Bookshops are the most charming of all shops because they relate
themselves so intimately to their visitors. Mr. Rowlandson's gained by
its setting--at the corner of the green square. Not a very good place
for trade, you would say. However, he thrived.
His shop-window does not differ from a score of others one may see, on a
morning's walk: a shallow bay-window, with small, square panes of
inferior glass; the familiar array of old books turn their mellow
title-pages toward the light; a window designed for lingering. Three
rows, or four, of books--and a few old prints--may be examined from the
front; these whet the appetite. But two other rows are so set in the
window as to necessitate sidelong inspection, and tempt the observer to
take two steps around the corner. Here, to be at ease, one must stand
with one foot on the first of the four stone stairs leading downward to
the door; stairs worn by the footfalls of four generations of
book-hunters. Just within the door one sees an alluring stack of books,
the topmost sustaining a neatly printed sign--"Sixpence--your choice."
In short--the foot once placed upon the first of these descending stairs
returns not to its fellow. A little bell rings, and one is inside.
Against the background of his overflowing shelves, with his
old-fashioned clothes, his stooping shoulders, his iron-gray hair, and
his firm, tender, and melancholy face,--you will never visit Samuel
Rowlandson's shop without wishing to frame him as he stands, and set him
in the window, among the other rare old prints.
He must have known you a long, long time to intrude a particular book
upon your notice; and then with the air of consulting a connoisseur
rather than suggesting a purchase. Yet he is a shrewd dealer. Not for
Samuel Rowlandson is the fairly marked price on the fly-leaf; nor even
hieroglyphics representing cost. A book is worth what it will fetch; and
every customer's purchasing power is appraised with discrimination,
concealed, indeed, but most effective.
The shop grows larger as your eyes become accustomed to the gloom of its
remoter part. There are four thousand books on those overweighted
shelves; all sorts and conditions of books; big folios and little
duodecimos, ragged books and books clothed by Rivière and Bedford. Once
he thought a Roger Payne binding had found its way to the shop, an
inadvertent bargain; but, alas! the encyclopædia dashed his tremulous
hopes; years before the date on the title-page that seedy but glorious
craftsman had laid down his tools forever.
The shelves are catholic: Samuel Pepys, immortally shameless; Adam
Smith, shaken; Beaumont and Fletcher, in folio as they should always be
found; Boswell's Johnson, of course, but Blackstone's "Commentaries"
also; Plutarch's "Lives" and Increase Mather's witches; all of Fielding
in four stately quarto volumes; Sterne, stained and shabby; Congreve, in
red morocco, richly gilt; Molière, pocket size, in an English
translation; Gibbon in sober gray; Burton's "Anatomy"----
"The only book," says Mr. Rowlandson, "that ever put me to sleep two
hours before I wished."
Here is Addison's "Spectator," its near neighbor Steele; the
"Gentleman's Magazine," a long run this, but not complete; rare Ben
Jonson, rubbed at the joints; Spenser's "Faerie Queen," with marginal
notes in a contemporary hand; the "History of the Valorous and Witty
Knight Errant," in sable morocco, with armorial decorations; Tacitus in
all his atrocity, Herbert, all gentleness.
Overweighted shelves! Overweighted, indeed, for the books stand
double-breasted. One must never assume a volume is not in stock because
it is not in sight, though Mr. Rowlandson himself does not always know.
"Otway," he ponders, in response to your inquiry; "let me think. H'm.
Yes, yes, to be sure, behind the set of 'English Men of Letters.' Not
there? H'm. Well, I must have sold him, then. Oh, no. You will find him
in that row of old dramatists, behind the--yes, there! A little to the
left--Ah! of course. Old Otway, and a very nice, sound copy, too."
Not that all the books in Mr. Rowlandson's shop are old; his clientele
is too diversified. The moderns are there, too. Thackeray and Dickens;
Meredith and Carlyle; Tennyson; gallant old Sir Walter in various
editions.
"Lockhart's 'Life,'" he would say, handling a volume from one hand to
the other. "The saddest true story in the world"; and then, brightening,
"Two pound, ten."
Mr. Barrie is always handsomely represented on Mr. Rowlandson's shelves.
He is one of the few authors Mr. Rowlandson will recommend to casual
customers. He suggests "Margaret Ogilvy: A Memoir. By her Son." "But are
you sure it is by Barrie?"--they ask. He has sold more than four hundred
copies. Once a year for several years he has written a letter to Mr.
Barrie's publishers: "Why don't you bring out his Plays?" he pleads.
