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  Dear Walt—

Doctor is at his desk sending you one of the messages you so much affect. There is hardly need for me to add anything. Still I wish to say how much I have enjoyed all things here & how much I regret to have to make my stay so short. We were happy today to have the three notes   from you. They arrived one with another,—a sweet sheaf fm the Southward. Bless you for all the fields you have planted & harvested for the world! What you say of Ingersoll's address goes home. Doctor's copy of that address arrived today. On Saturday I wrote Ingersoll quite a note—the first since the lecture—and today I got good word off to Baker: a truly noble & loving fellow whom you would be drawn to. I read Doctor my essay (N.E. Mag.) Sunday night. He set me on my feet with certain improvements in phraseology, on the point of your Washington sickness. He thinks your & my terminology when we get off on that field lamentable if not laughable. Bucke has a big sneer when he minds. All is well with us. I am in love with Ina   & Pardee. They have a more than Grecian loveliness of expression & demeanor—a commingling of two streams, antique & modern. They are such hopes as lead out to America's biggest future. We expect to have a generous drive tomorrow if it is clear. The sky tonight is overclouded. The earth here is flat, but the heavens tumble their gorgeous hills without stint. Canada—this part of it—is the land of horizons. Doctor gave a talk to students today, & this day I went with him to the dance— both times curiously instructed & quieted.   I read Symonds' negative essay today. After the "master" of his letters, this is all touchy & resc[illegible]. He must come out of his dim dread to say his say before he dies. When critics will cease to be icebergs, authorship will get its dues—not before!

Ever yours— Horace