5.40 P.M. W. again in his room. Sits up rather more than in the early part of the week. Certainly looks some degrees better. Reading the local papers. His cough nearly gone—color better. He will not give up the Club yet, though his resolution is undoubtedly shaken. Wrote Burroughs, however, thought he would have to, much as he regretted it.
He sent the Bruno book today to Burroughs, Bertz, and others. W. alludes to Brinton as "of the school of the great modern scientists and progressive metaphysicians." He so writes to Burroughs, as he has said it to me. The last few days has habited himself to my reading his postals and mailing them for him. "They'll give you about the kernel of my health affairs."
W. received today a copy of Psyche, London. Advised me to give it a look. "It has a considerable cover"—and—"I think it a palpable imitation of The Universal Review in the way of shape." Called it "Esoterism"—how "little it interests me." And then of George Chainey—"He is the Jim Scovel of religion—he has been everything, but nothing long. It is surprising how many of these fellows are thrown up by the current—spirits of water blown skywards, then quickly fallen, subsiding. Chainey is a plausible man—something of O'Connor's build—but that's where the resemblance ends. He is handsome—is what he is by virtue of intellectual attrition. Chainey has been here—was cordial enough—perhaps markedly so. Like Conway, I think he started out by being a Methodist—then went from one thing to another—touched every string—at one time was in Boston, an infidel of the extreme type. London seems a great place for the accumulation of cranks—men who hardly have ideas, who have conscience, rather. Chainey is one of these, wonderful glib of speech."
I left with him a copy of The Ethical Record. He wished to read Morse's "My Grandmother's Religion." Examined the Bazaar I had with me, commending all the pictures, even the fashion plates.