_Washington, Sept. 8, 1863, Tuesday morning._ DEAREST MOTHER--I wrote to
Jeff Sunday last that his letter sent Sept. 3rd, containing your letter
and $5 from Mr. Lane, had miscarried--this morning when I came down to
Major Hapgood's office I found it on my table, so it is all
right--singular where it has been all this while, as I see the postmark on
it is Brooklyn, Sept. 3, as Jeff said. Mother, what to do about Andrew I
hardly know--as it is I feel about as much pity for you as I do for my
poor brother Andrew, for I know you will worry yourself about him all the
time. I was in hopes it was only the trouble about the voice, etc., but I
see I was mistaken, and it is probably worse. I know you and Jeff and Mat
will do all you can--and will have patience with all (it is not only the
sick who are poorly off, but their friends; but it is best to have the
greatest forbearance, and do and give, etc., whatever one can--but you
know that, and practice it too, dear mother). Mother, if I had the means,
O how cheerfully I would give them, whether they availed anything for
Andrew or not--yet I have long made up my mind that money does not amount
to so much, at least not so very much, in serious cases of sickness; it is
judgment both in the person himself, and in those he has to do with--and
good heart in everything. (Mother, you remember Theodore Gould, how he
stuck it out, though sickness and death has had hold of him, as you may
say, for fifteen years.) But anyhow, I hope we will all do what we can for
Andrew. Mother, I think I must try to come home for a month--I have not
given up my project of lecturing I spoke about before, but shall put it in
practice yet; I feel clear it will succeed enough. (I wish I had some of
the money already; it would be satisfaction to me to contribute something
to Andrew's necessities, for he must have bread.) I will write to you, of
course, before I come. Mother, I hope you will live better--Jeff tells me
you and Jess and Ed live on poor stuff, you are so economical. Mother, you
mustn't do so as long as you have a cent--I hope you will, at least four
or five times a week, have a steak of beef or mutton, or something
substantial for dinner. I have one good meal of that kind every day, or at
least five or six days out of the seven--but for breakfast I have nothing
but a cup of tea and some bread or crackers (first-rate tea though, with
milk and good white sugar). Well, I find it is hearty enough--more than
half the time I never eat anything after dinner, and when I do it is only
a cracker and cup of tea. Mother, I hope you will not stint yourselves--as
to using George's money for your and Jess's and Ed's needful living
expenses, I know George would be mad and hurt in his feelings if he
thought you was afraid to. Mother, you have a comfortable time as much as
you can, and get a steak occasionally, won't you? I suppose Mat got her
letter last Saturday; I sent it Friday. O I was so pleased that Jeff was
not drawn, and I know how Mat must have felt too; I have no idea the
Government will try to draft again, whatever happens--they have carried
their point, but have not made much out of it. O how the conscripts and
substitutes are deserting down in front and on their way there--you don't
hear anything about it, but it is incredible--they don't allow it to get
in the papers. Mother, I was so glad to get your letter; you must write
again--can't you write to-morrow, so I can get it Friday or
Saturday?--you know though you wrote more than a week ago I did not get it
till this morning. I wish Jeff to write too, as often as he can. Mother, I
was gratified to hear you went up among the soldiers--they are rude in
appearance, but they know what is decent, and it pleases them much to have
folks, even old women, take an interest and come among them. Mother, you
must go again, and take Mat. Well, dear mother, I must close. I am first
rate in health, so much better than a month and two months ago--my hand
has entirely healed. I go to hospital every day or night--I believe no men
ever loved each other as I and some of these poor wounded sick and dying
men love each other. Good-bye, dearest mother, for present.