Coleridge's case, though Kubla Khan is wonderful, it is not more
wonderful, while it is certainly less complete, than the Ancient Mariner.

As for the dreams themselves, which occupy the first portion of the book,
their value, of course, depends chiefly on the value of the truths or
predictions which they are supposed to impart. I must confess that most
modern mysticism seems to me to be simply a method of imparting useless
knowledge in a form that no one can understand. Allegory, parable, and
vision have their high artistic uses, but their philosophical and
scientific uses are very small. However, here is one of Mrs. Kingsford's
dreams. It has a pleasant quaintness about it:

THE WONDERFUL SPECTACLES

I was walking alone on the sea-shore. The day was singularly clear
and sunny. Inland lay the most beautiful landscape ever seen; and far
off were ranges of tall hills, the highest peaks of which were white
with glittering snows. Along the sands by the sea came towards me a
man accoutred as a postman. He gave me a letter. It was from you. It
ran thus:

'I have got hold of the earliest and most precious book extant. It
was written before the world began. The text is easy enough to read;
but the notes, which are very copious and numerous, are in such minute
and obscure characters that I cannot make them out. I want you to get
for me the spectacles which Swedenborg used to wear; not the smaller
pair--those he gave to Hans Christian Andersen--but the large pair,
and these seem to have got mislaid. I think they are Spinoza's make.
You know, he was an optical-glass maker by profession, and the best we
ever had. See if you can get them for me.'

When I looked up after reading this letter I saw the postman hastening
away across the sands, and I cried out to him, 'Stop! how am I to send
the answer? Will you not wait for it?'

He looked round, stopped, and came back to me.

'I have the answer here,' he said, tapping his letter-bag, 'and I
shall deliver it immediately.'

'How can you have the answer before I have written it?' I asked. 'You
are making a mistake.'

'No,' he said. 'In the city from which I come the replies are all
written at the office, and sent out with the letters themselves. Your
reply is in my bag.'

'Let me see it,' I said. He took another letter from his wallet, and
gave it to me. I opened it, an