5:30 P.M. W. had just finished dinner. Day very warm. Sat by window and fanned himself. Complains of nothing except bladder trouble—says he cannot feel relief there. I told him I had set address to Poet-Lore letter right, and he thanked me, saying he thought it was Lippincott's. As to the piece he sent them, "It is very small—it don't amount to much. I only wanted to get myself right on a point about Shakespeare which he did not seem to understand. They may even not be willing to use it." But when I laughed as to that, he laughed too, knowing it was more their care than his to print it. Had been sending books to Logan Smith and Edward Carpenter. He calls "bookselling" his principal present occupation. Clifford said in note to me: "What is this new Emerson of Woodbury? Tells of Walt going to dine in N.Y. with E.—W. without his coat. How many other hypocritic garbs he has left off!" W. laughed exceedingly over this. "I don't know about that!" As to the last clause—"But the thing ought to be true for the sake of that wit!" Donaldson over to see W. today.