Twixt Desk and Shelves
by James Leatham
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FOUR – Imports and Exports.
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE FOUR – Imports and Exports.
First published in The Gateway in October 1916.
‘How are you? How are you getting on? I have never met you.’
It was the local minister who spoke to the printer as they met just outside their own doors; for they lived close to each other, and the parson had been very frank and cordial in their passing salutations, albeit they had never stopped to speak.
It occurred to the printer that a very good way of meeting a man who had opened a bookshop was to call on him at his place of business, which ought to be very much in the way of a preacher of the Gospel. The printer’s shop in the old English country-town he had just left had been something of a place of resort to all the local clergy, and even successive Salvation Army captains had brought him printing orders, giving the Central Salvation Printery the go-by. That being the case, he rather regretted that not one of the St Congans ministers had ever crossed his threshold. He had heard that the minister of the parish church had been enquiring about him at a third party, and he rather resented that. He had met the Episcopal rector at a garden party, and they had got on well enough so far; but the rector never called.
The printer thought all this a bad sign. He was the only seller of second-hand books in the little town, and had even developed something of a trade in new books – his customers being girls and women almost exclusively. He had been greatly uplifted that his first book-buying customer had been a lively gardener who secured Karl Marx’s ‘Das Kapital’ for 4s 6d. But it was, if not a single event, at least an event sufficiently rare to stand out in the memory. He saw men flock to the bowling-green, and he had many inquiries as to whether he repaired cycles; but while there was the great interest in things to go round – balls and wheels – there was much less interest apparently in the means of enabling one to sit still and have mental enjoyment. He had been invited to join the bowling-club; but he found he had no time for any mere game that had in itself nothing for the mind and which was strenuously played by men who, he suspected, preferred play to conversation. The suspicion was not unwarranted, for he had tried them under favourable circumstances.
What, he wondered, did they do in the evenings. The streets were practically deserted by half past nine at nights, and were, indeed, empty enough during the day, unless it was a market day, and then the stir was chiefly made by four-footed wayfarers.
Second-hand bookshops were the shops for scholars and students. It was in the second-hand shops that one met Cabinet ministers, authors, professors, lawyers, and doctors. The largest collection of new books had none of the excitement attaching to a browse in an old book-stall. For the new books – well, they were new, and consequently were not yet famous, they had not stood their trial. The quaint and curious was out of it with new books. A new book, as a book, was as uninteresting as a new house. It had no associations. The smell of a new book was in a way very much like the smell of fresh paint, fresh wood, or fresh lime. Books mellowed by time as buildings weathered and had their lines and tones softened. The Moliere foxed and flea’d, the cropped duodecimo, the Elzevier that would have been worth £10 had it been an eighth of an inch taller, the ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’ complete in two richly-tooled green leather volumes and bearing an old date, some velvety-boarded Raleigh, or Hooker or Clarendon, or an early and choice edition of Mandeville’s ‘Fable of the Bees’ – none of such ‘finds’ are to be encountered in the shop for new books, which abound chiefly in what Emerson called ‘the spawn of the press on the gossip of the hour’.
There could be no exports without imports. The people who thought they had ideas without reading were usually, in his experience, people who gave out, with much unction, as if they had discovered a world-moving novelty, some idea which had been much better conceived and expressed any time backwards to Plato and Confucius (400 and 500 B.C.).
He did not believe that all men who read books were wise. But he had never known a wise man who did not want to read. He was amazed to find people willing to take both their news and their views at second-hand. One of the drawbacks of life in a remote country town was that he had to begin the day’s work without having seen either his morning letters or his morning paper. It did not seem human to begin one day without having seen more or less of what had happened the day before. He might be working for a man who was dead, in a town that had been bombarded from sea or air or that had been engulfed in an earthquake or washed away by a flood yesterday. Previously, going to the office had been of the nature of a daily adventure. Behind the door as he pushed it open would be more or less of a mail always; whereas now he had to wait two hours after starting-time for the morning letters.
The morning mail was still the day’s chief excitement. The afternoon delivery sometimes contained material for a thrill, as when an order and cheque would come for half-an-edition of some pamphlet that had not stirred for months. But usually the ten o’clock mail was the one for results, and these thrills he had mostly been accustomed to as incentive and preparation for a day’s cheerful and busy work.
