Only a line—to warn you that at eighteen Sammy will be not more than 3 removes from an idiot, provided his mother goes on with her trust as she is now. It is strong language but true. It is a common saying that smart boys turn out fools at maturity—but they wouldn’t if their parentsⒶemendation if their parents’ vanity did not sit weakly by & see them destroying their brains without the power to deny themselves the daily glory of the child’s prodigies & triumphs, & save a great intellect to the world by sternly putting on theⒶemendation the shackles on it & keeping it within bounds. At thirty, with firm and wise care, Sammy’s ought to be the brightest rising name in America—& if he should be blind & an imbecile to boot, at that age, don’t lay it to him, for he will not be to blame.

In school yet! For shame, to so wantonly trifle with so imperial an intellect! No manⒶemendation creature can be such a traitor to a child as its own mother—no love so disastrous as a mother’s indulgence.

You need to comprehend that yours is no common trust. It is not the ordinary hulk of clay & stupidity that you are put in keeping of—& so not to be cared for in the ordinary way. You are placed in charge of a future great philosopher, statesman, or general, & by the Lord you are playing with it!—amusing yourself with its feats & its inspirations! You fall away below a just appreciation of the work that is given into your hands. God knows it is never the smart boys’ fault they are doltsⒶemendation at maturity,—but their own parents’, & a pity & a shame it is. Poor John Garth!—gifted like a God—& his parents & teachers reduced him to mediocrity & below it in eighteen years—at least below it in some respects.

Now don’t destroy this letter but keep it—& at 30, when he is a very one-horse doctor or lawyer in a very one-horse village, & of no sort of consequence in the world & doomed never to be, read this letter over again & confess that I was a prophet—or bequeath it to him & let him read it himself.

If you will put that boy on a farm where there is not a single book, & where they will keep him out of doors & work him just enough & play him just enough to build up a strong constitution for him—& then turn him loose on the books again 2 or 3 years from now, he will add an illustrious name to his country’s honored men—but just at present he is pointing as straight at the asylum for idiots as the needle points to the pole.

Old Mr. Morse (the grape man) is the person to put him with, I judge.

The baby flourishes. Livy progressing slowly. Love to all.