my own property, on my own shelf. Now and then I have bought a

volume of 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 infiniteenergy, 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? Or, if I could

not wait, was there no omnibus along that London highway? How could
I make the well-to-do person understand that I did not feel able to

afford, that day, one penny more than I had spent on the book? No,
no, such labour-saving expenditure did not come within my scope;

whatever I enjoyed I earned it, literally, by the sweat of my brow.
In those days I hardly knew what it was to travel by omnibus. I

have walked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together
without ever a thought of saving my legs, or my time, by paying for

waftage. Being poor as poor can be, there were certain things I had
to renounce, and this was one of them.

Years after, I sold my first edition of Gibbon for even less than it
cost me; it went with a great many other fine books in folio and

quarto, which I could not drag about with me in my constant
removals; the man who bought them spoke of them as "tomb-stones."

Why has Gibbon no market value? Often has my heart ached with
regret for those quartos. The joy of reading the Decline and Fall

in that fine type! The page was appropriate to the dignity of the
subject; the mere sight of it tuned one's mind. I suppose I could

easily get another copy now; but it would not be to me what that
other was, with its memory of dust and toil.

XIII
There must be several men of spirit and experiences akin to mine who

remember that little book-shop opposite Portland Road Station. It
had a peculiarcharacter; the books were of a solid kind--chiefly

theology and classics--and for the most part those old editions
which are called worthless, which have no bibliopolic value, and

have been supplanted for practical use by modern issues. The
bookseller was very much a gentleman, and this singular fact,

together with the extremely low prices at which his volumes were
marked, sometimes inclined me to think that he kept the shop for

mere love of letters. Things in my eyes inestimable I have
purchased there for a few pence, and I don't think I ever gave more

than a shilling for any volume. As I once had the opportunity of
perceiving, a young man fresh from class-rooms could only look with

wondering contempt on the antiquated stuff which it rejoiced me to
gather from that kindly stall, or from the richer shelves within.

My Cicero's Letters for instance: podgy volumes in parchment, with
all the notes of Graevius, Gronovius, and I know not how many other

old scholars. Pooh! Hopelessly out of date. But I could never
feel that. I have a deep affection for Graevius and Gronovius and

the rest, and if I knew as much as they did, I should be well
satisfied to rest under the young man's disdain. The zeal of

learning is never out of date; the example--were there no more--
burns before one as a sacred fire, for ever unquenchable. In what

modern editor shall I find such love and enthusiasm as glows in the
annotations of old scholars?

Even the best editions of our day have so much of the mere
schoolbook; you feel so often that the man does not regard his

author as literature, but simply as text. Pedant for pedant, the
old is better than the new.

XIV
To-day's newspaper contains a yard or so of reading about a spring

horse-race. The sight of it fills me with loathing. It brings to
my mind that placard I saw at a station in Surrey a year or two ago,

advertising certain races in the neighbourhood. Here is the poster,
as I copied it into my note-book:

"Engaged by the Executive to ensure order and comfort to the public
attending this meeting:-

14 detectives (racing),
15 detectives (Scotland Yard),

7 police inspectors,
9 police sergeants,

76 police, and a supernumerary contingent of specially selected men
from the Army Reserve and the Corps of Commissionaires.

The above force will be employed solely for the purpose of
maintaining order and excluding bad characters, etc. They will have

the assistance also of a strong force of the Surrey Constabulary."
I remember, once, when I let fall a remark on the subject of horse-

racing among friends chatting together, I was voted "morose." Is it
really morose to object to public gatherings which their own

promoters declare to be dangerous for all decent folk? Every one
knows that horse-racing is carried on mainly for the delight and

profit of fools, ruffians, and thieves. That intelligent men allow
themselves to take part in the affair, and defend their conduct by

declaring that their presence "maintains the character of a sport
essentially noble," merely shows that intelligence can easily enough

divest itself of sense and decency.
XV

Midway in my long walk yesterday, I lunched at a wayside inn. On
the table lay a copy of a popular magazine. Glancing over this

miscellany, I found an article, by a woman, on "Lion Hunting," and
in this article I came upon a passage which seemed worth copying.

"As I woke my husband, the lion--which was then about forty yards
off--charged straight towards us, and with my .303 I hit him full in

the chest, as we afterwards discovered, tearing his windpipe to
pieces and breaking his spine. He charged a second time, and the

next shot hit him through the shoulder, tearing his heart to
ribbons."

It would interest me to look upon this heroine of gun and pen. She
is presumably quite a young woman; probably, when at home, a

graceful figure in drawing-rooms. I should like to hear her talk,
to exchange thoughts with her. She would give one a very good idea

of the matron of old Rome who had her seat in the amphitheatre.
Many of those ladies, in private life, must have been bright and

gracious, high-bred and full of agreeablesentiment; they talked of
art and of letters; they could drop a tear over Lesbia's sparrow; at