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ection for the bald。 Had I not loved books； the soul in my midriff had not done away with those capillary vestiges of my simian ancestry which originally flourished upon my scalp； had I not become bald； the delights and profits of reading in bed might never have fallen to my lot。
And indeed baldness has its compensations； when I look about me and see the time； the energy； and the money that are continually expended upon the nurture and tending of the hair； I am thankful that my lot is what it is。 For now my money is applied to the buying of books； and my time and energy are devoted to the reading of them。
To thy vain employments； thou becurled and pomaded Absalom！ Sweeter than thy unguents and cosmetics and Sabean perfumes is the smell of those old books of mine； which from the years and from the ship's hold and from constant companionship with sages and philosophers have acquired a fragrance that exalteth the soul and quickeneth the intellectuals！ Let me paraphrase my dear Chaucer and tell thee； thou waster of substances； that
For me was lever han at my beddes hed A twenty bokes； clothed in black and red Of Aristotle and his philosophie； Than robes rich； or fidel； or sautrie； But all be that I ben a philosopher Yet have I but litel gold in cofre！
Books； books； booksgive me ever more books； for they are the caskets wherein we find the immortal expressions of humanity words； the only things that live forever！ I bow reverently to the bust in yonder corner whenever I recall what Sir John Herschel （God rest his dear soul！） said and wrote： ‘‘Were I to pay for a taste that should stand me in stead under every variety of circumstances and be a source of happiness and cheerfulness to me during life； and a shield against its ills； however things might go amiss and the world frown upon me； it would be a taste for reading。 Give a man this taste and a means of gratifying it； and you can hardly fail of making him a happy man； unless； indeed； you put into his hands a most perverse selection of books。 You place him in contact with the best society in every period of historywith the wisest； the wittiest； the tenderest； the bravest； and the purest characters who have adorned humanity。 You make him a denizen of all nations； a contemporary of all ages。 The world has been created for him。''
For one phrase particularly do all good men； methinks； bless burly； bearish； phrase… making old Tom Carlyle。 ‘‘Of all things；'' quoth he； ‘‘which men do or make here below by far the most momentous； wonderful； and worthy are the things we call books。'' And Judge Methuen's favorite quotation is from Babington Macaulay to this effect： ‘‘I would rather be a poor man in a garret with plenty of books than a king who did not love reading。''
Kings； indeed！ What a sorry lot are they！ Said George III。 to Nicol； his bookseller： ‘‘I would give this right hand if the same attention had been paid to my education which I pay to that of the prince。'' Louis XIV。 was as illiterate as the lowliest hedger and ditcher。 He could hardly write his name； at first； as Samuel Pegge tells us； he formed it out of six straight strokes and a line of beauty； thus： ｜ ｜ ｜ ｜ ｜ ｜ Swhich he afterward perfected as best he could； and the result was LOUIS。
Still I find it hard to inveigh against kings when I recall the goodness of Alexander to Aristotle； for without Alexander we should hardly have known of Aristotle。 His royal patron provided the philosopher with every advantage for the acquisition of learning； dispatching couriers to all parts of the earth to gather books and manuscripts and every variety of curious thing likely to swell the store of Aristotle's knowledge。
Yet set them up in a line and survey them these wearers of crowns and these wielders of sceptersand how pitiable are they in the paucity and vanity of their accomplishments！ What knew they of the true happiness of human life？ They and their courtiers are dust and forgotten。
Judge Methuen and I shall in due time pass away； but our courtiersthey who have ever contributed to our delight and solace our Horace； our Cervantes； our Shakespeare； and the rest of the innumerable trainthese shall never die。 And inspired and sustained by this immortal companionship we blithely walk the pathway illumined by its glory； and we sing； in season and out； the song ever dear to us and ever dear to thee； I hope； O gentle reader：
Oh； for a booke and a shady nooke； Eyther in doore or out； With the greene leaves whispering overhead； Or the streete cryes all about； Where I maie reade all at my ease Both of the newe and old； For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde！
VI
MY ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA
My bookseller and I came nigh to blows some months ago over an edition of Boccaccio； which my bookseller tried to sell me。 This was a copy in the original； published at Antwerp in 1603； prettily rubricated； and elaborately adorned with some forty or fifty copperplates illustrative of the text。 I dare say the volume was cheap enough at thirty dollars； but I did not want it。
My reason for not wanting it gave rise to that discussion between my bookseller and myself； which became very heated before it ended。 I said very frankly that I did not care for the book in the original； because I had several translations done by the most competent hands。 Thereupon my bookseller ventured that aged and hackneyed argument which has for centuries done the book trade such effective servicenamely； that in every translation； no matter how good that translation may be； there is certain to be lost a share of the flavor and spirit of the meaning。
‘‘Fiddledeedee！'' said I。 ‘‘Do you suppose that these translators who have devoted their lives to the study and practice of the art are not competent to interpret the different shades and colors of meaning better than the mere dabbler in foreign tongues？ And then； again； is not human life too short for the lover of books to spend his precious time digging out the recondite allusions of authors； lexicon in hand？ My dear sir； it is a wickedly false economy to expend time and money for that which one can get done much better and at a much smaller expenditure by another hand。''
From my encounter with my bookseller I went straight home and took down my favorite copy of the ‘‘Decameron'' and thumbed it over very tenderly； for you must know that I am particularly attached to that little volume。 I can hardly realize that nearly half a century has elapsed since Yseult Hardynge and I parted。 She was such a creature as the great novelist himself would have chosen for a heroine； she had the beauty and the wit of those Florentine ladies who flourished in the fourteenth century； and whose graces of body and mind have been immortalized by Boccaccio。 Her eyes； as I particularly recall； were specially fine； reflecting from their dark depths every expression of her varying moods。
Why I called her Fiammetta I cannot say； for I do not remember； perhaps from a boyish fancy； merely。 At that time Boccaccio and I were famous friends； we were together constantly； and his companionship