Our party consists of General J—­n, General W., of Virginia, Captain G., a Scotch officer serving in Italy, and ourself.  Arrived at Caserta, Captain G., showing military despatches, is provided with a carriage, in which we all drive to the advanced post at Sant’ Angelo.  We reach this place at about eight o’clock, when we ride and walk through the camp, which presents a most picturesque aspect, illuminated as it is by a brilliant moon.  We see clusters of white tents, with now and then the general silence broken by the sound of singing wafted to us from among them,—­here and there tired soldiers lying asleep on the ground, covered with their cloaks,—­horses picketed in the fields,—­camp-fires burning brightly in various directions; while all seems to indicate the profound repose of men preparing for serious work on the morrow.  We pass and repass a bridge, a short time before thrown across the Volturno.  A portion of the structure has broken down; but our English friends congratulate themselves that the part built by their compatriots has stood firm.  We exchange greetings with Colonel Bourdonne, who is on duty here for the night, superintending the repairs of the bridge, and who kindly consigns us to his quarters.

Arrived at the farm-house where Colonel Bourdonne has established himself, and using his name, we are received with the utmost attention by the servants.  The only room at their disposal, fortunately a large one, they soon arrange for our accommodation.  To General J—–­n, the senior of the party, is assigned the only bed; an Italian officer occupies a sofa; while General W., Captain G., and ourself are ranged, “all in a row,” on bags of straw placed upon the floor.  Of the merriment, prolonged far into the night, and making the house resound with peals of laughter,—­not at all to the benefit, we fear, of several wounded officers in a neighboring room,—­we may not write.

Sunday is a warm, clear, summer-like day, and our party climb the principal eminence of Sant’ Angelo to witness the expected bombardment.  We reach the summit at ten minutes before ten, the hour announced for opening fire.  We find several officers assembled there,—­among them General H., of Virginia.  Low tone of conversation and a restrained demeanor are impressed on all; for, a few paces off, conferring with two or three confidential aids, is the man whose very presence is dignity,—­Garibaldi.

Casting our eye over the field, we cannot realize that there are such hosts of men under arms about us, till a military guide by our side points out their distribution to us.

“Look there!” says General H., pointing to an orchard beneath.  “Under those trees they are swarming thick as bees.  There are ten thousand men, at least, in that spot alone.”