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.