5:50 P.M. W. in his room—the local papers in his lap. Not seeming to read, rather to be reflecting. The fire cosily burning—the smell of fresh and flaming wood intermingling. W.'s brother George here today. They had talked a couple of hours together. George had just come from St. Louis. W. pleased to hear more of details of Jeff's death. Jeff's daughter Jessie very sick, too. Jeff had started to rally—then was stricken in heart and died. W. quite specific in all these things. After George had gone, W. complained of reaction, etc.—and looked it now.
Tells me of "some California friend—I have a number of them out there—who is sending me great bundles of California papers. I don't know who sends them. They are marked all over with bright red ink-lines." Admitted they had "a considerable interest" for him.
I received this morning pages 25-30 inclusive from Somerby (Ingersoll pamphlet), which I mailed at once to W. asking him to have them ready for me this evening. Now he hands to me—a slip under the string: "For Horace—where are the preceding 24 pages?" I supposed they had not been sent because they contained no "quotes." But W. insisted: "They should have sent all—all. I want to see if our other corrections were alluded to—if my speech is now in right order." I promised to mention this to Somerby. Letter had come with proofs. W.'s changes in punctuation and spacing merely.
W. referred to our visit yesterday—asked me about Coit more specifically. Had been "much impressed." "I know I have friends in Townbee Hall, or among interested parties. I have had letters from several there—from one in particular: I think the president or such. Is he a minister? The place seems to be a center—a rallying-point—of philanthropics. Is that your idea? And for the young mainly. Why—even the snobs seem interested in it." That, as Coit said, pictures of W. were "in almost every room" was to W. "astonishing—yet not the less pleasing for that."
Returned me my manuscript. "It seems to need no corrections whatever: is surprisingly accurate, sure, to the point. I have done but little upon it"—as was indeed the case, as I find on examining it—his changes only of words here and there—not more than 15 in all, the better, he thought, to state his own environment and thought. Now he thought I ought to "put it right out."
Not out today. Snowed now—cold (severely). W. was inquisitive: "I felt the winter in my bones as I sat here. And my fire feels it, too—and hurries up its burning."