5 P.M. W. received me cordially. Eating a baked apple—the last of his dinner. Read him a passage from this week's Critic by "The Lounger"—about the Lincoln address, evidently surprised by the Transcript piece—the writer apparently not suspecting this to be by W. W. "'Twas cordial," W. said. "I don't know who that 'Lounger' is. I asked Melville Phillips when he was here, and he did not know—knew no more than we do. He did make a guess—guessed it was Jennie or Joe Gilder—but I am seriously in doubt—doubt of its being either. To come from either one of them the warmth would surprise me."
Returned me Scribner's: had read Bartlett's article on Millet. Yesterday had doubted if it was his Bartlett or a son: now he said: "I think it is our man—that he must have spent some time there. It is only passably interesting—does not impress me deeply." Gave me Lippincott's also. Still further a letter from Bucke—received today—on which he had written "for Horace." All these he had tied together in a string.