This bookshop, which does business under the unusual name "Parnassus at Home," is housed in one of the comfortable old brown-stone dwellings4 which have been the joy of several generations of plumbers6 and cockroaches7. The owner of the business has been at pains to remodel8 the house to make it a more suitable shrine9 for his trade, which deals entirely10 in second-hand11 volumes. There is no second-hand bookshop in the world more worthy12 of respect.
It was about six o'clock of a cold November evening, with gusts13 of rain splattering upon the pavement, when a young man proceeded uncertainly along Gissing Street, stopping now and then to look at shop windows as though doubtful of his way. At the warm and shining face of a French rotisserie he halted to compare the number enamelled on the transom with a memorandum15 in his hand. Then he pushed on for a few minutes, at last reaching the address he sought. Over the entrance his eye was caught by the sign:
PARNASSUS AT HOME
R. AND H. MIFFLIN
BOOKLOVERS WELCOME!
THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED
He stumbled down the three steps that led into the dwelling5 of the muses16, lowered his overcoat collar, and looked about.
It was very different from such bookstores as he had been accustomed to patronize. Two stories of the old house had been thrown into one: the lower space was divided into little alcoves17; above, a gallery ran round the wall, which carried books to the ceiling. The air was heavy with the delightful18 fragrance19 of mellowed20 paper and leather surcharged with a strong bouquet21 of tobacco. In front of him he found a large placard in a frame:
THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED by the ghosts
Of all great literature, in hosts;
We sell no fakes or trashes.
Lovers of books are welcome here,
Please smoke--but don't drop ashes!
----
Prices of all books plainly marked.
If you want to ask questions, you'll find the proprietor24
where the tobacco smoke is thickest.
We pay cash for books.
We have what you want, though you may not know you want it.
Let us prescribe for you.
By R. & H. MIFFLIN,
Proprs.
The shop had a warm and comfortable obscurity, a kind of drowsy27 dusk, stabbed here and there by bright cones28 of yellow light from green-shaded electrics. There was an all-pervasive drift of tobacco smoke, which eddied29 and fumed30 under the glass lamp shades. Passing down a narrow aisle31 between the alcoves the visitor noticed that some of the compartments32 were wholly in darkness; in others where lamps were glowing he could see a table and chairs. In one corner, under a sign lettered ESSAYS, an elderly gentleman was reading, with a face of fanatical ecstasy34 illumined by the sharp glare of electricity; but there was no wreath of smoke about him so the newcomer concluded he was not the proprietor.
As the young man approached the back of the shop the general effect became more and more fantastic. On some skylight far overhead he could hear the rain drumming; but otherwise the place was completely silent, peopled only (so it seemed) by the gurgitating whorls of smoke and the bright profile of the essay reader. It seemed like a secret fane, some shrine of curious rites35, and the young man's throat was tightened36 by a stricture which was half agitation37 and half tobacco. Towering above him into the gloom were shelves and shelves of books, darkling toward the roof. He saw a table with a cylinder38 of brown paper and twine39, evidently where purchases might be wrapped; but there was no sign of an attendant.
"This place may indeed be haunted," he thought, "perhaps by the delighted soul of Sir Walter Raleigh, patron of the weed, but seemingly not by the proprietors41."
His eyes, searching the blue and vaporous vistas of the shop, were caught by a circle of brightness that shone with a curious egg-like lustre42. It was round and white, gleaming in the sheen of a hanging light, a bright island in a surf of tobacco smoke. He came more close, and found it was a bald head.
This head (he then saw) surmounted43 a small, sharp-eyed man who sat tilted44 back in a swivel chair, in a corner which seemed the nerve centre of the establishment. The large pigeon-holed desk in front of him was piled high with volumes of all sorts, with tins of tobacco and newspaper clippings and letters. An antiquated45 typewriter, looking something like a harpsichord46, was half-buried in sheets of manuscript. The little bald-headed man was smoking a corn-cob pipe and reading a cook-book.
"I beg your pardon," said the caller, pleasantly; "is this the proprietor?"
