'
The sense of it enables us to understand to the full that semi-ironical and
bitter, yet not wholly unamused passage, in _Ryecroft_:--
'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 struggles, of the pinched
stomach and frozen fingers.
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