Mr. Bracebridge wished me to go with him to see Mr. Upton, the son of the architect who built the harbour and docks of Sebastopol. On my reminding him of my appointment at head-quarters (which he had forgotten), Mr. Bracebridge proposed going the next morning, as he had a particular desire to see Mr. Upton and family. “I hear,” said he, “Mr. Upton is a Warwickshire man. His father was born at the small village of Grendon, close to my place and that of your late friend, Sir George Chetwynd, of Grendon Hall.” “Really! I know the place very well; and to-morrow I shall be happy to accompany you, unless fresh orders from head-quarters interfere with the arrangement.” “Your pony is ready, Monsieur Soyer,” said the steward of the ship. I sent for Miss Nightingale’s page, Thomas. “Do you want me, Monsieur Soyer?” asked the boy. “Yes, my lad, I do. Tell your mistress I am going to head-quarters; give her my best compliments, and say I shall have the pleasure of seeing Lord Raglan; and ask her if I can take any message for her to him, or to any one else in the camp.” The Captain, who was smoking on the upper deck, called out, “Who caught the rats?” “You mean, who caught the captain,” said I, “who could not smell a rat?” The boy returned, and informed me that Miss Nightingale was very much obliged to me, and that she had written to Lord Raglan upon business that very morning. I then started. The roads were still very heavy from the immense quantity of rain which had fallen, but the weather was fine overhead, and everybody seemed to be out. People, in fact, sprang up like mushrooms in a green field after a little rain and a few hours of August sunshine. I met numerous friends and acquaintances between Balaklava and Kadikoi. Many of these--military as well as medical gentlemen--I had seen at Scutari. Indeed, the excursion put me more in mind of riding in Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon, than being in a distant country, and at the seat of war. For above a mile it was a constant nodding of heads and shaking of hands. As my time was short, I felt anxious to get on my journey as fast as possible. I did not know the way to head-quarters, so I inquired of an officer which was the shortest road. He kindly informed me that he was going there, and knew the short cuts, but that he was in a great hurry, and if I could ride fast, he should be much pleased to show me the way. Of course I expressed my willingness to accommodate my pace to his, and away we went across country. After riding for twenty-five minutes, we arrived near the ever-celebrated farm which constituted the head-quarters. Its appearance was by no means grand nor imposing, and put me very much in mind of Shakspeare’s house at Stratford, or the humble cot of the poet Burns in Ayrshire.