JAMES LACKINGTON

SHOEMAKER AND BOOKSELLER.

Sutor Ultra Crepidam Feliciter Ausus.
—Latin Motto, Quoted on Frontispiece to “Lackington’s Memoirs.”

I. LACKINGTON,

Who a few years since began Business with five Pounds,
Now sells one Hundred Thousand Volumes Annually.
—From Frontispiece to First Edition of “Memoirs and Confessions,” 1791-92.

“I will therefore conclude with a wish, that my readers may enjoy the feast with the same good humor with which I have prepared it.... Those with keen appetites will partake of each dish, while others, more delicate, may select such dishes as are more light and better adapted to their palates; they are all genuine British fare; but lest they should be at a loss to know what the entertainment consists of, I beg leave to inform them that it contains forty-seven dishes of various sizes, which (if they calculate the expense of their admission tickets) they will find does not amount to twopence per dish; and what I hope they will consider as immensely valuable (in compliance with the precedent set by Mr. Farley, a gentleman eminent in the culinary science), a striking likeness of their Cook into the Bargain.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, pray be seated; you are heartily welcome, and much good may it do you.”—From Preface to Lackington’s “Memoirs and Confessions,” published 1826.

JAMES LACKINGTON.

One of the most successful booksellers of the last century was James Lackington, whose enormous place of business at the corner of Finsbury Square, London, was styled somewhat grandiloquently “The Temple of the Muses.” A flag floated proudly over the top of the building, and above the principal doorway stood the announcement, no less true than sensational, “The Cheapest Bookshop in the World.” Lackington was an innovator in the trade, and had introduced methods and principles of doing business which at first awaked the ire of the bookselling fraternity, but were at length generally adopted, thus inaugurating a new era in the history of this important business. His name cannot be omitted from any complete history of booksellers, and it is none the less deserving of a place in the category of illustrious shoemakers; for Lackington commenced life as a shoemaker, and for some time after he had entered on bookselling speculations continued to work at the humble trade to which he had served an apprenticeship.

When Lackington was about forty-five years of age, and had made a considerable fortune in the bookselling trade, he wrote and published a singular book, in which he narrated the principal events in his life, under the form of “Letters to a Friend.” This book bears the title “Memoirs and Confessions,” and is certainly one of the most remarkable autobiographies ever presented to the world. What portion of its contents may be referred to by the term “memoirs” as distinguished from “confessions” it is impossible to say, but certain it is that there are many things in the book which its author would have done well to blot as soon as they were written, and of which he was no doubt heartily sorry and ashamed in after-life. Among the worst of these were his strictures and reflections on the Wesleyan Methodists, to whom he had belonged in early life, and from whom he had received no small benefit, temporal as well as spiritual. When the second edition of his memoirs came to be printed in 1803, his character had undergone a happy change. He then saw things in a different light, and made full and complete acknowledgment of the faults which marked the first edition; expressed in very decided albeit very conventional terms his faith in Christian truth, and his debt of obligation to the religious people whom he had so sadly maligned. But words were not enough to satisfy his ardent, thorough-going nature. His benefactions to the Wesleyan Society were very considerable, and he seemed toward the close of his life to have found great satisfaction in making the best use of the ample means at his disposal. With all his faults he was an estimable man, honest, truthful, and generous. He was never ashamed of his lowly birth and humble apprenticeship, nor turned his back on his poor relations, but ever sought them out and helped them when he had the power to do so. His success in business was owing to his shrewd common-sense, his rare insight into character, his good judgment as to the public taste and requirements, his capital method of assorting and classifying his stock and strict keeping of accounts, his courageous yet prudent purchases, and his strict adherence to a few sound maxims of economy and thrift. None but a man of original and uncommon powers of mind could have launched out on new speculations and adventures as Lackington did with the same uniform and certain success, and none but a man of good sense and lofty feeling would have been proof against the ill effects which so often attend on success. There is a touch of vanity in his memoirs, it is true, but it is not the vanity of a man who is vain and does not know it; he is quite conscious of his egotism, and indulges in it with thorough good-humor as a hearty joke. He was rather fond of display, kept a town-house and a country-house when he could afford it, and set up a “chariot,” as the phrase went in those days, and liveried servants. Yet it was not many men in his position who would have taken for a motto to be painted on the doors of his carriage the plain English words which express the principle on which his business had been made to bear such wonderful results. “But,” he remarks, “as the first king of Bohemia kept his country shoes by him to remind him from whence he was taken, I have put a motto on the doors of my carriage constantly to remind me to what I am indebted for my prosperity, viz.,

