American Rare Book Trade Ads From 1902, Part III

By Stephen J. Gertz

 

We continue our series on vintage rare book trade ads from 1902. Catch-up with Part I and Part II.

John Anderson Jr. aka Anderson Auction Company and Anderson Galleries, was the foremost auctioneer of books in America of his generation, handling the sale of some of the most important collections ever offered, including the library of John Greenleaf Whittier, and, in 1916, portions of the libraries of Henry Huntington, and William K. Bixby.

"Born in 1856, Anderson attended school in Brooklyn and, as soon as he was able, set up as a rare-book dealer. Books, however, were not his main interest; he was, he said, 'a lover of good pictures many years before I was able to buy one,' and 'books cost less than pictures,' so he collected works on various painters, and while he taught himself about art, his business did well. After a few years he was able to move uptown from his stark original store on Nassau Street in Manhattan to 30 East Fifty-Seventh Street, where he opened the Anderson Auction Company. He sold books and then prints and quickly became a real force in the city’s art circles. But that wasn’t what Anderson wanted. Having established one of the best-known auction houses in the country, he promptly sold it, and in 1908 he took his profits and went to Europe to buy paintings" (The Man Who Discovered Turner's Secret, American Heritage). He became the world's foremost collector and historian of artist J.M.W. Turner.

We met the legendary bookseller George D. Smith in Part I. Here he offers the first American edition Campbell's Life of Mrs. Siddons (1834) for $1.50. In 2012, prices for the original first UK edition of the same year range from $100 - $240. The first US edition is rarer yet if any copies come into the marketplace the price will likely be less, adjusted for inflation, than Smith's $1.50 in 1902. Vadit vita  Sarah Siddons...

"The binding on the little volume entitled 'Lyra elegantiarum,' recently bound for the noted booklover, Mr. Henry W. Poor, by the Adams Bindery of this city, is so exquisite in design and execution that those long skeptical of the ability of Americans to bind artistically should now be convinced of their error. The outside of the cover is inlaid by Mr. Adams in the manner which has made him famous, and for which he originated the name 'Viennese Inlay' with an entirely new motif...It is to be hoped that all American binders will be encouraged to strive toward producing designs that are in a measure original and which show more of the individual touch of the artist" (New York Times, October 11, 1902).

Ralph Randolph Adams was, along with Henry Stikeman (who we discussed in Part I) and a handful or others, one of the great American art bookbinders of his era. He developed a new method of mosaic binding that blew everyone away with his work's exquisite beauty and breathtaking craftsmanship.

"We now have in New York City a bindery where the practical and the aesthetic are combined. Ralph Randolph Adams has succeeded in accomplishing something that was considered to be impossible, and, in spite of the severest tests, the bindings that he has executed stand triumphant. Generally speaking, American artists are behind their French contemporaries in the matter of design but Mr. Adams has demonstrated that he is at least the equal to the french in this direction" (The Art Interchange).

The impossible that Adams succeeded at was in perfecting the mosaic binding technique popular in Vienna hundreds of years ago but impractical because the binders of the day could not prevent the leather from cracking and parting; the bindings didn't last. All so-called "inlay" or mosaic binding after that time through Adams was actually onlaid work, the leather applied as a veneer atop a foundation leather. It was Adams who figured out how to do true mosaic work, the pieces of leather cut and applied directly on the bare board and flush with each other. Adams often used up to 1500 pieces of leather when creating his mosaic bindings. It was insanely intense and difficult to do. Adams did it anyway.

"The cost of binding a book in the new Viennese style originated by Mr. Adams is necessarily great as the work requires such concentration that Mr. Adams is unable to work at it for more than a few hours at a time" (The Observer).

An exhibit of Adams' "Viennese Bindings" was held at Scribner's bookshop in early 1902. The books  thus bound were offered for $1,250. In 2012 dollars, that's approximately $28,000. They were not for the casual collector. Adams' clients were fat-cats, J.P. Morgan amongst them.

Adams was proud of his work.  On the upper turn-in of his mosaic bindings will be found "Adams Bindery. Viennese Inlay. R.R.A. [year]" stamped in gilt.

In 1904, Arnold Lethwidge wrote The Bookbindings of Ralph Randolph Adams: An Appreciation, published by The Literary Collector.

Strange unknown chapter in American bookbinding history: 

On August 10, 1915  Ralph Randolph Adams filed for, and on July 10, 1923 was granted a U.S. Patent for "Radioactive Spray Material."

"The object of this invention is to provide a radio-active substance for the purpose of stimulating plant growth. A further object is to provide a radio-active substance for the prevention and destruction of insects, larvae, eggs, bacteria and fungi which are injurious to plants or animals. A further object is to provide a material having these properties which can be efficiently applied by spraying, and which will adhere to the parts of plants above ground...or to the fur, feathers or skin of animals [our emphasis] which are bothered by pests...(U.S. Patent No. 1461340).

In short, Adams invented a radioactive insect-killer to spray on the leather he used for binding as a preservative to prevent pests from harming his work. Adams "Viennese" bindings prior to 1910 do not, presumably, require use of a Geiger counter, and, having one from 1902 recently pass through my hands, I am relieved. It is unknown to this writer whether Adams' post-patent bindings glow in the dark.

