but know that you, my little Agatha, were joyful and a little better. We cannot, however, expect very much at this time of the year. I kiss mamma's hand, and thank her for that dear letter, and embrace you across the great waters.
LETTER VI.
My dear little Agatha,—I now write to you from a little town near Boston, while waiting for the railway train, which at five o'clock will take us, that is to say, myself, Mr. and Mrs. S., their little son Eddy, and Professor Bergfalk, whom I induced to come with us. He must not begin here to bury himself among books as he did in Sweden: he must go abroad, and see a little of life and mankind here to begin with, and celebrate the festival of Thanksgiving—one of the really national festivals of the Americans—in the heart of the State where it arose, and where it still is cordially maintained. When winter comes, he may read to his heart's content in his beloved books. The truth is Bergfalk was not hard to persuade, but came willingly and with pleasure.
I wrote to you last in New York during my warfare there. It was very troublesome to me, and did not mend at Brooklyn. Strangers came from morning to evening, and, though many amiable people were among them, I longed many a time merely to lie down and sleep. I must, however, tell you of the occasions when the interest of the moment chased away all drowsiness and fatigue and made me more awake than ever. Amongst these stands fore most the evening of Channing's improvised lecture. Last Sunday evening Channing was fully himself, and his discourse poured forth like a clear rushing river,
