An the 29th of May, 1854, we embarked on board the _Cambria_, and on the 30th arrived at Varna, where we encamped for a few days. On the 5th of June we changed our ground. Our tents were pitched on a height between two lakes. The hills all around us were covered with young trees in beautiful foliage, and on our right was a valley, through which a broad river flowed. The green hills were dotted everywhere with white tents, and curling smoke was stealing out of the woods from many a bivouac fire. It was an enchanting sight. Some of our baggage horses had been stolen, but a few had been recovered. As there was a difficulty, however, in recognising them, Sir George Brown, the general of the light division, issued an order that each animal belonging to the different regiments forming the light division should have some identifying mark, so that, if any of them were stolen, their recovery might be facilitated. The adjutant of the Connaught Rangers, Arthur Maule, gave orders to his batman to have his initials burnt on his horse’s hind-quarters. I suppose Paddy did not know what initials meant, for Maule, on proceeding with his batman to inspect his nag, found B. R. beautifully clipped and burnt on the charger’s hind-quarters. ‘What does B. R. mean?’ said the astonished officer. ‘My initials are A. M.’ ‘Arrah, sure, sir,’ replied the rather offended groom, ‘B. R. stands for British Army.’ The peasantry were much alarmed at our approach at first; but they very soon found out that we were willing to pay freely for the produce of their farms, and in process of time they actually walked through our camp shouting out what they had for sale. One poor man I heard crying out, in a very loud voice, ‘Bono Johnny. Bono _bad_ eggs!’ the result, no doubt, of some wag’s tuition. Colonel Sanders, of the 19th Regiment, and myself rode out one day to forage among the villages, whose inhabitants were generally pleased to provide us with whatever they possessed for a consideration. This day we had been very successful, and our appearance would have surprised those at home, who think officers of the Army the most luxurious of men. Colonel Sanders had become possessor of several fresh eggs, which he placed in his pockets. I was the proud owner of a duck and two hens, which were put in front of me on the baggage pony I was riding. We got on very well at first; but my duck became obstreperous, and the hens struggled, so my nag began to kick, and roused Colonel Sanders’ charger to do likewise--alas! for the colonel’s coat, where now the pomp and circumstance of glorious war? ‘Oh! the eggs are all smashed!’ was the colonel’s most distressing announcement. We rode into camp very curious specimens of the British soldier. Sanders went away to pass a _mauvais quart d’heure_ with his batman, and I was received with joy by my servant, Hopkins, who expressed his delight in the following forcible, if not very elegant terms: