It was in the harbor, from the Dock-yard, that the troops used to embark. There is a picture, I forget by whom, representing the embarkation of a regiment for the Crimea. I can testify that the picture is faithful, for I saw, I believe, that very embarkation. There are the girls crying--I saw them; the young fellows full of spirit and courage--I saw them with envy and admiration; the sailors quietly carrying out their orders--I saw them too. As one recalls the scene, one thinks of what these poor fellows were going to endure--the cold of a Crimean winter; boots made of brown paper; coats of shoddy; green coffee-berries with which to make their coffee; oh! the blind rage! the helpless rage! the bitter tears of rage! of the whole country! and nothing done--no--nothing. Alas for the wickedness of it! Yet nobody hanged--and these poor brave fellows done to death--not by the enemy, but by their own people! Besides the embarkation, I remember seeing the return of one of these regiments. It had been terribly cut up at Inkermann or at some other engagement; once, too, a shell burst in the middle of their band. They marched, what was left of them, up the street, colors flying, band playing. And all the way along the women wailed aloud and the men choked. For of all the band there remained but five; of all the gallant boys who marched out playing the fife and beating the drum there were but two; of all the men who played the cornet and the clarion and the serpent and the rest of the wonderful instruments there were but three.