I am here again in Camden, stopping awhile, with the intention, as soon as I can move with comfort, of getting to the sea-side—probably Atlantic City1—about an hour & three quarters from here, by rail—I am not much different from when I saw you last—have been a good deal worse, (by spells, several of them)—but have now brought round again to where I was six or eight weeks ago.
Mother2 died here on the 23d of May—I stood it all better than I would have expected. I returned to Washington about nine days afterwards—but I was very restless & dissatisfied there—staid about a couple of weeks—obtained two months leave of absence, & (after almost making up my mind to go into quarters at a Hospital, as boarder, but was persuaded out of it)—here I am & have been for about two weeks—(I think comparatively better the last two days)—occupying the rooms in which my mother died—waiting for time to restore my health, which I still think it will—but I feel that the blank in life & heart left by the death of my mother is what will never to me be filled—
I am comfortably fixed here, have great kindness—I try to compose myself to writing at some of my themes, already outlined, but it don't amount to much yet. 'Sula, O how I wish you was near-by keeping house—I should consider it such a privilege to hobble there for an hour or two every day, while I am in this condition—The last nine or ten days in Washington, I left my den on 15th, & visited the Ashton's on K st. & lived there.
John, I don't think I have any news either of Washington, or of literary affairs or persons, to tell you, nor have I heard any thing since from abroad. Love to you & 'Sula. I hope you will write me soon, and spread yourself about gossip, about self & 'Sula, and the place & every thing—a letter written when you are in the mood, & let your pen run—I depend much on letters, as I am tied up here, & it is pretty lonesome.3
Walt