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
    "Ninepenceshillingnetoneandsixpencenethalfacrownnettwoandeightpencethreeandninepencefiveshillingsnethalfaguineaandkindlystepthisway."
    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 ninepenceashillingneteighteenpencetwoandsixnetthreeandninefiveshillingsnetorhalfaguineaandkindlystepthisway
    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.