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 selfdevoting 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.
