About mid-day we arrive at a redoubt which covers a part of the road, leaving barely enough space for one vehicle to pass.  We are of course stopped, but are courteously received by the officer of the guard.  We show our pass from General Turr, giving us permission “freely to traverse all parts of the camp,” and being told to drive on, find ourselves within the lines.  As we proceed, we see laborers busily engaged throwing up breastworks, soldiers reposing beneath the trees, and on every side the paraphernalia of war.

Garibaldi is not here, nor do we find him at Santa Maria.  So we prolong our ride to the twentieth mile by driving our reeking, but still vigorous horses to Sant’ Angelo.

We are now in sight of Capua, where Francis II. is shut up with a strong garrison.  The place is a compact walled town, crowned by the dome of a large and handsome church, and situated in a plain by the side of the Volturno.  Though, contrary to expectation, there is no firing to-day, we see all about us the havoc of previous cannonadings.  The houses we pass are riddled with round shot thrown by the besieged, and the ground is strewn with the limbs of trees severed by iron missiles.  But where is Garibaldi?  No one knows.  Yonder, however, is a lofty hill, and upon its summit we descry three or four persons.  It is there, we are told, that the Commander-in-Chief goes to observe the enemy, and among the forms we see is very probably the one we seek.

We have just got into our carriage again, and are debating as to whither we shall go next, when we are addressed from the road-side in English.  There, dressed in the red shirt, are three young men, all not far from twenty years of age, members of the British regiment of “Excursionists.”  They are out foraging for their mess, and ask a ride with us to Santa Maria.  We are only too glad of their company; and off we start, a carriage-full.  Then commences a running fire of question and response.  We find the society of our companions a valuable acquisition.  They are from London,—­young men of education, and full of enthusiasm for the cause of Italian liberty.  One of them is a connection of our distinguished countrywoman, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.  Before going to Santa Maria, they insist on doing the honors, and showing the objects of interest the vicinity.  So they take us to their barrack, a large farm-house, and thence to “the front.”  To the latter spot our coachman declines driving, as his horses are not bullet-proof, and the enemy is not warranted to abstain from firing during our visit.  So, proceeding on foot, we reach a low breastwork of sand-bags, with an orchard in advance of it.  Here, our companions tell us, was the scene of yesterday’s skirmish, in which they took an active part.  The enemy had thrown out a detachment of sharp-shooters, who had entered the wood, and approached the breastwork.  A battalion of the English Volunteers was ordered up.  As they marched eagerly forwards, a body of Piedmontese,