5:20 P.M. W. just finished eating dinner. Reading paper in the dim twilight. Looked well in color (as always post-dinner) but said of his condition, "It is only so-so: I pull through—that's about all." I put in, "You are the best man I know for 'pulling through' things," which excited his laughter. "I keep my troubles on a field I can control," he said, jokingly, "remembering the doctor who, called in to see a patient, said, 'Madam, if only I could shift this thing to fever, I'd cure you. I don't know what's the matter with you now, but I'm hell on fever!'" And then, "As long as I can keep it fever, Horace, I'll be all right!" Referred to papers he had read today: "They appear to be full of the Parnell matter, which of course I did not read. There are two things in the papers nowadays which I skip every time: the Parnell and Stanley columns. I take little interest in either. But I see the venom with which the papers pressure Parnell. The Record had an editorial this morning saying he should go—must go. I read enough of it to see that conclusion."
Said again, commenting on Burroughs' idea that W.'s late work lacked in the poetic, "So does it all, that was one of the hardest jobs in my early life—to get the poetry out: but I did it," laughing.
Wished me to get him some envelopes printed.
Showed him letter I had just received at Post Office from Ingersoll. Thought it "characteristic" as in fact, "what does he do that is not?"