Despite his no nonsense, cut to the bone, no credit, cash-only, books as strictly merchandise "no axe to grind" leap-off-the-page advertisement Niel Morrow Ladd rates nary a word in Stern or Dickinson.  

Circa 1910, Niel Morrow Ladd published Co-Operative Book-selling: An offering of stock in the company, with description of its plan to accumulate and sell used books across the country through the co-operative agency of the stockholders who will earn commissions, dividends and discounts. This proto-franshise scheme does not appear to have caught on.

Famed NYC rare bookseller Walter Goldwater (1907-1985), who established his shop in 1932, had this to say about Ladd, who appears to have remained in business into the 1930s.

"Niel Morrow Ladd eventually died, and I bought the contents of the shop. I don’t remember how I engineered the thing. I guess I continued to have a sale there for a while and then brought the rest over to my shop. I remember at that time there were remainders of certain histories of Flatbush, which he was selling for ten cents and later on using for backing on shelves, which now bring $10 to $25 on the market. He had simply a vast number of them, perhaps hundreds. They were either published by him or published by some friend of his, and they were in great quantity. There were a number of things of that sort -- histories of Brooklyn -- which we didn’t know anything about and didn’t care about. In fact, they didn’t have any market value at the time. There was a history of Harlem by Riker which he had in great quantity which is now desirable. But those were the old days, of course, and that's the typical thing that happened" (New York City Bookshops in the 1930s and 1940s: The Recollections of Walter Goldwater , DLB Yearbook, 1993, pp. 139-172).

Whoever Ladd was he has won a place in my heart as a fellow bird-brained bookman. He was the author of How To Attract Wild Birds About The Home (1915) and How To Make Friends With Birds (1916).

In 1789, Baltimore, along with New York and Philadelphia, was considered the home of America's greatest booksellers, with most books, rare or otherwise, purchased and shipped across the country from those cities. By the early 19th century, however, "Baltimore's promise as a bookselling center was not fulfilled...Baltimore lost to Philadelphia, never sustaining the position as a bookselling center that had once seemed within its reach" (Stern).

Baltimore's current Royal Books, Kelmscott Bookshop, and Johanson Rare Books are doing their best to fulfill the city's initial promise.

Rare bookseller The Baltimore Book Co. is not mentioned at all by Stern or Dickinson. The company published James McSherry's History of Maryland in 1904.

Pickering & Chatto began as rare and antiquarian booksellers in 1820. They're still around,  now known as much for their publishing operation as their bookselling activity.

Bookseller and publisher J.W. Bouton (1847?-1902) began as an errand-boy for publisher D. Appleton & Company. He established his first  rare book shop in 1857 in downtown New York; by 1885 he'd moved uptown and opened two salesrooms. 

"Bouton specialized in early printing, English literature and Americana, much of it gathered on his annual trips to Europe. In 1888 he claimed to have completed thirty-nine such overseas buying trips" (Dickinson). 

The American Bookseller, reviewing one of Bouton's catalogs in 1889, said that Bouton "is well-known as one of our most indefatigable and judicious collectors." He was a leading - and quite successful -  figure in the trade for more than fifty years. The ad above, appearing shortly after his death, heralds the sale of his "magnificent" stock.

Bouton also published. I first became aware of him through his publication of Taylor's The Eleusinian and Bacchic Mysteries (1875); Inman's Ancient Pagan and Modern Christian Symbolism (1884); and Samuel Dunlap's mouthful, The Ghebers of Hebron. An introduction to the Gheborim in the lands of the Sethim, the Moloch worship, the Jews as Brahmans, the Shepherds of Canaan, the Amorites, Kheta, and Azarielites, the Sun-Temples on the High Places, the Pyramid and Temple of Khufu, the Mithramysteries, the Mithrabaptism, and succesive oriental conceptions from Jordan Fireworship to Ebionism (1898).

When I first began to investigate sex in religion some thirty years ago, Bouton's publication of Westropp and Wake's Ancient Symbol Worship. Influence of the Phallic Idea in the Religions of Antiquity (1875) was (and remains)  a tumescent reference.

Henry Blackwell (1851-1928), bookbinder and bookseller, bibliographer and biographer, was the son of bookbinder Richard Blackwell of Liverpool.  In 1873 his bindery appeared in the Liverpool directory.

Blackwell emigrated to New York in 1877 and supervised a large bindery. In 1892 he established his  own shop. Blackwell played a prominent part in the Welsh-American life of his adopted country. He was a scholar of Welsh literature as well as binding, his 1899 essay, Notes on Bookbinding, a memorable contribution. Henry Blackwell does not appear to be related to the Blackwells that established their eponymous bookshop in St. Clements, U.K. in 1846 and grew it into  the academic and rare book colossus that it is today.

Little is known about The Burrows Brothers Co. of Cleveland beyond that they provided early, valuable experience to two major figures in the American rare book trade, Arthur H. Clark (1898-1951) and William Harvey Miner (1877-1934).

Clark,  a British ex-pat who had just completed a four year apprenticeship with Henry Sotheran & Co. in London before arriving in the U.S., was rare books manager and publications supervisor at Burrows Brothers. After leaving Burrows in 1902 due to a profit-sharing dispute, he established is own shop in Cleveland devoted to Americana. His pricing philopsophy reflected John Ruskin, a quotation from whom graced each of Clark's catalogs: "All work of quality must bear a price in proportion to the skill, time, expense, and risk attending their invention and manufacture." In 1930 Clark moved his shop from Cleveland to Glendale, California.

