They had no book in the Bath shop on piracy in Cornwall.  I was offered instead a work in two volumes on the notorious highwaymen of history, and for a moment my plot swerved in that direction.  But I put it by.  To pay the fellow for his pains—­for he had dug in barrels to his shoulders and had a smudge across his nose—­I bought a copy of Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence,” and in my more energetic moods I read it.  And so I came away.

On leaving the shop, lest I should be nipped in a neglect, I visited the Roman baths.  Then I took the waters in the Assembly Room.  It was Sam Weller, you may recall, who remarked, when he was entertained by the select footmen, that the waters tasted like warm flat-irons.  Finally, I viewed the Crescent around which the shirted Winkle ran with the valorous Dowler breathing on his neck.  With such distractions, as you may well imagine, Cornish pirates became as naught.  Such mental vibration as I had was now gone toward a tale of fashion in the days when Queen Anne was still alive.  Of a consequence, I again sought the bookshop and stifling my timidity, I demanded such volumes as might set me most agreeably to my task.

I have in mind also a bookshop of small pretension in a town in Wales.  For purely secular delight, maybe, it was too largely composed of Methodist sermons.  Hell fire burned upon its shelves with a warmth to singe so poor a worm as I. Yet its signboard popped its welcome when I had walked ten miles of sunny road.  Possibly it was the chair rather than the divinity that keeps the place in memory.  The owner was absent on an errand, and his daughter, who had been clumping about the kitchen on my arrival, was uninstructed in the price marks.  So I read and fanned myself until his return.

Perhaps my sluggishness toward first editions—­to which I have hinted above—­comes in part from the acquaintance with a man who in a linguistic outburst as I met him, pronounced himself to be a numismatist and philatelist.  One only of these names would have satisfied a man of less conceit.  It is as though the pteranodon should claim also to be the spoon-bill dinosaur.  It is against modesty that one man should summon all the letters.  No, the numismatist’s head is not crammed with the mysteries of life and death, nor is a philatelist one who is possessed with the dimmer secrets of eternity.  Rather, this man who was so swelled with titles, eked a living by selling coins and stamps, and he was on his way to Europe to replenish his wares.  Inside his waistcoat, just above his liver—­if he owned so human an appendage—­he carried a magnifying glass.  With this, when the business fit was on him, he counted the lines and dots upon a stamp, the perforations on its edge.  He catalogued its volutes, its stipples, the frisks and curlings of its pattern.  He had numbered the very hairs on the head of George Washington, for in such minutiae did the value of the stamp reside.  Did a single hair spring up above the count, it would invalidate the issue.  Such values, got by circumstance or accident—­resting on a flaw—­founded on a speck—­cause no ferment of my desires.