5:50 P.M. Have been able to get to W.'s immediately after his dinner and before my tea the last few nights and am glad. For it means the freest hour for him and the most convenient for me. Found him—the red-lined comforter about his neck again—stirring the fire. Was in very good humor and said he felt well: had spent a good day. Still very cold: kept him indoors. Chided me for not pushing out the Lippincott's piece—"You rascal: do you mean to keep it till Monday? No later, mind you! Why! We will all be ruined!" And then more seriously: "I have a feeling that Stoddart should arrange to print these in a certain sort of order: and this he can only do by having them all there together. But, however, this is a thing rather for him to do than for us to worry about. I wrote him only yesterday—you know it—and have had no return yet." Yet before I left he gave me some parcels, etc., to mail (a magazine for Ed Wilkins), among them a letter for Stoddart. Stopped at my newsstand this evening—examined Forum—scribbled on a piece of wrapping paper about a bundle the Gosse reference to W.: "And although assuredly the bastard jargon of Walt Whitman, and kindred returns to sheer barbarism, will not be accepted," etc.—which seemed to be all there was. W. said, "It is of no importance, except for the phrase itself which is good. I have met Gosse; we call him our amiable dude. He came here—it was years ago—with Mary Smith. As critic he amounts to little." Further along, happening to quote Boyesen, W. declared, "I know little about him, in fact. Somehow, I have the impression that he carries no weight—is in fact on the make—a lecturer for money—such." Had secured some pictures today: about a hundred, half unmounted. W. much gratified—both with the fact and result. "I am sure they have put this in the hands of a good man. I should like to meet him, to tell him how I feel about it." We put the pictures under heavy weights of books to press them. W. said he had not yet sent copies to Bucke but now would. Looked at the work like a child—full of exclamation. Warren came in for mail while I was there. We had some talk about "November Boughs": its character, the difficulties of its production. "It was then we saw how type eats up manuscript," said W. "But for that, probably the Hicks piece would not have been printed to this day." And he asked, "Does it still satisfy you? How does it impress your Quaker friends?" As to the book itself, he was "satisfied": it had fulfilled much if not all that he had hoped.
He was not by any means sure Stoddart would adopt all or any of his objections. Still, this "seems to present the matter symmetrically." Also gave me red-lined sheet "To My 71st Year." Had used big pen. "I use it altogether. It is no sham pen." Red holder: held it up triumphantly, playful as he often is in such things.