ters; second, more
angels; third--well, more angels. The waters are sluggish; the
angels--well, the angels won't come, that's about all. But I sit waiting
and waiting, and people bring me meals, which help to pass time (I'm
sure it's very kind of them), and sometimes I whistle to myself; and as
there's a very pretty echo at my pool of Siloam, the thing's agreeable
to hear. The sun continues to rise every day, to my growing wonder. "The
moon by night thee shall not smite." And the stars are all doing as well
as can be expected. The air of Arcady is very brisk and pure, and we
command many enchanting prospects in space and time. I do not yet know
much about my situation; for, to tell the truth, I only came here by the
run since I began to write this letter; I had to go back to date it; and
I am grateful to you for having been the occasion of this little outing.
What good travellers we are, if we had only faith; no man need stay in
Edinburgh but by unbelief; my religious organ has been ailing for a
while past, and I have lain a great deal in Edinburgh, a sheer hulk in
consequence. But I got out my wings, and have taken a change of air.

I read your book with great interest, and ought long ago to have told
you so. An ordinary man would say that he had been waiting till he could
pay his debts.... The book is good reading. Your personal notes of those
you saw struck me as perhaps most sharp and "best held." See as many
people as you can, and make a book of them before you die. That will be
a living book, upon my word. You have the touch required. I ask you to
put hands to it in private already. Think of what Carlyle's caricature
of old Coleridge is to us who never saw S. T. C. With that and _Kubla
Khan_, we have the man in the fact. Carlyle's picture, of course, is not
of the author of _Kubla_, but of the author of that surprising _Friend_
which has knocked the breath out of two generations of hopeful youth.
Your portraits would be milder, sweeter, more true perhaps, and perhaps
not so truth-_telling_--if you will take my meaning.

I have to thank you for an introduction to that beautiful--no, that's
not the word--that jolly, with an Arcadian jollity--thing of
Vogelweide's. Also for your preface. Some day I want to read a whole
book in the same picked dialect as that preface. I think it must be one
E. W. Gosse who must write it. He has got himself into a fix with me by
writing the preface; I look for a great deal, and will no