Take cod-liver oil, and, at all events, grow fat.

November 24th 1858

Dearest wife,

Your letter by the steamer of the 19th has come and has given me delight far beyond what I can tell thee. There never were such letters in the world as thine; but this, no doubt, I have already told thee over and over. What pleasantly surprises me is, that the beauty of thy hand-writing has all come back, in these Lisbon letters, and they seem precisely the same, in that respect, that my little virgin Dove used to write me.

Before this reaches thee, thou wilt have received the trunks by the Cintra, and also, the sad news of the death of O'Sullivan's brother. I shall wait with the utmost anxiety for thy next letter. Do not thou sympathise too much. Thou art wholly mine, and must not overburthen thyself with anybody s grief not even that of thy dearest friend next to me. I wish I could be with thee.

I am impatient for thee to be well. Thou shouldst not trust wholly to the climate, but must take medical advice in Lisbon, if it is to be had otherwise, Dr. Wilkinson's. Do take cod-liver oil. It is the only thing I ever really had any faith in; and thou wilt not take it. Thou dost confess to growing thin. Take cod-liver oil, and, at all events, grow fat.

I suppose this calamity of the O'Sullivans will quite shut them up from the world, at present.

Julian thrives, as usual. He has lately been out to dine with a boy of about his own age, in the neighborhood. His greatest daily grievance is, that he is not allowed to have his dinner at 5 1/2 , with the rest of the family, but dines at one, and sups alone at our dinner time. He never has anything between meals, unless it be apples. I believe I told thee, in my last, that I had given up
the thought of sending him to school, for the present. It would be so great and hazardous a change, in the whole system of his life, that I do not like to risk it as long as he continues to do well. The intercourse which he holds with the people of Mrs. Blodgett s seems to me of a healthy kind. They make a playmate of him, to a certain extent, but do him no mischief; whereas, the best set of boys in the world would infallibly bring him harm as well as good. His manners improve, and I do not at all despair of seeing him grow up a gentleman. It is singular how completely all his affections of the head have disappeared; and that, too, with out any prescriptions from Dr. Dryasdust. I encourage him to make complaints of his health, rather than the contrary; but he always declares himself quite well. The difficulty heretofore has been, I think, that he had grown morbid for want of a wider sphere.

Miss Williams is very unwell, and, for the last two or three days, has had several visits from the Doctor; being confined to her bed, and in great pain. I don t know what her disorder is; but she is
excessively nervous, and is made ill by anything that agitates her. The rumor of war with America confined her for several days.

Give my most affectionate regards to the O'Sullivans.

I never felt half so grateful to anybody, as I do to them, for the care they take of thee. It would make a summer climate of Nova Zembla, to say nothing of Lisbon.

THINE OWNEST,

P.S. I enclose the gold dollar.

it leads us a wild-goose chase

We left Lenox Friday morning, November 21, 1851, in a storm of snow and sleet, and took the cars at Pittsfield, and arrived at West Newton that evening.

Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness, without dreaming of it; but likely enough it is gone the moment we say to ourselves, "Here it is!" like the chest of gold that treasure-seekers find.

thou art intertwined with my being

November 18th 1848

Castle Dismal

Ownest Phoebe,

Thy letter did not come till to-day; and I know not that I was ever more disappointed and impatient for I was sure that it ought to have come yesterday, and went to the Post Office three times after it. Now I have nothing to tell thee, belovedest wife, but write thee just a word, because I must. Thou growest more and more absolutely essential to me, every day we live. I never knew how thou art intertwined with my being, till this absence.

Darlingest, thou hast mentioned Horace's sickness two or three times, and I have speculated somewhat thereupon. Thou hast removed to West-street, likewise, and reservest the reasons till we meet. I wonder whether there be any connection between these two matters. But I do not feel anxious. If I am not of a hopeful nature, at least my imagination is not suggestive of evil. If Una were to have the hooping-cough, I should be glad thou wast within Dr. Wesselhoeft s sphere.

What a shadowy day is this! While this weather lasts, thou canst not come.

THY BELOVEDEST HUSBAND.

Do not hasten home on my account stay as
long as thou deemest good. I well know how
thy heart is tugging thee hitherward.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Boston, Massachusetts.

an indespensable and unexpected engagement

Boston, Novr. 15th [1858] -- very late

Dearest and best wife, I meant to have written you a long letter this evening; but an indispensable and unexpected engagement with Gen. M Neil has prevented me. Belovedest, your yesterday's letter was received; and gave me infinite comfort. Yet, Oh. be prepared for the worst if this may be called worst -- which is in truth best for all and more than all for George. I cannot help trembling for you, dearest. God bless you and keep you.

I will write a full letter in a day or two. Meantime, as your husband is to rise with peep of day tomorrow, he must betake him to his mattress. Good night dearest.

Your Ownest

You are not your own, dearest you must not give way to grief.

Custom House, November 14th 1839

My dearest Wife,

May God sustain you under this affliction. I have long dreaded it for your sake. Oh, let your heart be full of love for me now, and realise how entirely my happiness depends on your well-being. You are not your own, dearest you must not give way to grief. Were it possible, I would come to see you now.

I will write you again on Saturday.

Your Own Husband

My dearest, this note seems cold and lifeless to me, as if there were no tenderness nor comfort in it. Think for yourself all that I cannot speak.

ancient strength, a little softened by decay...

Leamington, November 11th, 1859.

J---- and I walked to Lillington the other day. Its little church was undergoing renovation when we were here two years ago, and now seems to be quite renewed, with the exception of its square, grey, battlemented tower, which has still the aspect of unadulterated antiquity. On Saturday J---- and I walked to Warwick by the old road, passing over the bridge of the Avon, within view of the castle. It is as fine a piece of English scenery as exists anywhere the quiet little river, shadowed with drooping trees, and, in its vista, the grey towers and long line of windows of the lordly castle, with a picturesquely varied outline; ancient strength, a little softened by decay . . .

The town of Warwick, I think, has been considerably modernised since I first saw it. The whole of the central portion of the principal street now looks modern, with its stuccoed or brick fronts of houses, and, in many cases, handsome shop windows. Leicester hospital and its adjoining chapel still look venerably antique; and so does a gateway that half bestrides the street. Beyond these two points on either side it has a much older aspect. The modern signs heighten the antique impression.

The sun shines into my soul

November 11th, 1840

How delightfully long the evenings are now! I do not get intolerably tired any longer, and my thoughts sometimes wander back to literature, and I have momentary impulses to write stories. But this will not be at present. The utmost that I can hope to do will be to portray some of the characteristics of the life which I am now living, and of the people with whom I am brought into contact, for future use. The days are cold now, the air eager and nipping, yet it suits my health amazingly. I feel as if I could run a hundred miles at a stretch, and jump over all the houses that happen to be in my way.

I have never had the good luck to profit much, or indeed any, by attending lectures, so that I think the ticket had better be bestowed on somebody who can listen to Mr. ---- more worthily. My evenings are very precious to me, and some of them are unavoidably thrown away in paying or receiving visits, or in writing letters of business, and therefore I prize the rest as if the sands of the hour-glass were gold or diamond dust.

I was invited to dine at Mr. Bancroft's yesterday with Miss Margaret Fuller; but Providence had given me some business to do, for which I was very thankful.

Is not this a beautiful morning? The sun shines into my soul.