Miner, an 1897 Yale graduate, initially worked in  NYC antiquarian bookshop/publisher Dodd, Mead's rare book department. Next stop, c. 1902 (the year of this Burrows advert.), Cleveland, in charge of the Burrows Brothers Co. rare book department. In 1916 he migrated to St. Louis and established his own shop where he was known as a responsible and resourceful dealer and respected bibliographical scholar. One major library director noted of Miner that "There are few men with whom I would rather scan a suspicious looking and dusty bookshelf, than with him."

By the Fall of 1902, after three months of advertisements in The Literary Collector that, apparently, did nothing to improve its fortunes, our hapless rare bookseller, S.F. McLean & Co., honed its message to a simple, declarative blunt point: BOOKS. BED ROCK PRICES.

Considering that the land in Manhattan upon which S.F. McLean & Co. sat  remains billion year-old bedrock 150-500 feet thick, McLean's prices for old and rare books  must surely have been very low, solidly so, and etched in granite.

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References:

STERN, Madelaine B. Antiquarian Bookselling in the United States (1985).

DICKINSON, Donald C. Dictionary of American Antiquarian Bookdealers (1998).

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American Rare Book Trade Ads From 1902, Part II

By Stephen J. Gertz

 

We continue with our three-part series on vintage rare book trade ads from The Literary Collector, 1902. You can catch-up with American Rare Book Trade Ads From 1902, Part I here.

There is no mention of our hapless bookseller S.F. McLean & Co. in Madeleine B. Stern's invaluable Antiquarian Bookselling in the United States: A History from the Origins to the 1940s (1985) or in Dickinson's Dictionary of American Antiquarian Booksellers (1998). We know from the firm's advertisement found in Part I of this series that McLean was enduring lean times. "Something wrong. Perhaps our books are N.G. Don't think they were priced too high." 

Above, however, McLean faces down the demon. Macmillan's beautiful 1898 edition of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam originally sold for $3.50. McLean offered an as new copy (perhaps a remainder) for 65¢. Find a copy now and it'll set you back $300-$400.

Stayed tuned for Part III of this series, in which S.F. McLean & Co. gets down to the real nitty-gritty in 36-point pica.

Advertisements for E.F. Bonaventure can be found as early as 1885.

"Additions to my stock are being made constantly, both by direct consignments from abroad and by the purchase of libraries amd private collections. As I visit the European Bookmarts annually, and have made arrangements with the principal publishers there, I receive all the finest publications, (especially Parisian), as soon as issued.

"I have on hand a large assortment of etchings and engravings — both Ancient and Modem — many in fine proof state," he declares in an 1885 catalog.

The Vale Press, established in England in 1896 by Charles Ricketts,  survived until 1905. It was amongst the great  publishers that emerged during the private press movement, a renaissance of fine printing and binding that was established as part of the Arts and Crafts movement in protest to mechanization

The press of Thomas B. Mosher fulfilled the same mission in the United States.

Booksellers Daniel O'Shea, E.W. Johnson, Davis' Bookstore, and Shepard Book Company escaped the notice of Stern and Dickinson. Of Shepard Book Company of Salt Lake City, Utah - "We carry the largest stock in the world of books on Mormonism, Anti-Mormonism and the West. Also curious, rare and old books on every subject" - all I can say is, Hello Ken Sanders Rare Books of SLC, "Creating Chaos Out Of Anarchy for a Better Tomorrow." Ken, known to the general public as the rare book appraiser on Antiques Roadshow with gray ponytail, long gray beard, and merry eyes that can melt your brain with their gaze and a heart that can melt yours, has successfully assumed Shepard Book Company's mission. Mrs. Helen Schlie is definitely not in the same league - nor on the same planet - with Ken.

George H. Richmond (1849-1904) began his career in the trade in 1877 as assistant to Robert H. Dodd, who managed the rare book department of Dodd, Mead, the bookshop that became a publisher. Leaving Dodd in 1892, he tried his hand at subscription publishing but, three years later, in 1895, bought the stock of a bookdealer and established his own shop. He was "one of the most able and daring of the New York booksellers."

The above 1902 advertisement for rare book dealer Edward Dressel North (1858-1945) is significant. That was the year he opened his own shop after an apprenticeship that began in the early 1880s as a cataloger for Scribner & Welford, a position he held until he opened his store. His was a diverse stock - American and English literature, European history, fine press books, art, architecture, travel and biography. His cataloging experience served him well. Through carefully written and edited sales catalogs he attracted the attention of the great tycoon book collectors. Henry C. Folger, Frank J. Hogan, and Henry E. Huntington became regular clients. His immortality, in my view, rests with his telling Huntington to take a hike.

"North never compromised his own professional independence. In March, 1919, when Huntington asked for a discount on a particular item, North told the California collector that he 'ran a one price shop and made it an unvarying rule not to allow a discount to anyone'" (Dickinson). Thereafter, Huntington, of course, bought from other dealers. North survived and thrived,. He, at times, rivaled Rosenbach in the auction rooms, much to Rosenbach's chagrin as he was often bidding on Huntington's behalf, who must surely have cursed North, who must surely have laughed.

More vintage trade ads in Part III.

