This is a poem. Dear Wincott, —You write to me, from your bright home in the setting sun the flattering information that you have read my poor. Letters to Dead Authors. You are kind enough to say that you wish I would write some. Letters to Living Authors but that, I fear, is out of the question. A thoughtful critic in the Spectator has already remarked that the great men of the past would not care for my shadowy epistles — if they could read them.