To Henry W. Longfellow, he wrote:—‘  good lover.’ From the kindly appreciation of the character and condition of nations and individuals what good influences may arise! Peace and good will shall then prevail, and jealousies cease. But I will stop my sermon, and sign with my own hand Your affectionate brother,Chas.
I am as weak as a girl, but only want strength. You will hear of poor Gossler's death.1 For him life had a zest and a sparkle; and fortune had already lighted on his crest. Why was he selected who was reluctant to go, and another left who has little pleasure in staying?
To his brother George.Boston, Aug. 15, 1844.my dear George,—You see that I still use the handwriting of Julia; for the fever still pertinaciously occupies my hands. I have been slowly gaining in strength since my letter by the last steamer, and have driven some nine or ten miles each day, stopping at the house of some friend, where I have reposed. Still, I am very weak, and have not yet walked out. I also continue to take my meals in my own room, and in many other respects find it necessary to treat myself like a sick man. I have succeeded, however, in getting from woodcocks, plovers, and other birds upon the common fare of chickens, beef-steaks, and mutton-chops,—a great change, in which I rejoice not a little. I am troubled in the night with perspirations; and this is now the most serious ailment which lingers about me,—unless I except the fever itself, which, like an evil spirit, will not be exorcised. But I have said enough about myself. . . . Yesterday, the Locos nominated Bancroft as their candidate for Governor. He has made me a very agreeable visit this evening, and left me a few moments ago. We talked of books, and as he was going I introduced politics. He told me he did not wish to be a candidate; but it was forced upon him by his party, and offered to appoint me one of his aides-de-camp! I will subscribe this letter with my still trembling hand. It is now half-past 8 o'clock,—my bed-time.Charles.
Boston, Aug. 16, 1844.dearest Howe,—You will find me a wreck. When I wrote you, July 1, I seemed nearly well; but in a few days the ship was struck again, and the bolt it was said had pierced the hull. I became very weak after passing through the various stages of a fever.