However, he could not have it both ways. If one ran away from the madding and maddening crowd, one must pay the penalty. Out of sight out of mind, and certainly a little beyond easy reach. All the same he could still say with truth, ‘I to the post will lift mine eyes from whence doth come my trade.’
There was a great outcry (he reasoned) over the decrease in attendance at church; but studious men and good preachers could always fill their churches still. Indeed he had known preachers of no particular voice or manner or presence, who, by sheer concentrated sense and scholarship and character, kept around hem a large and attached following. In a small centre especially , a man’s mind tended to become stagnant, and his attitude and what musicians call attack, upon mental problems became nerveless. Rubbing constantly against men immersed in industry and business he tended to feel erelong like a man apart – a man occupied with things that did not matter. He had met parsons who resolutely turned the conversation always to everyday matters, who seemed to be more obsessed with business than the better sort of business men themselves. He had known a working man on a railway journey spend half-a-crown on a review primarily in order to read a single article on education – the man was a member of a school board – but the printer could not recollect ever having seen a minister reading anything but novels or newspapers on a railway journey.
There was (he felt) almost as great a place and call for oral teaching as ever there was. Not so much call, perhaps, as in the days when a non-reading population depended on the spoken word for all its information and stimulus and edification, but still a great place. The preacher had a much larger field than the journalist. The journalist was restricted in time, not only to the immediate present, to the topics of the hour, but he was very strictly tied down in respect of the time he could devote to the writing of an article. The musical or dramatic critic had an hour between the close of the performance and the time of going to press. The leader-writer would be going through (and incidentally sub-edition) the telegrams at 10 to 10.30 and his column of comment would be in hands by midnight. If the journalist on a weekly had longer time in appearance, he had all the more to do in reality.
The preacher on the other hand, had everything in his favour. While the journalist addressed hurried people in the morning and tired people in the evening, the preacher on Sunday got them fresh and rested, in holiday mood, and prepared to be pleased with anything that was fairly well to pass. He was aided by a gracious building, music, decorum, a great book to expound, the whole field of life and time – past, present and future – to range over, and a week for preparation.
If he failed to please, it was as much his fault as it was the fault, or the misfortune, of a woman who failed to please her husband. She started out with everything in her favour – the calf-love of the young man, his wonder at and delight in the glamour of sex, the mystery and charm of young life coming into his own life, his mannish inexperience of woman, which causes him to magnify the domestic achievements of his own wife – all these charm and hold him for a time, and would hold him long enough if there were not awful shortcomings due to absolute brainlessness or lack of training to break the many adventitious spells with which the young wife starts her ménage.
An interruption
He was developing his grievance against the ministry as he trundled out 500 manila tags for the saddler, when, glancing along the vista of the gallery-like shop, he noticed a shadow flickering on the floor opposite the shop door: there must be somebody in.
Going through he found a blooming lass waiting.
‘Have you got my book?’ she asked.
He: I’m sorry, I haven’t. I ordered half-a-dozen copies, and my London agents report that the book is binding.
She: (with the usual young provincial scorn of the provinces and faith in the nearest city) Oh, perhaps I’ll get it from Aberdeen.
He: Well they might have a few odd copies somewhere in Aberdeen. But of course I applied to the publishers. I don’t know how long it may be before they are ready. Binders take a long time over their work.
She: Perhaps I may be able to borrow one.
He: Yes, a number got them before the holidays, and they will have read them by now surely.
She: Yes, thanks.
He went back to his trundling, reflecting. She would ‘perhaps get it in Aberdeen’. It was as if one said: ‘I can’t get gas at the gasworks, but perhaps I’ll get it at the Commercial Hotel.’ He had twice stopped his work to speak to this girl. He had noted down her order when given. He had put it in his list when writing off. If it had arrived it would probably have been invoiced at 9d or 10d, there would have been a moiety of carriage to pay on it, and the price to her would have been a shilling.
That was the new book trade. Thank goodness there was a second-hand trade, done by catalogue with people at a distance who knew what was what.
‘How are you? How are you getting on? I have never met you.’
It was the local minister who spoke to the printer as they met just outside their own doors; for they lived close to each other, and the parson had been very frank and cordial in their passing salutations, albeit they had never stopped to speak.
