4th July 1855, Camp before Sebastopol

My dearest One

Yesterday was the funeral procession of poor Lord Raglan and a more splendid sight you cannot conceive. Hardened and accustomed as we all are to death and horrors out here, I shall never forget my feelings as we uncovered our heads to honour the good old man’s remains – the simplicity of the gun carriage that bore his coffin, covered with a Union Jack and on it his cocked hat and a little wreath of Eternelles (placed there by old Pelissier) formed the most touching contrast to the magnificence of the pall bearers’ dress and that of the numberless staff who followed. One felt that all this wondrous spectacle was a labour of love, not costing a farthing, a whole Army just turning out to do honour to one whom, whatever his shortcomings, all loved who knew. I know that your fellow Cobden spoke in Parliament against Lord Raglan only a month ago, but here the feeling was very different. I think those who served under him are better placed to know the true character of the man. I fear that the failure of the assault on the 18th of last month weighed most heavily upon him and indeed hastened his demise.

For five full miles the way was lined with our Infantry, leaning on their arms reversed, and where we ended the French Zouaves took up, then the French Imperial Guard and at last the French regiments completed the seven miles that the cortege traversed. At Kazatch the cavalry defiled to the left and the artillery to the right, and formed long lines along the sea shore. Then the coffin came straight through the marines and sailors, brilliant in their white dresses, and with their hats off. The boat which bore the coffin went off under a salute of nineteen guns and we were not back here much before 10 o’clock, it having been a fine day and a cloudless, warm evening.

While waiting on the shore I had a good view of our Celebrities here. Omar Pasha looked splendid. It is most curious to imagine his passage from his youth to his present position as Commander of the Ottoman forces here. I expect you know that he was born in Austria, a Christian, and as a young man served as a tutor and a writing master: he is known to have the most beautiful handwriting to this day, and his signature is said to have a great deal of flourish. He is a most intelligent looking old man with a fine, noble head, and his dress was more gorgeous than I can describe: one blaze of gold, and on his Fez was a single great diamond like a star. On any other man one would only have seen the dress. However, you will see all these things much better told in the papers – though with less truth I daresay.

I have been taking advantage of the very lovely weather that we have been enjoying lately by going for long rides into the new territory we have got. (Your warnings as to the dangers of exposure I have not heeded, for I am grown accustomed to the climate here and fear it not.) Arthur Derrington and I rode out to Baidar the day before yesterday and found it a delightful spot, in the midst of a very smiling fertile valley. Quantities of the jolliest children I ever saw were running about, the smallest chaps imaginable wandering freely in little gangs, giving chase to a merry assortment of dogs and the oddly long-legged fowl they keep. They have had to furnish labour and bullocks, indeed all they had, to support the Russian Army, yet they still maintain their friendliness and hospitality. We got some milk there which we enjoyed, the first milk, by the way, that I have tasted for nine or ten months. These little excursions form the bright spots of one’s life here.

Might I ask a small favour, my darling? As you already know, my poor friend Lockwood met his end here, leaving a widow and two children: I wonder if you would be kind enough to call on Mrs Lockwood, in Cheltenham? I know your aunt is there and it was my idea that perhaps you might pay the call when next you visit that good lady?