 was a small, glass-doored bookcase,
full of volumes. They were all of Richard's purchasing; to survey them was to
understand the man, at all events on his intellectual side. Without exception
they belonged to that order of literature which, if studied exclusively and for
its own sake, - as here it was, - brands a man indelibly, declaring at once the
incompleteness of his education and the deficiency of his instincts. Social,
political, religious, - under these three heads the volumes classed themselves,
and each class was represented by productions of the extreme school. The books
which a bright youth of fair opportunities reads as a matter of course, rejoices
in for a year or two, then throws aside for ever, were here treasured to be the
guides of a lifetime. Certain writers of the last century, long ago become only
historically interesting, were for Richard an armoury whence he girded himself
for the battles of the day; cheap reprints or translations of Malthus, of Robert
Owen, of Volney's Ruins, of Thomas Paine, of sundry works of Voltaire, ranked
upon his shelves. Moreover, there was a large collection of pamphlets, titled
wonderfully and of yet more remarkable contents, the authoritative utterances of
contemporary gentlemen - and ladies - who made it the end of their existence to
prove: that there cannot by any possibility be such a person as Satan; that the
story of creation contained in the Book of Genesis is on no account to be
received; that the begetting of children is a most deplorable oversight; that to
eat flesh is wholly unworthy of a civilised being; that if every man and woman
performed their quota of the world's labour it would be necessary to work for
one hour and thirty-seven minutes daily, no jot longer, and that the author, in
each case, is the one person capable of restoring dignity to a down-trodden race
and happiness to a blasted universe. Alas, alas! On this food had Richard
Mutimer pastured his soul since he grew to manhood, on this and this only.
English literature was to him a sealed volume; poetry he scarcely knew by name;
of history he was worse than ignorant, having looked at this period and that
through distorting media, and congratulating himself on his clear vision because
he saw men as trees walking; the bent of his mind would have led him to natural
science, but opportunities of instruction were lacking, and the chosen directors
of his prejudice taught him to regard every fact, every discovery, as for or
against something.
    A library of pathetic significance