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References:

STERN, Madeleine B. Antiquarian Bookselling in the United States (1985).
DICKINSON, Donald C. Dictinary of American Antiquarian Bookdealers (1998).

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American Rare Book Trade Ads From 1902

By Stephen J. Gertz

 

The Literary Collector: An Illustrated Monthly Magazine for Those Whose Delight is in Books and Other Beautiful Things was established in New York City, October 1900, by renowned New York bookseller George D. Smith. From 1902, when its subtitle dropped to earth, focused, and became A Monthly Magazine of Book-Lore and Bibliography, until its demise,  in September 1905, it was published by Smith at the Literary Collector Press in Greenwich, Connecticut by The Literary Collector Company and edited by Frederick C. Bursch.

The following trade advertisements appeared 110 years ago in The Literary Collector, Volume 4, April - September, 1902.

George D. Smith was "the czar of the American  rare book trade" (Stern) until A.S.W. Rosenbach  and death toppled Smith as top banana. Note the last volume in his ad above. The first edition in English of Adolphe Thiers' five-volume History of the French Revolution (London: Richard Bentley, 1838) is offered for $18. It's not a particularly rare book and copies are now, in 2012, being offered from $250 - $1500.

Smith (1879-1920) "was a large, dynamic man with what has been called a 'picturesque' figure and an irrepressible nature. He lived books eighteen hours a day every day for almost four decades. Like many monomaniacs, he was sometimes distrusted, often disliked, but never underestimated...as keen as he was majestic" (Stern).

Where to begin with Charles Carrington (b. 1867 - d. 1921 of syphilis), who deserves an entire book devoted to his colorful character and career? Of Portuguese descent, Carrington,  born Paul Harry Fernandino, was, arguably, the most notorious publisher of his generation. He began in London. Circa 1893-96 he skipped to Paris; deported from France in 1907, he fled to Brussels. In 1912, he returned to Paris, at times Amsterdam. In short, he operated one step ahead of the law. "Historical, Artistic, Medical, and Anthropological Works," is certainly one way to characterize the books he published. Erotica, pornography, curiosa, and sexology are other appropriate descriptions. Often, the stated publication locale, publisher, and date on his books were false. Many if not most of his books were "for private subscribers only." He was active as a publisher for twenty-six years and published approximately 300 books.

Just what, pray tell, is the above advertised Carrington publication, Untrodden Fields of Anthropology  (Paris: 1896) all about? Perhaps the author's name, "Dr. Jacobus X," will provide a hint. No?

Dr. Jacobus X was the pseudonym of Louis Jacolliot (1837-1890), a French  army surgeon who, stationed in many exotic locales within the French empire for thirty years, had way too much free time on his hands and so decided to make it his business to trod those untrodden fields and "record his experiences, experiments and discoveries in the Sex Relations and the Racial Practices of the Arts of Love in the Sex Life of the Strange Peoples of Four Continents" (from the sub-title). This included taking measurements, for scientific purposes only, of course, of the genitals of both sexes in whatever colony he found himself in. Somebody had to do it, I suppose, and we can assign credit to Dr. Jacobus X as being the father of comparative genitalology, a flaccid discipline of dubious value.

(The first Carrington Paris and first edition in English of this, Jacolliot's  L'amour aux colonies: singularités physiologiques et passionnelles observées durant trente années de séjour dans les colonies françaises ... [Paris: Isidore Liseux, 1893]), was limited to 500 copies. It is extremely rare. The first American edition, according to Carrington, was oversubscribed at $60; it, too has become quite rare. Later American reprints from  Esar Levine's American Anthropological Society (1930) and Benjamin Rebhuhn's Falstaff Press  (1937), which  were sold by private subscription  and "Intended for Circulation Among Mature Educated Persons Only," are readily available and relatively inexpensive. Suffice it to say, both Levine and Rebhuhn - who received Levine's copyrights - were indicted for obscenity through mail violations).

Carrington published the first edition in English of Pierre Louys' Aphrodite (1906). A few of his more earthy publications included Amorous Adventures of a Japanese Gentleman (Yokohama: Printed for the Diamio of Satsuma, 1897, i.e. Paris, 1897)); Les Belles Flagellantes de New York (1906); The Autobiography of a Flea, Told in a Hop, Skip and a Jump (The Phlebotomical Society: Cythera, 1789 [c.1890]); The Adventures of Miss Lais Lovecock (1906); and A Town-Bull Or the Elysian Fields. How Priapus blessed a poor man, made a living for him, and how, finally, a paradise for free-lovers was established where fathers and daughters, mothers and grandsons, brothers and sisters, white, brown and black cohabitated indiscriminately (Carnopolis [Paris]: Société des Bibliophiles, c.1899).

The most complete bibliographical checklist to date of the books published by Charles Carrington can be found at the The Erotica Bibliophile. A diligent and tenacious amateur scholar, Ms. Sheryl Straight has included much more about Carrington on this excellent site, which includes info about publishers, writers, and illustrators of clandestine erotic literature found nowhere else.

