W. asked Harned about my sister and the baby. Also: "Do you need to take The Tribune with you?" T. said, "no." W.: "Let it remain here: I'll get to it again: my reading goes slow: I don't in fact read anything at all: I feel I have lost what I call my grip." Had looked through The Press. He said: "It is such a relief to get up—to sit up—if only for five minutes: a relief from the dreadful dreadful monotony of the bed. I feel stronger—much

     "One of the letters there"—pointing to the table— "came to-day—is from the Postmaster at Huntingdon, Long Island. Some one in England sent me a package of papers—addressed them to West Hills, my birthplace: there is no post office at West Hills—the mail goes to Huntingdon. The postmen are a great set—have vast ideas of their own importance." He thought "the whole demeanor of officials towards the public curt in the extreme." He instanced: "Our postmaster—the present man here in Camden—has a very cavalier way of dismissing applicants. They are not only not anxious but not willing to serve you." He had felt Bailey—the predecessor of Janney—was the best. "In Bailey's time they seemed to have

     W. asked me: "Where do you think you stand politically?" I asked him: "Where do you think I stand?" He seemed to think it funny that we should ask each other such questions. "You must be on the outer line—far out where the worst rebels are," he said: "I can't think of you as being satisfied at all with political, sociological, things as they are." "Rather not," I said. And I asked: ""Are you satisfied with things as they are?" He shook his head. "No: do I growl as if I was?" "Well—what do you look forward to?" I asked: "Do you see a way out?" "I look forward to a world of small owners." I put in: "Or maybe no owners at all." He asked: "What do you mean by that? no owners at all? Do you mean common owners—owning things in common?" I nodded: "Yes: don't you think that would be best?" He said: "I don't know: I have n't thought it out: it sounds best: could it be best? could it be made to work?" "Can't anything that is right be made to work?" "Can it?" "Don't you say so?" He laughed. "You've got me on the witness stand: you 're like a lawyer." "Well—but answer me: don't you say so?" Then he acquiesced: "I have to believe it: if I don't believe that I could n't believe anything."That 's as far as we got. W. gave me a prize to-night—a letter to Symonds, his draft of it, written Jan. 27, 1872. He said: "Did I

J.A. Symonds:

     Not knowing whether it will reach you, I will however write a line to acknowledge the receipt of your beautiful and elevated Love and Death, and of the friendly letter from you, of October 7th last. I have read and re-read the poem, and consider it of the loftiest, strongest and tenderest. Your letter was most welcome to me. I should like to know you better, and I write you to send me word should this reach you, if the address is the right one. I wish to forward you a copy of my book—as I shall presently bring out a new edition.

     I am as usual in good health, and continue to work here in Washington in a governmental office, finding it not unpleasant—finding it in, indeed, sufficient and free margin.

     Pray don't think hardly of me for not writing more promptly. I have thought of you more than once, and am deeply touched with your poem.

     W. said: "How ironical that sounds to-day: I am as usual in good health!" He paused. Looked out the window. Gently laughed. "Well—we must pay our bills: I have my bills to pay: the hospital bill: it must be paid. I get very impatient some days—am a little resentful: sore, sore: wonder if it 's all fair and square—whether the scheme after all is not doubtful: then I go back: find my way back to my central thought again—my spinal conviction: I resent my resentment—am ashamed of my questions. Oh!