irst, soaked. I followed
promptly, wet to the waist (nice black water and mud); his oats and my
day's biscuits, which were in his nosebag, were spoilt; and my feelings
towards him none of the best. Balmoral was reached at about noon. There,
I regret to state, we did not have Queen's weather. Soon after we
arrived clouds began to gather, and thoughtful men commenced carrying up
sheets of corrugated iron, of which there was a great quantity near the
station, and hastily constructing temporary shelters. Ours was a poor
concern, and as I had to wander about in the rain some time before I
turned in, I was sopping wet, and of course passed the night so. Our
waggon got stuck in a drift, as usual, and so we went coffee-less that
night. The next day we heard that during the night an officer and three
men of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders had died from exposure to
the severe weather. On that march from Bronkhorst Spruit to Balmoral we
lost hundreds of mules, oxen and horses. They simply strewed the
roadsides all the way. On Friday, the 27th, we returned to Bronkhorst
Spruit, _en route_ for Pretoria. Leaving Bronkhorst Spruit for
Pienaarspoort the next morning, we passed the graves of the massacred
94th (Connaught Rangers). First we passed three walled-in enclosures,
which the officers rode up to and looked over. They were the graves of
the rear guard. Then we came to a larger one, which contained the main
body. The Connaughts were marching with us; whatever their feelings
were, they must have felt a grim satisfaction in the knowledge that
"they came again." Yesterday (Monday, July 30th,) we marched into
Pretoria, past Lord Roberts, and on through the town to our present
camp, which we leave at four to-morrow morning with fresh horses. We
heard as we went through that one of our Sussex fellows, who was down
with enteric when we left, had since succumbed. Poor fellow! It may be
merely sentiment, but I must say the idea of being buried out here is
somewhat repugnant to me. His bereaved relatives and friends cannot have
the comforting feelings of Tennyson, expressed "In Memoriam."

"'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand
Where he in English earth is laid,
And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
'Tis little; but it looks in truth
As if the quiet bones were blest
Among familiar names to rest,
And in the places of his youth."

TO RUSTENBURG.