_July 6th._--Poor General Barnard died last night, and was buried this morning. He sank rapidly, for anxiety, worry, over-exertion, and heat had prepared his system, and it was impossible for him to bear up against the virulence of cholera. Personally, I am much grieved, for no kinder or more considerate or more gentlemanly man ever lived. I am so sorry for his son, a fine brave fellow, whose attention to his father won the love of us all. It was quite beautiful to see them together.
I have just seen a copy of a very strong minute anent the Bhágput affair, which shows the General was not disposed to pass it over lightly. The civil authorities, however, are determined to support ----, though in camp there is but one opinion of his conduct. The present state of things is terrible, enough to fret one to death,--no head, no brains, no decision. Neville Chamberlain, though of decided excellence as a man of action, is, I begin to fear, but a poor man of business. Prompt decision in council is what we want; there is no lack of vigorous action. There are plenty to obey; but we want some one to command. We have seen nothing of the enemy outside the walls since the 4th. I am worked off my legs all the same, and the day is not half long enough for what I have to do. To make matters worse, too, poor Macdowell is down with fever: a sad loss just now to "Hodson's Horse," as they call my growing corps. I am sadly off for clothes, as we of course are only too glad to help the poor refugees who come into camp with none.
_July 8th._--We left camp at 2 A. M. with a considerable force, and marched to a bridge some ten miles off, which we blew up to prevent the enemy annoying us, and then marched back again. I tried hard to induce Chamberlain, who commanded, to march back by another road, which I had reconnoitred, and which would have brought us close along the rear and flank of the enemy, but he would not do so, though admitting that I was right. We have had eleven hours in the saddle and in the sun, merely for this trifling gain. My face is like "General Gascoigne's," and my hands perfectly skinless. I must get some dogskin gloves, for it is as much as I can do to hold a sword, much less a pen. There has been no fighting since the 4th, and my news-writers from the city speak of much disheartenment, and symptoms of a break-up; but I doubt this latter being more than a report, while the enemy are so well provided both with "_matériel_" and "_personnel_."