Mr. Roger Mifflin, the proprietor of "Parnassus at Home," looked up, and the visitor saw that he had keen blue eyes, a short red beard, and a convincing air of competent originality47.
"It is," said Mr. Mifflin. "Anything I can do for you?"
"My name is Aubrey Gilbert," said the young man. "I am representing the Grey-Matter Advertising48 Agency. I want to discuss with you the advisability of your letting us handle your advertising account, prepare snappy copy for you, and place it in large circulation mediums. Now the war's over, you ought to prepare some constructive49 campaign for bigger business."
The bookseller's face beamed. He put down his cook-book, blew an expanding gust14 of smoke, and looked up brightly.
"My dear chap," he said, "I don't do any advertising."
"Impossible!" cried the other, aghast as at some gratuitous50 indecency.
"Not in the sense you mean. Such advertising as benefits me most is done for me by the snappiest copywriters in the business."
"Not at all. The people who are doing my advertising are Stevenson, Browning, Conrad and Company."
"Dear me," said the Grey-Matter solicitor53. "I don't know that agency at all. Still, I doubt if their copy has more pep than ours."
"I don't think you get me. I mean that my advertising is done by the books I sell. If I sell a man a book by Stevenson or Conrad, a book that delights or terrifies him, that man and that book become my living advertisements."
"But that word-of-mouth advertising is exploded," said Gilbert. "You can't get Distribution that way. You've got to keep your trademark54 before the public."
"By the bones of Tauchnitz!" cried Mifflin. "Look here, you wouldn't go to a doctor, a medical specialist, and tell him he ought to advertise in papers and magazines? A doctor is advertised by the bodies he cures. My business is advertised by the minds I stimulate55. And let me tell you that the book business is different from other trades. People don't know they want books. I can see just by looking at you that your mind is ill for lack of books but you are blissfully unaware56 of it! People don't go to a bookseller until some serious mental accident or disease makes them aware of their danger. Then they come here. For me to advertise would be about as useful as telling people who feel perfectly57 well that they ought to go to the doctor. Do you know why people are reading more books now than ever before? Because the terrific catastrophe58 of the war has made them realize that their minds are ill. The world was suffering from all sorts of mental fevers and aches and disorders59, and never knew it. Now our mental pangs60 are only too manifest. We are all reading, hungrily, hastily, trying to find out—after the trouble is over—what was the matter with our minds."
The little bookseller was standing61 up now, and his visitor watched him with mingled62 amusement and alarm.
"You know," said Mifflin, "I am interested that you should have thought it worth while to come in here. It reinforces my conviction of the amazing future ahead of the book business. But I tell you that future lies not merely in systematizing it as a trade. It lies in dignifying63 it as a profession. It is small use to jeer64 at the public for craving65 shoddy books, quack66 books, untrue books. Physician, cure thyself! Let the bookseller learn to know and revere67 good books, he will teach the customer. The hunger for good books is more general and more insistent68 than you would dream. But it is still in a way subconscious69. People need books, but they don't know they need them. Generally they are not aware that the books they need are in existence."
"Why wouldn't advertising be the way to let them know?" asked the young man, rather acutely.
"My dear chap, I understand the value of advertising. But in my own case it would be futile70. I am not a dealer71 in merchandise but a specialist in adjusting the book to the human need. Between ourselves, there is no such thing, abstractly, as a 'good' book. A book is 'good' only when it meets some human hunger or refutes some human error. A book that is good for me would very likely be punk for you. My pleasure is to prescribe books for such patients as drop in here and are willing to tell me their symptoms. Some people have let their reading faculties72 decay so that all I can do is hold a post mortem on them. But most are still open to treatment. There is no one so grateful as the man to whom you have given just the book his soul needed and he never knew it. No advertisement on earth is as potent73 as a grateful customer.
"I will tell you another reason why I don't advertise," he continued. "In these days when everyone keeps his trademark before the public, as you call it, not to advertise is the most original and startling thing one can do to attract attention. It was the fact that I do NOT advertise that drew you here. And everyone who comes here thinks he has discovered the place himself. He goes and tells his friends about the book asylum74 run by a crank and a lunatic, and they come here in turn to see what it is like."
