I have never had much chance to enjoy books. Even after writing four books, which were regarded as literary successes, my library consisted of only about fifty volumes, some of which were magazines, and not worth a second reading. This being so, it is hardly likely that I can ever forgive this world for keeping me without books when my enthusiasm was great, for I don't want them now. I have often envied the thousands of rich people that have well-stocked libraries and no desire to use them. When my enthusiasm was greatest I was not able to enjoy books owing to the circumstances under which they had to be read. For instance, when I lived in a common lodging-house, preferring freedom on a small income to drudgery on a large one, I had plenty of time to visit free libraries. At those places I could, by signing my name and address, borrow any book mentioned in the catalogue, and read it on the premises. I often wish I now had some of the books I read at that time and could not enjoy. The reason I could not enjoy them at that time was owing to several causes, which were strong enemies against enthusiasm. In the first place, I had to give a false address, because the name of a lodging-house was not respectable, and condemned me as unclean. Owing to this I could never feel comfortable, for if I happened to look up from my book and saw the librarian looking my way, I always thought that he was weighing in his mind what manner of man I was. Sometimes a librarian would stare at me so boldly that I lost no time in returning the book, and leaving the place, thinking that he would soon come forward and tell me to do so. Of course, I was very suspicious, under those circumstances, but have often thought since that those men were not thinking of me at all, but were lost in their own business, and did not know what their eyes were doing. Another reason why I could not enjoy books then was owing to a low and insufficient diet, which kept my blood too cold to sit long in a room where the windows were often wide open. The consequence was that I often returned a very interesting book after an hour's reading, so as to take a walk and get warm; a book which would, if I had a cosy little room of my own, be read through at one sitting, though it took far into the night. And when summer came, I wanted to read in the open air, but had no friends to recommend me as a book-borrower. For that reason I could not borrow books to take away and read at my leisure, and in whatever place I liked.

Since those days, and now that I have made one or two friends, I have other reasons to spoil my enjoyment of books. I cannot now read with enjoyment books that are borrowed or are likely to be wanted back. Such books are never any good to me, for, if I enjoy them, I am robbed of that joy by the thought that they are not mine. I want to see the books around me as my own property, else the sight of them grieves me. My own books are kept on a shelf, and I look on them as pure thoroughbred; but I keep apart all borrowed books, treating them as wandering mongrels to whom I have given a temporary home, and am as anxious to drive away as I was to receive them in the beginning. For this reason I would not now take advantage of a library, even if it were next door.

Unfortunately, in the country a book lover has to be well off, for he can only buy new books; whereas in London, and other large cities, a man can take, from stalls of second-hand books, an armful of classics for the price of a moderate meal. And that leads me to another thought—I do not care for the look of new books, much preferring them to have lost their last coat of polish. Somehow it hurts my conscience to see a dear old author shining before me in gold and spotless green or red. I seem to hear his voice say: "You scorned my coming in years past, and left me for these late and colder days." There is not much excuse for a man living in London not having a good stock of books. I have seen Shakespeare for fourpence, and Milton for half that price. At this rate a man could in a few months have a large stock of good books, and the outlay would not be much. If I had been living in London during these last two years, my books would now run into several hundreds, and I would not have spent five pounds.

Perhaps one of the best week's enjoyment I have ever had was in the free library at Reading, in spite of the conditions under which I then lived. I had left London three months before, and had been wandering about the country, and had not read a book or magazine during all that time. At this time I was aching with all my heart for reading matter, dreaming of books day and night. Now it happened that I had been in that town two months before, and on that occasion had been in the library long enough to see that it was very comfortable and had a good stock of papers and magazines. For, being a large town, that library was really free, without any signs relating to tramps—as I had seen in smaller towns—silence only being requested. Unfortunately, the town's trade was very bad at this time, and for that reason it would take me all day to sell enough laces to keep me, and I would have no spare time for the library. So I left Reading, with much regret, but determined to return if I could make a few shillings to keep me idle for several days. One Friday night I happened to be at Windsor and heard a couple of beggars in the lodging-house speaking in good terms of Slough, a mile and a half away. So, the next morning, being Saturday, I left Windsor and started for Slough. When I reached that town, I began to knock at doors without wasting any time, although it was quite early in the day, for some of the better-class people had not yet cleared away their breakfast things. I certainly had extraordinary luck, for I took a shilling before dinner and, of course, the town would be much better after that, because of the men having come home with their pay. To understand my good fortune people must know that Saturday morning is the worst time in the week for a beggar. It is so bad that nine beggars out of ten attempt no business whatever until after dinner, so as not to spoil themselves by being refused at good houses that would gladly assist them later in the day. It is really surprising the number of poor people there are who have spent the last penny in the house on a Saturday morning before dinner. When I thought of this it suddenly occurred to me that Reading library was not far away. No sooner had this idea occurred to me than I made up my mind to keep calling at houses until I had four shillings. It was getting dark, and must have been about five o'clock, when I stopped and counted a pocketful of pennies. First of all I counted my laces, and found that I had sold a dozen pairs, which had cost me threepence. But so many people had given pennies for nothing that I was not at all surprised to find that I had four shillings and tenpence, although one lady had insisted on having two pairs for three-halfpence. In addition to this money I had food enough given me for tea that night and breakfast the following morning. I was quite delighted at this and started at once for Maidenhead, four miles away. On the road there I sold three pairs of laces to men going home from work, and also had threepence given me by a gentleman taking a walk, which was unsolicited. So that I now had five shillings and fourpence, a clear five shillings after paying for my bed at Maidenhead. The next day, being Sunday, I walked with a light heart into Reading, with five shillings in my pocket. That small amount kept me for six days, and I never did, and never will again, have so much enjoyment out of reading matter. Of course, what increased my pleasure was the thought that I was letting a small income accumulate, so as to publish a book of my own; the manuscript was in my pocket then, and in two more months I would be an author.

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