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[317] kindest hospitality. We took a drive the first day to Lenox, where the Sedgwicks received me most warmly,—somewhat as one risen from the dead. The next day we made an excursion to Lanesborough, enjoying much the meadows, green fields, rich country, and beautiful scenery. I shall linger here still another week (Hillard will return on Wednesday or Thursday), so that if you have a moment to spare from the welcome of friends and the pressure of affairs, bestow it upon me. Care of Mr. Appleton, Pittsfield.

God bless you, dearest Howe, and welcome home I

To Dr. Samuel G. Howe.

Pittsfield, Sept. 8, 1844.
my dear Howe,—Since you were here, I have waxed in strength most visibly. To-day I rode two hours, as the escort of two damsels of the place, —one the Governor's daughter. To-day I go to Lenox, perhaps in the saddle, perhaps in a wagon.

Dr. Campbell, a most respectable physician of the place, called here a few evenings since. It was before you came. He found my pulse one hundred and twelve, and said that its derangement was difficult to explain. He has met me since in the street, and volunteered to say to me that he had thought a great deal of my case, and that he was convinced that the derangement of my pulse was not to be referred to any organic disease, but to some affection of the nerves; which is precisely my version of my case.

I am doing so well here, making such palpable progress, and friends are so kind, that I shall linger in Pittsfield or Lenox the greater part, perhaps all, of next week, when I shall be very strong. If you can, write. Your short letter was better than any medicine. Adieu, and God bless you.

Affectionately yours,

P. S. I have had a dear letter from my sister Mary, in which she tells me she has been obliged to part with her beautiful hair. It touched me to the soul. Felton writes right pleasantly, and I have a most affectionate, anxious letter from Morpeth. He has heard of my illness. C. S.

To George S. Hillard.

Pittsfield, Tuesday Evening, Sept. 10, 1844.
my dear Hillard,—. . . On Saturday, Edward Austin drove me in an open buggy to Lenox, where we dined with Sam. Ward. He jolted us in his wagon to view the farms,—one of which he covets; afterwards, we looked on while, in a field not far off, the girls and others engaged in the sport of archery: Mrs. Butler1 hit the target in the golden middle. The

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