10.15 A.M. Mrs. Davis just taking breakfast in to W., who looked well, and had been reading the Press. He said as we came in: "I was quite staggered here—it knocked the breath out of me—to read a headline—'The Death of Peter Doyle'—here in the paper: but it was not our Peter Doyle: it was some old man, somewhere, given the same name. Oh! our good Pete—a rebel—not old—big—sturdy—a man, every inch of him! such a fellow—and health!" Said he had not read more in the paper. "This stayed me: it was a shock!"
Said he was promising himself to go out today. Thursday evening, upon my questions, he had said: "I should have gone out, to be sure—but was stagnated, after all." Yesterday he did go: now he says to me: "I promise to go today—unless a [illegible] lassitude overcomes me again, as it has so often before."
Returned him the Australian letter, which he said he would send to Bucke. I stayed but for ten minutes. He asked where I was going. Very cherry. But still says: "I gain no strength."