anecdotes, sayings, tragedies, comedies--I wonder whether they lie
fearfully. They are a marvellously _narrational_ community. And you've
not been there a day before all this closes round you with a quiet
familiarity of "use and custom" which is most fascinating. Nothing else
in the universe seems of any consequence.

And warly cares, and warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

A week more and I should have become reabsorbed into this medium past
recovery and past recognition....

I have been musing a good deal over my "Dooiney-molla"[1]: he is now
taking shape, and looms rather large. I believe you will like him, and
his fiery little groom. These good souls do well to visit my dreams:
they are such a comfort; and, do you know, they positively do "go on" in
my dreams. Here are two lines which came tripping at the window of my
slumbers last night:

1. "When the sun was jus' puttin' on his shoes" (morning),

for which I instantly seemed to discover a parallel--to wit:

"Sthreelin' oft his golden stockings" (the sun again, evening).

2. "Jus' rags tore off the Divil's ould shirt" (=witches' charms, or
spells).

There will be a very good witch in this poem, I promise you: look out!
----[2] are sounding me about "The Doctor";... They would try to make it