7:48 P.M. W. had spent a day somewhat improved. Said he had been out in his chair "for a short jaunt." I had received negative for W., but no photos. He was disappointed but did not complain. May possibly get a few Wednesday. Had he finished the Lippincott's autobiographical matter? "About finished it: but I am in no hurry to send it off. Stoddart knows it is to come, which should be enough for him." On the bed, wrapped up in brown paper, with red inscription.
Said he had a letter from Bucke: "Cheerful—inspiring—but not new." I picked up Philadelphia Home Journal from floor. We spoke of Curtis (its publisher)—W. saying: "He is reputed to be quite favorable to our cause—and we must welcome him, if that be true."
We spoke of choral harmonies. I described a body of young men singing at Clifford's church last night—the majesty of their united voices—saying that choral perfection out of imperfections had its cosmic lesson. W. fervently: "Yes indeed—it has—and that is a profound thought, too. I echo it—echo it. No one perfect voice very great, but a mass of imperfect voices perfect. That is what you say? It is a world of meanings!" And further, "And this follows your idea in the paper"—referring to one of my notes in the Conservator—"I like the fellow, not for his parts or peculiarities—but because I do. And what other logic is needed?" I asked if the best things were not after all the inexplicable? "Isn't it transcendental—after all?" And he nodded, "In the true sense, yes: transcendental—greater than all worlds that shape and turn—than all flowers that bloom—the unexplained presence that enters, subserves all."