Our equipment being completed, the march was announced for August 1st. Many conflicting sentiments jarred in our breasts the night before. Thoughts of the bloody battles we had gained and the prospect of a glorious campaign before us were gloomed by the recollection that not long before we had taken the same route with Sir John Moore at our head; that since that period the ranks of the regiment had been thinned or swept away at Corunna, Oporto, Talavera, Albuera, Barossa. Many a gallant soldier and sincere friend had been laid low since last we met at Lisbon. With these recollections we sat down to table, and eating seemed but a work of necessity, which passed in mute action. The cloth being removed, a bumper was proposed to the memory of the immortal Moore. It was drunk in perfect silence and, as it were, with religious solemnity. The martial figure and noble mien of the calumniated hero stood erect in the imagination, and was perfect in the memory of all; but a painful recollection of the mournful state in which we last beheld him saddened every countenance. We seemed to see him borne in a blanket by the rear of the regiment, the moon acting as one big torch to light the awful procession as it moved slowly along, our men falling around him as if anxious, even in death, to follow their gallant leader, and the enemy’s guns firing salvos as if to cheer the warrior’s last moments. He knew that they were beaten. Thus Sir John Moore bade his final adieu to the regiment, all shattered save his martial spirit and lofty mind,--these were unbroken and remained inflexible. He yielded his last breath with a sigh of love for his country and of yearning for his profession. After this toast was drunk the band with muffled drums played, “Peace to the Fallen Brave”; but either the instruments were out of tune or our souls not tuned to harmony. The music sounded mournful and low; a dark gloom like a Pyrenean cloud hung cold, damp and clammy around; we tried to shake it off but in vain. Our next bumper was to the memory of our late gallant comrades, who gloriously fell since our last march from Lisbon, gallantly maintaining the honour of their country and corps. This toast was also drunk in solemn silence, while many an eye swam at the recollection of scenes and friends gone for ever. I thought of my poor friend, Bennet. This toast led to the mention of several anecdotes, wherein the deceased bore the principal part. The gallant feats of our departed friends insensibly revived sentiments of a less mournful nature; the foggy vapour somewhat cleared away.