"Think of the thousands of people in the provinces and in America who
can't see them on the stage."
Mr. Rowlandson treasures a half-promise from Mr. Hewlett that he will
write a novel around the picturesque, if unheroic, figure of François
Villon. "I am keeping his letter," says Mr. Rowlandson, "to insert in
the book--when it is published."
Of De Morgan he observes, sententiously: "Too late." Joseph Conrad's
novels he shelves next to Stevenson's, significantly. He has a high
regard for Arthur Christopher Benson's essays. "But does the man think I
have as much shelving as the Museum?" he growls.
But these newer books are the minority. The composed, brown calf
bindings give the shop its tone,--and its faint odor, too; a cultivated
taste, the liking for that odor of old books.
Mr. Rowlandson's desk is in the alcove at the back of the shop; and in
its lowest drawer, oftener than elsewhere, his gray cat, Selima,
stretches her lazy length.
On a bright, crisp morning, nearly a week after Phyllis had lain awake
thinking, Mr. Rowlandson sat at this desk, looking through his post,
which consisted chiefly of book-catalogues. Having laid these aside, he
opened a bulky parcel the post had brought. It proved to be a thick,
square, black volume; a most unattractive book. But Mr. Rowlandson
viewed it with interest.
"My me! My me!" he exclaimed, and read the title-page; "'Proceedings of
the British Engineering Society for the Year 1848.' So, you have finally
come to light, old hide-and-seek! Sir Peter Oglebay will be pleased.
From Brussels, of all the unlikely--Well, well, I must remember to
cancel the advertisement in the 'Athenaeum.'"
He picked up a blue saucer from the floor and stood, for a moment,
watching Selima's quick paw, engaged in ablutions.
"Over your ear it goes," said he. "That means customers."
He began his morning's work with a feather duster. Occasionally he
straightened a row of books. The bell tinkled, and Phyllis, in her brown
coat and hat, stood, hesitant, at the door. She carried a parcel.
"Mr. Rowlandson?" she asked timidly.
"My name," he replied. "And you are Mrs. Landless. I have seen you
before, although you have not seen me."
"I have heard a great deal about you, though, from Farquharson," said
Phyllis. "And yesterday I took advantage of your invitation to see the
pretty things in your rooms; I want to thank you for the opportunity;
they are lovely old things."
"Mrs. F. took you up, did she? Well, they are pretty, and I am glad they
pleased you. A foolish fancy, Mrs. Landless; a foolish fancy for an old
man like me. But I am very fond of my fans and patch-boxes."
"I should think you would love them," said Phyllis. "Where in the world
did you find them all?"
"Oh, in all sorts of odd nooks. They turn up when one is looking for
them. Everything does, Mrs. Landless. That is one of the queer things
about collecting. I could tell you some curious stories. Your old
valentines, now. My me! The attics of the Continent must have been
ransacked for them. It is very interesting. But the scattering of a
collection is the sad part; saddest when books are dispersed. Only the
other day I saw an autograph letter of De Quincey's,--the opium-eater,
you know; it was written to the auctioneer who sold his library. It
seems De Quincey had his son buy a few of the books at his own auction.
The poor old fellow could not bear the thought of parting with them, I
fancy, when it came to the pinch."
Mr. Rowlandson waited for Phyllis to say something. Poor Phyllis! It was
even more difficult than she had expected. She was tempted to retreat;
but she thought of John's book.
"A remarkable coincidence,--your finding your way to Mrs. F.'s,"
continued Mr. Rowlandson. "And a very happy one for her."
"For me, too," said Phyllis. "We have you to thank for that."
"Well--in a way." Mr. Rowlandson nodded. "It is strange what fortuitous
circumstances seem to direct the current of our lives. I say they seem
to, Mrs. Landless, for it may be only seeming. Perhaps all is planned
for us, even when our decisions rest on the toss of a penny."
A gentle pressure against her skirt attracted Phyllis's attention.
Selima's arched back invited her caress.
"Isn't that an unusual name for a cat?" she asked, when told of it.
Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled and he began to quote, straightway. His
voice was pleasant to hear:--
"'Twas on a lofty vase's side
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclin'd
Gazed on the lake below.
"Thomas Gray, the poet, Mrs. Landless. The cat is historic. She was one
of Horace Walpole's pets at Strawberry Hill, his country-seat, when Gray
visited him there. Gray's first book was printed privately by Horace,
who had ample means and recognized genius. The book is scarce now; it
fetches five pounds and upward."