
It is now Sunday evening—8-15—Dr Bucke & I have recently finished supper, & I think I will write you a few lines.
A beautiful day, clear, with warm sunshine. This morning I attended chapel—tallying
in my own experience your "Sunday with the Insane"—sat afterwards
for an hour and a half on a bench in the grounds here scribbling—the
sun shining warmly, crickets shrilling, the lawn, flower beds &
trees (some changing colour)
beautiful in the sunshine.—In the afternoon
I attended the Catholic service—At 5 oclock Dr took
me for a drive to town & round the country near.
Enjoyed it immensely. Quite struck by the general air of comfort &
prosperity—the neat houses with grounds or
garden attached, the elbow room & air space enjoyed by each—the
total absence of the overcrowding, smoke, dirt, & foul air with which I am familiar.
The country—fertile & beautiful—has not the mellow
domesticated character of English landscape, but retains a suspicion of wildness
& unreclaimed Nature still. But, at every turn, it has its
own changeful beauty, & always suggests freedom, expansion,
healthful conditions, & room for growth.
A beautiful & typical September evening, mellow & golden, but with a cool air & a steely zenith that made it bracing & stimulating. The moon shining down added to its beauty.

I shall not soon forget our ride, & our talks of you.—I find, as I expected to find, that Dr Bucke grows upon me with further knowledge of him & is a worthy friend of yours.—
I had quite a talk yesterday afternoon with Mrs Bucke—about the Dr & about your visit here 11 years ago. It seems that I occupy your room! Am not I a proud man? It gives an additional interest to the view from my window to know that you used to admire it.
I write this in the Library—Dr B sitting to the right reading—Pardee on the other side of the table. Dr shewed me a short time ago two books on Egypt that you used to read.
By the way, Mrs Bucke told me a short time ago that Revd Richardson is coming here on Tuesday, & I hope to get him to talk a little about you.—

This afternoon I read an article on Carlyle by Thoreau, & one sentence hit me rather hard. T. said that many people went to see Carlyle who were not worthy to be seen by him. "That's me" In writing to you, & in coming to see you, I feel that I am not worthy of so great & dear a privilege. But it is said that "love is a present for a mighty King," & I suppose it is for a mighty poet too. And you have my love for ever, & more so as I know you better. And behind mine is the love of fellows who are affectionate & true & good. Love & honour to you from us all.
My letters from home contain such sentences as these. "If you dare, give Walt's hand a grip for my wife & me" (Wentworth Dixon.) "I would very much like you to give him my love," (R K Greenhalgh). "Please give my love & best wishes to Walt Whitman" (W.A. Ferguson)

I have had 2 or 3 drives with Dr B. round the extensive grounds here.—Acres & acres of vegetables & fruits in first rate condition. Everything excellently arranged & carried out.
Have spent some time too in his office—looking over his collection of books &c, & his series of photos of you. All intensely interesting to me—too interesting indeed, for it affects my sleep.
It is a great & wonderful privilege to me to be here in many ways, & I am thankful to Dr Bucke for his kindness & to God for his mercy.—
But I won't write any more now. With love to you, which only grows more tender, & with love to Mrs Davis & Warry, & to Traubel.
J.W. Wallace

