The last two days he has been lying panting for breath--a pitiful sight. I have been with him some every day or night since he arrived. He suffers a great deal with the heat--says little or nothing--is flighty the last three days, at times--knows me always, however--calls me "Walter"--(sometimes calls the name over and over and over again, musingly, abstractedly, to himself.) His father lives at Breesport, Chemung county, N. Y., is a mechanic with large family--is a steady, religious man; his mother too is living. I have written to them, and shall write again to-day--Erastus has not receiv'd a word from home for months. As I sit here writing to you, M., I wish you could see the whole scene. This young man lies within reach of me, flat on his back, his hands clasp'd across his breast, his thick black hair cut close; he is dozing, breathing hard, every breath a spasm--it looks so cruel. He is a noble youngster,--I consider him past all hope. Often there is no one with him for a long while. I am here as much as possible. WILLIAM ALCOTT, fireman. _Camden, Nov., 1874_.--Last Monday afternoon his widow, mother, relatives, mates of the fire department, and his other friends, (I was one, only lately it is true, but our love grew fast and close, the days and nights of those eight weeks by the chair of rapid decline, and the bed of death,) gather'd to the funeral of this young man, who had grown up, and was well-known here. With nothing special, perhaps, to record, I would give a word or two to his memory. He seem'd to me not an inappropriate specimen in character and elements, of that bulk of the average good American race that ebbs and flows perennially beneath this scum of eructations on the surface. Always very quiet in manner, neat in person and dress, good temper'd--punctual and industrious at his work, till he could work no longer--he just lived his steady, square, unobtrusive life, in its own humble sphere, doubtless unconscious of itself. (Though I think there were currents of emotion and intellect undevelop'd beneath, far deeper than his acquaintances ever suspected--or than he himself ever did.) He was no talker. His troubles, when he had any, he kept to himself. As there was nothing querulous about him in life, he made no complaints during his last sickness. He was one of those persons that while his associates never thought of attributing any particular talent or grace to him, yet all insensibly, really, liked Billy Alcott.