losion, in the
French ammunition park, which destroyed so many lives. We had
experienced nothing at all like it before. The earth beneath us, even
at the distance of three miles, reeled and trembled with the shock;
and so great was the force of the explosion, that a piece of stone was
hurled with some violence against the door of the British Hotel. We
all felt for the French very much, although I do not think that the
armies agreed quite so well after the taking of the Malakhoff, and the
unsuccessful assault upon the Redan, as they had done previously. I
saw several instances of unpleasantness and collision, arising from
allusions to sore points. One, in particular, occurred in my store.

The French, when they wanted--it was very seldom--to wound the pride
of the English soldiery, used to say significantly, in that jargon by
which the various nations in the Crimea endeavoured to obviate the
consequences of what occurred at the Tower of Babel, some time ago,
"Malakhoff bono--Redan no bono." And this, of course, usually led to
recriminatory statements, and history was ransacked to find something
consolatory to English pride. Once I noticed a brawny man, of the Army
Works Corps, bringing a small French Zouave to my canteen, evidently
with the view of standing treat. The Frenchman seemed mischievously
inclined, and, probably relying upon the good humour on the
countenance of his gigantic companion, began a little playful
badinage, ending with the taunt of "Redan, no bono--Redan, no bono." I
never saw any man look so helplessly angry as the Englishman did. For
a few minutes he seemed absolutely rooted to the ground. Of course he
could have crushed his mocking friend with ease, but how could he
answer his taunt. All at once, however, a happy thought struck him,
and rushing up to the Zouave, he caught him round the waist and threw
him down, roaring out, "Waterloo was bono--Waterloo was bono." It was
as much as the people on the premises could do to part them, so
convulsed were we all with laughter.

And before Christmas, occurred my first and last attack of illness in
the Crimea. It was not of much consequence, nor should I mention it
but to show the kindness of my soldier-friends. I think it arose from
the sudden commencement of winter, for which I was but poorly
provided. However, I soon received much sympathy and many presents of
warm clothing, etc.; but the most delicate piece of attention was
shown me by one of the Sapp