Spent the day roaming about—went to chapel in morning with Bucke—Methodist minister on duty—the congregation probably 200 to 300. All conducted in best order. One woman inclined to be noisy, but quieted. The dress everywhere being neat, though at times grotesque. Perception of music not ill— the attention to sermon obviously direct for some—many absent in mind, abstracted—some apparently sleeping. The attendants—girls and male, in first rows—seeming to lead in the singing, etc. I sat with Bucke facing the audience, his brother coming in late to join us. The faces before us all of a lower type—as Bucke thought, averaged insanity—B. believes that culture and civilization are protectives. Pathetic the whole scene—a glimpse of wander-land, a sight of tragic pasts, personal or clannish of race. In the afternoon Bucke went to a Catholic service, held in the same chapel. I spent rest of the day working on my New England Magazine piece. In evening we went to B.'s office where I read him what I had written. His suggestions were very few—mostly in connection with W.'s medical condition. He thought the paper "fine"—adding that "I don't know but it'll prove the best thing yet." Afterward he read me from manuscript the funeral address he had written in '88 at the time we feared W. was about to die.