By the Book

There's nothing quite as inviting as a dusty, dimly lit, disorganized bookshop.

By the Book was just such a place, hidden away on a Portsmouth sidestreet paved in cobblestones and lined with old wooden benches and planters filled to overflowing with ivy and ferns. A small sign hung over the door - G. H. Patton, Prop. - and customers were graciously announced by a tinkling of sleighbells attached to the back doorknob.

Inside there were books - crammed onto every shelf, in piles and stacks, in boxes and baskets, on counters, and in shoeboxes on the floor. There were books wrapped in string, books held together by leather belts, books spilling onto the window seats and books piled on overturned milk crates. There were backpacks of books, layers of books, tiers of books, books in plastic wrap, books covered in fabric, books missing covers. Dust motes floated through the air, there was a scent of spice and from the loft the sound of classical music. Each step of the iron spiral staircase held a stack of books - untidy and in no recognizable order - but placed on alternating sides to maintain balance and symmetry. Mr. Patton, proprietor, retired librarian and esquire, descended the staircase in careful, delicate steps. He carried a paper bag of books in one hand, a newspaper was tucked under one arm, and an unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth, still he managed an apologetic smile and a heavily accented but muted greeting. May I be of assistance? he inquired as he navigated the narrow path to the counter and set about moving a set of James Cain harcovers to make space for a stack of Raymond Chandler paperbacks. Saturday is Mystery Novel Day, he explained with a smile, We always draw a substantial audience and there's a great deal to do. Are you a devotee of the genre? I confessed to a passion for Rex Stout and he beamed at me, Yes, I can see that about you, he said, I have them all, you know. Tea? And from under the counter he produced a small silver tray with a silver teapot, two china cups, and a hotplate.

We had tea and miniature cupcakes with vanilla icing and he talked about being a bookseller and collector, More collector than actual seller, I'm afraid, he remarked as he rummaged under the counter and came up with a small sugar bowl and a tiny silver spoon, They're old friends and it's difficult to let them go. Milk or lemon? He poured tea and tucked a small cream colored napkin into his collar then carefully laid a cupcake and a tiny knife in front of me. I prefer, he told me with a suggestion of a smile, that my books only go to good homes. I replied that it must be a strain on his inventory but he waved the idea off with a slight gesture, Literature, he told me kindly, is the foundation of a civilized society, my dear. I protect it with dust and disorder to keep out the riffraff. Have you read all the Nancy Drew? I admitted that I had and this brought another approving smile and a second cup of tea.

I never saw Mr. Patton actually sell a book although he gave a good many away to regular customers, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with a carefully measured length of string. It saddened him to part with these books but also pleased him to see them go to people who considered them treasures. Every book deserves a good and loving home, he would say firmly, each is special in it's own way.