My Dear Mr Darwin,

I beg to thank you for your kindness in sending me a copy of your new book, which I have this morning received from London.¹

I shall read it not in the gluttonous but in the epicure style, chapter by chapter—while the world is rushing upon it like Paris,² long eager for what has at length come. From Germany out to the utmost bounds of civilization, as everybody knows, it will be considered ample provision of intellectual food of the most perfect quality as yet ever produced—and there is twofold reason for the feeling; since in regard to your works every intelligent reader is at a loss to say whether he is most impressed with the importance of the results and the purpose, or with the rich discoveries of most certain truth that abound in the process. Tyro or adept, we must read you—and fancy, even the least competent to judge, that we know something about it all. You alone bring instinct into the method of reason, and both to the grand test of Nature— hence the promiscuousness of the jury from all the twelve tribes of Israel and more, to whose confused sound of deliberation you may perhaps have turned sometimes an amused ear. And I do hope that nothing nearer the sense of being pestered may arise in your mind from any of it.

I am sorry to have to say that Mr MacNeil of Colonsay is dead—³ he died some months ago.

I remain | with thanks | Ever truly yours | George Cupples

Charles Darwin, Esq^r., | Down.

I venture to add my expression of the hope that the publishers have not left American freedom altogether open to swoop down upon British rights in this instance. One cannot help thinking of it—knowing how expectation stood in the States—and seeing the lists of new books there.⁴

The Spring weather and relaxation from press of thought must have done your health good. I confidently hope so.