5.50 P.M. W. in the parlor. Still light. The room comfortable. Still, he had his big shawl thrown over the shoulder nearest the window. He looked really well. Went into warm and fine discourse of "the grandeur of river sights—sounds: the waters, skies, the big town over there"—and his hope that "as spring comes, we can have our regular outings, and long." Alluded to "the scarce events"—saying: "There seems now what they call an interregnum—in everything—or, perhaps not that, but in literature, certainly." Adding—"The Critic this week suggests it to me: the dullest number for a long time."
I had but such a hurried glimpse of him, then home to supper.