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To Charles S. Daveis, Portland.

New York (Staten Island), June 21, 1846.
my dear Charles,—I received your letter in due time,—that is, about a month ago,—but we were then in New York, much occupied with cares of different sorts, and more with society; so that I had no leisure to do always what would best have pleased me. There we remained in all two months and more, our main business, to which everything else was postponed and made subordinate, being the care of the eyes of no less than four ladies who were under our charge. For we thought that, as we were likely to make a campaign of it, we might as well do all the good the opportunity offered. . . .

Of those of our acquaintance whom we have found agreeable and pleasant, I can answer pretty readily what you ask. . . . . Chancellor Kent, a little deaf, but as vivacious as ever, is much the same he always was; and Mr. Gallatin, whom I saw a good deal, because he lived near me, is very wise, wary and philosophical, full of knowledge, and still eager in its pursuit. He is, on the whole, the man in New York whom you can get the most out of, if you will take a little pains; for he is really what Bacon calls ‘a full man,’ and is as ready as he is full.

. . . . But enough of all this. We had a very good time in New York, after the way of the world; but at our age such things weary. It was impossible to refuse kindnesses such as were offered to us; but I do not know how often I said to Anna, in the words of Christophoro Sly, after he had heard some scenes of the ‘Taming of the Shrew,’ ‘'T is excellent work, ia faith, lady wife, would it were done.’

So, as soon as the weather permitted us, we finished it and came to Staten Island, where, though we are in a large hotel, we lead an uncommonly quiet life. The island is full of beautiful drives and talks.

After passing four months in New York and on Staten Island, in order that his eldest daughter might be under the care of an oculist, he writes to Mr. Daveis: ‘We came home about August 12. But it was too hot to remain in Boston. We—meaning my wife and myself—therefore took the cars to Concord, New Hampshire, as soon as we could, and there hired a buggy, with which—in the true Darby and Joan style—we jogged round the White Hills, stopping wherever we fancied, and enjoying about a hundred miles of the drive very much. We never were there before, either of us.’

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