And that when I do I tell you nothing; and you add (it seemed unkind) that I might as well be in England, a home-keeping youth, as before. I meant to refute you, but an uneasy conscience tells me you are not altogether wrong, and insists on a penance - for you, I expect, as well as for myself. Partly to satisfy this desire of yours for some account of my states of being during the last two years, and partly to show you how mistaken you were in wishing for anything of the sort, I send you this. It is but a rough sketch, such as Our Special Artist, when in a hurry, might despatch from the Seat of War, with a here are houses, or insert men and boys, scrawled over the blank Spaces. These.

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