Supposing us, then, to march in due order, the mules proceed in single file, each string of four attended by its own muleteer. Of the soldiers, some precede the line of march, others follow it, and others, again, march at intervals on the flanks: and so we walk on at mules’ pace, which is steady and uniform, convenient for marching, and gets over the ground at a very satisfactory rate; so that we cover our sixteen or twenty miles a-day with tolerable facility, going straight on from end to end. But we don’t always get on so pleasantly. If, not keeping the single file, one string of mules comes up abreast of that next in advance, then there is a thronging, which soon leads to confusion. Or if the load of one of your mules gets wrong, then there is a stoppage. Those in the rear come crowding up, and are brought to a halt; those in advance walk on. Thus a division takes place, your line is broken, and your cavalcade of mules (“bad English!”—It’s good Portuguese,) no longer kept well together as it ought to be, becomes extended over an undue length of road, and cannot be looked after and kept regular. Should you ever march with such a convoy, you will soon make the discovery that order, though excellent in theory, is not always reducible to practice. It won’t at all mend the matter, if you happen to have such a commander as ours was: a battered dandy of forty, a military _roué_, who carried in his countenance the marks of rough weather and hard drinking—for his face was not only bronzed by the elements, but pimpled with brandy—and whose continual language, all through the march from starting to halting, was just nothing but one stream of oaths, vituperations, and contradictory orders. And yet this same officer, I make no doubt, had we been placed in a position of real danger, would have conducted himself with coolness, energy, and judgment. As it was, he started us in confusion, and kept us in it all day. The muleteers, who set out in ill-temper, hadn’t one chance given them of recovering their amiability. The soldiers first walked along in dogged silence—then, finding what sort of a gentleman they had to deal with, began to take things easy, joked among themselves, talked loud, and, when he commanded them with an oath to hold their tongues, all but laughed in his face. Discipline was gone. One fellow, a Yorkshire lad, almost amused me with his provoking insolence. He was a red-faced chap with flaxen hair, white eyebrows, and a merry but malevolent eye;—could look, in a moment, either impudent or sedate—just kept himself steady under the captain’s immediate inspection; the moment it was off him, recommenced his antics—was clown, harlequin, and scaramouch, all in one—cut the double-shuffle, winked, twisted his mouth, broke out singing, and was dumb in a moment; cracked jokes, raised a roar, made believe to quarrel, kicked up every devisable sort of row. At length he deliberately disobeyed orders, and the captain