the raggedest and wretchedest aspect,
dishonoured with foolish scribbling, torn, blotted--no matter, I liked
better to read out of that than out of a copy that was not mine. But I
was guilty at times of mere self-indulgence; a book tempted me, a book
which was not one of those for which I really craved, a luxury which
prudence might bid me forego. As, for instance, my _Jung-Stilling_. It
caught my eye in Holywell Street; the name was familiar to me in
_Wahrheit und Dichtung_, and curiosity grew as I glanced over the pages.
But that day I resisted; in truth, I could not afford the eighteen-pence,
which means that just then I was poor indeed. Twice again did I pass,
each time assuring myself that _Jung-Stilling_ had found no purchaser.
There came a day when I was in funds. I see myself hastening to Holywell
Street (in those days my habitual pace was five miles an hour), I see the
little grey old man with whom I transacted my business--what was his
name?--the bookseller who had been, I believe, a Catholic priest, and
still had a certain priestly dignity about him. He took the volume,
opened it, mused for a moment, then, with a glance at me, said, as if
thinking aloud: "Yes, I wish I had time to read it."

Sometimes I added the labour of a porter to my fasting endured for the
sake of books. At the little shop near Portland Road Station I came upon
a first edition of Gibbon, the price an absurdity--I think it was a
shilling a volume. To possess those clean-paged quartos I would have
sold my coat. As it happened, I had not money enough with me, but
sufficient at home. I was living at Islington. Having spoken with the
bookseller, I walked home, took the cash, walked back again, and--carried
the tomes from the west end of Euston Road to a street in Islington far
beyond the _Angel_. I did it in two journeys--this being the only time
in my life when I thought of Gibbon in avoirdupois. Twice--three times,
reckoning the walk for the money--did I descend Euston Road and climb
Pentonville on that occasion. Of the season and the weather I have no
recollection; my joy in the purchase I had made drove out every other
thought. Except, indeed, of the weight. I had infinite energy, but not
much muscular strength, and the end of the last journey saw me upon a
chair, perspiring, flaccid, aching--exultant!

The well-to-do person would hear this story with astonishment. Why did I
not get the bookseller to send me the volumes?