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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
34
Without
seeking
for
Utopia,
think
what
a
man's
youth
might
be.
I
suppose
not
one
in
every
thousand
uses
half
the
possibilities
of
natural
joy
and
delightful
effort
which
lie
in
those
years
between
seventeen
and
seven-
and-twenty.
All
but
all
men
have
to
look
back
upon
beginnings
of
life
deformed
and
discoloured
by
necessity,
accident,
wantonness.
If
a
young
man
avoid
the
grosser
pitfalls,
if
he
keep
his
eye
fixed
steadily
on
what
is
called
the
main
chance,
if,
without
flagrant
selfishness,
he
prudently
subdue
every
interest
to
his
own
(by
"interest"
understanding
only
material
good),
he
is
putting
his
youth
to
profit,
he
is
an
exemplar
and
a
subject
of
pride.
I
doubt
whether,
in
our
civilization,
any
other
ideal
is
easy
of
pursuit
by
the
youngster
face
to
face
with
life.
It
is
the
only
course
altogether
safe.
Yet
compare
it
with
what
might
be,
if
men
respected
manhood,
if
human
reason
were
at
the
service
of
human
happiness.
Some
few
there
are
who
can
look
back
upon
a
boyhood
of
natural
delights,
followed
by
a
decade
or
so
of
fine
energies
honourably
put
to
use,
blended
therewith,
perhaps,
a
memory
of
joy
so
exquisite
that
it
tunes
all
life
unto
the
end;
they
are
almost
as
rare
as
poets.
The
vast
majority
think
not
of
their
youth
at
all,
or,
glancing
backward,
are
unconscious
of
lost
opportunity,
unaware
of
degradation
suffered.
Only
by
contrast
with
this
thick-witted
multitude
can
I
pride
myself
upon
my
youth
of
endurance
and
of
combat.
I
had
a
goal
before
me,
and
not
the
goal
of
the
average
man.
Even
when
pinched
with
hunger,
I
did
not
abandon
my
purposes,
which
were
of
the
mind.
But
contrast
that
starved
lad
in
his
slum
lodging
with
any
fair
conception
of
intelligent
and
zealous
youth,
and
one
feels
that
a
dose
of
swift
poison
would
have
been
the
right
remedy
for
such
squalid
ills.
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