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beautiful; the trees so green, the foliage so rich.
Papa and I are just starting to spend a week in Brunswick, for I am so miserable — so weak — the least exertion fatigues me, and much of my time I feel a heavy languor, indifferent to everything.
I know nothing is so likely to bring me up as the air of the seaside. ... I have set many flowers around Henry's grave, which are blossoming; pansies, white immortelle, white petunia, and verbenas.
Papa walks there every day, often twice or three times.
The lot has been rolled and planted with fine grass, which is already up and looks green and soft as velvet, and the little birds gather about it. To-night as I sat there the sky was so beautiful, all rosy, with the silver moon looking out of it. Papa said with a deep sigh, “I am submissive, but not reconciled.”
Brunswick, September 6, 1857.
My dear girls,--Papa and I have been here for four or five days past.
We both of us felt so unwell that we thought we would try the sea air and the dear old scenes of Brunswick.
Everything here is just as we left it. We are staying with Mrs. Upham, whose house is as wide, cool, and hospitable as ever.
The trees in the yard have grown finely, and Mrs. Upham has cultivated flowers so successfully that the house is all surrounded by them.
Everything about the town is the same, even to Miss Gidding's old shop, which is as disorderly as ever, presenting the same medley of tracts, sewing-silk, darning-cotton, and unimaginable old bonnets, which existed there of yore.
She has been heard to complain that she can't find things as easily as once.
Day before yesterday papa, Charley, and I went down 