his seems to me
highly probable. It is curious that Maurice, Mr. Kingsley's friend,
about whom so much lately has been written and quarrelled (and who _has_
made certain great mistakes, I think), takes this precise view of the
resurrection, with an apparent unconsciousness of what Swedenborg has
stated upon the subject, and that, I, too, long before I knew
Swedenborg, or heard the name of Maurice, came to the same conclusions.
I wonder if Mr. Kingsley agrees with us. I dare say he does, upon the
whole--for the ordinary doctrine seems to me as little taught by
Scripture as it can be reconciled with philosophical probabilities. I
believe in an active, _human_ life, beyond death as before it, an
uninterrupted human life. I believe in no waiting in the grave, and in
no vague effluence of spirit in a formless vapour. But you'll be tired
with 'what I believe.'

I have been to the other side of Florence to call on Mrs. Trollope, on
purpose that I might talk to her of you, but she was not at home, though
she has returned from the Baths of Lucca. From what I hear, she appears
to be well, and has recommenced her 'public mornings,' which we shrink
away from. She 'receives' every Saturday morning in the most
heterogeneous way possible. It must be amusing to anybody not
overwhelmed by it, and people say that she snatches up 'characters' for
her 'so many volumes a year' out of the diversities of masks presented
to her on these occasions. Oh, our Florence! In vain do I cry out for
'Atherton.' The most active circulating library 'hasn't got it yet,'
they say. I must still wait. Meanwhile, of course, I am delighted with
all your successes, and your books won't spoil by keeping like certain
other books. So I may wait.

How young children unfold like flowers, and how pleasant it is to watch
them! I congratulate you upon yours--your baby-girl must be a dear
forward little thing. But I wish I could show you my Penini, with his
drooping golden ringlets and seraphic smile, and his talk about
angels--you would like him, I know. Your girl-baby has avenged my name
for me, and now, if you heard my Penini say in the midst of a coaxing
fit--'O, my sweetest little mama, my darling, _dearlest_, little Ba,'
you would admit that 'Ba' must have a music in it, to my ears at least.
The love of two generations is poured out to me in that name--and the
stream seems to run (in one instance) when alas! the fountain is dry. I
do not refer to the dead who liv