THE STREET-STATIONER.
[From a Daguerreotype by Beard.]
It will be seen from the account I have given, that the books were then really “sold by auction”—knocked down to the highest bidder. This however was, and is not always the case. Legally to sell by auction, necessitates the obtaining of a licence, at an annual cost of 5l.; and if the bookseller conveys his stock of books from place to place, a hawker’s licence is required as well,—which entails an additional expenditure of 4l. The itinerant bookseller evades, or endeavours to evade, the payment for an auctioneer’s licence, by “putting-up” his books at a high price, and himself decreasing the terms, instead of offering them at a low price, and allowing the public to make a series of “advances.” Thus, a book may be offered by a street-auctioneer at half-a-crown—two shillings—eighteenpence—a shilling—tenpence, and the moment any one assents to a specified sum, the volume handed to him; so that there is no competition—no bidding by the public one in advance of another. Auction, however, is resorted to as often as the bookseller dares.
One experienced man in the book-stall trade calculated that twenty years ago there might be twelve book-auctioneers in the streets of London, or rather, of its suburbs. One of these was a frequenter of the Old Kent-road; another, “Newington way;” and a third resorted to “any likely pitch in Pimlico”—all selling from a sort of van. Of these twelve, however, my informant thought that there were never more than six in London at one time, as they were all itinerant; and they have gradually dwindled down to two, who are now not half their time in town. These two traders are brothers, and sell their books from a sort of platform erected on a piece of waste-ground, or from a barrow. The works they sell are generally announced as new, and are often uncut. They are all recommended as explanatory of every topic of the day, and are often set forth as “spicy.” Three or four years ago, a gentleman told me how greatly he was amused with the patter of one of these men, who was selling books at the entrance of a yard full of caravans, not far from the School for the Blind, Lambeth. One work the street-auctioneer announced at the top of his voice, in the following terms, as far as a good memory could retain them: “‘The Rambler!’ Now you rambling boys—now you young devils, that’s been staring those pretty girls out of countenance—here’s the very book for you, and more shame for you, and perhaps for me too; but I must sell—I must do business. If any lady or gen’lman’ll stand treat to a glass of brandy and water, ‘warm with,’ I’ll tell more about this ‘Rambler’—I’m too bashful, as it is. Who bids? Fifteen-pence—thank’ee, sir. Sold again!” The “Rambler” was Dr. Johnson’s!
The last time one of my informants heard the “patter” of the smartest of the two brothers, it was to the following effect: “Here is the ‘History of the Real Flying Dutchman,’ and no mistake; no fiction, I assure you, upon my honour. Published at 10s.—who bids half-a-crown? Sixpence; thank you, sir. Ninepence; going—going! Any more?—gone!”
A book-stall-keeper, who had sold goods to a book-auctioneer, and attended the sales, told me he was astonished to hear how his own books—“old new books,” he called them, were set off by the auctioneer: “Why, there was a vol. lettered ‘Pamphlets,’ and I think there was something about Jack Sheppard in it, but it was all odds and ends of other things, I know. ‘Here’s the real Jack Sheppard,’ sings out the man, ‘and no gammon!’ The real edition—no spooniness here, but set off with other interesting histories, valuable for the rising generation and all generations. This is the real Jack. This will
‘——put you up to the time o’ day,
Nix, my dolly pals, bid away.’
“Then he went on: ‘Goldsmith’s History of England. Continued by the first writers of the day—to the very last rumpus in the palace, and no mistake. Here it is; genuine.’ Well, sir,” the stall-keeper continued, “the man didn’t do well; perhaps he cleared 1s. 6d. or a little more that evening on books. People laughed more than they bought. But it’s no wonder the trade’s going to the dogs—they’re not allowed to have a pitch now; I shouldn’t be surprised if they was not all driven out of London next year. It’s contrary to Act of Parliament to get an honest living in the streets now-a-days.”