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. TO THE DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER