The two following letters refer to the essay on the Spirit of Spring
which I was careless enough to lose in the process of a change of
rooms at Cambridge. _The Petits Poemes en Prose_ were attempts, not
altogether successful, in the form though not in the spirit of
Baudelaire.
_Swanston [Autumn 1875]._
MY DEAR COLVIN,--Thanks. Only why don't you tell me if I can get my
_Spring_ printed? I want to print it; because it's nice, and genuine to
boot, and has got less side on than my other game. Besides I want coin
badly.
I am writing _Petits Poemes en Prose_. Their principal resemblance to
Baudelaire's is that they are rather longer and not quite so good. They
are ve-ry cle-ver (words of two syllables), O so aw-ful-ly cle-ver
(words of three), O so dam-na-bly cle-ver (words of a devil of a number
of syllables). I have written fifteen in a fortnight. I have also
written some beautiful poetry. I would like a cake and a cricket-bat;
and a pass-key to Heaven if you please, and as much money as my friend
the Baron Rothschild can spare. I used to look across to Rothschild of a
morning when we were brushing our hair, and say--(this is quite true,
only we were on the opposite side of the street, and though I used to
look over I cannot say I ever detected the beggar, he feared to meet my
eagle eye)--well, I used to say to him, "Rothschild, old man, lend us
five hundred francs," and it is characteristic of Rothy's dry humour
that he used never to reply when it was a question of money. He was a
very humorous dog indeed, was Rothy. Heigh-ho! those happy old days.
Funny, funny fellow, the dear old Baron.
How's that for genuine American wit and humour? Take notice of this in
your answer; say, for instance, "Even although the letter had been
unsigned, I could have had no difficulty in guessing who was my dear,
_lively_, _witty_ correspondent. Yours, Letitia Languish."
O!--my mind has given way. I have gone into a mild, babbling, sunny
idiocy. I shall buy a Jew's harp and sit by the roadside with a woman's
bonnet on my manly head begging my honest livelihood. Meantime, adieu.
I would send you some of these _PP. Poemes_ of mine, only I know you
would never acknowledge receipt or return them.--Yours, and
Rothschild's,