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Sunday, May 24, 1891

     I stopped in at 10:30 to leave Critic with him. He sat reading the Press. Said, "Oh! I am reading this wonderful news!"—meaning the financial smashes.

     7:15 P.M. In and spent 20 minutes with W., who was on his bed. No light—close to last fall of the night. W. was not asleep—at once accosted me on my entrance—reached forth his hand—seemed indeed bright in speech though he said he had "spent a very evil sort of a day." (Mrs. Davis, however, told me, as I left, that he had seemed vastly brighter to her and had eaten a very hearty dinner between four and five.) Quickly said to me, "I have read the paragraph in the Critic about the Colonel—a nasty, snarling, vicious, currish paragraph—not to hurt anybody, but only to spend someone's venom—a horrible fling. But"—breaking into a laugh— "it is another advertisement—it will call a certain amount of attention to the subject in new persons—in people not otherwise put on the scent." Wondered if it was not too cool in the room? "A while before—an hour" had refused Mrs. Davis the privilege to start the fire. Now asked me to call Warren. (Before I left, finding Warren out, I advised Mrs. Davis, who immediately went up and to work.) I told him of a letter I had from Edward Dowden [see Appendix II, page 596, for the text of this letter].

     I said, "Next week at this time we ought to be holding high council in this house." He responded laughingly, "You must look out—the philistines are many—you may find that nobody will come." He had been reading financial reports carefully today—

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arrest of Bardsley (city treasurer), flight of Marsh (President, Keystone National Bank), etc. "What are we coming to? All in one town, at one time—kinks, snarls, knots, past finding an end!" Letter from Bucke yesterday: "It recites no change—the peculiar thing about such hurts as his is that they are worse the third week than the first."

     Longaker and Reeder over last night, the latter with camera, taking flash pictures of front and back bedrooms. W. jokes about the other night when I found him asleep and withdrew. "It was the only time in six months I wanted to see you, and we missed!"—having in mind the matter of printing "November Boughs"—which I found from Brown yesterday had already been started when W.'s letter arrived. W. now says, however, "It is a small matter, anyway, not to be squealed over—and our fault anyway. I may give the whole thing to Dave on his own time, or let him have 'Good-Bye' and keep these myself."


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