7:55 P.M. W. in his room—writing. Has been making up some manuscript on actors and the old New York stage as he knew it. I went to Chestnut Street Opera House to inquire as to stage doors for him. Manager not in. Judged from what his assistant said that the doors had no profesional name. W. said now, "I would not go to any trouble about the thing: if you can find it out easily, do so—if not, let it drop. I can manage without it. In what I am writing, it can easily be escaped, though I never like to be baffled in a question of that kind—like to have paraphernalia—words—at my tongue's, finger's, end." Had he noticed Critic's note about postponement of "Our National Literature"? "Yes—I caught it. I am not surprised—the explanation is plausible enough." Referred to William O. Stoddard. "He was at one time an admirer of 'Leaves of Grass'—was then on the Pacific Coast—wrote me often—warm, friendly letters: afterwards I think he took a trip to the South Sea Islands—yes, just as Stevenson has done. Stevenson is a sickish, frail fellow—yet of meteoric talents, too—hardly our man," etc. He remembered Stevenson's Whitman essay, but "not as a thing to have a long life." Had I seen Stoddart today? Stoddart out of town—saw Walsh—who read note and said he had no doubt it would be all
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right. "Mr. and Mrs. Ingram were here about an hour ago: a nice call—a fine old woman." Returned me Meissonier. "A grand picture—Whitmanesque: I looked at it long and long—it filled me. And I read the article on Meissonier, too—from first word to last." Any further word from Bucke? "No—but no news is best news. He has undoubtedly come around all right." Gave him second proof of Kennedy piece; will return to me tomorrow. Told him of a letter I had from Baker today—aroused his curiosity.
Note from Bucke today—the 2nd inst.