The drink we mixed in two horse buckets cleaned up for the occasion; a dozen or so of claret, a couple of bottles of brandy, and half a dozen of soda water, the whole cooled with two or three lumps of ice (of which article, as if in mockery, the Southerners had heaps). All these good things were duly appreciated, not only by our new friends, who for months past had tasted nothing but coarse rye-bread and pork washed down with water, but also by well-shaken travellers like ourselves. Lying on the grass in that lovely spot, it seemed as if the war and all its horrors were for the moment forgotten. There were several Englishmen among the officers composing the staff, who had (they said) come out here to see active service, which they unquestionably had found to their hearts' content. They seemed the sort of men who would do credit to their country. I often wonder what has become of them; in one of them I was particularly interested. He said his name was Cavendish, but it may have been a _nom de guerre_. While we were in the camp a picket came in, whose officer reported having had a skirmish with the enemy, in which the Northerners had been whipped. The way the cavalry outposts engaged with each other was curious enough. The ground they met on did not admit of cavalry charges being made, as thick underwood covered the country for miles round. So, when they were inclined for a brush, they dismounted, tied their horses to trees, and skirmished in very open lines, every man picking out his special enemy. When they had had enough of it, they picked up their killed and wounded, and, mounting their horses, rode away.