Lab
Library
Journal
Shop
Sign in
to keep
Share image
1
235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
170
XXI.
Is
there,
at
this
moment,
any
boy
of
twenty,
fairly
educated,
but
without
means,
without
help,
with
nothing
but
the
glow
in
his
brain
and
steadfast
courage
in
his
heart,
who
sits
in
a
London
garret,
and
writes
for
dear
life?
There
must
be,
I
suppose;
yet
all
that
I
have
read
and
heard
of
late
years
about
young
writers,
shows
them
in
a
very
different
aspect.
No
garretteers,
these
novelists
and
journalists
awaiting
their
promotion.
They
eat--and
entertain
their
critics--at
fashionable
restaurants;
they
are
seen
in
expensive
seats
at
the
theatre;
they
inhabit
handsome
flats--photographed
for
an
illustrated
paper
on
the
first
excuse.
At
the
worst,
they
belong
to
a
reputable
club,
and
have
garments
which
permit
them
to
attend
a
garden
party
or
an
evening
"at
home"
without
attracting
unpleasant
notice.
Many
biographical
sketches
have
I
read,
during
the
last
decade,
making
personal
introduction
of
young
Mr.
This
or
young
Miss
That,
whose
book
was--as
the
sweet
language
of
the
day
will
have
it--"booming";
but
never
one
in
which
there
was
a
hint
of
stern
struggle,
of
the
pinched
stomach
and
frozen
fingers.
I
surmise
that
the
path
of
"literature"
is
being
made
too
easy.
Doubtless
it
is
a
rare
thing
nowadays
for
a
lad
whose
education
ranks
him
with
the
upper
middle
class
to
find
himself
utterly
without
resources,
should
he
wish
to
devote
himself
to
the
profession
of
letters.
And
there
is
the
root
of
the
matter;
writing
has
come
to
be
recognized
as
a
profession,
almost
as
cut-
and-dried
as
church
or
law;
a
lad
may
go
into
it
with
full
parental
approval,
with
ready
avuncular
support.
I
heard
not
long
ago
of
an
eminent
lawyer,
who
had
paid
a
couple
of
hundred
per
annum
for
his
son's
instruction
in
the
art
of
fiction--yea,
the
art
of
fiction--by
a
not
very
brilliant
professor
of
that
art.
Really,
when
one
comes
to
think
of
it,
an
astonishing
fact,
a
fact
vastly
significant.
Starvation,
it
is
true,
does
not
necessarily
produce
fine
literature;
but
one
feels
uneasy
about
these
carpet-authors.
To
the
two
or
three
who
have
a
measure
of
conscience
and
vision,
I
could
wish,
as
the
best
thing,
some
calamity
which
would
leave
them
friendless
in
the
streets.
They
would
perish,
perhaps.
But
set
that
possibility
against
the
all
but
certainty
of
their
present
prospect--fatty
degeneration
of
the
soul;
and
is
it
not
acceptable?
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
