urchaser.
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? 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; whate