peculiar colouring of my life and its circumstances in America. Much remains of that which individually pleased or annoyed me—perhaps more than should have remained. Whilst transcribing these letters I have often been unable to realise to myself that I was then preparing them for the public, and not writing them merely to my sister, “my innermost,” to whom even the innermost might be revealed, and the most childish things be spoken. As soon as I began to write, that sister always stood before me, with her mild, heavenly eyes, her indulgent smile, intercepting the view of my unknown readers. I saw only her, I forgot them. I know that I have often erred in this way, and especially, in the earlier portion of these collected letters, during a time when illness rendered me weak, and weakness strengthened egotism. If I have allowed this illness to remain too prominent in this portion of the letters, there is, however, this excuse for it, that it is a malady, which is very prevalent in America, which is caused by the climate, the general diet and mode of life, and against which both natives and emigrants cannot be sufficiently cautioned. And if I have said too much about this malady and its causes, other authors, on the contrary, have said too little. It is the most dangerous monster of the New World. In extreme cases it leads to the madhouse or to death. Happy they who know how to avoid it, or who, at the commencement, find, as I did, a good physician, who, by the united powers of diet and medicine, is able to avert the malady before it gains too much ascendancy.
