And in those days the storm had for me a perfect impersonation, as
durable and unvarying as any heathen deity. I always heard it, as
a horseman riding past with his cloak about his head, and somehow
always carried away, and riding past again, and being baffled yet
once more, AD INFINITUM, all night long. I think I wanted him to
get past, but I am not sure; I know only that I had some interest
either for or against in the matter; and I used to lie and hold my
breath, not quite frightened, but in a state of miserable
exaltation.

My first John Knox is in proof, and my second is on the anvil. It
is very good of me so to do; for I want so much to get to my real
tour and my sham tour, the real tour first: it is always working
in my head, and if I can only turn on the right sort of style at
the right moment, I am not much afraid of it. One thing bothers
me; what with hammering at this J. K., and writing necessary
letters, and taking necessary exercise (that even not enough, the
weather is so repulsive to me, cold and windy), I find I have no
time for reading except times of fatigue, when I wish merely to
relax myself. O - and I read over again for this purpose
Flaubert's TENTATION DE ST. ANTOINE; it struck me a good deal at
first, but this second time it has fetched me immensely. I am but
just done with it, so you will know the large proportion of salt to
take with my present statement, that it's the finest thing I ever
read! Of course, it isn't that, it's full of LONGUEURS, and is not
quite 'redd up,' as we say in Scotland, not quite articulated; but
there are splendid things in it.

I say, DO take your maccaroni with oil: DO, PLEASE. It's BEASTLY
with butter. - Ever your faithful friend,