ely quarto volumes; Sterne, stained and shabby; Congreve, in
red morocco, richly gilt; Moliere, 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 Francois
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 s