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lived when I used to visit her. The situation of the college is most charming. I have not been there since I was a boy. The day was a perfect one and we looked over the wide landscape above which stretched a sky full of magnificent clouds. We went into the little cemetery where old Schenando lies by the side of Dr. Kirkland and returning drove along the foot of the hills to Hampton, now Westmoreland and called on Arthur Daniel McEntees son who is in business there with his brother-in-law and then went home to Toms. As we drove out in the morning we met old Mr. Ladd. "Shube Ladd." past 86 years old, a hale hearty old man who seemed glad to meet me a son of one of his early friends. This morning Thomas went over to his fathers old place to help Mr. Ladd who lives there with his threshing, the steam machine being there. There I saw Arthur Douglass and took a walk over Uncle Philips farm where as children we spent many happy days. Thomas' adopted son Willie came home in the night from Mt. McGregor where he has been at work all summer. I bade Tom good bye and Willie drove me to the 11.19 train and I came home reaching here before 5, feeling that I have had a most eventful experience. Sara had gone to Tivoli on a professional visit but Mary and my father were here and I told them all I had done. Sara returned early in the evening. 

[[newspaper clippings]]
CINCINNATI, Sept. 15.——Col. George Ward Nichols, President of the College of Music of Cincinnati, died this morning at his residence in this city of consumption. He was at work at the college until a short time before his death. He served upon General Sherman's staff during the war, and wrote the song, "Sherman's March to the Sea." He married a daughter of the late Nicholas Longworth of this city, and for the past 15 years has devoted himself to musical education, having founded the college of which he was President. In this work he was greatly aided by the munificence of the late Reuben Springer.

VAN DERLIP——On Sunday evening, September 13, Grace Rankin, wife of George M. Van Derlip.
Funeral services on Tuesday afternoon at 4 o'clock in the Baptist Church of the Epiphany, corner Madison-ave. and 64th-st.
Please omit flowers.
[[/newspaper clippings]]

Edwin J. Stebbins, Uncle Joe Stebbins' son was buried in Clinton on Sunday. This notice of the death of Mrs. Van Derlip I saw in the Tribune on my way home today. What a loss to poor Van Derlip!

[[crossed-out]] Thursday [[/crossed-out]] Wednesday Sept. 16" 1885. I wrote to Van Derlip this forenoon. After dinner I drove out with my father going down town and up to Kingston. The weather is cool and autumnal. Sara had a letter from Lucy this evening in which she says she has decided to come home this winter with Sedgwick even if John cannot come. I am feeling that I ought to be at work. Sometimes I question the wisdom of so much actual study from Nature. The fault to my mind, of Modern Art is its realism and I am inclined to believe our pictures would be more interesting if we painted more from our impressions. This idea is not new to me. I know the best things I have done have been produced in this way. An artist should always be open to impressions from nature and great artists always are. I thing [[think]] I would like to roam about for a while with my note book, but I would like a companion.

[[crossed-out]] Friday [[/crossed-out]] Thursday 17" A feeling of melancholy has possessed me all day, the dying summer, the fleeting years, the memories of what has been. Have been reading a letter of dear Gertrude written to Sara at school in Clinton only ten days after we were married, awaking in my heart such an unutterable longing for her companionship, now in the days of my loneliness that life seems colorless and vain. I know so well the cause of my discontent, the lack of absorbing employment and drifting and uncertain plans for the future. We drove out to see Alice, Marys old servant, Sara, Mary, my father and I and Dwight & Girardie after dinner. Mrs. Stedman neé Miss Josephine McGeorge was here this forenoon. Mrs. Cantine called, just as we were about to drive off. A letter from Mary Gifford came yesterday wanting us to come up there. Sara wrote her last night we could not leave 

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