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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
174
A
big,
blusterous,
genial
brute
of
a
Trollope
could
very
fairly
hold
his
own,
and
exact
at
all
events
an
acceptable
share
in
the
profits
of
his
work.
A
shrewd
and
vigorous
man
of
business
such
as
Dickens,
aided
by
a
lawyer
who
was
his
devoted
friend,
could
do
even
better,
and,
in
reaping
sometimes
more
than
his
publisher,
redress
the
ancient
injustice.
But
pray,
what
of
Charlotte
Bronte?
Think
of
that
grey,
pinched
life,
the
latter
years
of
which
would
have
been
so
brightened
had
Charlotte
Bronte
received
but,
let
us
say,
one
third
of
what,
in
the
same
space
of
time,
the
publisher
gained
by
her
books.
I
know
all
about
this;
alas!
no
man
better.
None
the
less
do
I
loathe
and
sicken
at
the
manifold
baseness,
the
vulgarity
unutterable,
which,
as
a
result
of
the
new
order,
is
blighting
our
literary
life.
It
is
not
easy
to
see
how,
in
such
an
atmosphere,
great
and
noble
books
can
ever
again
come
into
being.
May
it,
perhaps,
be
hoped
that
once
again
the
multitude
will
be
somehow
touched
with
disgust?--that
the
market
for
"literary"
news
of
this
costermonger
sort
will
some
day
fail?
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