The Lackington family had been farmers in the parish of Langford, near Wellington, in Somersetshire. They were members of the Society of Friends, and held a respectable position in the locality. For some cause, not fully explained in the memoirs, James Lackington’s father was apprenticed to a shoemaker at Wellington. He made an imprudent marriage, and for a time forfeited his father’s approval and favor; but when the good-wife proved herself to be a very worthy and industrious woman, the old man relented and set his son up in business. This, however, was of no advantage to him; in fact, it proved his ruin. He might have remained a steady and hard-working man, bringing up his children honorably, if he had remained a journeyman. The position of a master presented temptations that were too much for his weak disposition. Lackington’s own words will best describe his unhappy circumstances in youth and the character of his father. “I was born at Wellington, in Somersetshire, on the 31st of August (old style), 1746. My father, George Lackington, was a journeyman shoemaker, who had incurred the displeasure of my grandfather for marrying my mother, whose maiden name was Joan Trott.... About the year 1750, my father having several children, and my mother proving an excellent wife, my grandfather’s resentment had nearly subsided, so that he supplied him with money to open shop for himself. But that which was intended to be of very great service to him and his family eventually proved extremely unfortunate to himself and them; for as soon as he found he was more at ease in his circumstances he contracted a fatal habit of drinking, and of course his business was neglected; that after several fruitless attempts of my grandfather to keep him in trade, he was, partly by a very large family, but more by his habitual drunkenness, reduced to his old state of a journeyman shoemaker. Yet so infatuated was he with the love of liquor, that the endearing ties of husband and father could not restrain him: by which baneful habit himself and family were involved in the extremest poverty; so that neither myself, my brothers, nor sisters, are indebted to a father scarcely for anything that can endear his memory, or cause us to reflect on him with pleasure.”

James, as the oldest child in the family, fared for a time rather better than the rest. He was sent to a dame-school and began to learn to read; but before he could learn anything worth knowing, his mother, who was obliged to maintain her children as best she could, found it impossible to pay the twopence per week for his schooling. For several years his time was divided between nursing his younger brothers and sisters and running about the streets and getting into mischief. At the age of ten he began to feel a desire to do something to earn a living. His first venture in this way showed his ability and gave some promise of his success as a man of business. Having noticed an old pieman in the streets whose method of selling pies struck the boy as very defective, the boy was convinced that he could do the work much better. He made known his thoughts to a baker in the town, who was so pleased with the lad’s spirit that he at once agreed to take the little fellow into the house and employ him in vending pies in the streets, if his father would grant permission. This was soon obtained. In this queer enterprise young Lackington met with remarkable success. He says: “My manner of crying pies, and my activity in selling them, soon made me the favorite of all such as purchased halfpenny apple-pies and halfpenny plum-puddings, so that in a few weeks the old pie merchant shut up his shop. I lived with this baker about twelve or fifteen months, in which time I sold such large quantities of pies, puddings, cakes, etc., that he often declared to his friends in my hearing that I had been the means of extricating him from the embarrassing circumstances in which he was known to be involved prior to my entering his service.”

Such a story is a sufficient indication of character. It exhibits the two qualities which distinguished him as a man—good sense and courage. Another story of his boyhood is worth telling for the same reason. He was about twelve years of age when he went one day to a village about two miles off, and returning late at night with his father, who had been drinking hard as usual, they met a group of women who had turned back from a place called Rogue Green because they had seen a dreadful apparition in a hollow part of the road where some person had been murdered years before. Of course the place had been haunted ever since! The women dared not go by the spot after what they had seen, and were returning to the village to spend the night. Lackington and his father laughed at the tale, and the dauntless boy engaged to walk on in front and go up to the object when they came near it in order to discover what it was. He did so, keeping about fifty yards ahead of the company and calling to them to come on. Having walked about a quarter of a mile, the object came in sight. “Here it is!” said he. “Lord have mercy on us!“ cried they, and were preparing to run, ”but shame prevented them.” Making a long file behind him, the order of procedure of course being according to the degree of each person’s courage, they moved on with trembling steps toward the ghost. Although the boy’s “hat was lifted off his head by his hair standing on end,” and his teeth chattered in his mouth, he was pledged in honor and must go on. Coming close to the dreaded spectre, he saw its true character—“a very short tree, whose limbs had been newly cut off, the doing of which had made it much resemble a giant.” The boy’s pluck was the talk of the town, and he “was mentioned as a hero.”

