American climate is unmanning, or that one American whom you know
is severely taxed by Lilliput labors. The last hot summer
enfeebled me till my young people coaxed me to go with Edward to
the White Hills, and we climbed or were dragged up Agiocochook,
in August, and its sleet and snowy air nerved me again for the
time. But the booksellers, whom I had long ago urged to reprint
Plutarch's _Morals,_ claimed some forgotten promise, and set me
on reading the old patriarch again, and writing a few pages about
him, which no doubt cost me as much time and pottering as it
would cost you to write a History. Then an "Oration" was due to
the New England Society in New York, on the 250th anniversary of
the Plymouth Landing,--as I thought myself familiar with the
story, and holding also some opinions thereupon. But in the
Libraries I found alcoves full of books and documents reckoned
essential; and, at New York, after reading for an hour to the
great assembly out of my massy manuscript, I refused to print a
line until I could revise and complete my papers;--risking, of
course, the nonsense of their newspaper reporters. This pill
swallowed and forgotten, it was already time for my Second
"Course on Philosophy" at Cambridge,--which I had accepted again
that I might repair the faults of the last year. But here were
eighteen lectures, each to be read sixteen miles away from my
house, to go and come,--and the same work and journey twice in
each week,--and I have just got through the doleful ordeal.

I have abundance of good readings and some honest writing on the
leading topics,--but in haste and confusion they are misplaced
and spoiled. I hope the ruin of no young man's soul will here or
hereafter be charged to me as having wasted his time or
confounded his reason.