7.40 P.M. W. sitting up—reading—looking ruddier than usual. "I have been out of my chair today—had a delicious trip—the day fine beyond words. It is a great day to move about in. I went up to Tom's—knocked at the office door with my cane—but evidently nobody was in." Alex. Cattell had spoken of the portrait in the book as "a daub" but W. insisted, "Many men—many minds—we must not forget. Jim Scovel was over today. He didn't like the picture either. But no matter—we do—and that for us conclusive." Referred to Gosse's high estimate of Tennyson's "Throstle" with a shake of the head. "I sent the paper to Bucke, knowing it would interest him."
Laughingly said: "I can't picture Tom in a dress coat. His stovepipe hat seemed to me the steepest descent possible for him to make, but this would beat the steepest steep!" Directed my attention to a French paper in the chair. "It comes from Bartlett's son, now in France. See the postmark there—isn't that Millet's place?" It was marked Barbizon. "The paper contains a translation of my 'Bravo Exposition' piece, whether good or bad I do not know. And this"—picking up a square canary envelope—"is from a Frenchman who writes me a poem—a long poem—in numbered verses—all in French—which, however good, is not good enough for me to understand—is all Greek to me!" Speaking of a certain qualifying book review W. said: "Some men find it impossible to give a straightforward compliment, an 'if' or a 'but' is always planted in the way."
W. said: "While out in the chair I remembered it was election day—still did not vote. Did you? I always refrain—yet advise everybody else not to forget."