Still in London. Postal from W. today to us in common. Left this with Bucke. Autograph copy of Ingersoll's address came to Bucke. Went off on a long drive—B., his brother "Duke," and Dr. Sippi of the Asylum. Off as far as Delaware, a matter of 15 to 20 miles—where we took dinner. Then to call on a farmer named Gibson, with lands, dogs, sheep, together, of the most noble character. The drive altogether happy. B.'s brother not B.'s counterpart intellectually, but a man nevertheless of parts and of hopeful demeanor—one of the cleanest men, to appearances, I have ever known—I so spoke of him to Doctor, who admitted the word applied fitly. Our trip throughout bristling with anecdote—a good deal of it about W., whom they all knew. Mrs. Bucke described to me today W.'s beautiful manner with the children while with them. Weather continued doubtful—in the morning it snowed somewhat—then as the day drew out cleared and gave us best profit of our faith and trip. Are getting things ready for my trip down. Country hereabout rich—B. enthusiastic as to its future. Most of the brighter—more believing—people I met accept the necessity of union eventually with the U.S.—but I find now that there is much feeling on the subject of the McKinley bill—which it is thought deters union.