At length we have Mrs Stowe’s new novel, and for the last three weeks there have been men, women, and children reading it with rapt attention – laughing and sobbing over it – lingering with delight over its exquisite landscapes, its scenes of humour, and tenderness, and rude heroism – and glowing with indignation at its terrible representation of chartered barbarities. Such a book is an uncontrollable power, and critics who follow it with their objections and reservations – who complain that Mrs Stowe’s plot is defective, that she has repeated herself, that her book is too long and too full of hymns and religious dialogue, and that it creates an unfair bias – are something like men pursuing a prairie fire with desultory watering-cans. In the meantime, Dred will be devoured by the million, who carry no critical talisman against the enchantments of genius. We confess ourselves to be among the million, and quite unfit to rank with the sage minority of Fadladeens. We have been too much moved by Dred to determine with precision how far it is inferior to Uncle Tom, too much impressed by what Mrs Stowe has done to be quite sure that we can tell her what she ought to have done. Our admiration of the book is quite distinct from any opinions or hesitations we may have as to the terribly difficult problems of Slavery and Abolition – problems which belong to quite other than ‘polite literature’. Even admitting Mrs Stowe to be mistaken in her views, and partial or exaggerated in her representations, Dred remains not the less a novel inspired by a rare genius – rare both in intensity and in range of power.