His merits as a pie vender had made him a reputation, and now an application was made to his father to allow James to sell almanacs about the time of Christmas and the New Year. He rejoiced immensely in this occupation and drove a splendid trade, exciting the envy and ire of the itinerant venders of Moore, Wing, and Poor Robin to such a degree that he speaks of his father’s fear lest these poor hawkers, who found their occupation almost gone, should do the daring young interloper some grievous bodily harm. “But,” he says, “I had not the least concern; and as I had a light pair of heels, I always kept at a proper distance.”

At the age of fourteen he was bound for seven years to Mr. Bowden of Taunton, a shoemaker. The indentures made Lackington the servant of both Mr. and Mrs. Bowden, so that, in case of the death of the former, the latter might claim the service of the apprentice. The Bowdens were steady, religious people who attended what Lackington calls “an Anabaptist meeting,” i.e., we presume, a Baptist chapel, for the Baptists long bore the opprobrious epithet which was first given to them in Germany and Holland at the time of the Reformation. The Baptists of Taunton in 1760 seem to have been a dull, lifeless class of people, if we may judge from the type presented in the family of the quiet shoemaker with whom James Lackington went to live. Yet they were on a par with the vast majority of churches, established or non-established, in that age of religious apathy in England. The boy accompanied the family twice on the Sabbath to the “meeting,” and heard, yet not heard, sermons full of sound morality, but devoid of anything like vigorous, soul-searching, and soul-converting gospel truth, and delivered, withal, in the flattest and most spiritless manner. The ideas of the family were as circumscribed as their library, and that was small and meagre enough, in all conscience. It may be worth while to give an inventory of its contents. It will cover only a line or two of our space, and will be of some use to those, perhaps, who are apt to mourn their own poverty as regards books, and their small advantages, though, perchance, they may have access to free libraries or cheap subscription libraries, or may be able to buy or borrow all they could find time to peruse if only they had the wish to read. Imagine a youth with any taste for literature living in a sleepy town like Taunton in 1760, and looking over his master’s bookshelves and finding there a school-size Bible, “Watts’ Psalms and Hymns,“ Foot’s ”Tract on Baptism,“ Culpepper’s ”Herbal,” the “History of the Gentle Craft,” an old imperfect volume of receipts on Physic, Surgery, etc., and the “Ready Reckoner.” Bowden was an odd character, evidently. One of his strange customs is thus described: “Every morning, at all seasons of the year and in all weathers, he rose about three o’clock, took a walk by the river’s side round Trenchware fields, stopped at some place or other to drink half a pint of ale, came back before six o’clock and called up his people to work, and went to bed again about seven.”

“Thus,” says Lackington, “was the good man’s family jogging easily and quietly on, no one doubting but he should go to heaven when he died, and every one hoping it would be a good while first.”

The visit of “one of Mr. Wesley’s preachers” led to the conversion of the two sons of Lackington’s employer, and set the young apprentice on a train of thought and inquiry which eventually led him also to cast in his lot with the Methodists. He was then about sixteen years of age, and had so little knowledge of reading that he gladly paid the three halfpence per week which his mother allowed him as pocket-money to one of the young Bowdens for instruction. Yet he had at this time no literary taste, and no thought beyond the limited round of devotional reading, which consisted chiefly of the Bible, and the tracts, sermons, and hymns of the Wesleys. His desire to hear the Methodist preachers was so great at this time, that one Sunday morning, when his mistress had locked the door to prevent his going out for this purpose, he jumped out of the bedroom window, fondly imagining that the words of the ninety-first Psalm, the eleventh and twelfth verses, which he had just been reading, would be sufficient guarantee of his safety in perpetrating such an act of rashness and folly. The last three years of his apprenticeship were spent in the service of his master’s widow, Mr. Bowden having died when Lackington had served about four years. When he was just twenty-one, and about six months before the expiration of his time, a severe contest for the representation of Taunton in Parliament took place, and the friends of two of the candidates purchased his freedom from Mrs. Bowden’s service in order to secure both his vote and his services. The scenes of excitement and dissipation into which he was thrown at this time unsettled his mind, and for a time entirely ruined his religious character. The election over, he went to live at Bristol, and lodged in a street called Castle Ditch, with a young man named John Jones, a maker of stuff shoes, who led him into dissipation. Jones, however, had been pretty well educated, and managed to awaken in Lackington’s mind a desire for more knowledge than he then possessed. He was, indeed, wofully ignorant, had no idea of writing, and when he began to feel a thirst for general reading, confesses that he dared not enter a bookseller’s shop because he did not know the name of any book to ask for. His friend Jones picked up at a bookstall a copy of Walker’s “Paraphrase of Epictetus,” which seems to have charmed the young shoemaker immensely, and to have turned him for a time into a regular stoic.

