I wrote to Jeff Sunday last that his letters sent Sept 3d containing your letter & $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 post mark on it is Brooklyn Sept 3 as Jeff said1—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 &c but I see I was mistaken, & it is probably worse—I know you & Jeff & Mat will do all you can—& 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, & do & give &c whatever one can—but you know that, & practice it too, dear mother)2—
Mother, if I had the means, O how cheerfully I would give them, whether they availed any thing 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, & in those he has to do with—& good heart is every thing—(Mother, you remember Theodore Gould,3 how he has stuck it out, though sickness & death has had hold of him as you may say for fifteen years)—but any how 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,4 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 & Jess & Ed live on poor stuff, you are so economical5—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 never have any thing but a cup of tea & some bread or crackers, (first rate tea though with milk & good white sugar)—well I find it is hearty enough—more than half the time I never eat any thing after dinner, & when I do it is only a cracker & cup of tea—Mother, I hope you will not stint yourselves—as to using George's money for your & Jess's & Ed's needful living expenses, I know George would be mad & hurt in his feelings, if he thought you was afraid to—Mother, now have a comfortable time as much as you can, & 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,6 & I know how Mat must have felt too, & you 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 & substitutes are deserting down in front, & on their way there—you don't hear any thing 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 soldiers7—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 & come among them—mother, you must go again, & take [Hat]—Well, dear mother, I must close—I am first rate in health, so much better than a month & two mo's ago—my hand has entirely healed—I go to hospital every day, or night—I believe no men ever loved each other as I & some of these poor wounded, sick & dying men love each other—good bye, dearest mother, for present—
Walt