If I know anything of them. Also, my dear Worships, One thing is absolutely certain, That, if the magistrates of all the cities In the United Kingdom Would take the step you have taken, We should have gone a very considerable way Towards solving the drink problem, And putting Sir Michael Hicks-Beach Into a fearful hole for money. 

 P.S.—I hate Scotch men, But I sometimes think that Scotch women Are rather bonnie. 

 

 

   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 

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