but　which　had　fallen　early　before　the　ravages　of　time。
  As　for　myself；　I　do　not　know　that　I　ever　shared　that　derisive　opinion　in　which　the　unthinking　are　wont　to　hold　baldness。　　Nay；　on　the　contrary；　I　have　always　had　especial　reverence　for　this　mark　of　intellectuality；　and　I　agree　with　my　friend　Judge　Methuen　that　the　tragic　episode　recorded　in　the　second　chapter　of　II。　Kings　should　serve　the　honorable　purpose　of　indicating　to　humanity　that　bald　heads　are　favored　with　the　approval　and　the　protection　of　Divinity。
  In　my　own　case　I　have　imputed　my　early　baldness　to　growth　in　intellectuality　and　spirituality　induced　by　my　fondness　for　and　devotion　to　books。　　Miss　Susan；　my　sister；　lays　it　to　other　causes；　first　among　which　she　declares　to　be　my　unnatural　practice　of　reading　in　bed；　and　the　second　my　habit　of　eating　welsh…rarebits　late　of　nights。　　Over　my　bed　I　have　a　gas…jet　so　properly　shaded　that　the　rays　of　light　are　concentrated　and　reflected　downward　upon　the　volume　which　I　am　reading。
  Miss　Susan　insists　that　much　of　this　light　and　its　attendant　heat　falls　upon　my　head；　compelling　there　a　dryness　of　the　scalp　whereby　the　follicles　have　been　deprived　of　their　natural　nourishment　and　have　consequently　died。　　She　furthermore　maintains　that　the　welsh…rarebits　of　which　I　partake　invariably　at　the　eleventh　hour　every　night　breed　poisonous　vapors　and　subtle　megrims　within　my　stomach；　which　humors；　rising　by　their　natural　courses　to　my　brain；　do　　therein　produce　a　fever　that　from　within　burneth　up　the　fluids　necessary　to　a　healthy　condition　of　the　capillary　growth　upon　the　super…　adjacent　and　exterior　cranial　integument。
  Now；　this　very　declaration　of　Miss　Susan's　gives　me　a　potent　argument　in　defence　of　my　practices；　for；　being　bald；　would　not　a　neglect　of　those　means　whereby　warmth　is　engendered　where　it　is　needed　result　in　colds；　quinsies；　asthmas；　and　a　thousand　other　banes？　　The　same　benignant　Providence　which；　according　to　Laurence　Sterne；　tempereth　the　wind　to　the　shorn　lamb　provideth　defence　and　protection　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