The Sun.
London, England, 1863-12-29 00:00:00

MR, ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

Mr. Anthony Trollope, as the novelist of com-
mon sense, writes with a shrewdness and a sobriety,
yet with a rush and fullness of thought that satis-
fies the intellect while seeming but to tickle our
curiosity. He is an immense favourite with the
most intelligent class of novel readers. He never
soars very high, nor digs very deep, but he hardly
ever disappoints; we can always rely upon him for
a good story well sustained, full of life and not defi-
cient in ideas. In one respect he reminds us more
than any other writer of Defoe. It is a common-
place of criticism that Defoe wanted imagination,
that never was there so great a writer of fiction
who so palpably displayed such a deficiency. It
would be difficult to define what is meant by this,
because nobody has yet been able to define what is
meant by imagination. Imagination is the terra
incognita of the mind. One metaphysician describes
it as memory, another as reason, another as passion,
a fourth as a combination of the three. The philo-
sophers cannot agree as to its nature, and we are
not now going to digress into a discussion of what
it really is. We dare say that on a close analysis
Defoe would be found to have imagination of his
own acting according to its own laws. We are
now, however, speaking popularly, and according
to the phrases of popular criticism, Defoe with all
his great power was singularly void of imagination.
He could call up a scene or describe a series of
events with a hard prosaic accuracy, which, how-
ever it might command our interest, is supposed to
be independent of imagination. On this level stands
Mr. Anthony Trollope. He abjures ornaments,
avoids the play of fancy, is purposely plain ; but on
the good road, straight and level and well beaten,
he bowls along at a rattling pace. He may not
suggest much ; but he is so clear that we do not
feel the want of suggestions. He has something to
say and he says it fully. He never spins a yarn
into gossamer. Oat it comes, sharp and clear and
solid, with a force of manner which in Yankee slang
is called " vim," and in English slang is known as
"go."—Times.

The Governor-General of India. Truth
Stranger than Fiction.

(Front the Edsnburgh Witness)

The following striking statement, which we have
from a most intelligent correspondent, is full of in.
terest :—" More than half a century ago the affairs
of a worthy draper in the town of Coleraine, in the
county of Londonderry, got embarrassed. He sent
his son, who assisted him in the business, to Man-
chester and Leeds to arrange with his creditors.
The young man was harshly received ; and, after
having failed to effect a settlement, arrived at Liver-
pool on his way home. His honourable spirit was
lacerated by the treatment he had met with, and,
dreading still more the disgrace and reproach he
expected to encounter on his return to his native
town, he, in a fit of desperation, enlisted as a pri-
vate soldier. The young draper's regiment was
ordered out to India, where his good conduct soon
brought him into notice, and the excellent educa-
tion which he had received paved the way for his
promotion. He rose step by step until he reached
the rank of colonel. He served bis country with
honour, and in course of time gave two sons to the
military service, having first given them to the
Lord, and imbued their youthful minds with Chris-

tian principles. Their valour and military accom-
plishments shed lustre on that earnest piety by
which they were characterised. The two young
soldiers to whom we refer were Sir John Lawrence,
now the Governor. General of India, and the late
Sir Henry Lawrence, known as the saNiour of
Lucknow. Both of them have done honour and
good service to their country, and neither of them
were ashamed of the Cross of Christ. It is gratify-
ing to find that neither piety nor humble birth will
prevent talent and worth from reaching the highest
offices and honours in the gift of the British Crown.
The grand uncle of the Governor-General of India
still lives as a respectable small farmer in the north
of the county of Antrim, about two miles from the
fashionable watering place of Portrush, and five
miles from the Giant's Causeway.