Bradstreet's and Matthews were the founding firms of American fine binding. Bradstreet's rated a highly honorable mention in Henri Pène du Bois' Historical Essay on the Art of Bookbinding (1883):

Bookbinding "was not an art an art to be restricted to one nation or to one family, as tradition would have it in France, and forthwith did Bradstreet's of New York, undertake to make it American also; and now, if the rallied book collectors of the Old World point with pride to Trautz-Bauzonnet, Lortic, Marius Michel, Hardy, Amand, Bedford, Smeers, Riviere and Zaehnsdorf, the New World may retort with Matthews and Bradstreet's. And deservedly, because there is a solidity, strength and squareness of workmanship about the books of the Bradstreet bindery which seem to convince that they may be 'tossed from the summit of Snowdon to that of Cader Idris,' without detriment or serious injury. Certainly, none can put a varied colored morocco coat on a book, and gild it with greater perfection in choice of ornament and splendor of gold, and with greater care, taste and success, than Bradstreet's" (p. 35).  The essay giving the great Matthews the short end I suspect that Du Bois was influenced by the essay's publisher,  The Bradstreet Company.

Many advertisements for American binderies are found in The Literary Collector. In 1902, however, beyond Bradstreet's, few binders in the United States possessed the craftsmanship and artistry of their British and French contemporaries. Henry Stikeman  of Stikeman & Co. was amongst the exceptional few. Stikeman trained with American art bookbinding founding father William Matthews, eventually taking over Matthews' firm. Stikeman’s career arc followed the grouth and establishment of art bookbinding in America as the 19th century ended and the new century began. Stikeman bindings from the 1880s through the second decade of the twentieth century represent the best work of the firm, and Stikeman bindings have become quite collectible. Stikeman's descendant, Jeff Stikeman, is an architectural designer and illustrator in Boston with an excellent website devoted to Stikeman & Co. bindings and history.

Allan J. Crawford established his secondhand book firm, A.J. Crawford & Co., in St. Louis in the 1880s, evolving his stock into antiquarian volumes as the city's population and prosperity grew with the coming of the new century "The lifetime Crawford devoted to the antiquarian trade wound fittingly to its close. The dealer was found dead on the floor of the shop where he had fallen" (Stern, p. 116).

Rare bookseller Oscar Wegelin (1876-1970) was a bibliophile-scholar responsible for Early American Plays 1714-1830 (1905); Early American Poetry: A Compilation of the Titles of Volumes of Verse and Broadsides, Written by Writers Born or Residing in North America, and Issued During the 17th and 18th Centuries (1903); A Bibliography of the Separate Writings of John Esten Cooke (1925); Wisconsin Verse (1914); Early American Fiction 1774-1830 (1929); and etc. An archive of Oscar Wegelin's papers rests at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island.

Above, a favorite for its wry candor.

Poor S.F. McLean. Publishing Holmes Whittier Merton's Descriptive Mentality From the Head, Face and Hand (1897), apparently, did not make his fortune, nor did Samuel Wylie Crawford's The History of the Fall of Fort Sumpter... (1898). He didn't seem to be doing too well selling books, either. "Something wrong." Perhaps his books really were No Good. Will he survive?

More one him in Part II.

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Reference to booksellers:

STERN, Madeleine B. Stern. Antiquarian Bookselling in the United States: A History from the Origins to the 1940s (1985).
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More vintage American rare book trade advertisements to come in Part II and Part III.
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American Rare Book Trade Annals: Heritage Bookshop - The First Year

by Louis Weinstein

At the time of its closing in 2007 after forty-four years in business, Heritage Bookshop, established by Louis and Ben Weinstein and ultimately located in a former mortuary on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood, California, that they morphed into an English chapel library with stained glass windows, had grown from nothing to become the most successful and respected rare and antiquarian book shop on Earth. Rosenbach Company was the dominant force in the international trade in first half of the 20th century, Heritage during the second half.

If A.S.W. "Abe" Rosenbach was the greatest rare book salesman the world had ever seen - and he was - then Lou Weinstein was most certainly his successor, raising the bar and setting a new standard.

Humor played an enormous role in his rise to the top. He never saw an opening he didn't step into with a  quip, often irreverent, a quality that endeared him to clients and colleagues.  You have, hopefully, mastered the "spit-take;" reflexive opportunities will arise throughout Lou's tale. As a prelude, I leave you with the following true story, one of many in the Weinstein treasury.

One Christmas, Dustin Hoffman and his wife were in the shop to pick out a few presents. Hoffman gave Lou a Los Angeles address for the invoice. Puzzled, Lou said, "I always assumed you were from New York."

"No," replied Hoffman, "I originally went to New York for acting classes."

"Oh, really?" Lou replied. "Did it help?" [SJG].

I was seventeen and working for Deutsch and Shea Advertising Agency in New York. It was April 5, 1963. The news of my father's death in Gary, Indiana the day before wasn't too painful, for I had hardly known the man. It had been years since I'd seen him; sometimes I would almost forget that I had a father. I knew he had been a good merchant - always making a living, but never more. I believed that by profession he had been a pawnbroker, junk man, TV and radio repairman, appraiser, seller of used clothes and appliances, and trader - all of which he practiced under the name of "Irving's Trading Post."

Ben and I packed for Gary to deal with those things that must be dealt with by next of kin. In truth I'd heard of Indiana but "Gary" was a total mystery. I knew Chicago was not far.

When we arrived, it was explained to us by the attorney reading the will that my father's estate consisted of a $3,000 insurance policy and his business. With luck the $3,000 would cover the funeral and legal fees. The business, yet to be seen, was the asset left to his eight children, of which I was the youngest. Realizing that this was my only inheritance (for my mother had died twelve years before), and I hadn't any relatives asking for a recent address, I figured this was it.

