I have an intense interest in your new novel. More power in these few
numbers than in any of your former writings, relatively, at least to
my own mind. More power than in "Adam Bede," which is _the_ book
of the season, and well deserves a high place. Whether Mrs. Scudder
will rival Mrs. Poyser, we shall see.
It would amuse you to hear my granddaughter and myself attempting to
foresee the future of the "love story," being quite persuaded for the
moment that James is at sea, and the minister about to ruin himself.
We think that she will labor to be in love with the self-devoting man,
under her mother's influence, and from that hyper-conscientiousness so
common with good girls,--but we don't wish her to succeed. Then what
is to become of her older lover? He--Time will show. I have just
missed Dale Owen, with whom I wished to have conversed about the
"Spiritualism." Harris is lecturing here on religion. I do not hear
him praised. People are looking for helps to believe everywhere but in
life,--in music, in architecture, in antiquity, in ceremony,--and upon
all is written, "Thou shalt _not_ believe." At least, if this be
faith, happier the unbeliever. I am willing to see _through_ that
materialism, but if I am to rest there, I would rend the veil.
_June_ 1. The day of the packet's sailing. I shall hope to be
visited by you here. The best flowers sent me have been placed in your
little vases, giving life, as it were, to the remembrance of you,
though not to pass away like them.
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