The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 09
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
like the Jews rebuilding Salem, had a double task. They kept us at the
stick's end, frowned us down, snatched each play out of our hand ere we
were trusted with another; and, incredible as it may sound, used to
demand of us upon our entrance, like banditti, if we came with money or
with empty hand. Old Mr. Smith himself, worn out with my eternal
vacillation, once swept the treasures from before me, with the cry: "I
do not believe, child, that you are an intending purchaser at all!"
These were the dragons of the garden; but for such joys of paradise we
could have faced the Terror of Jamaica himself. Every sheet we fingered
was another lightning glance into obscure, delicious story; it was like
wallowing in the raw stuff of story-books. I know nothing to compare
with it save now and then in dreams, when I am privileged to read in
certain unwrit stories of adventure, from which I awake to find the
world all vanity. The _crux_ of Buridan's donkey was as nothing to the
uncertainty of the boy as he handled and lingered and doated on these
bundles of delight; there was a physical pleasure in the sight and touch
of them which he would jealously prolong; and when at length the deed
was done, the play selected, and the impatient shopman had brushed the
rest into the grey portfolio, and the boy was forth again, a little late
for dinner, the lamps springing into light in the blue winter's even,
and _The Miller_, or _The Rover_, or some kindred drama clutched against
his side--on what gay feet he ran, and how he laughed aloud in
exultation! I can hear that laughter still. Out of all the years of my
life, I can recall but one home-coming to compare with these, and that
was on the night when I brought back with me the "Arabian
Entertainments" in the fat, old, double-columned volume with the prints.
I was just well into the story of the Hunchback, I remember, when my
clergyman-grandfather (a man we counted pretty stiff) came in behind me.
I grew blind with terror. But instead of ordering the book away, he said
he envied me. Ah, well he might!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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