It occurred to the printer that a very good way of meeting a man who had opened a bookshop was to call on him at his place of business, which ought to be very much in the way of a preacher of the Gospel. The printer’s shop in the old English country-town he had just left had been something of a place of resort to all the local clergy, and even successive Salvation Army captains had brought him printing orders, giving the Central Salvation Printery the go-by. That being the case, he rather regretted that not one of the St Congans ministers had ever crossed his threshold. He had heard that the minister of the parish church had been enquiring about him at a third party, and he rather resented that. He had met the Episcopal rector at a garden party, and they had got on well enough so far; but the rector never called.
The printer thought all this a bad sign. He was the only seller of second-hand books in the little town, and had even developed something of a trade in new books – his customers being girls and women almost exclusively. He had been greatly uplifted that his first book-buying customer had been a lively gardener who secured Karl Marx’s ‘Das Kapital’ for 4s 6d. But it was, if not a single event, at least an event sufficiently rare to stand out in the memory. He saw men flock to the bowling-green, and he had many inquiries as to whether he repaired cycles; but while there was the great interest in things to go round – balls and wheels – there was much less interest apparently in the means of enabling one to sit still and have mental enjoyment. He had been invited to join the bowling-club; but he found he had no time for any mere game that had in itself nothing for the mind and which was strenuously played by men who, he suspected, preferred play to conversation. The suspicion was not unwarranted, for he had tried them under favourable circumstances.
What, he wondered, did they do in the evenings. The streets were practically deserted by half past nine at nights, and were, indeed, empty enough during the day, unless it was a market day, and then the stir was chiefly made by four-footed wayfarers.
Second-hand bookshops were the shops for scholars and students. It was in the second-hand shops that one met Cabinet ministers, authors, professors, lawyers, and doctors. The largest collection of new books had none of the excitement attaching to a browse in an old book-stall. For the new books – well, they were new, and consequently were not yet famous, they had not stood their trial. The quaint and curious was out of it with new books. A new book, as a book, was as uninteresting as a new house. It had no associations. The smell of a new book was in a way very much like the smell of fresh paint, fresh wood, or fresh lime. Books mellowed by time as buildings weathered and had their lines and tones softened. The Moliere foxed and flea’d, the cropped duodecimo, the Elzevier that would have been worth £10 had it been an eighth of an inch taller, the ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’ complete in two richly-tooled green leather volumes and bearing an old date, some velvety-boarded Raleigh, or Hooker or Clarendon, or an early and choice edition of Mandeville’s ‘Fable of the Bees’ – none of such ‘finds’ are to be encountered in the shop for new books, which abound chiefly in what Emerson called ‘the spawn of the press on the gossip of the hour’.
There could be no exports without imports. The people who thought they had ideas without reading were usually, in his experience, people who gave out, with much unction, as if they had discovered a world-moving novelty, some idea which had been much better conceived and expressed any time backwards to Plato and Confucius (400 and 500 B.C.).
He did not believe that all men who read books were wise. But he had never known a wise man who did not want to read. He was amazed to find people willing to take both their news and their views at second-hand. One of the drawbacks of life in a remote country town was that he had to begin the day’s work without having seen either his morning letters or his morning paper. It did not seem human to begin one day without having seen more or less of what had happened the day before. He might be working for a man who was dead, in a town that had been bombarded from sea or air or that had been engulfed in an earthquake or washed away by a flood yesterday. Previously, going to the office had been of the nature of a daily adventure. Behind the door as he pushed it open would be more or less of a mail always; whereas now he had to wait two hours after starting-time for the morning letters.
The morning mail was still the day’s chief excitement. The afternoon delivery sometimes contained material for a thrill, as when an order and cheque would come for half-an-edition of some pamphlet that had not stirred for months. But usually the ten o’clock mail was the one for results, and these thrills he had mostly been accustomed to as incentive and preparation for a day’s cheerful and busy work.
However, he could not have it both ways. If one ran away from the madding and maddening crowd, one must pay the penalty. Out of sight out of mind, and certainly a little beyond easy reach. All the same he could still say with truth, ‘I to the post will lift mine eyes from whence doth come my trade.’
