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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
156
I
understand,
far
better
than
most
men,
what
I
owe
to
the
labour
of
others.
This
money
which
I
"draw"
at
the
four
quarters
of
the
year,
in
a
sense
falls
to
me
from
heaven;
but
I
know
very
well
that
every
drachm
is
sweated
from
human
pores.
Not,
thank
goodness,
with
the
declared
tyranny
of
basest
capitalism;
I
mean
only
that
it
is
the
product
of
human
labour;
perhaps
wholesome,
but
none
the
less
compulsory.
Look
far
enough,
and
it
means
muscular
toil,
that
swinking
of
the
ruder
man
which
supports
all
the
complex
structure
of
our
life.
When
I
think
of
him
thus,
the
man
of
the
people
earns
my
gratitude.
That
it
is
gratitude
from
afar,
that
I
never
was,
and
never
shall
be,
capable
of
democratic
fervour,
is
a
characteristic
of
my
mind
which
I
long
ago
accepted
as
final.
I
have
known
revolt
against
the
privilege
of
wealth
(can
I
not
remember
spots
in
London
where
I
have
stood,
savage
with
misery,
looking
at
the
prosperous
folk
who
passed?),
but
I
could
never
feel
myself
at
one
with
the
native
poor
among
whom
I
dwelt.
And
for
the
simplest
reason;
I
came
to
know
them
too
well.
He
who
cultivates
his
enthusiasm
amid
graces
and
comforts
may
nourish
an
illusion
with
regard
to
the
world
below
him
all
his
life
long,
and
I
do
not
deny
that
he
may
be
the
better
for
it;
for
me,
no
illusion
was
possible.
I
knew
the
poor,
and
I
knew
that
their
aims
were
not
mine.
I
knew
that
the
kind
of
life
(such
a
modest
life!)
which
I
should
have
accepted
as
little
short
of
the
ideal,
would
have
been
to
them--if
they
could
have
been
made
to
understand
it--a
weariness
and
a
contempt.
To
ally
myself
with
them
against
the
"upper
world"
would
have
been
mere
dishonesty,
or
sheer
despair.
What
they
at
heart
desired,
was
to
me
barren;
what
I
coveted,
was
to
them
for
ever
incomprehensible.
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