The taste for reading once awakened, he soon grew weary of a life of sin and folly. One evening he turned into a chapel in Broadmead to hear Mr. Wesley, who was preaching there. The old fire of religious enthusiasm was once more enkindled, and burned as fiercely as ever. His companions were soon brought to join the Wesleyan Society, and for a time the little knot of shoemakers working together lived a life of intense religious devotion, working hard and singing hymns or holding religious conversation all day, reading the works of leading evangelical divines during the greater part of the night, and seldom allowing themselves more than three hours’ sleep.

The religious was combined with the philosophic mind. He bought copies of such books as Plato on the “Immortality of the Soul,” Plutarch’s “Lives,” the “Morals of Confucius,” etc.; and, speaking of this time, he says: “The pleasures of eating and drinking I entirely despised, and for some time carried the disposition to an extreme. The account of Epicurus living in his garden, at the expense of about a halfpenny per day, and that when he added a little cheese to his bread on particular occasions he considered it as a luxury, filled me with raptures. From that moment I began to live on bread and tea, and for a considerable time did not partake of any other viand, but in that I indulged myself three or four times a day. My reasons for living in this abstemious manner were in order to save money to purchase books, to wean myself from the gross pleasures of eating, drinking, etc., and to purge my mind and make it more susceptible of intellectual pleasures.”

Leaving Bristol in 1769, he lived for a year at Kingsbridge, Devonshire, where he worked as a maker of stuff and silk shoes. In 1770 he went back to Bristol, and lodged once more with his old friends, the Joneses. At the end of that year he married Nancy Smith, an old sweetheart, whom he had fallen in love with seven years previously, “being at Farmer Gamlin’s at Charlton, four miles from Taunton, to hear a Methodist sermon.” Nancy was dairymaid then, and was accounted handsome; she was a devout Methodist, and an amiable, industrious, thrifty woman. But they were wretchedly poor at the time of their marriage, and had to go and live in lodgings at half a crown a week. “Our finances,” he remarks, “were but just sufficient to pay the expenses of the (wedding) day, for in searching our pockets (which we did not do in a careless manner), we discovered that we had but one halfpenny to begin the world with. ’Tis true we had laid in eatables sufficient for a day or two, in which time we knew we could by our work procure more, which we very cheerfully set about, singing together the following strains of Dr. Cotton:

“The above, and the following ode by Mr. Samuel Wesley, we did scores of times repeat, even with raptures:

Sound sense and true philosophy this; and sorely did the young shoemaker and his much-enduring wife feel the need of such philosophy to hearten and console them when four and sixpence a week was all they had to spend on eating and drinking, and when, as he states, “strong beer we had none, nor any other liquor (the pure element excepted); and instead of tea, or rather coffee, we toasted a piece of bread, at other times we fried some wheat, which, when boiled in water, made a tolerable substitute for coffee; and as to animal food, we made use of but little, and that little we boiled and made broth of.” That the cheerful sentiments with which they set out in life did not fail them under the stress of such hardships as these is sufficiently shown by the statement with which he closes the chapter which deals with this part of his history: “During the whole of this time we never once wished for anything that we had not got, but were quite contented, and with a good grace in reality made a virtue of necessity.”

After three years Lackington resolved to go to London in the hope of meeting with better work and pay. It was indeed dire necessity that drove him to take this step. Incessant suffering and semi-starvation seemed inevitable if he remained in Bristol. His wife had been extremely ill almost from the beginning of their residence in the city, probably owing to the change from country air and active employment to the close atmosphere and sedentary occupation to which she was now accustomed. Her continued illness and his own hopeless state of poverty drove him to make the venture. Accordingly, having given her all the money he could spare, he set off for the metropolis, and arrived there in August, 1774, with half a crown in his pocket.

