_July 3d._--Fine and hot morning. Yesterday morning I awoke and found myself under the trees of a thick orchard; this morning I am lying amongst artichokes, and the Lord knows what, upon a soil somewhat like that one sees about Hammersmith, and, instead of the warbling of birds, the air is filled with the hum of a multitude and the monotonous beating of a watermill close at hand, which has never ceased its “thump, thump, thump, thump” all the livelong night, the quartermaster of some regiment having been placed in it with a detachment to grind corn for us all. Yesterday evening, near sunset, an order arrived for all the artillery at Chenevière to move to the front, but that the cavalry should remain, which puzzled us a little. Accordingly we marched forthwith in company with Major Bull’s troop; but I saw nothing of the others, for we were all left to march independently. The order was scrawled out on a scrap of dirty paper and hardly legible, so that neither Bull nor I could make it out perfectly, and were consequently in some doubt as to the exact point to march upon, although in none about going forward in the direction of the cannonade. Instead of returning to the chaussée by the way we came,[6] as I believe the other troops did (they were not so quickly ready as we were), Bull and I took a road which appeared to lead straight to the front. The country we marched through, though perfectly flat, was still interesting:--one vast expanse of golden wheat, divided as it were into beautiful fields by the crossing of numerous roads, all bordered by two, or even four rows of most magnificent elms. A few vineyards, with here and there a village, diversified very agreeably this scenery. For a time we seemed to approach the field of battle--the firing became more distinct; and at times we saw, or thought we saw, the slate-coloured smoke rising over the tufted tops of the elms. By-and-by it drew off more to the right, and insensibly became less intense, though still kept up with great vigour. Notwithstanding some little anxiety as to the correctness of our route, and an impatience to arrive on the field of action, still I could not be insensible to the beauty of the noble avenues, umbrageous and cool, along which we marched. They are at all times superb, but become exquisite when seen as we saw them, illumined by the blaze of a cloudless sunset. At a place called Vauderlan we rejoined the chaussée, and had marched little beyond when I observed Bull’s troop, which was ahead, suddenly come to a halt at a point where another chaussée came in from the left. What was my surprise, on riding forward, when Bull told me we had run in upon the French outposts: and sure enough, not far in front of us, a long line of vedettes extended across the fields to a village--Blanc Menil, with its white houses and white garden-walls--about a mile on our left; and to our right were lost behind the little woods with which that part of the country was covered.