pected. I was terribly tired. Your father has been so sweet;
everybody has been good to me--Celia, poor little Camilla, and
Stephen. I know that they all write to you; and somehow I have
been listlessly contented to let them tell you about home matters,
and wait until my strength returned. But you must not doubt where
every waking memory of mine has centred; my thoughts have circled
always around that central vortex from which, since I first laid
eyes on you, they have never strayed.

"Home news is what all good soldiers want; I write for you all I
know:

"The city is the same hot, noisy, dirty, dusty, muddy, gridiron,
changed in nowise except that everywhere one sees invalid soldiers;
and there are far too many officers lounging about, presumably on
furlough--too many Captain Dash's, twirling black moustaches in
front of fashionable hotels. There are no powder stains on their
uniforms, no sun-burn on their cheeks. They throng the city; and
it is a sinister phenomenon.

"I think Broadway was never as lively, never quite as licentious.
Those vivid cafes, saloons, concert halls, have sprung up
everywhere; theatres, museums, gardens are in full blast; shops are
crowded, hotels, street cars, stages overflowing with careless,
noisy, overdressed people. The city is _en fete_; and somehow when
I think of that Dance of Death thundering ceaselessly just south of
us, it appalls me to encounter such gaiety and irresponsibility in
the streets.

"Yet, after all, it may be the safety-valve of a brave people.
Those whirling daily in the Dance of Death have, at least, the
excitement to sustain them. Here the tension is constant and
terrible; and the human mind cannot endure too much tragedy.

". . . They say our President fits a witticism to the tragedy of
every battle-field; but it may be to preserve his own reason
through these infernal years. He has the saddest eyes of any man
since the last Martyr died.

"England behaves badly. It was her God-given opportunity to stand
by us. She has had chance after chance since the last patriot died
from lack of food and air in this sad old city of New York. . . .
The Prince Consort is kind; his wife is inclined to be what he is.
Napoleon is the sinister shape behind the arras; and the Tory
government licks his patent-leather boots. Vile is the attitude of
England, vile her threats, her sneers, her wicked contempt of a
great people in agony. Her murderous government, bludg