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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
233
In
my
own
country,
dare
I
think
that
they
are
fewer
than
of
old?
Some
I
have
known;
they
give
me
assurance
of
the
many,
near
and
far.
Hearts
of
noble
strain,
intrepid,
generous;
the
clear
head,
the
keen
eye;
a
spirit
equal
alike
to
good
fortune
and
to
ill.
I
see
the
true-born
son
of
England,
his
vigour
and
his
virtues
yet
unimpaired.
In
his
blood
is
the
instinct
of
honour,
the
scorn
of
meanness;
he
cannot
suffer
his
word
to
be
doubted,
and
his
hand
will
give
away
all
he
has
rather
than
profit
by
a
plebeian
parsimony.
He
is
frugal
only
of
needless
speech.
A
friend
staunch
to
the
death;
tender
with
a
grave
sweetness
to
those
who
claim
his
love;
passionate,
beneath
stoic
seeming,
for
the
causes
he
holds
sacred.
A
hater
of
confusion
and
of
idle
noise,
his
place
is
not
where
the
mob
presses;
he
makes
no
vaunt
of
what
he
has
done,
no
boastful
promise
of
what
he
will
do;
when
the
insensate
cry
is
loud,
the
counsel
of
wisdom
overborne,
he
will
hold
apart,
content
with
plain
work
that
lies
nearest
to
his
hand,
building,
strengthening,
whilst
others
riot
in
destruction.
He
was
ever
hopeful,
and
deems
it
a
crime
to
despair
of
his
country.
"Non,
si
male
nunc,
et
olim
sic
erit."
Fallen
on
whatever
evil
days
and
evil
tongues,
he
remembers
that
Englishman
of
old,
who,
under
every
menace,
bore
right
onwards;
and
like
him,
if
so
it
must
be,
can
make
it
his
duty
and
his
service
to
stand
and
wait.
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