-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,

R. L. STEVENSON.

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_Edinburgh, Autumn 1875._]

MY DEAR COLVIN,--_Fous ne me gombrennez pas._ Angry with you? No. Is the
thing lost? Well, so be it. There is one masterpiece fewer in the world.
The world can ill spare it, but I, sir, I (and here I strike my hollow
bosom so that it resounds) I am full of this sort of bauble; I am made
of it; it comes to me, sir, as the desire to sneeze comes upon poor
ordinary devils on cold days, when they should be getting out of bed and
into their horrid cold tubs by the light of a seven o'clock candle, with
the dismal seven o'clock frost-flowers all over the window.

Show Stephen what you please; if you could show him how to give me
money, you would oblige, sincerely yours, R. L. S.

I have a scroll of _Springtime_ somewhere, but I know that it is not in
very good order, and do not feel myself up to very much grind over it. I
am damped about _S