of whose works we cannot ever know enough, such a one for example
as Shakespeare; others of whose lives we know much, but for whose
works we can have but scant affection: such is Doctor Johnson;
others who are intimate friends in all their aspects, as
Goldsmith and Charles Lamb; yet others, who do not quite come
home to our bosoms, whose writings we cannot entirely approve,
but for whom and for whose works we find a soft place somewhere
in our hearts, and such a one is Anthony Trollope. His novels are
not for every-day reading, any more than are those of Marryat and
Borrow--to take two curious examples. There are times and moods
and places in which it would be quite impossible to read _The
Three Clerks_; others in which this story is almost wholly
delightful. With those who are fond of bed-reading Trollope
should ever be a favourite, and it is no small compliment to say
this, for small is the noble army of authors who have given us
books which can enchant in the witching hour between waking and
slumber. It is probable that all lovers of letters have their
favourite bed-books. Thackeray has charmingly told us of his. Of
the few novels that can really be enjoyed when the reader is
settling down for slumber almost all have been set forth by
writers who--consciously or unconsciously--have placed character
before plot; Thackeray himself, Miss Austen, Borrow, Marryat,
Sterne, Dickens, Goldsmith and--Trollope.

Books are very human in their way, as what else should they be,
children of men and women as they are? Just as with human friends
so with book friends, first impressions are often misleading;
good literary coin sometimes seems to ring untrue, but the
untruth is in the ear of the reader, not of the writer. For
instance, Trollope has many odd and irritating tricks which are