Driving to the store made me nervous, for the streets reeked of poverty. We must have passed a hundred winos, pimps, hookers, and run-of-the-mill hoodlums within a half mile of the shop. The sign was simple, "Irving's Trading Post - We Buy and Sell Everything." It occurred to me that it was ideally located for its clientele. The window was full of used clothes, guns, tools, knives, eyeglasses, and good reproductions of costume jewelry. In the right corner as we entered stood a four-shelf bookcase, which, though unknown to me, would be a large part of my destiny. "Used books individually priced," the sign read.

Brothers, Jerry and Bob, arrived from the West Coast, and the search was on. We spent the first four hours looking through my father's world, trying to decide why people would pay real money for such junk - broken radios, clocks with only one hand (for good guessers?), lots of clothes with lots of holes (not stylish but functional). In the back room an old American flag draped his bed; it lacked a few stars, but who counted? By the front door, proudly mountd under glass, were officer's bars from the U.S. Army - Lieutenant, Captain, Major - neatly captioned, "Irving's own - Not for sale." Pretty impressive for a man who never made sergeant!

Probably a good deterrent for a would-be thief. The officer who found my dad's body (in front of the store) told me my dad was "packin'." Later I understood this to mean he had three loaded weapons in his possession. Nice neighborhood!

The search continued into the night, for we all knew Dad loved to hide his valuables. In the basement behind some loose bricks in the wall, we found a checkbook and a map. The checkbook's balance was too low to pay for the cab ride to the bank. The map was familiar. It seems my dad had mentioned a map he acquired (from a local wino, no doubt) of a cemetery in East Germany with the location of a half million dollars in gemstones buried at the end of the Second World War. The fantasy was intriguing, but who knows if it's still there and what it is. I've often been tempted to put the map in a Heritage catalogue as:

Map. Manuscript, folded. Buried treasure. $1/2 million worth.

Unpublished, of course. $5,000 net. No 'on approval" orders. I wonder how many I could sell.

It was decided we should have a sale, disposing of what we could, maybe even earning enough to cover our flight home. I quickly realized that at the right price almost anything is saleable.  I started to gain respect for the items I had thought of a week before as mere junk. It was definitely a learning experience and my first real exposure to the world of business and barter. I was excited!

I had to get back to New York, to my job of proofreading copy for classified ads. In the 'help wanted" sections were ads for engineers, systems analysts, technicians; it quickly grew boring. I missed the muck of Gary, the negotiating, the trading, the surprises. Ben had less to miss, for he was managing a home-made fudge shop in New Jersey.  Bob went back to his air Force station in Coos Bay, Oregon.

Ben and Jerry decided to move the remaining treasures to California and perhaps carry on a business in the tradition of my father. After all, they had thirty days' experience in the trade, so it wasn't as if they were going into it blind. Off they went with their fake jewelry, clothes with holes, toasters that hadn't touched bread in years, broken guns and miscellaneous objects we never could identify. They also brought the four shelves of unsold books, each neatly stamped on the front flyleaf, "Irving's Trading Post, Gary, Indiana."

Off they went, goodies and all, to Beverly Hills, California to find an appropriate location for the new shop. It was quickly discovered that if the price of every item in the inventory was doubled and everything completely sold out in thirty days, they still wouldn't have enough to meet the first month's rent. A second choice of location, of somewhat lesser prestige, was made - Compton, the Harlem of Los Angeles. The rent for the 2800-square-foot store was $200 per month - a lot of money but not impossible.

By July, I was hot and ready to join them in their new venture, "B&J Merchandisers." Jerry picked me up at L.A. International Airport on July 2nd and freely shared with me the glories of being self-employed, with your own hours and unlimited income. I was intrigued. Within weeks a settlement was reached. I was to exchange my entire net worth for Jerry's half interest in the new business. Now $300 was a lot of money, but heck, I was seventeen and without promise of a profession, so I decided to chance it. It was hardly a week before I realized that suing your own brother was impractical. "Your own hours" turned out to be 7 AM to 7 PM, seven days a week. "Unlimited income" meant there was no limit on how little you could make in an eighty-hour week!

The shop was located on a main street (Compton Blvd.) and catered to a local clientele of mostly Blacks and Mexicans. Due to a frugal lifestyle, we were able to reinvest what monies did come into building an inventory.

Within six months we had a store full of rarities, including appliances, clothes, tools, jewelry, and lots of books. Books, it seems, were acquired rather easily, for the word got around that Ben and I had a high school education. We paid five cents for any hardback and two cents for paperbacks (still do). It appeared that fifty percent of all Comptonians were in the business of cleaning and hauling from other people's garages. Books were previously considered unsaleable in this community until B&J Merchandisers arrived.

One day in November, four thousand volumes later, I pointed out to Ben that we probably accumulated the world's largest collection of Reader's Digest condensed books. Perhaps at five cents for hardbacks we were paying too much, so we lowered it to two cents - a major management decision. Beyond this we realized the only books we could sell in this low income community were "how-to fix it yourself" books - for cars, televisions, air conditioners, dinners, or divorces.

