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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
172
XXII.
I
wonder
whether
it
be
really
true,
as
I
have
more
than
once
seen
suggested,
that
the
publication
of
Anthony
Trollope's
autobiography
in
some
degree
accounts
for
the
neglect
into
which
he
and
his
works
fell
so
soon
after
his
death.
I
should
like
to
believe
it,
for
such
a
fact
would
be,
from
one
point
of
view,
a
credit
to
"the
great
big
stupid
public."
Only,
of
course,
from
one
point
of
view;
the
notable
merits
of
Trollope's
work
are
unaffected
by
one's
knowledge
of
how
that
work
was
produced;
at
his
best
he
is
an
admirable
writer
of
the
pedestrian
school,
and
this
disappearance
of
his
name
does
not
mean
final
oblivion.
Like
every
other
novelist
of
note,
he
had
two
classes
of
admirers--those
who
read
him
for
the
sake
of
that
excellence
which
here
and
there
he
achieved,
and
the
undistinguishing
crowd
which
found
in
him
a
level
entertainment.
But
it
would
be
a
satisfaction
to
think
that
"the
great
big
stupid"
was
really,
somewhere
in
its
secret
economy,
offended
by
that
revelation
of
mechanical
methods
which
made
the
autobiography
either
a
disgusting
or
an
amusing
book
to
those
who
read
it
more
intelligently.
A
man
with
a
watch
before
his
eyes,
penning
exactly
so
many
words
every
quarter
of
an
hour--one
imagines
that
this
picture
might
haunt
disagreeably
the
thoughts
even
of
Mudie's
steadiest
subscriber,
that
it
might
come
between
him
or
her
and
any
Trollopean
work
that
lay
upon
the
counter.
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