6:40 P.M. Very cool. Great change. W. downstairs in parlor. Window closed. Warrie came in and sat there while we talked. Hand cold. I remarked, Warrie putting in, "I said the same thing to Mr. Whitman." W. tells me, "I am in fair condition today. This weather is almost a revolution. And I am not altogether the better for it." But had enjoyed his oysters at tea. "Steamed oysters I suppose I like best of all. Probably because I got used to them in Washington—found them a stand-by in Washington days."
McKay out of town. Could not talk over book with him. Gone to New York and Boston, will be returned Saturday. W. displayed a bit of impatience. "I am in a hurry to push it through, though I don't know why I should be." But McKay's men had sent me an order for copy complete Whitman bound, W. asking me to go upstairs and get—as I did—from the big box, underneath a miscellany of clothing, etc.
No letters from J.W.W. today, but W. says, "I have a copy of Monday's Mail from him—Toronto Mail—and he was there at that time, probably with Doctor. But now I suppose they have parted, Doctor his way, Wallace his. When is Doctor's speech in Montreal? We will want to see that." I paid Warrie today, for himself and Mrs. Davis (one month, $52.34), going upstairs and using W.'s mammoth falcon pen to write receipt. I asked W. yesterday, "You don't seem to write anything at all these days?" "No, the wheels seem to have stopped." Was he to write more? "No, I feel I have reached my finale. What more needs be said?" He felt that the blood no longer pushed out and along into new creation. "The free ways are closed. I hold a corner of the citadel—no more."