7.50 P.M. W. was not at home on my coming, but in ten minutes or so was wheeled up by Ed. Though the evening was mild, he did not stay out of doors—came in instantly—said he was tired—had passed another very bad day, &c. Had been down to the river. I gave him my father's translation of the German article. He was "highly pleased to have it"—and said after some commendatory words of mine: "No doubt it is true. It is interesting and remarkable to know that the best criticisms of us nowadays are abroad—I think we can fairly say—all of them abroad. It is a fact to be duly noted—chewed upon."
Had read the papers today, but not with an absorbed interest. Had "an idea," he said, that perhaps a portion of this German article could be "appropriately used in the book." But he would have to read it first. Said his mails were "singularly destitute of news" nowadays. "Even Doctor, though writing, writes nothing of interest." Clifford, in his sermon this forenoon, made eloquent reference to "Song of Myself" as illustrating man's song of man and therefore song of God. W. thought that "a striking application—one after Clifford's usual vein"—&c. I stayed but briefly—long enough to know his condition, to deliver my own messages and get his. Then kissed him goodnight.