_Washington, Oct. 20, 1863._ DEAREST MOTHER--I got your last letter Sunday
morning, though it was dated Thursday night. Mother, I suppose you got a
letter from me Saturday last, as I sent one the day before, as I was
concerned about Andrew. If I thought it would be any benefit to Andrew I
should certainly leave everything else and come back to Brooklyn. Mother,
do you recollect what I wrote last summer about throat diseases, when
Andrew was first pretty bad? Well, that's the whole groundwork of the
business; any true physician would confirm it. There is no great charm
about such things; as to any costly and mysterious baths, there are no
better baths than warm water, or vapor (and perhaps sulphur vapor). There
is nothing costly or difficult about them; one can have a very good
sweating bath, at a pinch, by having a pan of warm water under a chair
with a couple of blankets around him to enclose the vapor, and heating a
couple of bricks or stones or anything to put in one after another, and
sitting on the chair--it is a very wholesome sweat, too, and not to be
sneezed at if one wishes to do what is salutary, and thinks of the sense
of a thing, and not what others do. Andrew mustn't be discouraged; those
diseases are painful and tedious, but he can recover, and will yet. Dear
mother, I sent your last letter to George, with a short one I wrote
myself. I sent it yesterday. I sent a letter last Wednesday (14th) to him
also, hoping that if one don't reach him another will. Hasn't Jeff seen
Capt. Sims or Lieut. McReady yet, and don't they hear whether the 51st is
near Nicholasville, Kentucky, yet? I send George papers now and then.
Mother, one of your letters contains part of my letter to the _Union_ (I
wish I could have got the whole of it). It seems to me mostly as I
intended it, barring a few slight misprints. Was my last name signed at
the bottom of it? Tell me when you write next. Dear mother, I am real
sorry, and mad too, that the water works people have cut Jeff's wages down
to $50; this is a pretty time to cut a man's wages down, the mean old
punkin heads. Mother, I can't understand it at all; tell me more of the
particulars. Jeff, I often wish you was on here; you would be better
appreciated--there are big salaries paid here sometimes to civil
engineers. Jeff, I know a fellow, E. C. Stedman; has been here till
lately; is now in Wall street. He is poor, but he is in with the big
bankers, Hallett & Co., who are in with Fremont in his line of Pacific
railroad. I can get his (Stedman's) address, and should you wish it any
time I will give you a letter to him. I shouldn't wonder if the big men,
with Fremont at head, were going to push their route works, road, etc.,
etc., in earnest, and if a fellow could get a good managing place in it,
why it might be worth while. I think after Jeff has been with the Brooklyn
w[ater] w[orks] from the beginning, and so faithful and so really
valuable, to put down to $50--the mean, low-lived old shoats! I have felt
as indignant about it, the meanness of the thing, and mighty inconvenient,
too--$40 a month makes a big difference. Mother, I hope Jeff won't get and
keep himself in a perpetual fever, with all these things and others and
botherations, both family and business ones. If he does, he will just wear
himself down before his time comes. I do hope, Jeff, you will take things
equally all round, and not brood or think too deeply. So I go on giving
you all good advice. O mother, I must tell you how I get along in my new
quarters. I have moved to a new room, 456 Sixth street, not far from
Pennsylvania avenue (the big street here), and not far from the Capitol.
It is in the 3d story, an addition back; seems to be going to prove a very
good winter room, as it is right under the roof and looks south; has low
windows, is plenty big enough; I have gas. I think the lady will prove a
good woman. She is old and feeble. (There is a little girl of 4 or 5; I
hear her sometimes calling _Grandma, Grandma_, just exactly like Hat; it
made me think of you and Hat right away.) One thing is I am quite by
myself; there is no passage up there except to my room, and right off
against my side of the house is a great old yard with grass and some trees
back, and the sun shines in all day, etc., and it smells sweet, and good
air--good big bed; I sleep first rate. There is a young wench of 12 or 13,
Lucy (the niggers here are the best and most amusing creatures you ever
see)--she comes and goes, gets water, etc. She is pretty much the only one
I see. Then I believe the front door is not locked at all at night. (In
the other place the old thief, the landlord, had two front doors, with
four locks and bolts on one and three on the other--and a big bulldog in
the back yard. We were well fortified, I tell you. Sometimes I had an
awful time at night getting in.) I pay $10 a month; this includes gas, but
not fuel. Jeff, you can come on and see me easy now. Mother, to give you
an idea of prices here, while I was looking for rooms, about like our two
in Wheeler's houses (2nd story), nothing extra about them, either in
location or anything, and the rent was $60 a month. Yet, quite curious,
vacant houses here are not so very dear; very much the same as in
Brooklyn. Dear mother, Jeff wrote in his letter latter part of last week,
you was real unwell with a very bad cold (and that you didn't have enough
good meals). Mother, I hope this will find you well and in good spirits. I
think about you every day and night. Jeff thinks you show your age more,
and failing like. O my dear mother, you must not think of failing yet. I
hope we shall have some comfortable years yet. Mother, don't allow things,
troubles, to take hold of you; write a few lines whenever you can; tell me
exactly how things are. Mother, I am first rate and well--only a little of
that deafness again. Good-bye for present.