This was the first _general action_ fought on the Peninsula, where the Earl of Wellington _attacked_; which led the French marshal still farther from his reckoning. The General-in-Chief, of course, did not wish to fritter away his army in useless skirmishes, and therefore only waited for a _fit moment_ to bring it fairly in contact with the enemy, to _finish_ well when once commenced; and as the Duke of Ragusa brought himself to action within the precincts of Salamanca, the advantage was ours, the wounded soldiers having speedy assistance, while those of the enemy who managed to drag themselves far from the field, endured the most distressing privations. The French were formed on the heights behind the village of the Arapiles, with an extensive forest in their rear. The field of battle generally was composed of light sand, with a few straggling blades of parched grass. A very light breeze blew towards the French, which gave them the benefit of the clouds of dust and the volumes of smoke arising from the immense masses in motion, notwithstanding the heavy rain on the preceding night. Near one P. M. the third division were passing in rear of ours. I was strolling about, here and there coming across a dead or wounded soldier of those who had fallen in the morning, when a Portuguese caught my attention. He was resting on his elbows with his legs extended, suffering indescribable pain from a wound in his stomach; his face pale, his lips discoloured, and stifled groans issuing from his nearly lifeless body, while an almost tropical sun was shining on his uncovered head.