In Luck at Last | Page 3

Mr.
James--his surname has never been ascertained, but man and boy, Mr.
James has been at Emblem's for twenty-five years and more--leave his
table where he was preparing the forthcoming catalogue, and go to the
open door, where he wasted a good minute and a half in gazing up at
the clear sky and down the sunny street. Then he stretched his arms and
returned to his work, impelled by the sense of duty rather than by the
scourge of necessity, because there was no hurry about the catalogue
and most of the books in it were rubbish, and at that season of the year
few customers could be expected, and there were no parcels to tie up

and send out. He went back to his work, therefore, but he left the door
partly open in order to enjoy the sight of the warm sunshine. Now for
Emblem's to have its door open, was much as if Mr. Emblem himself
should so far forget his self-respect as to sit in his shirt-sleeves. The
shop had been rather dark, the window being full of books, but now
through the open door there poured a little stream of sunshine, reflected
from some far off window. It fell upon a row of old eighteenth century
volumes, bound in dark and rusty leather, and did so light up and
glorify the dingy bindings and faded gold, that they seemed fresh from
the binder's hands, and just ready for the noble purchaser, long since
dead and gone, whose book plate they bore. Some of this golden stream
fell also upon the head of the assistant--it was a red head, with fiery red
eyes, red eyebrows, bristly and thick, and sharp thin features to
match--and it gave him the look of one who is dragged unwillingly into
the sunlight. However, Mr. James took no notice of the sunshine, and
went on with his cataloguing almost as if he liked that kind of work.
There are many people who seem to like dull work, and they would not
be a bit more unhappy if they were made to take the place of Sisyphus,
or transformed into the damsels who are condemned to toil continually
at the weary work of pouring water into a sieve. Perhaps Sisyphus does
not so much mind the continual going up and down hill. "After all," he
might say, "this is better than the lot of poor Ixion. At all events, I have
got my limbs free." Ixion, on the other hand, no doubt, is full of pity for
his poor friend Sisyphus. "I, at least," he says, "have no work to do.
And the rapid motion of the wheel is in sultry weather sometimes
pleasant."
Behind the shop, where had been originally the "back parlor," in the
days when every genteel house in Chelsea had both its front and back
parlor--the latter for sitting and living in, the former for the reception of
company--sat this afternoon the proprietor, the man whose name had
stood above the shop for fifty years, the original and only Emblem. He
was--nay, he is--for you may still find him in his place, and may make
his acquaintance over a county history any day in the King's Road--he
is an old man now, advanced in the seventies, who was born before the
battle of Waterloo was fought, and can remember Chelsea when it was
full of veterans wounded in battles fought long before the Corsican

Attila was let loose upon the world. His face wears the peaceful and
wise expression which belongs peculiarly to his profession. Other
callings make a man look peaceful, but not all other callings make him
look wise. Mr. Emblem was born by nature of a calm
temperament,--otherwise he would not have been happy in his business;
a smile lies generally upon his lips, and his eyes are soft and benign;
his hair is white, and his face, once ruddy, is pale, yet not shrunk and
seamed with furrows as happens to so many old men, but round and
firm; like his chin and lips it is clean shaven; he wears a black coat
extraordinarily shiny in the sleeve, and a black silk stock just as he used
to wear in the thirties when he was young, and something of a dandy,
and would show himself on a Saturday evening in the pit of Drury Lane;
and the stock is fastened behind with a silver buckle. He is, in fact, a
delightful old gentleman to look at and pleasant to converse with, and
on his brow every one who can read may see, visibly stamped, the seal
of a harmless and honest life. At the contemplation of such a man, one's
opinion of humanity is sensibly raised, and even house-agents,
plumbers, and suburban builders, feel that,