CHAPTER XVI.

_27th._--Fine warm morning. Started early after an excellent breakfast of coffee and _et ceteras_. Our orders were to rejoin the grand column at Ugny l’Equippée; but we had not gone far from Etreillers when two roads, branching off in different directions, brought us to a halt. Lord Greenock came up just at the moment, and blamed me for not bringing a guide from the village--“Better late than never.” I took the hint, and sent Trumpeter Brown back with orders to bring the first person he could lay hands on, _nolens volens_. He went his way and brought back _a tailor_, escorting him like a prisoner with his drawn sabre. Not knowing why he was thus forcibly taken from his home, the poor tailor appeared terribly alarmed--imploring mercy even with tears. When told, however, what was expected of him, he soon became tranquil; so, sticking him at the head of the column, we jogged on again. At Ugny l’Equippée we rejoined the column and dismissed our tailor, slipping into the main stream as heretofore. We now learned that the army was about to cross the Somme, and soon felt that it was actually engaged in so doing from our long and tedious halts--there being but one ford, which made the operation a very slow one. As we drew near the river the country improved somewhat, became more undulating and more wooded, consequently prettier.

The Somme here is but a small stream; flat meadows extend some little way on each side, and are bordered by moderate hills, running out here and there into knolls. The point chosen for our passage was a ford just above a mill on the road to Nesle. Péronne having been taken yesterday by General Maitland’s brigade of Guards, the only enemy we heard of in our vicinity was the garrison of Ham, and they could scarcely have opposed our passage even had they not been shut up by a brigade of light infantry and a troop of horse-artillery (Ross’s), which had been sent to summon them. The different divisions of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, winding down the swelling knolls, some of which were prettily wooded, and the picturesque groups of staff and other officers on the points of these knolls, superintending the passage of their respective brigades, &c., formed altogether an animated and pleasing picture, although not much could be said for the beauty of the country on the opposite side of the river, which looked cheerless enough. It was in one of those groups, and the most picturesque of them--for they were German hussars--that I recognised and shook hands with my friend General Victor Alten, whom I had not seen for more than three years. An interesting meeting, for he was surrounded by a number of other old acquaintances of the 2d Hussars.

A foot-bridge at the mill enabled the infantry to file over; but we had to ford, and got a tolerable wetting, for the water was up to our saddle-skirts. On the other side, about a mile from the river, we reached Nesle, the intervening country enclosed but not wooded, consequently much more ugly and uninteresting than if it had been open. Nesle is a dismal, dirty town, situated on an eminence of no great elevation, and perfectly in character with the melancholy country around it.

This is the first town we have marched through in France. I think it must have been market-day, from the number of people in the streets; yet not the slightest apprehension or agitation appeared; and, as we passed along, the market-people merely turned up their heads, and the shopkeepers came to their doors to gaze on us, much as if we had been marching through Exeter, or any other English town accustomed to see troops.

Since crossing the Somme, the army has marched more cautiously than hitherto, consequently we have been all day with our brigade. At Nesle we got on a chaussée, bordered on each side by large elms, consequently forming a fine avenue; the country on either side without enclosures and not interesting, although better wooded than immediately about that town. Roye was ahead of us, but when within a few miles of it the head of our column led off the chaussée, crossing the fields by a by-road, and then another chaussée, Péronne to Paris, until we gained the village of Goyencour, situated in a pretty, because well-wooded, country. This village, like most of those we have hitherto passed through, is composed of a number of farmhouses scattered over a large space, and embowered amongst orchards and some of the finest linden-trees I ever saw.

The Life Guards and my troop are all housed, so that we are fortunate again. For my part, I am quartered on a small shop, which, however, is very clean; and we have excellent beds, Newland and I. In front of the house an open space affords good room to draw up our guns, &c., adjoining which are the very pretty pleasure-grounds of a handsome villa, seen through a stately avenue of lindens. This place belongs to some lady, who it seems has taken to flight on hearing of our approach, leaving, however, her butler and some other servants behind; so that Lord Edward, who has taken up his quarters there, is as comfortable as he could wish to be. I have just returned from dining with him, and a better dinner, dessert, and wines,[1] it is impossible to have enjoyed. What a treat in the midst of a campaign to enjoy such a party. Besides his lordship’s personal staff, there were the two colonels of the Life Guards. The front of the house, having part of the pleasure-ground (it might almost be called a park) in the fore, has the town of Roye in the distance; a pretty terrace with aloes in vases and other choice shrubs occupies the space immediately under the windows, which, opening to the ground, admit one into a suite of elegantly-furnished rooms. Lord Edward was perfectly at home, and did the honours as if the house were his, and so did the butler and other servants. A quieter, better-ordered dinner, and more excellent, I repeat, could not be.