"I should like to come here again myself and browse about," said the advertising agent. "I should like to have you prescribe for me."
"The first thing needed is to acquire a sense of pity. The world has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder75 still has a wider circulation. Never mind! Printer's ink is the greater explosive: it will win. Yes, I have a few of the good books here. There are only about 30,000 really important books in the world. I suppose about 5,000 of them were written in the English language, and 5,000 more have been translated."
"You are open in the evenings?"
"Until ten o'clock. A great many of my best customers are those who are at work all day and can only visit bookshops at night. The real book-lovers, you know, are generally among the humbler classes. A man who is impassioned with books has little time or patience to grow rich by concocting77 schemes for cozening his fellows."
The little bookseller's bald pate79 shone in the light of the bulb hanging over the wrapping table. His eyes were bright and earnest, his short red beard bristled80 like wire. He wore a ragged81 brown Norfolk jacket from which two buttons were missing.
A bit of a fanatic33 himself, thought the customer, but a very entertaining one. "Well, sir," he said, "I am ever so grateful to you. I'll come again. Good-night." And he started down the aisle for the door.
As he neared the front of the shop, Mr. Mifflin switched on a cluster of lights that hung high up, and the young man found himself beside a large bulletin board covered with clippings, announcements, circulars, and little notices written on cards in a small neat script. The following caught his eye:
RX
If your mind needs phosphorus, try "Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith.
If your mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing82, from hilltops and primrose83 valleys, try "The Story of My Heart," by Richard Jefferies.
If your mind needs a tonic84 of iron and wine, and a thorough rough-and-tumbling, try Samuel Butler's "Notebooks" or "The Man Who Was Thursday," by Chesterton.
If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible freakishness, try "The Demi-Gods," by James Stephens. It is a better book than one deserves or expects.
It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hour-glass, to let the particles run the other way.
One who loves the English tongue can have a lot of fun with a Latin dictionary.
ROGER MIFFLIN.
Human beings pay very little attention to what is told them unless they know something about it already. The young man had heard of none of these books prescribed by the practitioner85 of bibliotherapy. He was about to open the door when Mifflin appeared at his side.
"Look here," he said, with a quaint86 touch of embarrassment87. "I was very much interested by our talk. I'm all alone this evening—my wife is away on a holiday. Won't you stay and have supper with me? I was just looking up some new recipes when you came in."
The other was equally surprised and pleased by this unusual invitation.
"Not at all!" cried the bookseller. "I detest89 eating alone: I was hoping someone would drop in. I always try to have a guest for supper when my wife is away. I have to stay at home, you see, to keep an eye on the shop. We have no servant, and I do the cooking myself. It's great fun. Now you light your pipe and make yourself comfortable for a few minutes while I get things ready. Suppose you come back to my den40."
On a table of books at the front of the shop Mifflin laid a large card lettered:
PROPRIETOR AT SUPPER
IF YOU WANT ANYTHING
RING THIS BELL
Beside the card he placed a large old-fashioned dinner bell, and then led the way to the rear of the shop.
Behind the little office in which this unusual merchant had been studying his cook-book a narrow stairway rose on each side, running up to the gallery. Behind these stairs a short flight of steps led to the domestic recesses90. The visitor found himself ushered91 into a small room on the left, where a grate of coals glowed under a dingy92 mantelpiece of yellowish marble. On the mantel stood a row of blackened corn-cob pipes and a canister of tobacco. Above was a startling canvas in emphatic93 oils, representing a large blue wagon94 drawn95 by a stout96 white animal—evidently a horse. A background of lush scenery enhanced the forceful technique of the limner. The walls were stuffed with books. Two shabby, comfortable chairs were drawn up to the iron fender, and a mustard-coloured terrier was lying so close to the glow that a smell of singed97 hair was sensible.
