The Three Clerks

Three Clerks, The

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Title: The Three Clerks
Author: Anthony Trollope
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THE THREE CLERKS
BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE

ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Born London, April 24, 1815 Died London, December 6, 1882

INTRODUCTION
There is the proper mood and the just environment for the reading as
well as for the writing of works of fiction, and there can be no better
place for the enjoying of a novel by Anthony Trollope than under a tree
in Kensington Gardens of a summer day. Under a tree in the avenue
that reaches down from the Round Pond to the Long Water. There,
perhaps more than anywhere else, lingers the early Victorian
atmosphere. As we sit beneath our tree, we see in the distance the dun,

red-brick walls of Kensington Palace, where one night Princess
Victoria was awakened to hear that she was Queen; there in quaint,
hideously ugly Victorian rooms are to be seen Victorian dolls and other
playthings; the whole environment is early Victorian. Here to the
mind's eye how easy it is to conjure up ghosts of men in baggy trousers
and long flowing whiskers, of prim women in crinolines, in hats with
long trailing feathers and with ridiculous little parasols, or with
Grecian- bends and chignons--church-parading to and fro beneath the
trees or by the water's edge--perchance, even the fascinating Lady
Crinoline and the elegant Mr. Macassar Jones, whose history has been
written by Clerk Charley in the pages we are introducing to the 'gentle
reader'. As a poetaster of an earlier date has written:--
Where Kensington high o'er the neighbouring lands 'Midst green and
sweets, a royal fabric, stands, And sees each spring, luxuriant in her
bowers, A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers, The dames of
Britain oft in crowds repair To gravel walks, and unpolluted air. Here,
while the town in damps and darkness lies, They breathe in sunshine,
and see azure skies; Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread,
Seems from afar a moving tulip bed, Where rich brocades and glossy
damasks glow, And chintz, the rival of the showery bow.
Indeed, the historian of social manners, when dealing with the
Victorian period, will perforce have recourse to the early volumes of
Punch and to the novels of Thackeray, Dickens, and Trollope.
There are certain authors of whom personally we know little, but 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.