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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
58
Some
one,
no
doubt,
hit
upon
this
definition
of
mine
long
ago.
It
doesn't
matter;
is
it
the
less
original
with
me?
Not
long
since
I
should
have
fretted
over
the
possibility,
for
my
living
depended
on
an
avoidance
of
even
seeming
plagiarism.
Now
I
am
at
one
with
Lord
Foppington,
and
much
disposed
to
take
pleasure
in
the
natural
sprouts
of
my
own
wit--without
troubling
whether
the
same
idea
has
occurred
to
others.
Suppose
me,
in
total
ignorance
of
Euclid,
to
have
discovered
even
the
simplest
of
his
geometrical
demonstrations,
shall
I
be
crestfallen
when
some
one
draws
attention
to
the
book?
These
natural
sprouts
are,
after
all,
the
best
products
of
our
life;
it
is
a
mere
accident
that
they
may
have
no
value
in
the
world's
market.
One
of
my
conscious
efforts,
in
these
days
of
freedom,
is
to
live
intellectually
for
myself.
Formerly,
when
in
reading
I
came
upon
anything
that
impressed
or
delighted
me,
down
it
went
in
my
note-book,
for
"use."
I
could
not
read
a
striking
verse,
or
sentence
of
prose,
without
thinking
of
it
as
an
apt
quotation
in
something
I
might
write--one
of
the
evil
results
of
a
literary
life.
Now
that
I
strive
to
repel
this
habit
of
thought,
I
find
myself
asking:
To
what
end,
then,
do
I
read
and
remember?
Surely
as
foolish
a
question
as
ever
man
put
to
himself.
You
read
for
your
own
pleasure,
for
your
solace
and
strengthening.
Pleasure,
then,
purely
selfish?
Solace
which
endures
for
an
hour,
and
strengthening
for
no
combat?
Ay,
but
I
know,
I
know.
With
what
heart
should
I
live
here
in
my
cottage,
waiting
for
life's
end,
were
it
not
for
those
hours
of
seeming
idle
reading?
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