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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
153
What
trust
shall
I
repose
in
the
soul
that
serves
me
thus?
Just
as
much,
one
would
say,
as
in
the
senses,
through
which
I
know
all
that
I
can
know
of
the
world
in
which
I
live,
and
which,
for
all
I
can
tell,
may
deceive
me
even
more
grossly
in
their
common
use
than
they
do
on
certain
occasions
where
I
have
power
to
test
them;
just
as
much,
and
no
more--if
I
am
right
in
concluding
that
mind
and
soul
are
merely
subtle
functions
of
body.
If
I
chance
to
become
deranged
in
certain
parts
of
my
physical
mechanism,
I
shall
straightway
be
deranged
in
my
wits;
and
behold
that
Something
in
me
which
"partakes
of
the
eternal"
prompting
me
to
pranks
which
savour
little
of
the
infinite
wisdom.
Even
in
its
normal
condition
(if
I
can
determine
what
that
is)
my
mind
is
obviously
the
slave
of
trivial
accidents;
I
eat
something
that
disagrees
with
me,
and
of
a
sudden
the
whole
aspect
of
life
is
changed;
this
impulse
has
lost
its
force,
and
another
which
before
I
should
not
for
a
moment
have
entertained,
is
all-powerful
over
me.
In
short,
I
know
just
as
little
about
myself
as
I
do
about
the
Eternal
Essence,
and
I
have
a
haunting
suspicion
that
I
may
be
a
mere
automaton,
my
every
thought
and
act
due
to
some
power
which
uses
and
deceives
me.
Why
am
I
meditating
thus,
instead
of
enjoying
the
life
of
the
natural
man,
at
peace
with
himself
and
the
world,
as
I
was
a
day
or
two
ago?
Merely,
it
is
evident,
because
my
health
has
suffered
a
temporary
disorder.
It
has
passed;
I
have
thought
enough
about
the
unthinkable;
I
feel
my
quiet
returning.
Is
it
any
merit
of
mine
that
I
begin
to
be
in
health
once
more?
Could
I,
by
any
effort
of
the
will,
have
shunned
this
pitfall?
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