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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
64
I
should
like
to
believe
it.
When
gloomy
evidence
is
thrust
upon
me,
I
often
say
to
myself:
Think
of
the
frequency
of
the
reasonable
man;
think
of
him
everywhere
labouring
to
spread
the
light;
how
is
it
possible
that
such
efforts
should
be
overborne
by
forces
of
blind
brutality,
now
that
the
human
race
has
got
so
far?--Yes,
yes;
but
this
mortal
whom
I
caress
as
reasonable,
as
enlightened
and
enlightening,
this
author,
investigator,
lecturer,
or
studious
gentleman,
to
whose
coat-tails
I
cling,
does
he
always
represent
justice
and
peace,
sweetness
of
manners,
purity
of
life--all
the
things
which
makes
for
true
civilization?
Here
is
a
fallacy
of
bookish
thought.
Experience
offers
proof
on
every
hand
that
vigorous
mental
life
may
be
but
one
side
of
a
personality,
of
which
the
other
is
moral
barbarism.
A
man
may
be
a
fine
archaeologist,
and
yet
have
no
sympathy
with
human
ideals.
The
historian,
the
biographer,
even
the
poet,
may
be
a
money-market
gambler,
a
social
toady,
a
clamorous
Chauvinist,
or
an
unscrupulous
wire-puller.
As
for
"leaders
of
science,"
what
optimist
will
dare
to
proclaim
them
on
the
side
of
the
gentle
virtues?
And
if
one
must
needs
think
in
this
way
of
those
who
stand
forth,
professed
instructors
and
inspirers,
what
of
those
who
merely
listen?
The
reading-public--oh,
the
reading-public!
Hardly
will
a
prudent
statistician
venture
to
declare
that
one
in
every
score
of
those
who
actually
read
sterling
books
do
so
with
comprehension
of
their
author.
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