_Washington, Aug. 25, 1863._ DEAR MOTHER--The letter from George, and your
lines, and a few from Jeff came yesterday, and I was glad indeed to be
certain that George had got back to Kentucky safe and well--while so many
fall that we know, or, what is about as bad, get sick or hurt in the
fight, and lay in hospital, it seems almost a miracle that George should
have gone through so much, South and North and East and West, and been in
so many hard-fought battles, and thousands of miles of weary and
exhausting marches, and yet have stood it so, and be yet alive and in good
health and spirits. O mother, what would we [have] done if it had been
otherwise--if he had met the fate of so many we know--if he had been
killed or badly hurt in some of those battles? I get thinking about it
sometimes, and it works upon me so I have to stop and turn my mind on
something else. Mother, I feel bad enough about Andrew, and I know it must
be so with you too--one don't know what to do; if we had money he would be
welcome to it, if it would do any good. If George's money comes from
Kentucky this last time, and you think some of it would do Andrew any real
good, I advise you to take some and give him--I think it would be proper
and George would approve of it. I believe there is not much but trouble
in this world, and if one hasn't any for himself he has it made up by
having it brought close to him through others, and that is sometimes worse
than to have it touch one's self. Mother, you must not let Andrew's case
and the poor condition of his household comforts, etc., work upon you, for
I fear you will--but, mother, it's no use to worry about such things. I
have seen so much horrors that befall men (so bad and such suffering and
mutilations, etc., that the poor men can defy their fate to do anything
more or any harder misfortune or worse a-going) that I sometimes think I
have grown callous--but no, I don't think it is that, but nothing of
ordinary misfortune seems as it used to, and death itself has lost all its
terrors--I have seen so many cases in which it was so welcome and such a
relief.
Mother, you must just resign yourself to things that occur--but I hardly
think it is necessary to give you any charge about it, for I think you
have done so for many years, and stood it all with good courage.
We have a second attack of hot weather--Sunday was the most burning day I
ever yet saw. It is very dry and dusty here, but to-day we are having a
middling good breeze--I feel pretty well, and whenever the weather for a
day or so is passably cool I feel really first rate, so I anticipate the
cooler season with pleasure. Mother, I believe I wrote to you I had a
letter in N. Y. _Times_, Sunday, 16th--I shall try to write others and
more frequently. The three _Eagles_ came safe; I was glad to get them--I
sent them and another paper to George. Mother, none of you ever mention
whether you get my letters, but I suppose they come safe--it is not
impossible I may miss some week, but I have not missed a single one for
months past. I wish I could send you something worth while, and I wish I
could send something for Andrew--mother, write me exactly how it is with
him.... Mother, I have some idea Han is getting some better; it is only my
idea somehow--I hope it is so from the bottom of my heart. Did you hear
from Mary's Fanny since? And how are Mat's girls? So, Mannahatta, you tear
Uncle George's letters, do you? You mustn't do so, little girl, nor Uncle
Walt's either; but when you get to be a big girl you must have them all
nice, and read them, for Grandmother will perhaps leave them to you in her
will, if you behave like a lady. Matty, my dear sister, how are you
getting along? I really want to see you bad, and the baby too--well,
may-be we shall all come together and have some good times yet. Jeff, I
hope by next week this time we shall be in possession of Charleston--some
papers say Burnside is moving for Knoxville, but it is doubtful--I think
the 9th Corps might take a rest awhile, anyhow. Good-bye, mother.