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My Dear Walt.

You do not know me—have never heard of me even—yet you have done more for me than all others.

Born and bred in the midst of Puritanical orthodoxy I was early entombed in the church and never had a breath of the pure, free air of heaven till I was thirty-five years old. Swedenborg first opened the sepulchre and let in the heavenly light so that I saw myself a living soul, but it remained for you to breathe upon the dry bones and make them live. To you alone I owe the discovery that "Divine am I inside and out"—that the "body is not less sacred than the soul."

Hours of depression come even upon you. This I know. Therefore, perhaps, it may cheer you in some such hour to know how you have lifted up and made happy a brother. This is my apology for this intrusion.

I would I could grasp your hand, look in your eyes and have you look in mine. Then you should see how much you have done for me.

Yours with a brother's love William A. Hawley