Soyer's Culinary Campaign: Being Historical Reminiscences of the Late War.: With The Plain Art of Cookery for Military and Civil Institutions

aide-de-camp, whose name, to my regret, has escaped my memory. The French head-quarters presented a similar aspect, but was more animated by crowds of adventurers. Having on my way home taken a glimpse at the ruins of the Seacole Tavern, Land Transport Corps, Army Works Corps, and hospital, I arrived at Bleak House (the head-quarters of Mr. Doyne the engineer), which was drearier than ever, and, like a lost balloon in mid air, entirely deserted; all that remained was the almost indescribable view which, at one glance, stamped the scene as something more than beautiful. From the rock where I stood I could pass in review the remainder of the camp, as yet unexplored by me. On my left once lay Colonel Wood’s park of artillery, and towards it were a few mules clambering, led by Tartars. At the foot of the hill were Captain Gordon’s late quarters; further on, on the next mound, were the head-quarters of the Land Transport Corps, in the occupation of Colonel M’Murdo and Captain Evans; but the most striking object in view was the combined Railway Station and Engine House, once the focus of noise, but now the abode of repose. In abandoning this rural spot, and running my eye a few hundred yards below me, lay a most charmingly built villarette, most suitably called Prospect House, which was the private residence of Mr. Doyne. Science had here conquered what was wanting in material; the goddess Flora had, like the owner, abandoned this pretty landscape; the dry soil and the sun’s rays had “dishabilled” each root from its flower. The cavalry camp and its numerous rows of stables were the last I visited. Dusk gently stole over the horizon when I re-entered the Col of Balaklava. The stars were brightly shining; it was nine o’clock; every bell in the harbour was tolling. Before retiring to rest no less than thirty-seven cemeteries did I count on my daily tablet, which I had passed during my solitary wandering. The night before the surrender of Balaklava, a large fire broke out in the village of Kadikoi, which,