"Really," began Gilbert, "I'm afraid this is——"
"Nonsense! Now you sit down and commend your soul to Providence99 and the kitchen stove. I'll bustle100 round and get supper." Gilbert pulled out his pipe, and with a sense of elation101 prepared to enjoy an unusual evening. He was a young man of agreeable parts, amiable102 and sensitive. He knew his disadvantages in literary conversation, for he had gone to an excellent college where glee clubs and theatricals103 had left him little time for reading. But still he was a lover of good books, though he knew them chiefly by hearsay104. He was twenty-five years old, employed as a copywriter by the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency.
The little room in which he found himself was plainly the bookseller's sanctum, and contained his own private library. Gilbert browsed105 along the shelves curiously106. The volumes were mostly shabby and bruised107; they had evidently been picked up one by one in the humble76 mangers of the second-hand vendor108. They all showed marks of use and meditation109.
Mr. Gilbert had the earnest mania110 for self-improvement which has blighted111 the lives of so many young men—a passion which, however, is commendable112 in those who feel themselves handicapped by a college career and a jewelled fraternity emblem113. It suddenly struck him that it would be valuable to make a list of some of the titles in Mifflin's collection, as a suggestion for his own reading. He took out a memorandum book and began jotting114 down the books that intrigued115 him:
The Works of Francis Thompson (3 vols.)
Social History of Smoking: Apperson
The Path to Rome: Hilaire Belloc
The Book of Tea: Kakuzo
Happy Thoughts: F. C. Burnand
Dr. Johnson's Prayers and Meditations116
Margaret Ogilvy: J. M. Barrie
Confessions of a Thug: Taylor
The Morning's War: C. E. Montague
The Spirit of Man: edited by Robert Bridges
The Romany Rye: Borrow
Poems: Emily Dickinson
Poems: George Herbert
The House of Cobwebs: George Gissing
So far had he got, and was beginning to say to himself that in the interests of Advertising (who is a jealous mistress) he had best call a halt, when his host entered the room, his small face eager, his eyes blue points of light.
"Come, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert!" he cried. "The meal is set. You want to wash your hands? Make haste then, this way: the eggs are hot and waiting."
The dining-room into which the guest was conducted betrayed a feminine touch not visible in the smoke-dimmed quarters of shop and cabinet. At the windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of pink geranium. The table, under a drop-light in a flame-coloured silk screen, was brightly set with silver and blue china. In a cut-glass decanter sparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt his spirits undergo an unmistakable upward pressure.
"Sit down, sir," said Mifflin, lifting the roof of a platter. "These are eggs Samuel Butler, an invention of my own, the apotheosis118 of hen fruit."
Gilbert greeted the invention with applause. An Egg Samuel Butler, for the notebook of housewives, may be summarized as a pyramid, based upon toast, whereof the chief masonries are a flake119 of bacon, an egg poached to firmness, a wreath of mushrooms, a cap-sheaf of red peppers; the whole dribbled120 with a warm pink sauce of which the inventor retains the secret. To this the bookseller chef added fried potatoes from another dish, and poured for his guest a glass of wine.
"This is California catawba," said Mifflin, "in which the grape and the sunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted121 destiny. I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!"
The psychology122 of the art and mystery of Advertising rests upon tact123, an instinctive124 perception of the tone and accent which will be en rapport125 with the mood of the hearer. Mr. Gilbert was aware of this, and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsical avocation126 as gourmet127 than of his sacred profession as a bookman.
"Is it possible, sir," he began, in lucid128 Johnsonian, "that you can concoct78 so delicious an entree129 in so few minutes? You are not hoaxing130 me? There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and the laboratories of the Ritz?"
"Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!" said the bookseller. "I am only an amateur, who dabbles131 in the craft during her absence. She is on a visit to her cousin in Boston. She becomes, quite justifiably132, weary of the tobacco of this establishment, and once or twice a year it does her good to breathe the pure serene133 of Beacon134 Hill. During her absence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping. I find it very sedative135 after the incessant136 excitement and speculation137 of the shop."
