10.10 A.M. W. had finished breakfast and was reading the morning papers. The day perfect—sun fine, air balmy. Would he get out? "Yes—but not in the carriage: the man is off today." Said—"I feel quite well: have eaten a good breakfast, with relish."
Left with him 50 copies of the Conservator. He said: "I shall send copies to Symonds, Sarrazin, Rossetti, Dowden—" pausing—"these, at least." Adding that he would keep a list, so I should know who had them. Remarked with considerable vehemence: "This starts my ire again: I think, here these papers will go to the ends of the earth for one cent—a mere sign [song], you might say. As a nation's (yes, an individual's) hearts are shown large in little things, the miserable pretense of our freedom is exploded by our patent meannesses. Yesterday I got the Symonds book—notice of it: had to pay twenty-five cents before it was delivered. Yet I can send a book straight through to Europe on the single postage: it goes direct to my man, unquestioned. And this tariff this time was very small, too—probably because they had no idea of the real value of the book. A while ago I had to pay a dollar and a quarter on a volume sent me from England!"
Spoke of the Critic as "a most interesting number—especially the Carlyle part. Which I have not been able to say of it for a long time." Expressed pleasure with Bucke's added paragraph. "It is very good—very: I read it last night. The Doctor is certainly developing a style—as direct as a blow, each movement of it. This piece impressed me as fine—finer than I had thought—frank, very radical. Yet as if saying all along 'I've more than this in reserve: this is not the end of my string.'"
I had brought him a blank check on the National State Bank which he filled in for me for Oldach.