Once in London, the tide of his fortune turned. He soon found plenty of work and got good wages. In a month his wife was sent for, and the two worked so industriously and lived so economically, that before long Nancy changed her cloth cloak for one of silk, and her worthy husband indulged in the luxury of a greatcoat, the first he had ever worn. When he had been in London about four months he received tidings of the death of his grandfather, who had left ten pounds apiece to each of his grandchildren. He was so ignorant of money matters that he had no notion of obtaining the money except by going down to Somersetshire to fetch it, and the sum was accounted so prodigious, that he at once set off to claim his property; “so that,” he says, “it cost me about half the money in going down for it and in returning to town again.“ ”With the remainder of the money,“ he adds, ”we purchased household goods; but as we then had not sufficient to furnish a room, we worked hard and lived hard, so that in a short time we had a room furnished with our own goods; and I believe that Alexander the Great never reflected on his immense acquisitions with half the heart-felt enjoyment which we experienced on this capital attainment.” Now and then he visited the old bookshops and added a few books to his small library. One Christmas Eve he went out with half a crown in his pocket to purchase the Christmas dinner. Passing by an old bookshop, he could not resist the inducement to turn in and look over the stock. He intended to spend only a few pence on some book; but a copy of Young’s “Night Thoughts,” which he very much coveted, was so tempting a prize, that, without hesitation, he laid down his half-crown for the purchase of it. On returning home, he had no slight difficulty to persuade his wife of “the superiority of intellectual pleasures over sensual gratifications.“ ”I think,” said he to his patient spouse, “that I have acted wisely; for had I bought a dinner, we should have eaten it to-morrow, and the pleasure would have been soon over; but should we live fifty years longer, we shall have the ‘Night Thoughts’ to feast upon.”

In June, 1775, one of his Wesleyan friends looked in on Lackington and his wife as they sat at work making boots and shoes, and told them of a “shop and parlor” which were then to let in Featherstone Street, where it was suggested Lackington might obtain work as a master-shoemaker. He at once fell in with the proposal, and added that “he would sell books also.” He does not seem to have formed any intention of bookselling previous to this interview, but the prospect of having a shop of his own led him to think how easy and pleasant it would be to combine the two kinds of business. He says in his own naÏve manner: “When he proposed my taking the shop, it instantly occurred to my mind that for several months past I had observed a great increase in a certain old bookshop, and that I was persuaded I knew as much of old books as the person who kept it. I further observed that I loved books, and that if I could but be a bookseller, I should then have plenty of books to read, which was the greatest motive I could conceive to induce me to make the attempt.” His friend engaged to procure the shop, and Lackington bought “a bag full of old books, chiefly divinity, for a guinea,” which, together with his own little library and some scraps of old leather, were worth five pounds. With this stock he “opened shop on Midsummer Day, 1775, in Featherstone Street, in the parish of St. Luke.”

He borrowed five pounds from a fund which Wesley’s people had raised for the purpose of lending out on a short term to men of good character who were in need of help in business or domestic difficulties. No interest appears to have been required, and he states that the money was of great service to him. At this time they lived in the most economical and sparing manner, “often dining on potatoes, and quenching their thirst with water,” for they could not forget the trials through which they had passed, and, haunted by the dread of their recurrence, were determined, if possible, to provide against them.

