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 service--namely, 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.