About this time a book scout named Al Taylor walked into our shop. He tried to convince us that some old books were worth ten dollars or more. That gullible we weren't! Fortunately for us, Al spent days in the weeks ahead explaining some realities about the trade. Fiction was virtually worthless, he stated; cookbooks, Americana, picture books, and auto-repair manuals were hot stuff. Our appetites were whetted, but we needed to learn more, so from an old AB [American Bookman] which Al had given us, we ordered the newest reference book, Roskie, The Bookman's Bible. This book  listed books chronologically, then by author's initials, then by titles. Thus Baum's classic, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, published in 1900, would be found as "1900B.L.W.W.O.O. 300 (value)." After I conquered the cryptography the detective work really appealed to me. Within a few weeks Ben and I had this funny little book memorized. At this point we figured we had conquered the profession of antiquarian bookselling.

One Sunday afternoon a visitor came to our door. His name was Peter Howard.

"Do you have any first editions of William Faulkner?" he asked.

"One second," I said, as I turned to call to Ben, who was working in the back, alphabetizing the Reader's Digests. "Hey, Ben, did you ever hear of William Faulkner?"

A long, thoughtful pause was followed by, "Did he write cookbooks or auto-repair manuals?"

Peter's eyes brightened as if we had said, "Yes, we have his entire archives."

"You never heard of William Faulkner?" he reiterated.

"Uh-uh," came my fluid reply.

Peter turned to his companion and said, "This is going to be fun."

Three hours later, an impressive stack of fourteen titles stood on our counter - all fiction.

"Ben," I whispered, "I think we have a live one here."

Perhaps he'd like a complete run of Reader's Digest condensed, I thought to myself. The man's vocabulary was somewhat peculiar. He used such terms as issue, proof, variant, wrapper, state. Perhaps we had found our first collector! The total purchase was $27.00 - a calculated profit of $26.30, I mused. He seemed pleased, so I didn't feel I took advantage, even though he didn't ask for a discount.

"Nothing signed?" he asked on the way out.

This I understood (from my talks with Al Taylor), and I pointed to our signed book shelf in excitement. He perused the thirty titles in four seconds and left.

"Not too knowledgeable a collector," I said to Ben, "passing up the cream of my scouting."

After all, the shelf included two cookbooks, seven fix-it books, four self-help titles, some major Arkansas poets and even a lieutenant governor - all in presentation copies. After he left, Ben realized we had neglected to show this fiction collector our greatest find - a presentation copy of Aimee Semple McPherson's, acquired a week before, at our regular hardback offering of five cents. The book was proudly displayed, open, in our front window. I reached in to reassure myself it was still there.

"Ben," I screamed, "someone robbed it!"

"The book?" he asked.

"No, the signature." It seemed that one week of direct sunlight had completely eradicated the inscription. Thank goodness it wasn't the inscribed Dale Carnegie, I thought.

After seven months I decided it was time to weed the stock, which now amounted to some 7,000 volumes, for space was quickly becoming a problem. Satisfied with my knowledge of what titles were in demand, I made it my morning project to cull out four boxes of books, destined for the trash. During lunch a man drifted in to browse.

"What's in the boxes?" he asked.

"Some new arrivals," I quickly replied, thinking I could sell one. "Help yourself."

After he had browsed through our stock for half an hour I didn't have much hope for him. but who knows? Three minutes later, he pulled eight books from the dregs, paid me and left.

This experience somewhat unnerved me, for he had just purchased my garbage.

I quickly and quietly returned the balance of the four boxes to the shelves. Somehow I was no longer up to the project. Perhaps I should put our entire inventory in boxes on the floor, I thought. It might be a bonanza. That evening, Ben checked for cars on the street. None were coming, so we closed early (9:30 PM) and indulged in a steak at the Sizzler.

By the ninth month, I counted 8,500 volumes in hardback, with most of our money, time and energy going into replenishing the inventory. Our reference library now consisted of forty volumes, mostly price guides and catalogues, some of which were less than twenty years old. We found ourselves quickly losing interest in the junk business - too much competition and a depleting stock.

In truth, the store was a good learning experience and an example of the adage, "There's a customer for everything."   One day a man came in to buy an overcoat and found a suitable one for $10.00. He left his old one behind, asking if we would dispose of it for him. After he had left, Ben dusted the old coat and put it on the clothes rack. By the end of the day, it was gone, with another ten dollars in the till.

Our one-year lease was coming due, and a decision had to be made. I wrote to Gerald, a brother in New York, and told him of my options. I could either open a used book shop or a floating hot dog stand. It seems when I went out to the ocean, I noticed hundreds of boats, but never a food concession in the water. A floating restaurant, serving hot dogs, had to be a wonderful idea.

Gerald wrote me back, and I quote, "Lou, you've always trusted my judgment, you know I am a person of good business sense and reason. No one buys used books but a floating hot dog stand? I love it!"

Somehow God blessed me to ignore his wisdom. Who knows? I might this day, with my chain of floating hot dog stands, be writing this article for The Professional Hot Dog Boatman. Somehow, though, I feel we made the right decision.

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Heritage Bookshop - The First Year originally appeared in Issue No. 4, 1982 of The Professional Rare Bookman: The Journal of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America (ABAA), and is reprinted with the kind permission of the author.

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The Wild-Ride Journal of a Hollywood Bookseller

 

 Now available in book form, with new material not found in the online edition, original illustrations by the author, and a preface by yours truly, Stephen J. Gertz.

