’Now I’m coming to business. I have never seen any writing of his until this morning, when, after long goading, he showed me a little poem which I will copy out and enclose in this letter when I have finished. Now, darling Em, I want you to do me a real kindness; the first time you see Jack Huysen—I don’t want to ask the favour of him direct—will you ask him to print it in the _Citizen_, and to say something nice about it? I don’t want any patronage: understand—I mean let Jack Huysen understand—that Ronald Strang is a particular _friend_ of both my father and myself; and that I am sending you this without his authority, but merely to give him a little pleasant surprise, perhaps, when he sees it in print; and perhaps to tempt him to give us some more. I should like him to print a volume,—for he is really far above his present station, and it is absurd he should not take his _place_,—and if he did that I know of a young party who would buy 500 copies even if she were to go back home without a single Paris bonnet. Tell Jack Huysen there is to be _no patronage_, mind; there is to be nothing about the peasant poet, or anything like that; for this man is a _gentleman_, if I know anything about it; and I won’t have him trotted out as a phenomenon—to be discussed by the dudes who smoke cigarettes in Lincoln Park. If you could only talk to him for ten minutes it would be better than fifty letters, but I suppose there are _attractions nearer home_ just at present. My kind remembrances to T.T.
’I forgot to say that I am quite ignorant as to whether newspapers ever pay for poetry—I mean if a number of pieces were sent? Or could Jack Huysen find a publisher who would undertake a volume; my father will see he does not lose anything by it. I really want to do something for this Ronald, for he has been so kind and attentive to us; and before long it may become more difficult to do so; for of course a man of his abilities is not likely to remain as he is; indeed, he has already formed plans for getting away altogether from his present way of life, and whatever he tries to do I know he will do—and easily. But if I talk any more about him, you will be making very _very_ mistaken guesses; and I won’t give you the delight of imagining even for a moment that I have been caught at last; when the sad event arrives there will be time enough for you to take your cake-walk of triumph up and down the room—of course to _Dancing in the Barn_, as in the days of old.’