"I should have thought," said Gilbert, "that life in a bookshop would be delightfully138 tranquil139."
"Far from it. Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse140 of explosives. Those shelves are ranked with the most furious combustibles in the world—the brains of men. I can spend a rainy afternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion and anxiety over mortal problems as almost unmans me. It is terribly nerve-racking. Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau, Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Ade—would you wonder at his getting excited? What would happen to a cat if she had to live in a room tapestried141 with catnip? She would go crazy!"
"Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling," said the young man. "How is it, though, that libraries are shrines142 of such austere143 calm? If books are as provocative144 as you suggest, one would expect every librarian to utter the shrill145 screams of a hierophant, to clash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!"
"Ah, my boy, you forget the card index! Librarians invented that soothing146 device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall back upon the rites of the kitchen. Librarians would all go mad, those capable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool and healing card index as medicament! Some more of the eggs?"
"Thank you," said Gilbert. "Who was the butler whose name was associated with the dish?"
"What?" cried Mifflin, in agitation, "you have not heard of Samuel Butler, the author of The Way of All Flesh? My dear young man, whoever permits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon, has deliberately147 forfeited148 his chances of paradise. For paradise in the world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed a heaven on this earth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book. Pour yourself another glass of wine, and permit me——"
(Here followed an enthusiastic development of the perverse149 philosophy of Samuel Butler, which, in deference150 to my readers, I omit. Mr. Gilbert took notes of the conversation in his pocketbook, and I am pleased to say that his heart was moved to a realization151 of his iniquity152, for he was observed at the Public Library a few days later asking for a copy of The Way of All Flesh. After inquiring at four libraries, and finding all copies of the book in circulation, he was compelled to buy one. He never regretted doing so.)
"But I am forgetting my duties as host," said Mifflin. "Our dessert consists of apple sauce, gingerbread, and coffee." He rapidly cleared the empty dishes from the table and brought on the second course.
"I have been noticing the warning over the sideboard," said Gilbert. "I hope you will let me help you this evening?" He pointed153 to a card hanging near the kitchen door. It read:
ALWAYS WASH DISHES
IMMEDIATELY AFTER MEALS
IT SAVES TROUBLE
"I'm afraid I don't always obey that precept," said the bookseller as he poured the coffee. "Mrs. Mifflin hangs it there whenever she goes away, to remind me. But, as our friend Samuel Butler says, he that is stupid in little will also be stupid in much. I have a different theory about dish-washing, and I please myself by indulging it.
"I used to regard dish-washing merely as an ignoble154 chore, a kind of hateful discipline which had to be undergone with knitted brow and brazen155 fortitude156. When my wife went away the first time, I erected157 a reading stand and an electric light over the sink, and used to read while my hands went automatically through base gestures of purification. I made the great spirits of literature partners of my sorrow, and learned by heart a good deal of Paradise Lost and of Walt Mason, while I soused and wallowed among pots and pans. I used to comfort myself with two lines of Keats:
'The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores——'
Then a new conception of the matter struck me. It is intolerable for a human being to go on doing any task as a penance158, under duress159. No matter what the work is, one must spiritualize it in some way, shatter the old idea of it into bits and rebuild it nearer to the heart's desire. How was I to do this with dish-washing?
"I broke a good many plates while I was pondering over the matter. Then it occurred to me that here was just the relaxation160 I needed. I had been worrying over the mental strain of being surrounded all day long by vociferous161 books, crying out at me their conflicting views as to the glories and agonies of life. Why not make dish-washing my balm and poultice?
"When one views a stubborn fact from a new angle, it is amazing how all its contours and edges change shape! Immediately my dishpan began to glow with a kind of philosophic162 halo! The warm, soapy water became a sovereign medicine to retract163 hot blood from the head; the homely164 act of washing and drying cups and saucers became a symbol of the order and cleanliness that man imposes on the unruly world about him. I tore down my book rack and reading lamp from over the sink.
