8.10 P.M. W. in his room reading Frances Willard's "Glimpses of Fifty Years"—of which he said: "I don't know who sent it to me—perhaps she did. It is a curious book—the book of the smartish American woman—prohibitionist and other ist—bright, quick, cute, "but not a volume to go much distance into."
He referred to the Bermuda lilies on the table—"They have, it would seem, no fragrance at all—but they are a wonderful inspirer of a fellow's indoorness." They had been brought by Miss Ingram, "the daughter of our old friend—a doctress—or doctor: I believe Horace Greeley would not have the other."
Who had written the Critic notice of the Whitman "Gems"? "It is by some expert hand—I should say, at Jennie Gilder's choice: I hardly think Joe would have invited it—perhaps Jennie's own—but hardly: I thought, Kennedy"—but to my dissent, "it carries no such ear-marks" he objected—"That is the very point: I think they do: they are the sentiments of a man who has read books—knows books—goes to the heart of books." And yet—"We can scarcely know—I only put that out as an idea: it may miss the mark badly." But however, "It was generous, good: it was a large and open word."
Hoped to get out within a few days and to see my father's picture, now in Newmayer's window, framed. "I have lately come across a son of Newmayer—a young son—met him several times—once on a jaunt in my chair—once at Odenheimer's: and there is a girl, too." And so on, in that strain of kindly geniality.