am already enchanted with this wild bath, and hope to derive much good from it. It gives me a peculiar impression of a something at once grand and delightful; the waves come on like a giant, strong, but at the same time kind, gentle and mighty, almost like a god, at least, like the power of a god, full of health-giving life, so that when I feel them sweeping over me, I involuntarily seem to think that it would not be hard to die amid them. But be not afraid, my child; you may depend upon it that I will take care of myself; and here there are others who would also take care of me, for even here I have kind friends, although, in order to be at peace, I do not by any means court their civilities, but keep at a distance from them. This is not quite in accordance with my disposition, and it really is painful to me to turn this unfriendly side to those who make advances towards me in kindness, but I must endeavour to gain a little strength for the coming campaign,—I must have silence and repose,—I must rest a little.
With Professor Hart and his wife I get on excellently; they are quiet, kind, earnest people; they let me do as I like. I have a nice little room near theirs, with a fine view over the ocean, which here, without islands or rocks, rolls up unimpeded upon the low sandy shore; I hear its roar day and night from my open window, for I have, for several months, slept with my window open and the Venetian shutters closed, as people do here generally. I rest and enjoy myself, as I have not hitherto done in this country. The restless mind however labours still, writes romances and dramas, the scenes of which are all laid in Sweden, although the scenes here have given life to them; but I live for Sweden in all that I do and all that I imagine.
Now are you also, my Agatha, by the sea, and bathing in the salt waves. Oh! may the quiet bathing at Marstrand revive and invigorate you as much as I feel
