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Saturday, October 10, 1891

     5:55 P.M. W. in his dark room, on the bed—a fire burning in the stove (two lighted logs). Smoke plentiful, yet he did not seem conscious of it. "Is it so? I did not notice." Every window closed. Says he had "felt the chill of out-of-doors." How was he? "Bad—bad." An ill night again to account for it? "I suppose so—I did not sleep at all last night." Continuing, "It was the neuralgia again. It kept me awake the whole night. Yes, Horace, we are entered upon evil days again." Had written a letter to Bucke today and made up a paper for Miss Whitman (Jessie). (These I later took to Post Office.) "I have a letter from Wallace—coming from Brooklyn—written at the Romes'. And as he is fully determined upon the Long Island trip, he can hardly

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be expected here for two or three or four days yet. He speaks of the ride down the Hudson—its wonder—its fortunate good weather. Indeed, he has been mighty lucky in weather. Almost uninterrupted clear pure days—more of 'em maybe than he ever had in his life before."
I too had a note from Wallace.

     And Bucke writes me, too, under date of the 8th:
8 Oct 1891

My dear Horace

All well here. Weather continues wonderful—clear and warm. I have not written to you lately as much as I ought. Being away etc. etc. I have letter from you of 27 ult. and 5 inst. Do not forget me—write from time to time—I will write whenever I have a word to say.

The "Star" came—W. seems uncertain but is apt to "get there" in the end. My Montreal venture was a decided success. Mrs. B. & I had a big time—lecture went well—was far more praised than it seemed to me to deserve. It was distinctly wrong of W.S.K. to allude in print to my T. letter—just shows that you can not trust these newspaper men—they are so hungry for anything that will make an item.

I have often been loaded down with work but never anything like at present before. Annual report not begun—should go in a week, lectures to students ought to begin at once, no end of meter work which must be done, some pressing family affairs requiring a lot of my time, amusement season just about to open and arrangements to be made for lectures etc. etc., regular asylum work way behind, etc. etc. etc. But I feel well—better than for some years and I shall come out of it all O.K. by and by. I do not hear from W., nor from you much, see that I am kept posted like a good fellow. Love to Anne.

Your friend

R. M. Bucke

W. says as to Kennedy, "It was a violation of confidence, no doubt. Kennedy would unquestionably protect himself behind the anonymity of the paragraph, saying that no names were anyway mentioned. But that would not satisfy me—no, would not. And yet I brought it on myself. I should have known better, though his promises to say nothing about it—to faithfully

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maintain quiet—were warm enough. I had told him we had the letters. I suppose I should not have done even that much. Well, well, Sloane is a queer make-up—baffles me—I am defeated."
W. expresses wish to read the manuscripts Bucke left with me—translations—Knortz, Schmidt, Rolleston, Benzon. "They are all in a sense new to me. I should like to mine them—see what I can dig out. And if you will leave them with me for a day or two, I will grapple with the problem." Then again, "They tantalize me, now you tell me of them, for I have never really known any one of them except in snatches."


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