The advance of Marshal Massena in the summer of 1810, preceded by the proud but vain boast, that in pursuance of the Imperial orders he would drive the English leopards into the sea, and plant the eagles of France on the towers of Lisbon; the successes with which his first operations were attended; the reduction one after another of Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida, belong to the general history of the Peninsular war, into which the particular memoirs of the EIGHTY-EIGHTH regiment must glide on to the night of the 26th of September, the eve of the battle of BUSACO. On that night the combined British and Portuguese armies were assembled in line, on the ridge of a lofty and precipitous range of hills, taking its denomination from the village and convent of Busaco. The Second division, under Lieutenant-General Hill, formed the right; the Light division, commanded by Brigadier-General Craufurd, was posted on the left near the convent; the Third division was in the centre, while the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth occupied the intermediate spaces, and the First, together with the cavalry, were in reserve in the rear of the left. In their front, within little more than half a cannon shot distance, lay the army of Massena. The weather was calm and fine, and the dark mountains rising on either side were crowned with innumerable fires. The French were apparently all bustle and gaiety, and following their usual avocations with as much sang froid as if employed in preparing for a review, not a battle. Along the whole British line not a fire was to be seen; the soldiers in stern silence, examined their flints, cleaned their locks and barrels, and then stretched themselves on the ground to rest, each with his firelock within his grasp. In their rear, unsheltered by any covering but his cloak, lay their distinguished leader. During the night the French light troops, dropping by twos and threes into the lowest part of the valley, endeavoured to ascend the woody dells and hollows, and establish themselves near the British piquets. An hour before day on the 27th of September, Lord Wellington passed through the ranks on foot. He passed in comparative silence, for the English soldiers seldom indulge in those boisterous demonstrations of joy so common with the troops of other nations, and indeed rarely are known to huzza, except when closing with the enemy; but wherever he was recognised, his presence was felt as the sure presage of another victory, to be gained by the men whom he had already led in so many fields of triumph. To be beaten when _He_ commanded, seemed, in the opinion of his soldiers, next to impossible. As the light appeared, the fire of musketry commenced in the deep hollows which separated the two armies. Shortly afterwards two French columns, throwing forward a cloud of skirmishers, emerged from the hollow beneath.