—Manchester Examiner.
HIS PORTMANTEAU.
An English traveller in Germany entered a first-class carriage in which there was only one seat vacant, a middle one. A corner seat was occupied by a German, who evidently had placed his portmanteau on the opposite one—at least the traveller suspected that this was the case. The latter asked, “Is this seat engaged?” “Yes,” was the reply. When the time for the departure of the train had almost arrived, the Englishman said, “Your friend is going to miss the train, if he is not quick.” “Oh, that is all right. I’ll keep it for him.” Soon the signal came and the train started, when the passenger seized the portmanteau, and threw it out of the window, exclaiming, “He’s missed his train but he mustn’t lose his baggage!” That portmanteau was the German’s.
GROWTH OF STATION BOOKSHOPS.
The gradual rise of the railway book-trade is a singular feature of our marvellous railway era. In the first instance, when the scope and capabilities of the rail had yet to be ascertained, the privilege of selling books, newspapers, etc., at the several stations was freely granted to any who might think proper to claim it. Vendors came and went, when and how they chose, their trade was of the humblest, and their profits were as varying as their punctuality. By degrees the business assumed shape, the newspaper man found it his interest to maintain a locus standi in the establishment, and the establishment, in its turn, discerned a substantial means of helping the poor or the deserving among its servants. A cripple maimed in the company’s service, or a married servant of a director or secretary, superseded the first batch of stragglers and assumed responsibility by express appointment. The responsibility, in truth, was not very great at starting. Railway travelling, at the time referred to, occupied but a very small portion of a man’s time. The longest line reached only thirty miles, and no traveller required anything more solid than his newspaper for his hour’s steaming. But as the iron lengthened, and as cities remote from each other were brought closer, the time spent in the railway carriage
extended, travellers multiplied, and the newspaper ceased to be sufficient for the journey. At this period reading matter for the rail sensibly increased; the tide of cheap literature set in. French novels, unfortunately, of questionable character were introduced by the newsman, simply because he could buy them at one-third less than any other publication selling at the same price. The public purchased the wares they saw before them, and very soon the ingenious caterers for railway readers flattered themselves that there was a general demand amongst all classes for the peculiar style of literature upon which it had been their good fortune to hit. The more eminent booksellers and publishers stood aloof, whilst others, less scrupulous, finding a market open and ready-made to their hands were only too eager to supply it. It was then that the Parlour Library was set on foot. Immense numbers of this work were sold to travellers, and every addition to the stock was positively made on the assumption that persons of the better class, who constitute the larger portion of railway readers, lose their accustomed taste the moment they smell the engine and present themselves to the railway librarian.
—Preface to a Reprinted Article from the Times, 1851.
MESSRS. SMITHS’ BOOKSTALLS.
The following appeared in the Athenæum, 27th Jan., 1849. “The new business in bookselling which the farming of the line of the North-Western Railway by Mr. Smith, of the Strand, is likely to open up, engages a good deal of attention in literary circles. This new shop for books will, it is thought, seriously injure many of the country booksellers, and remove at the same time a portion of the business transacted by London tradesmen. For instance, a country gentleman wishing to purchase a new book will give his order, not as heretofore, to the Lintot or Tonson of his particular district, but to the agent of the bookseller on the line of railway—the party most directly in his way. Instead of waiting, as he was accustomed to do, till the bookseller of his village or of the nearest town, can get his usual monthly parcel down from his agent ‘in the Row’—he will find his book at the locomotive library, and so be enabled to read the last new novel before it is a little flat
or the last new history in the same edition as the resident in London. A London gentleman hurrying from town with little time to spare will buy the book he wants at the railway station where he takes his ticket—or perhaps at the next, or third, or fourth, or at the last station (just as the fancy takes him) on his journey. It is quite possible to conceive such a final extension of this principle that the retail trade in books may end in a great monopoly:—nay, instead of seeing the imprimatur of the Row or of Albermarle Street upon a book, the great recommendation hereafter may be ‘Euston Square,’ ‘Paddington,’ ‘The Nine Elms,’ or even ‘Shoreditch.’ Whatever may be the effect to the present race of booksellers of this change in their business—it is probable that this new mart for books will raise the profits of authors. How many hours are wasted at railway stations by people well to do in the world, with a taste for books but no time to read advertisements or to drop in at a bookseller’s to see what is new. Already it is found that the sale at these places is not confined to cheap or even ephemeral publications;—that it is not the novel or light work alone that is asked for and bought.