On my way out of town, stopped in to see Whitman at 5, and found him eating his dinner. A hot, clouded, much-raining day. He sat in his bedroom: his meal rather meager, but even as it was, "more than I care to eat"—some things wholly untouched, a fan in his right hand,—his left used for knife and fork, etc. He had prepared a superscription for the Morse picture, of which he said as often before, "I am satisfied with it, though not in love with it: it will do." Did not look well. Said he had spent a bad day, altogether. No news. I did not linger. Ed informed me W. was extremely feeble the day through—had been quite sick, lethargic, early in the day.