distributed his presence with the greatest impartiality
among the three contending hosts,
until his horse, rendered frantic by the bursting
shells, seized the bit in his teeth, and, with
much discretion, landed his master among the
staff of astonished General Fanté, with whom,
however, he was permitted to ride for the remainder
of that eventful day. How, the struggle
ended, he traversed almost the whole of the
extended field, and witnessed a spectacle of
suffering and death not destined, we may hope,
to find many parallels in what remains of the
world's history. And how, at one spot, where
the dead and wounded lay " as thick as stones,"
he noticed that the brave French soldiers, bleeding
on the ground, still laughed and chatted after
their easy manner, and could think of nothing
but the events of the contest, and the possible
annoyance of their emperor at the loss they had
experienced at certain points.

"How could it be helped, when we could
only see the top of their caps? Que voulez-
vous?"

There was something touching in the poor
fellow's apologising for being killed.

Nor were the gallant American's adventures
over when, after having been instrumental in
obtaining succour for many wounded who had
crawled aside out of the fire, and might have
been overlooked, he at length folded himself in
his cloak, and lay down for the night under the
shelter of a friendly haystack. Perpetual low
cries, bespeaking an agony more intense than
anything he had witnessed yet, sounded in his
ears, and compelled him to resume his search.
It was an Austrian officer, whose thigh was
shattered in a fearful manner. Hastening to
the nearest cottage, our friend entreated assistance.

"Is he Piedmontese?" inquired the master of
the hut.

"No."

"French, then?"

"No."

"Ah," said the man, preparing to close his
door, " Tedesco. The brigand! Let him lie."

Our friend had not much Italian—perhaps the
good Samaritan was no great linguist; but
there is an universal tongue of which no man
dare plead ignorance, and it was probably with
some accent of this on his tongue that our friend,
laying his finger on the man's arm, with the
words, " Tedeseo . . . . ma uomo" (Tedesco—
but still a man), led him, willing enough, to the
spot where his assistance was needed.

A visit to one of the nearer hospitals (there
are nine in Dezenzano, containing about four
hundred of the worst wounded) will occupy
the time until it is cool enough to see what is
going on at Peschiera. A noble-hearted English
lady—what great scene of human trial is ever
without such a mitigant?—arrived here the day
succeeding the battle, and, though herself in
delicate health, has remained here ever since,
devoting all her energies to the alleviation of the
suffering around her. In the course of this one
day, she and her maid have made, and stuffed
with carefully carded wool, not less than twenty-
four pillows for the poor wounded soldiers,
many of whom have still no better couch than a
heap of hay.

Gladly accepting the charge of her basket of
restoratives, we attend her to a large old building
in the Piazza Teatro, and turn into the first
room. It is the theatre itself. The audience
part, converted into an hospital, contains about
thirty beds, tenanted exclusively by wounded
Piedmontese officers. The stage part remains
intact, and, with the scenes and properties,
lamps, chairs, &c., contrasts strangely with the
melancholy performance enacting in front. We
make the tour of the room, distributing fans and
oranges—the heat and flies being almost intolerable
to the fevered patients. The latter,
though in many cases suffering from severe injuries,
are comfortable and well cared for, having
had the attendance of their own servants until
yesterday, when the exigencies of the service
necessitated their recal.

It is among the men that help is most needed,
and we presently visit an apartment above, in
which anguish is visible in every possible shape.

In the first bed lies the only stranger
sufferer—a man of noble aspect—a Croat. He
has been shot through the lungs, and bayoneted
in the arm and hand. Unable to speak, he
feebly lifts up three fingers to signify his three
hurts. Wounded probably to death, speechless,
and a prisoner, the poor Yellow makes no other
gesture of complaint, but looks wistfully at the
morsel of orange we are preparing to put be-
tween his parched lips. It must be nectar, by
his look; and we are about to offer another,
when he glances towards his neighbour, and,
with great difficulty, articulates, " Fratello!"
(Brother.)

His brother sufferer is, however, beyond such
solace. A ball had lodged in his temples, depriving
him of sight, and—it must be hoped—
of consciousness also. His head was swollen to
twice the natural size. Excepting some intervals
of violent convulsions, he had lain for fourteen
days in that condition, receiving no other nourish-
ment than a few drops of cold water.

Next to him, and calling unceasingly for his
mother and sister, lies a young man from Padua.
He was originally a conscript, but, deserting the
Austrian service, entered that of Piedmont, and
has served gallantly for a period of thirteen
years, during which he has, of course, been cut
off from home and friends. The way to these is
opened too late. He will not see another sun.
A dark screen, placed round the next bed,
denotes that the sufferer has been released.

Here is a brave Bersagliere, who has already
undergone the amputation of both legs, and
must, if he would live, sacrifice his better arm.

Here is a youth, desperately wounded, but in
high spirits. He is to be an officer if he lives.
But his great content is that he has found his
uncle. He knew that his relative had been
wounded, and, when himself picked up, wearied
everybody with entreaties to seek out his " zio,"
to whom he was greatly attached. Time would