7:50 P.M. When I went into W.'s room, the light was turned low, and he lay on his bed, on his left side, his face turned to the door, bundled up, in a peculiar position, like a babe, his cheek resting on his right hand. He stirred on my entrance—opened his eyes, "Oh, Horace—it is Horace!" And then after a pause, "I was nearly asleep: you roused me up." At once he began to work as if to rise—I objecting—and he said, "No, I shall get up—it is best for me not to make too much of the bed." But the getting up was a struggle. The left leg would not budge, till finally he took his hand (the left) and cast the leg over the edge of the bed, where it seemed for an instant lifeless, inert. "This has been one of my damnedest days," he said. "One of the very damnedest. It has taken all my courage, energy, simply to keep afloat—simply to hold my head above water." Finally got to the chair, by which time he seemed good for nothing at all. "You see how I am! There don't seem to be anything of me anymore." Doctor Longaker had been in. "He recommended sherry after meals—it might strengthen me, he said. But I don't know—I have my doubts." Yesterday had been downstairs in the front room for an hour. Today had not ventured anywhere. "All the day I have had simply to nurse myself against this utter deadness that presses me." What had been the news with me? I showed him samples of pages from Brown. He did not like any one of them. "Let's use the North American Review as a sample. That paper strikes me favorably." Had not touched contents pages. "I have been more dead than alive—it was impossible."