"Mr. Gilbert," he went on, "do not laugh at me when I tell you that I have evolved a whole kitchen philosophy of my own. I find the kitchen the shrine of our civilization, the focus of all that is comely165 in life. The ruddy shine of the stove is as beautiful as any sunset. A well-polished jug166 or spoon is as fair, as complete and beautiful, as any sonnet167. The dish mop, properly rinsed168 and wrung169 and hung outside the back door to dry, is a whole sermon in itself. The stars never look so bright as they do from the kitchen door after the ice-box pan is emptied and the whole place is 'redd up,' as the Scotch170 say."
"A very delightful philosophy indeed," said Gilbert. "And now that we have finished our meal, I insist upon your letting me give you a hand with the washing up. I am eager to test this dish-pantheism of yours!"
"My dear fellow," said Mifflin, laying a restraining hand on his impetuous guest, "it is a poor philosophy that will not abide171 denial now and then. No, no—I did not ask you to spend the evening with me to wash dishes." And he led the way back to his sitting room.
"When I saw you come in," said Mifflin, "I was afraid you might be a newspaper man, looking for an interview. A young journalist came to see us once, with very unhappy results. He wheedled172 himself into Mrs. Mifflin's good graces, and ended by putting us both into a book, called Parnassus on Wheels, which has been rather a trial to me. In that book he attributes to me a number of shallow and sugary observations upon bookselling that have been an annoyance173 to the trade. I am happy to say, though, that his book had only a trifling174 sale."
"I have never heard of it," said Gilbert.
"If you are really interested in bookselling you should come here some evening to a meeting of the Corn Cob Club. Once a month a number of booksellers gather here and we discuss matters of bookish concern over corn-cobs and cider. We have all sorts and conditions of booksellers: one is a fanatic on the subject of libraries. He thinks that every public library should be dynamited175. Another thinks that moving pictures will destroy the book trade. What rot! Surely everything that arouses people's minds, that makes them alert and questioning, increases their appetite for books."
"The life of a bookseller is very demoralizing to the intellect," he went on after a pause. "He is surrounded by innumerable books; he cannot possibly read them all; he dips into one and picks up a scrap176 from another. His mind gradually fills itself with miscellaneous flotsam, with superficial opinions, with a thousand half-knowledges. Almost unconsciously he begins to rate literature according to what people ask for. He begins to wonder whether Ralph Waldo Trine isn't really greater than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whether J. M. Chapple isn't as big a man as J. M. Barrie. That way lies intellectual suicide.
"One thing, however, you must grant the good bookseller. He is tolerant. He is patient of all ideas and theories. Surrounded, engulfed177 by the torrent178 of men's words, he is willing to listen to them all. Even to the publisher's salesman he turns an indulgent ear. He is willing to be humbugged for the weal of humanity. He hopes unceasingly for good books to be born.
"My business, you see, is different from most. I only deal in second-hand books; I only buy books that I consider have some honest reason for existence. In so far as human judgment179 can discern, I try to keep trash out of my shelves. A doctor doesn't traffic in quack remedies. I don't traffic in bogus books.
"A comical thing happened the other day. There is a certain wealthy man, a Mr. Chapman, who has long frequented this shop——"
"I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman Daintybits Company?" said Gilbert, feeling his feet touch familiar soil.
"The same, I believe," said Mifflin. "Do you know him?"
"Ah," cried the young man with reverence180. "There is a man who can tell you the virtues181 of advertising. If he is interested in books, it is advertising that made it possible. We handle all his copy—I've written a lot of it myself. We have made the Chapman prunes182 a staple183 of civilization and culture. I myself devised that slogan 'We preen184 ourselves on our prunes' which you see in every big magazine. Chapman prunes are known the world over. The Mikado eats them once a week. The Pope eats them. Why, we have just heard that thirteen cases of them are to be put on board the George Washington for the President's voyage to the peace Conference. The Czecho-Slovak armies were fed largely on prunes. It is our conviction in the office that our campaign for the Chapman prunes did much to win the war."
