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Tuesday, June 18, 1889

Tuesday, June 18, 1889

7.50 P.M. W. sitting at the parlor window, reading Post. It was rather cool. Window was closed. No reply as yet from William Carey. "I thought perhaps you might use this picture in the little book, though, perhaps, it is not so appropriate." He had examined the pictures (proofs) made by Hunt of the bust. "I am not struck by them—neither one pleases me positively—but they do not offend me. You may use them if you choose—or one of them. Ed," he called out (Ed sat out towards the door), "Ed—go upstairs—on my bed you'll find a little package I laid out for Horace. Bring it down—it is a yellow book." And while Ed was on the errand: "I have written on the package what I wish to say." He had thus advised, in blue pencil: "Neither of these please me—but if either does I consent to your putting in the pamphlet—(the one marked 3 is most tolerable if preferable)"

I had a letter from Bucke today, and Ed brought one in for W. from the same source this evening. He read his aloud to me, I mine to him. He was much amused with Bucke's quoted comment on the pocket edition "Divine am I inside and out." Letter to me also today from Kennedy. This, too, I read to W. much to his interest and with the result of eliciting all sorts of quiet homely comment. Where Kennedy speaks of Rhys's "ineffably trashy" letters in the Transcript, W. would have it that I read again. "What does he call them?" And when he learned: "That is funny—very funny! Sloane and Ernest never can see together!" and would in neither way take sides. He spoke tenderly of Dowden's letter again. "I can see," he said, "why you should believe that this little book will have an importance: more and more, looking at it from others' shoes, I can see it myself."

I made but a flying trip in on him this time. He is "half-convinced, at least" that the World will not publish his poem. "But it has not come back—nor word of it either." Spoke somewhat of Gilder and "form" as stated in the birthday speech. But W. "took little interest in that at the time and still less now." But Gilder being there, and so hearty and warm and generous, had "touched" W. to "new reflections." I presumed, about Gilder, not form—though I did not ask him. The other day, when my sister Gussie stepped in (it was Sunday) to see him, he gave her an envelope thus inscribed—

The Fair Pilot of Loch Uribal. 
 One of my favorite stories 
and inside, some sheets torn from a magazine, on top of leaf, he had written: "I have read this little sketch three or four times—at intervals—sometimes when 'gloomy'—and every time it sets me up 
 "Walt Whitman" 
 it was "By an Idle Voyager"—

Said W.: "They copied my Johnstown poem into the Boston Pilot—O'Reilly's paper. It was that copy I gave to Herbert."

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