Lord Edward had heard that, after a little show of resistance, Ham had surrendered this morning; and we were speculating over our first glass of wine on the probability of reaching Paris without resistance, when an officer of the Life Guards came in to report that a strong corps of cavalry had been seen amongst the woods about a mile from the village. As his lordship knew positively that the main body of the French force was retreating before the Prussians, who had got a march ahead of us, he contented himself with ordering out a strong detachment to reconnoitre, and we continued at table. In the course of the evening the detachment returned, and a report was brought in that they had ascertained that the cavalry seen was a corps of about 600 men, composed of deserters from the French army; and these people, taking advantage of the present state of affairs, have been plundering and levying contributions in all the villages, and even towns, throughout this country--that the inhabitants of Amiens itself are greatly alarmed, and have been anxiously expecting our arrival as their only protection against these brigands--a French population actually hailing the arrival of their English invaders with joy! Not knowing what these desperadoes may attempt, we have doubled our guards. The division is ordered to be on the alert, and patrols are established for the night. I shall undress and enjoy my nice clean bed, nevertheless.

_28th._--A fine morning, after a quiet night, notwithstanding the banditti. Marched early to Roye by a cross-road bordered by apple-trees. Here we rejoined the main column, and got upon the chaussée to Paris by Pont St Maxence, &c., a fine broad road as usual, the middle paved (rather roughly) with a summer or unpaved road on each side, the whole bordered by noble elms, and generally a perfectly straight direction: tiresome this from the long vistas which open on one from the summit of every elevation. The country on either hand flat and covered with corn as usual, but had nothing of the wearying sameness of that I so much complained of a day or two ago; for here it was prettily broken by woods and villages, and the distance, instead of terminating with the fringe of apple-trees, presents an interesting range of blue hills. This day’s march, however, has not been marked by any occurrence, either of scenery or adventure, worthy of notice. Towards evening, when Lord Edward was about to establish his night-quarters, he directed me to leave the chaussée to take possession of a little place about a quarter of a mile off; and here I am in Mortemer, perhaps one of the most miserable hamlets in all the country. Its short straggling street of poor cottages we found quite deserted, and they have taken away everything that could be useful to us, leaving only the walls and roofs. These cottages are built of rough limestone, and the interiors we have found so filthy and full of vermin, that, one and all, we have preferred to bivouac in the orchards ourselves, and have put our horses into the houses; straw spread under guns and ammunition-waggons, with the painted covers closing them in to windward, forms no despicable sleeping-place. One of my drivers, rummaging about, has discovered a vast quantity of excellent household linen buried under the floor. Several other discoveries of this sort have been made; but I have strictly forbidden anything being touched, only leaving these _caches_ open that the natives may know they have not deceived us, but are beholden to us for our moderation. Had we depended on Mortemer, we should have gone supperless to bed; but Mr Coates has been so successful in foraging the neighbourhood, that both man and horse have fared sumptuously.

_29th._--Since yesterday the character of the country has been insensibly changing: country-houses with extensive gardens and pleasure-grounds, and a more careful style of architecture, seem to indicate an approach to the capital. The villages, too, alas! in my estimation, are changed for the worse--the large thatched farmhouses, barns, &c., and rural cottages, scattered amongst orchards and verdure, have given place to regular streets of three-storey houses. Pieces of towns--surely not villages--these! Mortemer was an exception. The scenery, too, has improved: features more bold and varied, better wooded, and habitations more numerous. The chain of blue hills seen yesterday continues to bound the southern horizon. The first village we passed after leaving Mortemer was almost entirely composed of respectable houses standing in gardens, and having lofty iron railings (_grilles_) to the street. I think this was Cuvilly. Hitchins and I breakfasted as usual, _en chemin_. We find this a good plan, marching as we do so early. Each of us has his cold salt-beef and biscuit in his havresack, and weak grog in his canteen. The troop fairly started, we drop astern a little, the Doctor produces the profits of his evening’s forage in the shape of hard-boiled eggs, &c. I have seldom enjoyed anything more than these ambulatory breakfasts in the cool refreshing air of a calm morning. A cigar always concludes my repast, and prolongs the pleasure of it.

After travelling some distance through the sort of country just spoken of, we again emerged upon a high and open tract of corn, and in a hollow some way in front saw the neat village of Gournay, forming a broad street of clean-looking buff cottages, all, I think, slated. Here we stumbled upon the first traces of our allies the Prussians, who bivouacked (at least some of their corps) last night upon these heights. Of all disgusting objects in the world, there is perhaps none more so than the deserted bivouac--the ground everywhere covered with half-extinguished fires, broken jugs, &c., bits of rags, shreds of uniforms, straw trampled in the miry soil, remnants of food of all sorts, &c. In histories of war and warlike operations, the pomp and glitter and excitement are all that present themselves to our mind’s eye, whilst the bivouac, the battle-field encumbered with carnage and misery, the hospital with its heartrending scenes, the plundered cottage, the brutal outrage, and a thousand other disgusting and harrowing episodes, are carefully slurred over if touched upon, but more generally never produced. Up to this moment I have actually not known with what part of the army we have been marching. As far as I could see, we have had an apparently interminable column ahead and astern of us; now, however, I find we are with the advance.

A few paces from the highroad, and in the midst of the bivouac (at the point from whence we obtain sight of Gournay) stood a monument of Republican and Prussian revenge--pitiful revenge!--such as, having enacted, a schoolboy would blush at--the mausoleum of some illustrious lady, whom a long inscription, in the true French style of mawkish sentiment, told us “had been lovely in person and elegant in mind--that, soaring above superstition, she eschewed the folly of laying her bones in _consecrated_ ground, choosing rather to lie overshadowed in death by those trees of which she had been so enamoured (_passionné_) whilst living,” &c. The monument was a stone pyramid, standing in a small square space enclosed by an embankment, and planted round with acacias. The Prussians had cut down the trees, nearly levelled the embankment, and made a fruitless attempt at destroying the pyramid itself. Descending from this eminence by a long but gradual slope, we entered Gournay after crossing a little stream tumbling from the heights. This certainly is the neatest and cleanest place we have seen in France; pity it is, however, that it stands so bare--scarcely a bush to be seen. I don’t know how it happened, but when we reached Gournay we were ahead of almost everybody. About the middle of the long village several well-dressed persons were standing at the door of an auberge, attentively watching our advance. As we approached they hurried forward to meet us, eagerly demanding when the Duke of Wellington would come up. Now I suspected the report which we heard yesterday--of Paris having surrendered to the Prussians, and that Buonaparte had fled--might be true, and that these people were deputies sent to avert the wrath of the conqueror; so, addressing myself to the principal person, a short, square-built, rather pursy man, wearing some decoration, I asked if it were so, and when we might arrive there. My friend, drawing himself up, and affecting an air of contempt, exclaimed aloud, “_Paris se rendre?_--non, monsieur, n’y contez pas! il faut passer sur les corps de 200,000 hommes, avant d’y arriver,” at the same time coming close up, and tapping me on the knee, he whispered, “_Mais si votre Duc de Vellintone traitera, il tient la bonté à ses pieds, et fera tout ce qui lui plaira_.” I thanked him for the confidence, told him I knew nothing about the Duke, which made him stare, and rode on.[2]

Leaving Gournay, the country became more pleasing, because more wooded, and the fields generally enclosed by hedges. This style of scenery continued until it brought us to the valley of the Oise, by far the most interesting part of France we had yet seen. How can I describe my feelings when it first opened out before me? How, alas! can I describe the scene itself? But to see and feel it aright one must first have passed over the monotonous melancholy country extending almost uninterruptedly from Nivelles to the Oise--must have had the retina so imbued with the eternal brown and yellow of that ocean of corn as to see everything of a yellow or jaundiced hue--then he may imagine somewhat of the pleasurable relief with which the eye rested for the first time on the lovely scenery and refreshing verdure of this charming valley. The ground, descending by a gradual slope on our side, ran into a vast succession of most beautiful green meadows, everywhere adorned with magnificent elms, either standing detached, or in groups, or in rows. Beyond these, at about a mile from us, ran the Oise--a broad stream, sometimes exhibiting its sparkling surface nearly on a level with the meadows, at others encased between steep banks of some height. Immediately above the river rose a bold range of hills, thickly wooded from the river-banks to their summit. To the right and left this sort of scenery continued until further view was shut out by the overlapping hills. The road by which we travelled ran straight as a line across the meadows; and at the point where it appeared to cross the river was a pretty-looking little town, Pont St Maxence, partly on one bank, partly on the other. If we were to be opposed, there I thought is the position in which the French await us, and tough work we shall have of it. These ideas occurred to me as we descended toward the meadows; and as the corps in advance of us approached the town, I momentarily expected to see flashes and smoke issuing from masked batteries in the opposite woods; and it now struck me for the first time as a singular circumstance that cavalry should be allowed to advance alone in the face of such a position, for we had considerably outmarched the infantry. Of course the Duke knew there would be no opposition; and yet it was difficult to imagine what then had become of the French force, which we knew was retiring before us--of the 200,000 men our friend at Gournay had spoken of. No opposition was there. Instead of finding the banks of the Oise garnished with cannon and bristling with bayonets--instead of broken-up roads and inundated fields, woods full of riflemen and the town of grenadiers--instead of all this, we found a peaceable population in a lovely country, labourers in their fields and fishermen on the rivers, whilst flocks and herds pastured in quiet security on the verdant carpet which overspread the plain. The little town of Pont St Maxence looked cheerful and pretty as we approached it, lying partly on one side of the river, partly on the other. The wooded hills rose abruptly over it, the lower part of their slopes interspersed with pretty villas, standing amongst vineyards and in gardens, with terraced walks overhanging the scenery below. After marching all day in a hot sun, what a feeling of coolness and enjoyment was conveyed in the appearance of the large open windows and shady balconies, draperied with clematis and other elegant creepers, of these sylvan villas! It appears that the bridge had been broken down last year, and never repaired. To do this a detachment of the staff corps was pushed forward either yesterday or early this morning; but when we reached the end of the town they had not yet rendered it passable, and we were ordered to take post in the neighbouring splendid meadows, where, expecting to remain all night, we commenced at once establishing ourselves. Several troops of horse-artillery and some regiments of cavalry were already up, and others of all arms were continually arriving. The horses, unharnessed and watered, were already feeding, fires were lighted, kettles on, and every one was congratulating himself on having halted on so charming a spot. Thus settled, I strayed into the garden of a neighbouring mill, full of fine currants and cherries, to which the pretty _meunière_ not only bade me welcome, but even herself helped me to the best fruit. I was just in the height of enjoyment of the delicious coolness of the fruit, and the piquant badinage of my companion, when suddenly the “boot-and-saddle” re-echoed through the valley, and a confused hum of voices arose simultaneously from every bivouac. With hurried thanks I took leave of my “Maid of the Mill,” and hastened back to my people, expecting every moment a fire would open upon us from the opposite woods, having no idea that so sudden an alert could proceed from any other cause than the approach of the enemy.

In a moment our horses were reharnessed, the nose-bags with the unconsumed part of their feed attached again to the saddles, officers’ baggage replaced on the mules, the kettles, with the half-cooked messes in them, suspended under the carriages, and all was ready to move. Corps after corps filed out of the meadows and took the road to the town; we followed the general movement, which we now learned was occasioned by the coming up of the infantry, who were to occupy the ground we left, whilst the cavalry was to push on beyond the river as long as daylight lasted. Still no word of an enemy.

The broken bridge had been repaired by the staff corps in so temporary a manner, that the very first detachment of hussars who passed deranged it so much as to render it quite unsafe, and we had to dismount at the entrance of the town and wait a full hour ere it was again rendered passable. This bridge, with its right-lined top, was to me an extraordinarily beautiful piece of architecture; and there is a charm in this right-line which I could not have imagined. The little town was all bustle, every auberge crammed with officers enjoying the luxuries of the French cuisine and vintage. At last the bridge was reported safe, and we recommenced our march, regretting the necessity which prevented our seeing more of this lovely place. Immediately on crossing, we turned to the right and pursued a tolerably good road winding about the foot of the wooded heights, which on the one hand rose immediately above us, whilst the silver Oise glided tranquilly along its course on the other. About a mile, or perhaps more, from Pont St Maxence, we quitted the river, and turning up a beautiful ravine, the slopes of which were partly covered with wood, partly with the rich foliage of the vineyards, we pushed into the bosom of the hills, quitting with regret this sweet river. It is impossible to imagine anything more beautiful than this evening’s march. The picturesque scenery of the ravine; the clearness and serenity of the sky; the warm colouring thrown over the one side of the ravine by the declining sun opposed to the deep purply tones of the other; the various and varied picturesque military groups reposing on the turf by the way-side, or winding along amongst the vineyards, altogether formed a picture, or rather a succession of pictures, perfectly ravishing. Never shall I forget this evening!

The sun had set some time when we reached the village of Verneuil, which was to be the termination of this day’s journey. Seated in the bosom of the hills, now veiled in a purply obscurity, intermingled with that yellowish hazy light always succeeding a warm sunset, the place looked beautiful. Several corps had already halted--some had taken possession of the houses, barns, &c., others bivouacked amongst the vineyards. Immediately about the village were large gardens enclosed by stone walls, and it was some time before I could make up my mind to invade these. There was no alternative, however. We could not remain in the road; the only fields I saw were covered with rich crops of wheat ready for the sickle, and even these could not be approached but through the gardens. The great gates of one of these were immediately forced open, and, trampling under foot artichokes, asparagus, &c., and flowers, we reached the field after a struggle through the _eschalots_ of an intervening vineyard, which, with the vines and their fruit, were miserably crushed beneath our gun-wheels and horses’ feet. I could not but regret this devastation, though it could not be avoided. The wheat shared the fate of the artichokes, and we soon established ourselves on it, surrounded as with a wood by the tall stalks of what was still standing.

What a splendid Rembrandt-like picture presented itself from this spot: the valley buried in hazy obscurity; the whitened dwellings, just made out, scattered over the slopes of the hills, whose bold outlines, one of them crowned by a ruined castle, cut strongly against the glowing but gradually fading tints of the clearest sky. In the farm just by we have found stabling for our own horses and lodging for some of our people. But the evening is so fine that I infinitely prefer the field. Seated on the ground with a lantern by my side, I scribble my notes in comfort; but an attempt has just been made to turn us out even from this humble abode--an officer of hussars with an order from General Grant to quit the ground immediately, as he wants it for his hussars. Good man! he thinks a 9-pounder or its ammunition waggon as easily moved as a hussar and his horse. It proved, however, a mere bugbear--he wanted the house and stables; and his emissary having full power to treat, the affair is amicably arranged by our giving up the stable.

_30th._--Fine morning again. Quitted with regret this lovely country, and climbing the hills by a steep gravelly road, gained the plateau--covered with corn as usual, but here diversified by a pretty sprinkling of trees. Lieutenant Breton, who slept at the farmhouse last night, gives a bad account of our hussars, who, not content with living at free quarters, completely sacked it this morning before they marched--one of their officers taking away a beautiful pony in spite of the old farmer’s entreaties, who begged with tears in his eyes that it might be spared, since it was a pet of the whole family. The pony, however, marched.

