s book. This is done in the following
manner: the publisher, when he has a new book, sends it round to the
trade, stating the publishing price, and the terms at which he will
supply it to the trade. A paper is sent round with it for subscriptions;
the large houses, if the book be likely to sell well, subscribe for, in
some cases, 2,000 or 3,000 or 4,000 copies, and thus a good sale is
secured at first. The advantage of the subscription is, that the trade
have a quarter's credit, whereas in their usual transactions they pay
cash. This is almost the only speculative part of the business of the
houses that do not publish on their own account. It is clear that
occasionally they may encumber themselves with a book which does not
sell, and for which there is no demand, but this is very rarely the case.
The gentleman who buys for the house is generally wide awake, and will
not order a single copy more than he thinks he can sell with advantage,
and at once.

Let not my readers go away with the idea that the great bookselling
firms, proud of their traditions, plant themselves down in Paternoster
Row waiting for customers to come. Their business is no exception to the
general rule, which requires excessive pushing to keep pace with the
competition of rivals. They have travellers in all quarters of the
country--they publish catalogues and their terms, which are everywhere
disseminated among the trade--and an author may be sure that it is not
the fault of the booksellers that he is compelled to sell his crowning
work, rich in graphic colouring, in interesting detail, in noble thought,
in manly eloquence (I quote the author's private opinion), to Mr. Tegg or
the trunk maker. As I have mentioned Mr. Tegg, let me add, that it is
the province of that gentleman to relieve authors and publishers of works
which an apathetic public do not appreciate and will not buy. If Mr.
Tegg is so fortunate as to purchase the sheets (which he afterwards binds
up in a cheap form) at his own price, and sells them at the author's, he
ought by this time to be as rich as the Rothschilds or the Marquis of
Westminster. What he does with his bargains, I cannot tell. I see them
awhile in glaring colours, regardless of the suns of summer or winter
snows, adorning the cheap book-stalls of Holborn, or Fleet Street, or the
Strand, charming the eye of the juvenile population of the metropolis,
and offering them the advantages of a circulating library witho