I have this evening received a letter from John, dated Thursday, in which he informs me that he has had another bilious attack and was about returning home. I am very sorry to hear this. I did not approve of his reentering this term at all, and I am glad he has left—and hope he will keep out for the present—this summer at least. Don’t you?

Would you advise him to give up college altogether? I doubt if he will ever have permanent good health, while he continues a student. He writes I presume in a more cheerful manner than he feels, that he need not pain me, but I can see that he begins to despair studying a profession. He says to me, “To think of quitting college altogether is bad enough. Do you suppose I could ever be contented as a farmer?—or businessman?” “I’d rather be a healthy Irishman than a sickly professor,” &c. Why; if he saw the necessity of giving up a profession or rather of giving up study, I’m not afraid but what he’d be contented enough as a farmer. The man that could not must have a very vitiated taste, or bad mind, but then—he never could work any. In the first place, he’s no inclination to, and next, no ability.

As to the “business”—which I suppose amounts to writing at a desk all day & half the night, or practising assumed politeness or eulogizing a piece of silk or barrel of lamp oil—I would sooner recommend to study the profession of butcher and learn to stick a hog with accuracy and dispatch, or something as manly and refined.

For myself, I have every reason to be satisfied with my prospects. I grow more contented—or more fond of my business every day. Really, for a man that has any inclination for Agriculture the occupation is very interesting. And if you look closely, you will be surprised to see how much honorable attention and investigation is being connected with it. The “Cultivator” has now five regular monthly European correspondents. Scientific men of the highest distinction are there devoting their undivided attention to its advance. And I think here the coming year will show a remarkable progress.

For the matter of happiness, there is no body of men that are half as well satisfied with their business as our farmers. At least I never have met with them. And as for profit—it is sufficient to know that our farmers as they now are, with their miserable plan, can live. Amos Kendall (the father of celebrated Amos’ children) has said a good thing for Agriculture—I came across in a paper & cut it out. I’ve a mind to copy it for you.

Though, while I have room I’ll state the object of this letter, which was to say to you that Friday morning I sent John a bundle with an enclosure [216]for you containing a letter for Emma from me, which if worth your while you can probably obtain by calling for at the Professor’s. Now to return to our sheep (wolf)—black (but about the best Loco-foco, I reckon outside of 82 if that’s your number and Albany).

Alluding to his new occupation, after stating that he will devote a portion of his time to writing & the rest to manual labor, he says; “It is the occupation in which we spent the earlier part of our life; and in the midst of party strife, oppress’d with the labors of public station, we have never ceased to look back with regret to this honorable and peaceful employment. There is no malignity in the earth we till; there is no ingratitude in the plant—flower, or tree we nurse. . . . “ By the way, is not he the very man that was so shamefully ungrateful to the noble Henry? Bah! I’ll copy no more.

The Cultivator for this month notices John Harding’s article and Yale Lit.

The birthday of Freedom—what’s [to be] did?

I expect after I’ve got this letter [in the m]ail shall get one from you.

The omnibus for Miss Abby—[. . .] drove up, or broke down, or “got sot.” “Stuck,” I presume.

I am lighted by a miserable “dip,” which don’t give light enough to kill a mosquito by. Fortunately, there are not many here. (Slap!) (Retiring music—)