duty,--a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last thought at
night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since my arrival
in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that some
brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my thoughts. Was
he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded by the
friends he loved,--the old familiar faces around the hospitable hearth his
kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh, could I but
see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his hand upon my
head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell from his
lips, and sunk into my heart!

Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered, unaccompanied, from my
quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by the noise
of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers announced its
approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way brought it into
view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a small
orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the mail-cart with
letters from Lisbon.

Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily back, and
retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the adjutant-general's
quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled; the report
that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and accordingly,
every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides, and eagerly
inquiring, "If the bags had been opened?" The scene of riot, confusion, and
excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all belief, each man
reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs and domestic
concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of exclamations of
surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the intelligence severally
suggested,--the disappointed expectants cursing their idle correspondents,
bemoaning their fate about remittances that never arrived, or drafts never
honored; while here and there some public benefactor, with an outspread
"Times" or "Chronicle," was retailing the narrative of our own exploits in
the Peninsula or the more novel changes in the world of politics since we
left England. A cross-fire of news and London gossip ringing on every side
made up a perfect Babel most difficult to form an idea of. The jargon
partook of every accent and intonation the empire boasts of; and