It is with peculiar feelings of gratitude, joy, relief, and safety, that we have entered upon our duties this week. The one absorbing idea of the last ten days--the impatience for the news of each hour as it passed--the eagerness to seek the opinions of friends, even though such opinions brought but further disturbance of mind--the difficulty of deciding upon the proper course of action--the heavy, wearing anxiety--the slow realization that war, which we have, as yet, only looked upon at a distance, might, at a moment, be brought to our own doors,--our homes laid waste, and ourselves fugitives--all these things live too freshly in the minds of us all, to need word of mine to recall them. Who can ever forget the pressure which weighed down our spirits when we rose on that most memorable “Fourth” just passed?--the earnestness with which our cry to heaven went up for success to our arms--the pause of those long morning hours, when the whole city seemed holding its breath in terrible suspense--and then the grand, the glorious reaction, when the lightning flashed peace and joy and safety to all hearts? Did ever language bring more joy than those two blessed words, “Meade victorious?” What could we do but fall upon our knees, and offer up our hearts in thankfulness for such an answer to our prayers? God did that day “take the cause into his own hands, and judge between us and our enemies,” and we were saved. Was it not that, as a people, we had turned to him--as a people we had acknowledged the weakness of a human arm--as a people we had poured forth our hearts in prayer, and he had heard us? Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials, came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base; martyrdom for and with them so attractive,--and yet it was not quite clear to my mind--much as I longed to aid them--what special benefit could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence--so evidently sincere--from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far outstripping the ability. “Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.” “We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.” “Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.” “We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you, ladies, depend upon that.” “Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.” “Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed; “they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.”