
It is a warm, foggy, dull, stupid half rainy day. I have been out for an hour's slow drive over the dirty roads for a mouthful of fresh air, have since had a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast and am now (630 P.M.) sitting at my desk in my office at the Asylum.
I have spent part of the day looking over L. of G. and I wish I could tell you, or
convey to you in the faintest way, the deep down emotions that that book exites in
me. There is nothing stirs me up like it. Sometimes as I read it I feel as if my
whole previous life were rolling en masse through me and as if at the same time vast vistas
were opening ahead which I longed and yet half dreaded to enter. The profound
religious sentiment which that book is destined to develope in the human heart when
it becomes once assimilated by (incorporated into) the life of the race is, I think,
simply inconceivable at present. But "The time will come
though we stop here today and tonight."
Tomorrow I give my 7th lecture to the students—one more will end the course for this year.
We are all well I send you my best love R M Bucke