There was a great outcry (he reasoned) over the decrease in attendance at church; but studious men and good preachers could always fill their churches still. Indeed he had known preachers of no particular voice or manner or presence, who, by sheer concentrated sense and scholarship and character, kept around hem a large and attached following. In a small centre especially , a man’s mind tended to become stagnant, and his attitude and what musicians call attack, upon mental problems became nerveless. Rubbing constantly against men immersed in industry and business he tended to feel erelong like a man apart – a man occupied with things that did not matter. He had met parsons who resolutely turned the conversation always to everyday matters, who seemed to be more obsessed with business than the better sort of business men themselves. He had known a working man on a railway journey spend half-a-crown on a review primarily in order to read a single article on education – the man was a member of a school board – but the printer could not recollect ever having seen a minister reading anything but novels or newspapers on a railway journey.
There was (he felt) almost as great a place and call for oral teaching as ever there was. Not so much call, perhaps, as in the days when a non-reading population depended on the spoken word for all its information and stimulus and edification, but still a great place. The preacher had a much larger field than the journalist. The journalist was restricted in time, not only to the immediate present, to the topics of the hour, but he was very strictly tied down in respect of the time he could devote to the writing of an article. The musical or dramatic critic had an hour between the close of the performance and the time of going to press. The leader-writer would be going through (and incidentally sub-edition) the telegrams at 10 to 10.30 and his column of comment would be in hands by midnight. If the journalist on a weekly had longer time in appearance, he had all the more to do in reality.
The preacher on the other hand, had everything in his favour. While the journalist addressed hurried people in the morning and tired people in the evening, the preacher on Sunday got them fresh and rested, in holiday mood, and prepared to be pleased with anything that was fairly well to pass. He was aided by a gracious building, music, decorum, a great book to expound, the whole field of life and time – past, present and future – to range over, and a week for preparation.
If he failed to please, it was as much his fault as it was the fault, or the misfortune, of a woman who failed to please her husband. She started out with everything in her favour – the calf-love of the young man, his wonder at and delight in the glamour of sex, the mystery and charm of young life coming into his own life, his mannish inexperience of woman, which causes him to magnify the domestic achievements of his own wife – all these charm and hold him for a time, and would hold him long enough if there were not awful shortcomings due to absolute brainlessness or lack of training to break the many adventitious spells with which the young wife starts her ménage.
An interruption
He was developing his grievance against the ministry as he trundled out 500 manila tags for the saddler, when, glancing along the vista of the gallery-like shop, he noticed a shadow flickering on the floor opposite the shop door: there must be somebody in.
Going through he found a blooming lass waiting.
‘Have you got my book?’ she asked.
He: I’m sorry, I haven’t. I ordered half-a-dozen copies, and my London agents report that the book is binding.
She: (with the usual young provincial scorn of the provinces and faith in the nearest city) Oh, perhaps I’ll get it from Aberdeen.
He: Well they might have a few odd copies somewhere in Aberdeen. But of course I applied to the publishers. I don’t know how long it may be before they are ready. Binders take a long time over their work.
She: Perhaps I may be able to borrow one.
He: Yes, a number got them before the holidays, and they will have read them by now surely.
She: Yes, thanks.
He went back to his trundling, reflecting. She would ‘perhaps get it in Aberdeen’. It was as if one said: ‘I can’t get gas at the gasworks, but perhaps I’ll get it at the Commercial Hotel.’ He had twice stopped his work to speak to this girl. He had noted down her order when given. He had put it in his list when writing off. If it had arrived it would probably have been invoiced at 9d or 10d, there would have been a moiety of carriage to pay on it, and the price to her would have been a shilling.
That was the new book trade. Thank goodness there was a second-hand trade, done by catalogue with people at a distance who knew what was what.
About the Author
James Leatham was born in Aberdeen in 1865 and apprenticed to a printer aged 13½. Over his life he worked for a range of papers/periodicals in the North East of Scotland and England, including the St Nicholas Press, The Workers Herald and The Peterhead Sentinel (editorship of which he took over from David Scott in 1897). He wrote for radical socialist papers throughout his life at a time when socialism and the Labour Party were a febrile battleground of theory and practice. He more than once lost his job because of his political views. In his 50’s he moved back to Aberdeenshire, setting up the Deveron Press in 1916 from his Turriff base. He published many ‘penny pamphlets’ and in book form his publications include the political work Socialism and Character (1897); William Morris: A Master of Many Crafts (1900); and a tribute to David Scott, Daavit (1912).