to work in the vineyard, she won't mind his being so short. I dare say he's honest ; at least, I'm sure I hope he is.''

That happy association of thoughts between Mrs. Prime's pious and disinterested wish to work in her master's vineyard, and the insignificant stature of her betrothed follow-labourer, could scarcely have fallen without conscious humour from any old lady's lips. The unconscious, rambling way in which so happy a stroke of fun is given, is a touch exactly in the school of Dickens.

Mr. Trollope's general style of portraiture, however, is so real, so like actual life, and shows an observation of so much more intel- lectual vigilance than Dickens, that most people would be much more inclined to liken him to Thackeray. And as a finished painter of manners in all classes of life, there is, of course, no other novelist in the present day with whom he can better be compared. But he is a painter not only of a thinner but of an entirely differ- ent school. Mr. Thackeray paints social manners with a dash of irony. He exposes all the weak places, and cares little for the posi- tive side of the delineation, thinking less of the characteristic feel- ings any particular manner expresses than of the common selfish- ness it fails to conceal. He gives the local colour, the class or• in- dividual manner, to perfection, but his interest is in showing that, after all, it converges to the same centre with any other class or individual manner,—that they are all rays proceeding from the same hollow centre, and, if followed carefully, unite in the Vanilas Vanitatum after all. Mr. Trollope, on the other bend, lies a real independent interest in the differences of feeling and modes of thought which different social stations, different professions in life, differences of primary character, cause. His picture of Luke Rowan, —who is, by the way, a new and much pleasanter edition of Lucius Mason,—Lucius Mason softened into a man whom it is possible to love, instead of one whom it is a duty to dislike,—is really an admirable sketch. He is a bold, self- reliant, clever young man, not, on the whole, selfish, but with an impatient, overbearing character, and a mind honestly bent on brewing good beer in the little brewery which had been founded by his great-uncle. There is no caricature in the picture of him, and no tendency to satire. It is a picture honestly drawn from life. And the picture of the puzzled old brewer, Mr. Tappitt, with whom he is to divide the brewery, and whose malignity is so bitterly roused by the young man's attempt to dictate,—though this picture is sometimes allowed to pass into caricature for a momeut,—is scarcely less real. Mr. Tappitt's savage state of mind under the perplexities of his business position even reminds one at times of the fine picture of old Tulliver in George Eliot's " Mill on the Floss," though, of course, as coming from Mr. Trollope, there is lees of depth

and passion, more of mere awkwardness and temper, in the man's character.

On the whole, Rachel Ray will give a great deal of plea- sure, and fairly sustain Mr. Trollope's high reputation. It is, written very carelessly here and there, and the English is at times slovenly. The author tells us, for instance, that " the Tappitts were higher than her in the world, and so were the Griggses ;" and there are several blunders of the same kind, which show how hastily Mr. Trollope has dashed off these clever and lively pages.