My dear Mother, — I have just this moment arrived at the old camp ground before Sebastopol, but I am sorry to say that I have no good news to tell you. I have come out again upon a wild-goose chase, and should not have been sent for at all. General Simpson's telegraphic message, which made me come back as soon as I did, was sent under the impression that he was going to retain the command of the army for some little time longer, the Government as usual not being able to make up its mind on the subject, so that I have come out here for nothing. I am not to be appointed Military Secretary, and shall therefore join the battalion out here and go on with my duty as usual. Pray do not be disappointed at this news, for I assure j'-ou the thoughts of this will only make me feel annoyed myself. After all, as Mr. Micawber says, " something may turn up." We had a pretty fair passage coming out, but after what I have just written I do not suppose a description of a voyage will much occupy your attention. I have arrived in first-rate health, and look forward with great delight to seeing my old comrades again. I will write to you again by the next mail, therefore you must excuse this hurried scrawl till then.... — Your affectionate son,
Fredk. Stephenson.
To Lady Stephenson Camp before Sebastopol, October 20, 1855.
My dear Mother, — I hope you have received the letter I sent you last Saturday telling you that Sir W. Codrington had appointed another Military Secretary in my place, namely, his own brother-in-law, Lieutenant- Colonel Blane, who married a Miss Ames, sister to Lady Codrington; he could not have been expected to do otherwise. Nothing could have been kinder than his manner was to me when I arrived at Headquarters. He expressed
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his regret at my having been sent out in the most feehng manner, and asked me what he could do for me, so that I dare say I shall be offered something before long.... Pray do not allow yourself to be distressed,... as I hinted in my last, my own equanimity is worthy of the philosophers of old. I took a most interesting walk yesterday over the Mamelon, the Malakoff, and the Karabelnaya suburb, including the celebrated docks, which are an extremely fine work. It is, however, being mined in all directions, and the mines will not be completed for another month, although the sappers are working at them every day. I should think that at the end of that time they will explode them. It seems rather barbarous at first sight to destroy such beautiful works, which must have cost millions to construct, but considering that they formed part of a gigantic plan for conquest, and never can be used for any legitimate purpose, it would be folly to leave them untouched. The interest I felt in going over the Russian works and wandering among the trenches where such wonderful scenes had taken place, and from which I had so often looked with such longing and sometimes half-despairing eyes upon the town which seemed as if it never would be ours, and then to walk into the very town itself and find no enemy there, is really more than one can realise. The destruction of the town is more complete than if you had employed thousands of workmen to pull it to pieces. You cannot picture to yourself, and I am sure I cannot describe, the utter desolation of the place, which in spite of one's feelings of triumph produces a melancholy you cannot shake off. There was hardly a soul to be seen in the part of the town I went through which is in possession of the English. Beyond a sentry walking about here and there, and one or two Zouaves looking about to see if there was anything worth taking, there was not a living thing to be seen, except perhaps a rat, with which the town is filled, started from underneath a heap of bloody rags and filth; and to add to the picture, just as we were leaving the town at dark, and passing