7:45 P.M. Found Harned sitting there with Walt. W. had spent a bad morning—now "somewhat reinstated"—but looked worn out—suffering severe cold—his voice hoarse. Not without willingness to laugh and joke, however. The "Good-Bye My Fancy" manuscript on the bed. Was it ready yet? I picked it up. "No, not near—no more, in fact, done with it." The potted flower left on Sunday still throwing out its perfume—the buds, too, bursting forth. No letter from Bucke today. Talked over the Sherman funeral briefly. W. said again, "I wrote a postal to Dr. Johnston today." I wrote to Wallace and Forman last night. I had letter from Bush saying Bob was to debate with Donnelly on the Shakespeare-Bacon controversy. W. laughingly said, "That would be great! As for me—I should say—let us do with it as with Christianity, immortality, all that: range the evidence along in a line—full, exact—then not decide: accept Bob's favorite attitude—I don't know! For myself—I hesitate to give judgment—I let all that rest—to make itself up for each mind. There is so much each way!"
Gave me the Ellis book ("The New Spirit"). "It is worth while," he said. "It has the making of something: I don't know what, but something."