My greatest call (Quaker) to
go around and do what I could there in those war-scenes where I had
fallen, among the sick and wounded, was, that I seem'd to be _so
strong and well_. (I consider'd myself invulnerable.) But this last
attack shatter'd me completely. Quit work at Washington, and moved to
Camden, New Jersey--where I have lived since, receiving many buffets
and some precious caresses--and now write these lines. Since then,
(1874-'91) a long stretch of illness, or half-illness, with occasional
lulls. During these latter, have revised and printed over all my
books--bro't out "November Boughs"--and at intervals leisurely and
exploringly travel'd to the Prairie States, the Rocky Mountains,
Canada, to New York, to my birthplace in Long Island, and to Boston.
But physical disability and the war-paralysis above alluded to to
have settled upon me more and more the last year or so. Am now (1891)
domicil'd, and have been for some years, in this little old cottage
and lot in Mickle street, Camden, with a house-keeper and man nurse.
Bodily I am completely disabled, but still write for publication. I
keep generally buoyant spirits, write often as there comes any lull in
physical sufferings, get in the sun and down to the river whenever I
can, retain fair appetite, assimilation and digestion, sensibilities
acute as ever, the strength and volition of my right arm good,
eyesight dimming, but brain normal, and retain my heart's and soul's
unmitigated faith not only in their own original literary plans, but
in the essential bulk of American humanity east and west, north and
south, city and country, through thick and thin, to the last.
Pages:
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868