10 A.M. In but a few minutes. W. reading the Press—the Record on his knee. The day beautiful—and he "calculated on getting out" by and bye. The temperature high, almost to a spring figure.
He had found me volume 1 of Symonds' "Greek Poets"—"though volume 2 is yet somewhere in the haystack, unseen." The volume endorsed "From the Author." by Symonds himself, with W. W.'s Stevens Street label pasted therein, and W.'s inscription.
Sent me by Symonds himself—must have been 1881. For years—1882-'89—I dip and drink from the two volumes. They and Walter Scott's Border Minstrelsy are feasts never exhausted.
W W
and pointing this out to me, he said: "I still stand by this—Walter Scott first, for many early years—the initial predilection—O! the joy and wonder! and what it has done for me! Then this book of Symonds'—then both—both, as now: they have been a constant, unvarying resource."
I delivered Edelheim his book today—much to his surprise and gratification at the gift.