Having some little matters that rather press on my attention to see to
in town, I have made up my mind to relinquish the walking project, and
come straight home (by way of Folkestone) on Tuesday. I shall be due in
town at midnight, and shall hope to see you next day, with the top of
your coat-collar mended.
Everything that happens here we suppose to be an announcement of the
taking of Sebastopol. When a church-clock strikes, we think it is the
joy-bell, and fly out of the house in a burst of nationality--to sneak
in again. If they practise firing at the camp, we are sure it is the
artillery celebrating the fall of the Russian, and we become
enthusiastic in a moment. I live in constant readiness to illuminate the
whole house. Whatever anybody says I believe; everybody says, every day,
that Sebastopol is in flames. Sometimes the Commander-in-Chief has blown
himself up, with seventy-five thousand men. Sometimes he has "cut" his
way through Lord Raglan, and has fallen back on the advancing body of
the Russians, one hundred and forty-two thousand strong, whom he is
going to "bring up" (I don't know where from, or how, or when, or why)
for the destruction of the Allies. All these things, in the words of the
catechism, "I steadfastly believe," until I become a mere driveller, a
moonstruck, babbling, staring, credulous, imbecile, greedy, gaping,
wooden-headed, addle-brained, wool-gathering, dreary, vacant, obstinate
civilian.
Ever, my fellow-countryman, affectionately.
[Sidenote: Mr. John Saunders.]