it mattered not what the book itself was--so long as it bore an
ancient date upon its title-page or in its colophon I pined to
possess it. This was not only a vanity, but a very silly one.
In a month's time I had got together a large number of these old
tomes, many of them folios, and nearly all badly worm-eaten, and
sadly shaken.

One day I entered a shop kept by a man named Stibbs, and asked if
I could procure any volumes of sixteenth-century print.

``Yes,'' said Mr. Stibbs, ``we have a cellarful of them, and we
sell them by the ton or by the cord.''

That very day I dispersed my hoard of antiques, retaining only my
Prynne's ``Histrio-Mastix'' and my Opera Quinti Horatii Flacci
(8vo, Aldus, Venetiis, 1501). And then I became interested in
British balladry--a noble subject, for which I have always had a
veneration and love, as the well-kept and profusely annotated
volumes in cases 3, 6, and 9 in the front room are ready to prove
to you at any time you choose to visit my quiet, pleasant home.





V

BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY

One of Judge Methuen's pet theories is that the soul in the human