6.45 P.M. W. in his room—light on—reading paper. Said: "Herbert was over last night—he saw the book—liked it all—thought it fine, handsome, all except the picture—holding to his old objection just as firmly as ever." I read him a letter I had today from Kennedy—this:
to which W. remarked: "That is exceedingly significant for the book—a criticism from one who writes from the very head-center of bookishness, or, rather books. The best profit of a
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dinner is in this,—that food is there, that I like it, another likes it, it answers our ends. And so, if the book answers the end, it must be counted a success, whatever some may say of it." Read him also, then, letter from Frank Sanborn:
which struck him forcibly. "The noble Sanborn! true, just as he has been!" Gilder had written me yesterday, "Where is the book?" and W. was anxious I should stir Harned up to sending G.'s copies if not already gone. The American reviews book today. Have not yet seen it. W. thought: "From my point of view, aside entirely from what is said on it, the book is a success from a printerial, artistic point of view—well conceived and as well executed. I do not get over my astonishment, however, that this is for us—that I have lived to see it."
Said he had "another red-ink postal from the Epoch person, directing my attention to The Epoch of Nov. 1st—or 2d. If you are in the way of a paper—look—but go to no trouble about it. This is a way editors have at times of extending their circulation. The average critter will tear mad round the town if he knows his name has been printed in the papers."
Referred to The Century again. "The Velasquez head—Aesop—misled me. On a first look at the magazine, seeing that, I thought—here now is a brilliant number, but I was never
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more deceived—rarely a number more stupid. As for Jefferson, he knows nothing at all—nothing. The Spanish article—by a woman—a Miss or Mrs. [Susan W. C.] Carter is very good—passable—readable, in a way, though labored enough, too. My own poem looks well: there is a noble breadth given it there—in the mere printerial aspect of it." To The Critic's remark this week on Stoddard's Lippincott Bryant, which "no lover of the foregoing poet should forego reading," W. laughingly remarked, "That must have been another by Dick himself. I don't believe there was a person on the list of its readers who competently thought of it otherwise than as utterly dull and worthless." Spoke of absence of further word from Bucke.