After six months his stock had increased to £25. “This stock I deemed too great to be buried in Featherstone Street; and a shop and parlor being to let in Chiswell Street, No. 46, I took them.” His business in the sale of books proved so prosperous, that, in a few weeks after removing to Chiswell Street, he disposed of his little stock of leather and altogether abandoned the gentle craft. At this time his stock consisted almost entirely of divinity, and for a year or two he “conscientiously destroyed such books as fell into his hands as were written by free-thinkers: he would neither read them himself, nor sell them to others.” He makes some curious and sagacious remarks on bargain-hunters who frequented his shop at this time, while his stock was low and poor, and who in their craze after “bargains” often paid him double the price for dirty old books that he afterward charged when he had a larger stock, and had adopted the principle of selling every book at its lowest paying price. These people, he observed, forsook his shop as soon as he began to introduce better order and to appear “respectable!”[3] He had not been long in Chiswell Street, before both his wife and himself were seized with fever. She died and was buried without his having once seen her after her illness. The shop was left in the care of a boy, his house was put in charge of nurses, who robbed him of his linen and other articles, kept themselves drunk with gin, and would have left him to perish. The timely presence of his sister saved his life, and several Wesleyan friends saved him from ruin by locking up his shop, which the nurses and boy together would soon have emptied. Although he wrote the whole story in after-years in a vein of flippant sarcasm and irreverence for religion, he was constrained to acknowledge his great obligation to the friends whose religion prompted them thus to act the good Samaritan to him in his dire extremity. “The above gentlemen,” he says, “not only took care of my shop, but also advanced money to pay such expenses as occurred; and as my wife was dead, they assisted in making my will in favor of my mother.“ ”These worthy gentlemen,“ he adds, ”belong to Mr. Wesley’s Society (and notwithstanding they have imbibed many enthusiastic whims), yet would they be an honor to any society, and are a credit to human nature.”

In 1776 he married Miss Dorcas Turton, a friend of his first wife. It seems to have been her influence, to a large extent, that drew him away from Wesleyanism and religion. She was a woman of considerable education, and a great reader, kindly and affectionate in her disposition, a dutiful daughter to her aged and dependent father, whom she had supported after his failure in business by keeping a school. But she seems to have had no thought of religious truth as a basis for character and an impulse to right conduct, and her absolute indifference to religion soon told on the mind of a sensitive and impulsive man like Lackington. “I did not long remain in Mr. Wesley’s Society,” he writes, referring to this same year 1776, “and, what is remarkable, I well remember that, some years before, Mr. Wesley told his society in Broadmead, Bristol, in my hearing, that he could never keep a bookseller six months in his flock.”

Two years afterward Lackington entered into partnership for three years with Mr. Denis, an honest man, as he is emphatically styled, who brought a considerable sum of money into the business, by means of which the stock was at once doubled, and the sales vastly increased. Lackington now proposed the issue of a sale catalogue, to which his partner reluctantly consented. Both partners were employed in writing it, but the larger share fell to Lackington, whose name alone appeared on the title-page. It was issued in 1779, and the first week after its publication the partners took, what they regarded as the “large sum” of twenty pounds. Denis, finding his money pay better in business than in the Funds, invested a larger sum in stock, but when Lackington, who according to the terms of the agreement was sole purchaser, began to buy, as his partner thought, too largely, they had a dispute over the matter and dissolved partnership on friendly terms a year before the term of partnership had expired. Denis, to the end of his life, remained friendly with Lackington, and used to call in every day on passing his shop to inquire what purchases and sales he had effected, and now and then the honest man lent his old partner money to help in paying bills.

In 1780 he resolved to give no credit to any one, and to sell all his books at the lowest price bearing a working profit. The effect of this new method of doing business was remarkable in many ways. Long credit seems to have been common in the trade in those days, most bills were not paid within six months, many not within a twelvemonth, and some not within two years. “Indeed,” he adds, “many tradesmen have accounts of seven years’ standing; and some bills are never paid”(!) After recounting the disadvantages of the credit system, he says: “When I communicated my ideas on this subject to some of my acquaintances, I was much laughed at and ridiculed; and it was thought that I might as well attempt to rebuild the Tower of Babel as to establish a large business without giving credit.” The offence given to some old customers was very great, and for a time he lost them, but they soon returned on learning how much lower his books were now marked than those of other booksellers. As to others who would only deal on credit, he cared little when he observed their anger, very wisely remarking that “some of them would have been as much enraged when their bills were sent in had credit been given them.” The booksellers themselves were not a little annoyed by the innovations of the dauntless trader, and appear to have said some bitter things about him and his stock. Some of them were “mean enough to assert that all my books were bound in sheep,” and he adds, in language that does him credit, “As every envious transaction was to me an additional spur to exertion, I am therefore not a little indebted to Messrs. Envy, Detraction & Co. for my present prosperity, though, I assure you, this is the only debt I am determined not to pay.”

