608 Bush Street, San Francisco, January 23rd, 1880.
MY DEAR HENLEY,—That was good news. The Dook de Karneel, K.C.B., taken a blood and thunder! Well, I thought it had points; now, I know it. And I’m to see a proof once more! O Glory Hallelujah, how beautiful is proof, And how distressed that author man who dwells too far aloof. His favourite words he always finds his friends misunderstand, With oaths, he reads his articles, moist brow and clenchéd hand. Impromtoo. The last line first-rate. When may I hope to see the Deacon? I pine for the Deacon, for proofs of the Pavilion—O and for a categorical confession from you that the second edition of the Donkey was a false alarm, which I conclude from hearing no more.
I have twice written to the Marky de Stephen; each time with one of my bright papers, so I should hear from him soon. How are Baron Payn, Sir Robert de Bob, and other members of the Aristocracy?
| Here’s breid an’ wine an’ kebbuck an’ canty cracks at e’en To the folks that mind o’ me when I’m awa’, But them that hae forgot me, O ne’er to be forgi’en— They may a’ gae tapsalteerie in a raw! |
I have mighty little to say, dear boy, to seem worth 2½d. I have thought of the Piper, but he does not seem to come as yet; I get him too metaphysical. I shall make a shot for Hester, as soon as I have finished the Emigrant and the Vendetta and perhaps my Dialogue on Character and Destiny. Hester and Don Juan are the two that smile on me; but I will touch nothing in the shape of a play until I have made my year’s income sure. You understand, and you see that I am right?
I have read M. Auguste and the Crime inconnu, being now abonné to a library, and found them very readable, highly ingenious, and so French that I could not keep my gravity. The Damned Ones of the Indies now occupy my attention; I have myself already damned them repeatedly. I am, as you know, the original person the wheels of whose chariot tarried; but though I am so slow, I am rootedly tenacious. Do not despair. Hester and the Don are sworn in my soul; and they shall be.
Is there no news? Real news, newsy news. Heavenly blue, this is strange. Remember me to the lady of the Cawstle, my toolip, and ever was,
George the Pieman.
To Sidney Colvin