"I read in an ad the other day—perhaps you wrote that, too?" said the bookseller, "that the Elgin watch had won the war. However, Mr. Chapman has long been one of my best customers. He heard about the Corn Cob Club, and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged to come to our meetings. We were glad to have him do so, and he has entered into our discussions with great zeal185. Often he has offered many a shrewd comment. He has grown so enthusiastic about the bookseller's way of life that the other day he wrote to me about his daughter (he is a widower). She has been attending a fashionable girls' school where, he says, they have filled her head with absurd, wasteful186, snobbish187 notions. He says she has no more idea of the usefulness and beauty of life than a Pomeranian dog. Instead of sending her to college, he has asked me if Mrs. Mifflin and I will take her in here to learn to sell books. He wants her to think she is earning her keep, and is going to pay me privately188 for the privilege of having her live here. He thinks that being surrounded by books will put some sense in her head. I am rather nervous about the experiment, but it is a compliment to the shop, isn't it?"
"Ye gods," cried Gilbert, "what advertising copy that would make!"
At this point the bell in the shop rang, and Mifflin jumped up. "This part of the evening is often rather busy," he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to go down on the floor. Some of my habitues rather expect me to be on hand to gossip about books."
"I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself," said Gilbert. "I'm going to come again and study your shelves."
"Well, keep it dark about the young lady," said the bookseller. "I don't want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind. If she falls in love with anybody in this shop, it'll have to be Joseph Conrad or John Keats!"
As he passed out, Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with a bearded man who looked like a college professor. "Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell?" he was saying. "Yes, indeed! Right over here! Hullo, that's odd! It WAS here."
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borough
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vistas
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remarkable
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dwellings
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remodel
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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10
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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11
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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12
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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13
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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14
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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15
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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16
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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17
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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18
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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19
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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20
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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21
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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22
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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23
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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24
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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25
malnutrition
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| n.营养不良 | |
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26
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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27
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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28
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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29
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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31
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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32
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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33
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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34
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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35
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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36
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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37
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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38
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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39
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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40
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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41
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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42
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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43
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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44
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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45
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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46
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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47
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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48
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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49
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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50
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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51
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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52
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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53
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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54
trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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55
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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56
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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59
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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60
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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61
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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62
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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63
dignifying
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| 使显得威严( dignify的现在分词 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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64
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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65
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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66
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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67
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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68
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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69
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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70
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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71
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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72
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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73
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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74
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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75
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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76
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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77
concocting
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|
| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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78
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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79
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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80
bristled
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|
| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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82
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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83
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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84
tonic
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|
| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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85
practitioner
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|
| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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86
quaint
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|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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87
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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88
intruding
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|
| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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89
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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90
recesses
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|
| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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91
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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93
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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94
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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95
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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97
singed
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|
| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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98
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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99
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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100
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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101
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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102
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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103
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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104
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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105
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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106
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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107
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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108
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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109
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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110
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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111
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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112
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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113
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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114
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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115
intrigued
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|
| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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117
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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118
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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119
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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120
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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121
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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123
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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124
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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125
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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126
avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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127
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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128
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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129
entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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130
hoaxing
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| v.开玩笑骗某人，戏弄某人( hoax的现在分词 ) | |
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131
dabbles
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| v.涉猎( dabble的第三人称单数 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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132
justifiably
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| adv.无可非议地 | |
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133
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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134
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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135
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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136
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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137
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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138
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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139
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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140
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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141
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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143
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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144
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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145
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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146
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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147
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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148
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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150
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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151
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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152
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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153
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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154
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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155
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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156
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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157
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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158
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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159
duress
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| n.胁迫 | |
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160
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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161
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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162
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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163
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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164
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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165
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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166
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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167
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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168
rinsed
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| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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169
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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170
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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171
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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172
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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174
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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175
dynamited
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| v.（尤指用于采矿的）甘油炸药( dynamite的过去式和过去分词 )；会引起轰动的人[事物] | |
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176
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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177
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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179
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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180
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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181
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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182
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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183
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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184
preen
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| v.（人）打扮修饰 | |
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185
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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186
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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187
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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188
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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