To Miss Catherine I. Ireland.

Cambridge, Sept. 1, 1864.

I went to the little heaven of Princeton, and had a splendid time with Mr. Lesley and his beautiful family. He had come from a meeting of the wise ones at New Haven for a few days’ vacation, but I fear I didn’t leave him much time to rest his thoughts. Long walks absorbed in the oblivion of longer talks (stories without an end, Mrs. Lesley called them), beautiful landscapes, — appealing in vain to introspecting eyes, — and invigorating airs, brought us health and inspiration and strength, all unconsciously.

Looking from the mountain, I always think faster and freer and better, but about any thing rather than the landscape. It seems so much better to talk from the beauty than of it. Perhaps I don’t properly appreciate it, but value it like meat and drink, the pure air and (may I add?) my cigar, only for the excitement it gives.

Mr. Gurney joined us for a day, and I returned with him to Cambridge after a short visit, but went again in a few days to escort little Mary to Cummington, the little hill-town in Western Massachusetts where she has spent most of her

summers. This journey involved visits to Springfield and Northampton, and finally a visit of two days to the Nortons at Ashfield, a town joining Cummington. These towns are higher than Princeton; and so, instead of the scientific conversations I had with Mr. Lesley, I rose to the heights of metaphysical and moral questions in my talks with Mr. Norton, and suited the topic to the altitude, — having risen from murky practicals, through the clear certainties into airy speculations.