9.55 A.M. W. rose this morning feeling and looking unusually well. I talked with him 20 minutes or so, he being in very easy and open mood. Kingsley, of the Continental Hotel, Philadelphia died yesterday—W. saying: "We have a friend of Leaves of Grass in the son, who seems to take charge now. I have met him several times—liked him."
Speaking of a paper in which he is "taboo"—his name even ignored—"It is one of the games played—but a vain game, as we know." Some one regarding Alexander's picture of W. at the Academy (Mrs. M. B. Earle)—had said—"It would have been more like him if he had been given a dirty shirt." W.—"That was a bitter dig: that hits us at the point of our greatest pride!" I said, "But the retort was, one person has no right to put his dirty shirts on another." W. thereupon, smiling—"That was a bitterer—that was a dig to the heart!" It had been "a frequent criticism" in older days, but one "not today so generously spoken, even if still felt."
Very applausive of Tucker, induced thereto by T.'s translation and sale of Tolstoi's "Kreutzer Sonata." "I have always had a strong liking for Tucker—far down in me: perhaps even an affection: he is heroic and frank to the last degree. Long ago he stood by us in a way I cannot forget. This act is characteristic."