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.