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  Dear Mr. Whitman

I am perched up high on the side of Malvern Hill in a rediculous little red. brick house, and out of the window I see a great plain being splashed with rain. I am paying a visit—it is a vacation—to Benjamin Jowett, the Head of my college, a venerable and dreadful person in whose presence we all   tremble at Oxford. But here he is very good, and talks about the old times when England was full of venerable abuses. It makes one realize how much your generation—my father's generation—has done for progress, I only hope we young ones will do half as well. I hear of you from Alys, she is our great tie with America now. I have put myself into the machine at Oxford, and   shall not be turned out for about two years, then I hope to see America again.

My father is extremely well, and enjoying life. Mrs. Costelloe has got a pair of spectacles, and is as strong as she ever was. Whenever I go away from London Ray Costelloe grows visibly in the meantime. I met the other day a great   friend of yours, Mr. Yorke Powell, he is coming over to see you sometime. He spoke of "November Boughs" with enthusiasm, some of the prose he set in an examination at Oxford. If I were at home I am sure all would send love—as I do—from your friend

Logan Pearsall Smith