[
336]
for one thing, believe in hell with all my might, and in the goodness of God for all that.
I have not said anything.
What could I say?
One might almost as well advise a mother about the child she still bears under her heart, and say, give it these and those qualities, as an author about a work yet in the brain.
Only this I will say, that I am honestly delighted with
The minister's Wooing; that reading it has been one of my few editorial pleasures; that no one appreciates your genius more highly than I, or hopes more fervently that you will let yourself go without regard to this, that, or t'other.
Don't read any criticisms on your story: believe that you know better than any of us, and be sure that everybody likes it. That I know.
There is not, and never was, anybody so competent to write a true
New England poem as yourself, and have no doubt that you are doing it. The native sod sends up the best inspiration to the brain, and you are as sure of immortality as we all are of dying,--if you only go on with entire faith in yourself.
