"Yes," said W.: "I wrote hundreds of such, similar, letters for the boys: letters for their friends—for their folks: fathers, mothers, sweethearts: they were too sick to write, or not sure of themselves, or something: why, I even said their prayers for them—some of them. What did n't I do? I had n't noticed that letter on the back of the sheet: I 'm glad, however, that you read it: it was, it is, a part of the story. But read the big letter: read it: then I 'll let you go—you and the letter together."

      Dear Hugo. I don't know why I have delayed so long as a month to write to you, for your affectionate and lively letter of September 5th gave me as much pleasure as I ever received from correspondence. I read it even yet & have taken the liberty to show it to one or two persons I knew would be interested. Dear comrade, you must be assured that my heart is much with you in New York, & with my other dear friends, your associates—& my dear I wish you to excuse me to Fred Gray & to Perk, & Ben Knower, for not yet writing to them, also to Charley Kingsley, should you see him—I am contemplating a tremendous letter to my dear comrade Frederickus, which will make up for deficiencies,—my own comrade Fred, how I should like to see him and have a good heart's time with him, & a mild orgie, just for a basis, you know, for talk & interchange of reminiscences & the play of the quiet lambent electricity of real friendship—O Hugo, as my pen glides along writing these thoughts, I feel as if I could not delay coming right off to

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 579] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

New York & seeing you all, you & Fred & Bloom, & everybody—I want to see you, to be within hand's reach of you, and hear your voices, even if only for one evening for only three hours—I want to hear Perk's fiddle—I want to hear Perk himself, (& I will humbly submit to drink to the Church of England)—I want to be with Bloom (that wretched young man who I hear continually adorns himself outwardly, but I hear nothing of the interior) and I want to see Charley Russell, & if he is in N. Y. you see him I wish you to say that I sent him my love, particular, & that he & Fred & Charles Chauncey remain a group of itself in the portrait-gallery of my heart and mind yet & forever—for so it happened for our dear times, when we first got acquainted, (we recked not of them as they passed,) were so good, so hearty, those friendship times, our talk, our knitting together, it may be a whim, but I think nothing could be better or quieter & more happy of the kind—& is there any better kind in life's experiences? —

     Dear comrade, I still live here as a hospital missionary after my own style, & on my own hook—I go every day or night without fail to some of the great government hospitals—O the sad scenes I witness—scenes of death, anguish, the fevers, amputations, friendlessness, hungering & thirsting young hearts, for some loving presence—such endurance, such native decorum, such candor—I will confess to you dear Hugo that in some respects I find myself in my element amid these scenes—shall I not say to you that I find I supply often to some of these dear suffering boys in my presence & magnetism that which nor doctors, nor medicines, nor skill, nor any routine assistance can give? Dear Hugo, you must write to me often as you can, & not delay it, your letters are very dear to me. Did you see my newspaper letter in N Y Times of Sunday Oct 4? About my dear comrade Bloom, is he still out in Pleasant Valley? Does he meet you often? Do you & the fellows meet at Gray's or anywhere? O Hugo I wish I could hear with

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 580] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

you the current opera—I saw Devereux in the N Y papers of Monday announced for that night, & I knew in all probability you would be there—tell me how it goes, & about the principal singers—only don't run away with that theme, & occupy too much of your letter with it—but tell me mainly about all my dear friends, & every little personal item, & what you all do, & say &c.

     I am excellent well. I have cut my beard short & hair ditto: (all my acquaintances are in anger & despair & go about wringing their hands) my face is all tanned & red. If the weather is moist or has been lately, or looks as if it thought of going to be, I perambulate this land in big army boots outside & up to my knees. Then around my majestic brow around my well-brimmed felt hat—a black & gold cord with acorns. Altogether the effect is satisfactory. The guards as I enter or pass places often salute me. All of which I tell, as you will of course take pride in your friend's special & expanding glory.

     Fritschy, I am writing this in Major Hapgood's office, fifth story, by a window that overlooks all down the city, & over & down the beautiful Potomac, & far across the hills & shores for many a mile. We have had superb weather lately, yes for a month—it has just rained, so the dust is provided for, (that is the only thing I dread in Washington, the dust, I don't mind the mud). It is now between one and two o'clock Thursday afternoon. I am much alone in this pleasant far-up room, as Major is absent sick, & the clerk lays off a good deal. From three to five hours a day or night I go regularly among the sick, wounded, dying young men. I am enabled to give them things, food. There are very few visitors, amateurs, now. It has become an old story. The suffering ones cling to me poor children very close. I think of coming to New York quite soon to stay perhaps three weeks, then sure return here.

     He had fired up. Looked almost defiant. "All the wise ones said: 'Walt you should have saved yourself.' I did save myself though not in the way they meant: I saved myself in the only way salvation was possible to me. You look on me now with the ravages of that experience finally reducing me to powder. Still I say: I only gave myself: I got the boys, I got the Leaves. My body? Yes—it had to be given—it had to be sacrificed: who knows better than I do what that means? As to that, Horace, look here: here 's a dirty slip of paper I was re-reading to-day." He reached forward, picked up a soiled stained sheet of blue paper on which was some of his writing. "Read it," he said, handing it to me: "it falls in with what we have been talking about." I read this, aloud:

     "Perfect health is simply the right relation of man himself, & all his body, by which I mean all that he is, & all its laws & the play of them, to Nature & its laws & the play of them. When really achieved (possessed) it dominates all that wealth, schooling, art, successful love, or ambition, or any other of life's coveted prizes, can possibly confer, & is in itself the sovereign & whole & sufficient good, & the inlet & outlet of every good. In perfect health (a far, far different condition from what is generally supposed—indeed few minds seem to have the true & full conception of it)—sometimes I think it is the last flower and fruitage of civilization & art, & of the best education."

     I said to W.: "I see: you knew all that: you had to give that up: you have no regrets.""No regrets: none: it had to be done." I said: "Walt, you gave up health great as health is for something even greater than health." He said: "Horace, that 's what it means if it means anything."