This adoption of the “no credit” system was the first decided step toward Lackington’s wonderful success in business. In five years his catalogues contained the names of thirty thousand books, and these were generally of a much better description.
The most startling innovation he made in the trade of bookselling, and the one which led to the largest amount of opposition on the part of his fellow-tradesmen, was in regard to the way of dealing with what are called “remainders.” When a bookseller found a book did not sell well, it was his custom to put what remained into a private sale, “where only booksellers were admitted, and of them only such as were invited by having a catalogue sent them.“ ”When first invited to these trade-sales,“ he says, ”I was very much surprised to learn that it was common for such as purchased remainders to destroy one half or three fourths of such books, and to charge the full publication price, or nearly that, for such as they kept on hand. For a short time I cautiously complied with this custom.” But he soon became convinced of the folly of this practice, and resolved to keep the whole stock of books and sell them off at low prices. By this means he disposed of hundreds of thousands of volumes at a small profit, which amounted to a larger sum in the end than if he had destroyed three out of four and sold the rest at the original retail price. This course made him many enemies in the trade, who tried to injure him, and even did their best to keep him out of the sale-rooms. It was, however, of no avail: his business increased enormously, his customers appreciating his method, whether the booksellers did or not. He often bought enormously; “West says he sat next to Lackington at a sale when he spent upward of £12,000 in an afternoon.”[4] It was no uncommon thing for him to buy several thousand copies of one book, and at one time he had ten thousand copies of Watts’ Psalms and the same number of his Hymns in stock. Of course he found it necessary to sell out rapidly, or business would soon have come to a dead-lock; for, as he justly observes, “no one that has not a quick sale can possibly succeed with large numbers.“ ”So that I often look back,“ he remarks, ”with astonishment at my courage (or temerity, if you please) in purchasing, and my wonderful success in taking money sufficient to pay the extensive demands that were perpetually made upon me, as there is not another instance of success so rapid and constant under such circumstances.” It is interesting to notice how trifling a circumstance it was which led him to adopt the plan of selling every article at the lowest remunerative price. “Mrs. Lackington had bought a piece of linen; when the linen-draper’s man brought it into my shop three ladies were present, and on seeing the cloth opened asked Mrs. L. what it cost per yard. On being told the price, they all said it was very cheap, and each lady went and purchased the same quantity; those pieces were again displayed to their acquaintance, so that the linen-draper got a deal of custom from that circumstance; and I resolved to do likewise.“ He admits that he often sold a ”great number of articles much lower than he ought, even on his own plan of selling cheap, yet that gave him no concern,“ ”but if he found out that he had sold any articles too dear,“ he declares that ”it gave him much uneasiness.“ He reflects in his own simple fashion: ”If I sell a book too dear, I perhaps lose that customer and his friends forever, but if I sell articles considerably under their real value the purchaser will come again and recommend my shop to his acquaintances, so that from the principles of self-interest I would sell cheap.”
The following observations of a shrewd observer are worth quoting as a testimony to the change which had begun to come over the minds of the people of this country in regard to reading, about a hundred years ago: “I cannot help observing that the sale of books in general has increased prodigiously within the last twenty years [1791]. According to the best estimation I have been able to make, I suppose that more than four times the number of books are sold now than were sold twenty years since. The poorer sort of farmers, and even the poor country people in general, who before that period spent their winter evenings in relating stories of witches, ghosts, hobgoblins, etc., now shorten the nights by hearing their sons and daughters read tales, romances, etc.; and on entering their houses, you may see ‘Tom Jones,’ ‘Roderick Random,’ and other entertaining books stuck up on their bacon-racks, etc.; and if John goes to town with a load of hay, he is charged to be sure not to forget to bring home ‘Peregrine Pickle’s Adventures;’ and when Dolly is sent to the market to sell her eggs she is commissioned to purchase ‘The History of Pamela Andrews.’ In short, all ranks and degrees now read. But the most rapid increase of the sale of books has been since the termination of the late war.”[5]
He tells the story of his going to reside in the country and set up a carriage, horses, and liveried servants in his own quaint and self-complacent style. “My country lodging by regular gradation was transformed into a country house, and the inconveniences attending a stage-coach were remedied by a chariot.” This house was taken at Merton in Surrey. Referring to the captious remarks of his neighbors, he says: “When by the advice of that eminent physician, Dr. Lettsom, I purchased a horse and saved my life by the exercise it afforded me, the old adage, ‘Set a beggar on horseback, and he’ll ride to the devil,’ was deemed fully verified; they were very sorry to see people so young in business run on at so great a rate!” The occasional relaxation enjoyed in the country was censured as an abominable piece of pride; but when the carriage and servants in livery appeared, “they would not be the first to hurt a foolish tradesman’s character, but if (as was but too probable) the docket was not already struck, the Gazette would soon settle that point.” It appears that some of these wiseacres speculated as to the means by which the fortunate bookseller had made his large fortune. Some spoke of a lottery ticket, and others were sure that he must have found a number of “banknotes in an old book to the amount of many thousand pounds, and if they please can even tell you the title of the old book that contained the treasure.“ ”But,” he jocosely remarks, “you shall receive it from me, which you will deem authority to the full as unexceptionable. I found the whole of what I am possessed of, in—small profits, bound by industry, and clasped by economy.”
It is curious to notice the frank and simple manner in which he speaks of his profits, and of the way in which he did his business. “The profits of my business the present year [1791] will amount to four thousand pounds,“ he writes, and goes on to say that ”the cost and selling price of every book was marked in it, whether the price is sixpence or sixty pounds, is entered in a day-book as they are sold, with the price it cost and the money it sold for; and each night the profits of the day are cast up by one of my shopmen, as every one of them understands my private marks. Every Saturday night the profits of the week are declared before all my shopmen, etc., the week’s profits, and also the expenses of the week, then entered one opposite another; the whole sum taken in the week is also set down, and the sum that has been paid for books bought. These accounts are kept publicly in my shop, and ever have been so, as I never saw any reason for concealing them.” He speaks in the same letter of selling more than one hundred thousand volumes annually, and adds, in his own complacent manner, “I believe it is universally allowed that no man ever promoted the sale of books in an equal degree!”
Lackington at length quitted Chiswell Street, and took the enormous building at the corner of Finsbury Square, which was styled “The Temple of the Muses,” and to which the public were invited as the cheapest bookshop in the world. He declared in his catalogue that he had half a million of books constantly on sale, “and these were arranged in galleries and rooms rising in tiers—the more expensive books at the bottom, and the prices diminishing with every floor, but all numbered according to a catalogue which Lackington compiled by himself.”[6] His profits on the first year’s trade at “The Temple of the Muses” amounted to £5000. He retired from business in 1798, having made a large fortune.
His capacity for business was remarkable. Until he was nearly thirty years of age he had no opportunity of exercising it. But once having given up the gentle craft, in which he was no great proficient, he proved himself one of the smartest and cleverest business men in London. We can readily pardon the simple vanity of the self-made and self-taught merchant