HERR, Arnold M. The Wild Ride of a Hollywood Bookseller. Berkeley: Poltroon Press in Association with Booktryst, 2016. Octavo. Photo-illustrated wrappers. $21.95. BUY NOW.

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A Peek at the U.S. Rare Book Trade in 1933

by Stephen J. Gertz

By November of 1933 the financial crisis that swept the country in 1929 had wrenched the U.S.  into a profound economic depression that was deepening into a miasma with no end in sight. The rare book trade saw prices decline, credit dry up, and client bases contract. Many firms went under.

Goodspeed's, in Boston, established by Charles E. Goodspeed in 1898, had grown dramatically during the Roaring Twenties; by the end of the decade it had three shops and sixty employees.

"With us, as with many others, the late 'twenties were years of great expansion both of staff and premises," George T. Goodspeed, C.E.'s son, who joined the firm in 1925, remembered. The Williams Book Store had gone bankrupt in 1929; Goodspeed's bought its stock and took over its lease.

But just two years later economic circumstances had worsened and now even Goodspeed's - one of the most successful rare book firms in the country -  was feeling the Depression's effects.

"1931, which I think of as the first of the Depression years, found us dangerously overstaffed and but for an extraordinary windfall we should have operated at a loss for the first time in many years," George T. Goodspeed recalled.

By 1933, however, Goodspeed's had, by necessity, slimmed down. It was time to retrench and, significantly, reach out. Studies show that in difficult times, rather than cut back, it is crucial to continue to advertise and market to remain visible, competitive, and viable; spending money to make money is never more important.

And so, amongst other tactics, Goodspeed's placed an ad, 11 x 2 inches, in the November 1933 issue of Fortune magazine. While advertising space rates had declined, this was still an expensive ad to run.

Why that magazine and that issue?

In 1933 only one industry in the United States was booming, indeed, bursting its barrel hoops: The alcoholic beverage trade. The huge sums of illegal money generated by the business during Prohibition had, with Repeal (implemented in 1933) been diverted to legal commerce. The November 1933 issue of Fortune featured a twenty-page in-depth report on the whiskey business, which couldn't distill and age spirits fast enough to satisfy demand. The magazine would, of course, be read by all in the liquor industry, who were doing quite well, thank you, in addition to the moneyed class that Fortune was aimed at; the rich were still, for the most part, rich, even if a polo pony or two had to be sold to help make ends meet and pay the chauffeur. 

Goodspeed's was simply trying to attract the attention and business of the demographic that it depended upon and seek new clients. Fortune was an over-sized periodical that was still using expensive, coated paper stock, though at this time the total number of pages so had declined, with uncoated stock used for approximately 50% of its bulk. It was priced at $1, which, adjusted for inflation, is $16.50 in today's dollars; a very pricey magazine.

The advertisement is quite revealing:

Fortune, November 1933, p. 126.

 Here, Goodspeed's is offering prints from the first edition of Audubon's Birds of America (1833) from $5 to $100 ($82 - $1640 in 2009 money). First edition prints in fine condition now sell for $25,000 - $80,000.

"Audubon Never Drew a Dodo" is certainly a headline for the ages.

They offer Robert B. McAfee's History of the Late War in the Western Country (1816) for $250 ($4,100 adjusted for inflation). A rebound copy now sells for $925, which may be pushing it; it has not fared so well at auction over the last thirty-five years, though, admittedly, it is usually found in poor condition. Fine copies are  near impossible to find.

I can find no auction records for the Coolidge piece offered for $95 ($1560). My guess is that the price, adjusted for inflation, would be around the same were it offered today; at the time Coolidge was fondly remembered for presiding over the 'Twenties speculative boom. "Silent" Cal has not fared  so well in Presidential Americana (or in U.S. history) since then.

Of special note is Goodspeed's promotional publication, The Month, an illustrated overview of books, prints and autographs in general and those in Goodspeed's stock in particular. In bad times, the show must always go on. It is offered to as a "gift" to Fortune readers, a nice  if somewhat misleading pitch - it was free to anybody who subscribed. Goodspeed's simply used the ploy as an attractive, personalized come-on to a readership whose attention, names, mailing addresses, and money it was trying to capture.

Goodspeed's, alas, closed in 1993, just five years shy of its centennial, a victim of rising rents and a lagging economy, an object lesson that, if at all possible, book shop owners should own the buildings they are located in to turn a  short-term fixed/long-term (and potentially disastrous) variable expense (rent)  into a permanently short- and long-term fixed and predictable one, and gain a growth investment at the same time.

"It's hard to talk about it," George Goodspeed, ninety at the time, told the Boston Globe. He wanted to continue the tradition but keeping the bookstore open, he said, became "just too expensive."

No amount of advertising could save it. Fortune no longer smiled.

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Reference: GOODSPEED, George T. The Bookseller's Apprentice (Oak Knoll Press, 1996). Excerpted in The Professional Rare Bookseller, Journal of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America, 1983, No. 5.

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Fortune magazine, November 1933, and advertisement therein a happy discovery courtesy of Kenneth G. Gertz, the author's beloved father, with my deep thanks.
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I have a personal interest in advertising for the rare book trade 1900 - 1960. Readers with knowledge and/or in possession of such are encouraged to contact me, with my thanks in advance.

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