5:40 P.M. To. W.'s. There only briefly: say, for ten minutes or so. Yet we talked briskly in that time. Red comforter about his neck again. Appears to have adopted it. Lusty fire in stove. Yet pretty warm out of doors. He asked me about this: "Is it so?" And then said, "Well, that is good news: that may give us a chance again," meaning, to get out. How had he felt? "Pretty
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well." How about the bladder? "I think that is just as bad—just as bad: I hardly expect it will ever be better." Had sent away several portraits today—the Gutekunst-Johnston picture, and gave me one addressed to Stead (England) of Review of Reviews. Speaking of humor W. said, "I remember—it was long ago—years, years—at Pfaff's, Bleecker Street—a number of us spent a good deal of time there—we were discussing humor. Artemus Ward was in town at the time: had he humor, then, for instance? The weight of opinion seemed to be against—when one of the fellows rose—it was at the end of the table—far along—in the room—he was sallow—wore glasses—I can see him, hear him, now. A fine round voice he had. He said he disagreed with us—gave a case—had been with Ward. Oh! What was Ward's real name? I knew it as well as I do my own. Anyhow, Ward was at church—in the pew front of him was a youngster bobbing about—restless—at a great rate—annoyed Ward—who, when he could stand it no longer, rose, dignifiedly—reached forward, put his open hand gently on the boy's head—'Young man,' said he, 'if you don't suspend operations now (this has gone far enough) there will be a funeral tomrrow and the victim will be present!'" W. laughed with merriment. "It was inimitable as told—inimitable anyhow. It converted me. Next day it was all in the papers—some rascally reporter being somewhere present."
Received the following letter form Arthur Stedman today: