to those of Brescia, I started at once for the
latter place. The journey, however, proved too
much for my companion to perform within the
day. We therefore halted at Bergamo, and only
reached our destination in the afternoon of
Friday the twenty-fifth.

Scarcely had we set foot in the place when
reports of a great battle began to circulate.
General action—terrible struggle—loss greater
than Magenta—no result—the king wounded—
three generals and twenty thousand Piedmontese
killed and wounded—fight still continuing,—
such were the progressive rumours. The where-
abouts was equally uncertain. Ten miles off,
towards Montechiari—no; more than twenty,
near Rivolterra—at Lonato—at Peschiera!

Presently the wounded began to appear. We
selected a party of six Piedmontese officers,
three of whom were hurt in the arm, and three
in the leg, and, appealing to him who seemed to
be suffering least, we learned that a fierce battle
had commenced not far from Rivolterra, at three
o'clock that morning. The account this gentle-
man rendered was not upon the whole very clear,
but the general impression it conveyed was that
the Piedmontese had been the subject of a
surprise, and that the conflict, though bloody,
was without advantage on either side.

As the evening advanced, and more wounded
men came halting in, the excitement increased
to fever height, and each arrival became the
centre of a little crowd of eager listeners. As
all these, however, had quitted the field early in
the day, such information as they were able to
give was more calculated to augment than allay
the general anxiety.

Presently came in from Milan a Piedmontese
officer of rank and his aide; and the former,
having heard from us the first news of the battle,
proceeded at once to the intendant, and in a few
minutes brought back what purported to be the
emperor's despatch, as follows:

"The entire line has been engaged—enemy
repulsed with heavy loss. Particulars to-mor-
row." And with this, which certainly had not a
highly victorious relish, we were fain for the
present to be content.

Brescia did not go much to bed that night.
At, and even after, eleven o'clock, the ramble and
creak of bullock-carts announced the arrival of
the wounded. There was no longer any doubt
concerning the locality. The Sardinian portion
of the fight had occurred eighteen miles away
—at Saint Martino—and the bullock-carts, ac-
cording to their usual rate of progress, had oc-
cupied more than six hours in transporting the
poor fainting fellows to the hospitals. But these
were not the worst cases. Those most severely
hurt had been cared for nearer to the spot, and
but too many had fallen into the hands of the
enemy. For it now began to be generally under-
stood that the struggle had indeed been of a
most desperate character, and that the strong
position of Saint Martino had only been carried
by the Piedmontese after a series of repulses
and the loss of eighteen hundred men. The
king had pledged himself to the French to take
the heights, and have them he would! After
the third failure, a terrific storm of thunder,
lightning, and hail half obscured the contested
position. " Now is our time! En avant, tons!"
was the cry. And, this time, it was won.

At dawn, next day, we started to view the
field. I had a companion in the person of a major
in the United States regular army, who had
popped over from America expressly to see a
battle on ground sacred to so many former
triumphs. Although provided with letters to a
distinguished marshal, he had not been more
fortunate than myself in obtaining access to the
front. Nevertheless, with the pluck and perse-
verance of his country, the major had not ceased
for many days to harass the army of France, in-
festing its rear, threatening its flank, skirmishing
with its patrols; and on one occasion, by a very
brilliant manœuvre, contriving to be found, on
the emperor arriving at Montechiari, in his very
front. As this, however, was a position of con-
siderable danger, being in equal peril from the
advanced posts of both armies, the major, con-
tent with his success, retired in perfect order
with his baggage upon Brescia, and effected a
junction with me.

Long trains of wounded met us as we quitted
the town; six or eight pale, blood-stained, dis-
ordered creatures stretched upon each car, and
partly screened with green boughs from the
rapidly increasing heat. Every imaginable
vehicle that had wheels appeared to have been
pressed into the service, while many poor fel-
lows toiled wearily along the road, as if they
had walked the entire distance. Soon, we en-
countered about a hundred prisoners, escorted
by half a dozen lancers. Stopped for a moment
in front of a large house, we saw that the whole
of the ground-floor rooms were occupied by
badly-wounded men. Of those whom we subse-
quently passed on the road a large proportion
were Bersaglieri, and we learned that they
had suffered most severely, one battalion losing
ten captains.

At Dezenzano, sixteen miles from Brescia, we
touched the pretty lake of Garda, and, turning
to the right, in a few minutes reached Rivolterra,
from whence the heights of Saint Martino were
plainly visible. Here we were stopped by a
patrol, but, on appealing to an officer of rank
who stood near, and exhibiting my pass, we
were directly permitted to proceed, the colonel
only requesting that if we chanced upon any
wounded officer requiring the means of transit,
we would give him a seat in the carriage, a
proposal to which it is needless to say we
heartily agreed.

More wounded, in horse-litters and other
conveyances: and now we reach the battle-
ground, and begin to see the dead. The first
body was that of an Austrian, probably a
wounded prisoner, for the Austrians never
descended the heights. After this, as we passed
up the road leading through vines, Indian corn,
and an oak copse, towards the crown of the
position, the slain lay thick enough. Muskets,
scabbards, and all the equipments of the soldier