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 prince who writes about his recently acquired chariot in the following strain: “And I assure you, sir, that reflecting on the means by which the carriage was procured adds not a little to the pleasure of riding in it. I believe I may, without being deemed censorious, assert that there are some who ride in their carriages who cannot reflect on the means by which they were acquired with an equal degree of satisfaction.” For several years, both before and after he retired from business, he made a journey through different parts of England and Scotland, calling at the chief towns, such as York, Leeds, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Carlisle, Lancaster, Manchester, Bristol, and inspecting the bookshops. His observations are of the most quaint and out-of-the-way character. At Newcastle he found nothing more remarkable to record than “the celebrated crow’s nest affixed above the weather-cock on the upper extremity of the steeple in the market-place,” and the famous brank, an iron instrument, shown in the town-hall, and used in olden time to punish notorious scolds. At Glasgow the most notable spectacle, and one that calls forth a considerable amount of remark, is that of the washerwomen, whose practice of getting into their tubs, placed by the river-side, and dollying the linen with their bare feet, awoke his profound astonishment. Of his visits to Bristol and the west of England, the scene of his early life, he gives the following curious and interesting account: “In Bristol, Exbridge, Bridgewater, Taunton, Wellington, and other places, I amused myself in calling on some of my masters, with whom I had, about twenty years before, worked as a journeyman shoemaker. I addressed each with, ‘Pray, sir, have you got any occasion?’ which is the term made use of by journeymen in that useful occupation when seeking employment. Most of those honest men had quite forgot my person, as many of them had not seen me since I worked for them, so that it is not easy for you to conceive with what surprise and astonishment they gazed on me. For you must know that I had the vanity (I call it humor) to do this in my chariot, attended by my servants; and on telling them who I was, all appeared to be very happy to see me. And I assure you, my friend, it afforded me much real pleasure to see my old acquaintances alive and well.” Coming to Wellington, his birthplace and home during boyhood, he says: “The bells rang merrily all the day of my arrival. I was also honored with the attention of many of the most respectable people in and near Wellington and other parts, some of whom were pleased to inform me that the reason of their paying a particular attention to me was their having heard, and now having themselves an opportunity of observing, that I did not so far forget myself as many proud upstarts had done; and that the notice I took of my poor relations and old acquaintance merited the respect and approbation of every real gentleman.”

Lackington’s kindness to his own relatives, and to the poor, was one of his best qualities. In fact, he declares in 1791 that he would have retired from business five years previously if it had not been for the thought of his poor relations, many of whom were helpless, and whom he felt bound to relieve and protect. Besides supporting his “good old mother“ for many years, he says, ”I have two aged men and one aged woman whom I support: and I have also four children to maintain and educate; ... many others of my relations are in similar circumstances and stand in need of my assistance.” He also made provision for the support of the very aged parents of his first wife, Nancy.

On abandoning business he left his third cousin George Lackington at the head of the firm, while he and his wife went to live at Thornbury in Gloucestershire, in order to be in the neighborhood of the Turtons, his wife’s relations. He bought two estates in Alvestone, on one of which was a genteel house, where he lived in good style for several years. Here he employed his time in visiting the sick and poor, and sometimes in preaching. For he had now returned to the faith of a Christian, and threw himself with his accustomed ardor into all kinds of religious work. His contrition for the severe and ungracious things he had said of the Wesleyans in the first editions of his “Memoirs” was evidently very deep. He acknowledges in plain terms that he owed to them all his early advantages, and the moral and mental awakening which opened before him a new path in life. He says, in the introduction to his last edition of his book, “If I had never heard the Methodists preach, in all probability I should have been at this time a poor, ragged, dirty cobbler.... It was also through them that I got the shop in which I first set up for a bookseller.”

He built a small chapel at Thornbury on his own estate, where the Wesleyan ministers regularly officiated. In 1806 he removed to Taunton, where he resided for about six years, built a chapel at a cost of £3000, adding £150 a year for the minister.

On the decline of his health in 1812, he went to live by the seaside at Budleigh Sulterton, in Devonshire. Here also he erected a chapel which cost £2000, and endowed it with a minister’s stipend of £150 per annum.

James Lackington died of paralysis in the seventieth year of his age, on the 22d of November, 1815, and was buried in the Budleigh Churchyard. None will deny the successful bookseller the right to the Latin motto with which he has adorned the frontispiece to the first edition of “Memoirs and Confessions,” viz., Sutor ultra crepidam feliciter ausus.[7]