After marching some distance on this plateau by very good gravelly cross-roads, we rejoined the chaussée from Pont St Maxence to Senlis, and soon after began descending towards the latter place, which is separated from the former by this ridge of hills, covered in most parts by the forest of Balatte. Though not to be compared to Pont St Maxence in point of situation, yet Senlis stands in a pretty country, well wooded, surrounded by fine meadows, watered by the little crystal Nonette. Just beyond the town, on the Paris side, commences the forest of Pontarme, a continuation of that of Chantilly. Senlis being the first place of any importance through which we have passed, was of course approached with much interest, and this was heightened by its picturesque appearance: antique walls, pierced by an arched gateway, the summit decayed and irregular, fringed with verdure. Spires, and lofty houses showing themselves above it, appeared to advantage through the foliage of the trees, which ran scattering and in clumps up to the very gate, through which crowds of peasantry, with little carts and asses laden with the produce of their farms, were passing to the market. When we passed in our turn, we found the street so thronged that it was with difficulty we could get along, for the market was held in it. The passage of our column, threading its way through the crowd of stalls and baskets of poultry, vegetables, &c., did not seem to excite any very lively emotion, or to interrupt the business of the day. Some of the more idle, or more curious, left their stalls to get a nearer look at _les Anglais_. Nothing like apprehension was visible even among the women, and the boys were as bold and familiar as usual. Here and there I heard a shout of “Vive le Roi!” once or twice it looked in earnest. To try the sincerity of this versatile people, I stooped in passing near some of the most vociferous, and in a subdued tone treated them to “Vive l’Empereur!” The result was always the same--staring first at me, then at each other, with a sly expression of countenance, some one of them, slapping me on the thigh, would reply in the same tone, “Mais oui, monsieur, vive l’Empereur--vive Napoleon! C’est bon, monsieur, c’est bon--vive l’Empereur!” seemingly delighted at being able to express their true sentiments. This might have been mere fun, certainly, but I thought them in earnest. I found this the case everywhere. To us they were never backward in avowing their attachment to Buonaparte or their hatred of the Bourbons, of _Louis le Cochon_. The animated scene in the streets prevented me paying much attention to the town. The impression I retain of it is, that it is gloomy and the streets narrow; but that there are many most respectable-looking houses, some of them very prettily situated amongst shrubbery, and particularly one just as we left the town and crossed the Nonette--the long open windows of which enabled us to peep into spacious and handsomely-furnished apartments, looking most deliciously cool. Just beyond the town we overtook the rear of the Prussian baggage, escorted by a corps of lancers, whose simple and serviceable costume pleased me much: plain blue frocks, buttoned close up to the throat,[3] and drab trousers or overalls; not a particle of ornament, nor a superfluous article about their appointments. I think they are the most soldier-like looking fellows I have ever seen. This is our first meeting with any of their army since the 18th. Continuing our route through the forest of Pontarme, we soon came out on a more open but still well-wooded country--the chaussée constantly bordered and overshadowed by lofty elms, the cross-roads by apple, pear, and cherry trees, all now loaded with fruit. Here a sudden and disagreeable change took place in the aspect of the towns and villages. We had got on the route of the Prussian army, which was everywhere marked by havoc and desolation. What a contrast! In Senlis, a few miles back, all was peace, plenty, and confidence,--here traces of war in its most horrid form, desolation and desertion. The inhabitants had everywhere fled, and we found naught but empty houses. Troops and their usual followers were the only human beings we saw now. The village of Loures,[4] where we arrived about noon, presented a horrid picture of devastation. A corps of Prussians halted there last night, and, excepting the walls of the houses, have utterly destroyed it. The doors and windows torn out and consumed at the bivouac-fire--a similar fate seems to have befallen furniture of every kind, except a few chairs, and even sofas, which the soldiers had reserved for their own use, and left standing about in the gardens and orchards, or, in some places, had given a parting kick to, for many had fallen forward on the embers of the bivouac-fires, and lay partially consumed. Clothes and household linen, beds, curtains, and carpets, torn to rags, or half-burned, lay scattered about in all directions. The very road was covered with rags, feathers, fragments of broken furniture, earthenware, glass, &c. Large chests of drawers, _armoires_, stood about broken or burned. The very floors had been pulled up and the walls disfigured in every possible way. It were needless to add that no human being was to be seen amidst this desolation. It was with no small pleasure I found we were not to halt amid this disgusting scene, as I expected, but to move on somewhat farther; and with still greater pleasure I received the order to quit the chaussée for the village of Chenevière,[5] about a mile to the left. This removing us out of the Prussian line of march, we hoped to find things somewhat better. The village, like most others we have seen, consisted of a number of farmhouses with their barns and outbuildings, &c., all standing amidst orchards and gardens--the whole surrounded by corn, corn, corn! The place, I should think, has not been visited by the Prussians, for no pillage or destruction is to be seen; but it is deserted--not a soul except our soldiers to be seen. Besides our brigade of cavalry, two or three other troops of horse-artillery are here, so that the place is pretty full; and as we are among the latest arrivals, we have not got under cover, but are bivouacking in a very nice orchard, separated from the village street by some large open sheds; but as the weather is fine, and probably from habit, my people have _littered themselves down_ as usual under their guns instead of profiting by these--this they are enabled to do very comfortably here, for there is no want of straw. The people, in their retreat, seem to have taken little with them, except their animals, so that we have all kinds of pots and pans, jugs, basins, &c., _ad libitum_. In short, we should be pretty comfortable but for one want, and that a most important one. The weather is dreadfully hot, and we have scarcely any water; there is but one good well in the place, and that has been surrounded by a crowd ever since we arrived. It is impossible to imagine what a gloom this throws over everything: were it not for the abundance of ripe cherries growing along the roadsides (not of the best flavour, but juicy), we must have suffered to-day terribly from thirst in this burnt-up plain. The corn (standing) is almost bleached--it should have been cut long ago.