W. in his room, just finished dinner, which he said he "enjoyed." Not feeling strong—weather severely warm—"melts me out." I showed him proof of lines on a card. He asked, "Should something be added here to show they were written to people of foreign lands?" And to my negative—"It has no difficulties to me," he said, "I see it is hypercritical: let it go as it is—I am satisfied."
Returned me Harper's Weekly and Scribner's. Reading the latter today again, had "read part of Stanley's article" headed "The Emir Pasha Relief Expedition"—but not all—for it was not all out. "I can hardly say I am much interested, much less enthused. Stanley does not move me—perhaps because I have not looked into him enough—if I looked deeper, I might see more." But Bartlett's Millet article had "appealed." Terrible storm last night, of which he spoke. Bodings now, from cloud and sultriness. Not therefore out.
On the floor a pile of books which I found to be the Centennial edition of Leaves of Grass and Two Rivulets. "It is a new batch—I have just unearthed them—they are a recent discovery. I thought those on the table—fixed up—autographed—were all. I must set to work, get these in shape." I should say, probably 10 or a dozen sets.