5.30 P.M. W. just finished his dinner: reading local papers: several of them on his lap. Returned me The Illustrated American: "I have sent for some copies. It is a very good picture—one of the best in its way—that is my verdict. It is very interesting, that just as I am about to step out, I am like to be applauded: just as the curtain is about to be rung down I am saluted. But that is fate, providence, whatever—not to be explicated."
Laughingly told me McKay had been over a few days ago—"paid me royalties between 50 and 60 dollars: think of it!—for Leaves of Grass and Specimen Days both! It is a long story of woe—a catalogue of impecuniosities—this record of my printed labor!" But there were other ways in which he was "compensated,"—"in best friends: friends, few, but the better of which the world never saw."
Had sent his piece about the meeting to the Boston Transcript, and I could have the manuscript if they sent it back. W. said the way he went through the other night and his good condition since, surprised him greatly. Whatever his "determination"—he had not "anticipated so radical a process—one so safe. We ought to congratulate ourselves we were not hors de combat—let alone, coming out with flying colors, so to speak."