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Updated: May 9, 2025
The boats dropped aft amid a loud miscellaneous outcry. Mr. Pointer was already examining the horizon. Captain Scottie, awakened to the situation, was uttering the language of theology but not the purport. "Don't stand up in the boats," megaphoned Gissing. "You're quite all right, there's a ship on the way already. I wirelessed last night." He slid the telegraph to slow, half, and then full.
But New Grub Street is rich in memorable characters and situations to an extent unusual in Gissing; Biffen in his garret a piece of genre almost worthy of Dickens; Reardon the sterile plotter, listening in despair to the neighbouring workhouse clock of St. Mary-le-bone; the matutinal interview between Alfred Yule and the threadbare surgeon, a vignette worthy of Smollett.
A friend writes: 'I well remember the appearance of the MS. Gissing wrote then on thin foreign paper in a small, thin handwriting, without correction. 'A street organ began to play in front of a public-house close by. Grail drew near; there were children forming a dance, and he stood to watch them. Do you know that music of the obscure ways, to which children dance?
Unconsciously he stirred, stretching his legs deeply into the comfortable nest of his couch. The springs twanged. Simultaneous clamours! The puppies were awake. They yelled to be let out from the cribs. This was the time of the morning frolic. Gissing had learned that there is only one way to deal with the almost inexhaustible energy of childhood.
The plot is moderately good, and lingers in the memory with some obstinacy. The problem is more open to criticism, and it has indeed been criticised from more points of view than one. 'In New Grub Street, says one of his critics, 'Mr. Gissing has endeavoured to depict the shady side of literary life in an age dominated by the commercial spirit.
The Bishop, in his airy and indefinite way, had not made it quite plain that Gissing was only a lay reader; and in spite of his embarrassed disclaimers, he found himself introduced by Mr. Airedale to the country-house clique as the new "vicar." Fortunately he still had much of the money he had saved from his salary as General Manager.
"There is a little matter that we have not discussed. The question of salary." Mr. Beagle looked thoughtfully out of the window. "Thirty dollars a week," he said. After all, Gissing thought, it will only take four weeks to pay for what I have spent on clothes. There was some dramatic nerve in Gissing's nature that responded eloquently to the floorwalking job.
Carry on and do your duty; keep a sharp lookout, all gear shipshape, salute the bridge when going on watch, that is the whole duty of a good officer. That's plenty theology for a seaman." But the skipper's eye turned brightly toward his bookshelves, where he had several volumes of sermons, mostly of a Calvinist sort. "I am not afraid of work," said Gissing. "But I'm looking for horizons.
Gissing. I think the Bishop is expecting me." Bishop Borzoi was an impressive figure immensely tall and slender, with long, narrow ascetic face and curly white hair. He was surprisingly cordial. "Ah, Mr. Gissing?" he said. "Sit down, sir. I know Beagle and Company very well. Too well, in fact-Mrs. Borzoi has an account there." Gissing, feeling rather aghast and tentative, had no comment ready.
But the passengers, though unobservant, began to murmur; especially those who had wagered that the Pomerania would dock on the eighth day. The world itself, they complained, was created in seven days, and why should so fine a ship take longer to cross a comparatively small ocean? Urbanely, over coffee and petite fours, Gissing argued with them.
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