TO A BOOKSELLER

My dear Sir,—

“There lies a vale in Ida

Lovelier

Than all the valleys

Of Ionian hills.”

I take it

That this is a geographical fact.

Anyway it is Tennyson,

And I quote it

In order that you may perceive

That I have some acquaintance

With the higher walks of Literature,

And am therefore a man

Of entirely different build from yourself.

I was born a poet,

And have stuck to my trade

Unto this last.

Possibly you were born a bookseller.

I am willing to give your credit for it,

But I doubt it all the same,

For I often think the average bookseller

Must have been born a draper.

The other day I had occasion to do a little book-buying.

It was my first essay

In what I now believe to be

An altogether elegant and delightful form

Of intellectual recreation.

Of course, I went into a shop:

From the yawning Cimmerianity at the back of that shop

There came unto me swiftly and in large boots

A fat youth.

He bowed, and he bowed, and he bowed.

“I want a good edition of Shelley,” I said.

And he replied straightway

“Ninepenceshillingnetoneandsixpencenethalfa- crownnettwoandeightpencethreeandnine- pencefiveshillingsnethalfaguineaandkindly- stepthisway.”

I said, “Thank you,

But I want Shelley,

Not egg-whisks.”

Whereat he smiled and banged under my nose

A heavy volume,

Bound like a cheap purse,

And murmured, “There you are,

The best line in the market,

Two-and-eight.”

And because I opened it,

And looked disconsolately at the stodgy running-titles

And the entrancing red-line border,

He cast upon me eyes of contempt and disgust,

And told me that I could not expect

Kelmscott Press and tree-calf

At the money.

In fact, that fat youth

Annoyed me.

He

Was

A bookseller.

Ah, my dear Sir,

When I reflect that whatever I may write,

No matter how excellent it may be,

Must ultimately pass into the hands

Of that fat youth

And become to him

Something

At ninepenceashillingneteighteenpencetwoandsix- netthreeandninefiveshillingsnetorhalfaguinea- andkindlystepthisway

The spirit of my fathers quails within me,

I know that authorship

Is a trade for fools.

Go to!

Ninepence me no ninepences,

Two-and-sixpence me no nets,

Bring yourself at once

To your logical conclusion,

And next time I call upon you

For Shelley,

Sell him to me,

As you appear to sell “Temporal Power.”

By the pound

Avoirdupois.