I have frequently noticed that the men so volunteering are chiefly the most intelligent and best soldiers in the regiment--men who, having enlisted as soldiers, wish to fulfil the purpose for which they joined the army, and not the idle "skulks" who enlist, thinking that a soldier's life in barracks is easier than the occupation in which they are engaged as civilians. By this system of volunteering, the best men and willing hearts have ever been secured for the desperate struggles in which they have from time, to time been engaged. The amount of enthusiasm which pervades the army and the greater part of the population on the declaration of war, is a striking instance of the bravery of the British race. The deserving soldier--always well treated by civilians in England, Ireland, and Scotland in time of peace--is absolutely idolised when proceeding on or returning from a campaign. I perfectly remember the--I might almost say--triumphant march of a portion of our regiment from barracks for many days, on our way for embarkation at Plymouth. The country people cheered us, shook hands, clung to our stirrups, gave us tobacco, and, at times, too much drink. The ladies--high, low, and middle-class--waved their handkerchiefs, threw us kisses, "wished they were going with us," and many made us handsome presents of money, rings, etc. We were all in good health and spirits, and our horses fresh, sound, and full of spirits. In this order we entered Plymouth, and were rapidly embarked aboard three transports, and sailed the evening of the day we arrived, amidst many a round of hearty cheers from the thousands of people who crowded on the beach. Nothing very extraordinary occurred during the voyage to Varna, except that many of our men were dreadfully sea-sick, the nature of our duty on board rendering it impossible for us to lie down, which is the only effectual remedy for sea-sickness.