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.

Now I come to the raid of a London bookseller, Hotten, (of whom I believe I never told you,) on my forgotten papers in the old Dials, and other pamphlets here.  Conway wrote me that he could not be resisted,—­would certainly steal good and bad,—­but might be guided in the selection.  I replied that the act was odious to me, and I promised to denounce the man and his theft to any friends I might have in England; but if, instead of printing then, he would wait a year, I would make my own selection, with the addition of some later critical papers, and permit the book.  Mr. Ireland in Manchester, and Conway in London, took the affair kindly in hand, and Hotten acceded to my change.  And that is the next task that threatens my imbecility.  But now, ten days ago or less, my friend John M. Forbes has come to me with a proposition to carry me off to California, the Yosemite, the Mammoth trees, and the Pacific, and, after much resistance, I have surrendered for six weeks, and we set out tomorrow.  And hence this sheet of confession,—­that I may not drag a lengthening chain.  Meantime, you have been monthly loading me with good for evil.  I have just counted twenty-three volumes of Carlyle’s Library Edition, in order on my shelves, besides two, or perhaps three, which Ellery Channing has borrowed.  Add, that the precious Chapman’s Homer came safely, though not till months after you had told me of its departure, and shall be guarded henceforward with joy.