All desperate hazards courage do create,
As he plays frankly who has least estate.
DRYDEN.
It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it.
SHAKESPEARE.
Seymour was soon weary of the endless noise and confusion to which he
was subjected on board of the guard-ship, and he wrote to Captain M---,
requesting that he might be permitted to join some vessel on active
service, until the period should arrive when the former would be enabled
to resume the command of his ship. The answer from his patron informed
him, that the time of his renewal of his professional duties would be
uncertain, not having hitherto derived much benefit from his return to
England; that as the _Aspasia_ was daily expected to arrive from the
mission on which she had been despatched, and would then remain on
Channel service, ready to be made over to him as soon as his health
should be re-established, he would procure an order for him to join her
as soon as she arrived. He pointed out to him that he would be more
comfortable on board a ship in which he had many old messmates and
friends than in any other, to the officers of which he would be a
perfect stranger. That, in the meantime, he had procured leave of
absence for him, and requested that he would pay him a visit at his
cottage near Richmond, to the vicinity of which place he had removed, by
the advice of his medical attendants.
Seymour gladly availed himself of this opportunity of seeing his
protector, and after a sojourn of three weeks, returned to Portsmouth,
to join the _Aspasia_, which had, for some days, been lying at Spithead.
Most of the commissioned, and many of the junior officers, who had
served in the West Indies, were still on board of her anxiously waiting
for the return of Captain M---, whose value as a commanding officer was
more appreciated for the change which had taken place. Seymour was
cordially greeted by his former shipmates, not only for his own sake,
but from the idea that his having rejoined the frigate was but a
precursor of the reappearance of Captain M--- himself.
There is, perhaps, no quality in man partaking of such variety, and so
difficult to analyse, as _courage_, whether it be physical or mental,
both of which are not only innate, but to be acquired. The former, and
the most universal, is most capriciously bestowed; sometimes, although
rarely, Nature has denied it altogether. We have, therefore, in the
latter instance, courage nil as a zero, courage negative, halfway up,
and courage positive, at the top, which may be considered as "blood
heat;" and upon this thermometrical scale the animal courage of every
individual may be placed. Courage _nil_ or cowardice, needs no
explanation. Courage negative, which is the most common, is that degree
of firmness which will enable a person to do his duty when danger _comes
to him_; he will not avoid danger, but he will not exactly seek it.
Courage positive, when implanted in a man, will induce him to seek
danger, and find opportunities of distinguishing himself where others
can see none. Courage negative is a passive feeling, and requires to be
roused. Courage positive is an active and restless feeling, always on
the look-out.
An extreme susceptibility, and a phlegmatic indifference of disposition,
although diametrically in opposition to each other, will produce the
same results: in the former, it is mental, in the latter, animal
courage. Paradoxical as it may appear, the most certain and most
valuable description of _courage_ is that which is acquired from the
_fear of shame_. Further, there is no talent which returns more fold
than courage, when constantly in exercise: for habit will soon raise the
individual, whose index is near to zero, to the degree in the scale
opposite to courage negative; and the possessor of courage negative will
rise up to that of courage positive; although, from desuetude, they
_will again sink to their former position_.
It is generally considered that men are _naturally brave_; but as,
without some incentive, there would be no courage, I doubt the position.
I should rather say that we were naturally cowards. Without
incitement, courage of every description would gradually descend to the
zero of the scale; the necessity of some incentive to produce it, proves
that it is "against nature." As the ferocity of brutes is occasioned by
hunger, so is that of man by "hungering" after the coveted enjoyments of
life, and in proportion as this appetite is appeased, so is his courage
decreased. If you wish animals to fight, they must not be over-fed; and
if a nation wishes to have good officers, it must swell their pride by
decorations, and keep them poor. There are few who do not recollect the
answer of the soldier to his general, who had presented him with a purse
of gold, in reward of a remarkable instance of gallantry, and who, a
short time afterwards, requiring something extremely hazardous to be
attempted, sent for the man, and expressed his wish that he would
volunteer. "General," said he, "send a man who has NOT GOT a purse of
gold."
The strongest incitement to courage is withdrawn by the possession of
wealth. Other worldly possessions also affect it. Lord St. Vincent,
when he heard that any captain had married, used to observe,
emphatically, "that he was damned for the service,"--no compliment to
the officer, but a very handsome one to the sex, as it implied that
their attractions were so great, that we could not disengage ourselves
from our thraldom, or, in fact, that there were no such things as bad or
scolding wives.
Finally, this _quality_, which is considered as a _virtue_, and to
entitle us to the rewards bestowed upon it by the fair sex, who value it
above all others, is so wholly out of our control, that when suffering
under sickness or disease, it deserts us; nay, for the time being, a
violent stomach-ache will turn a hero into a poltroon.
So much for a dissertation on courage, which I should not have ventured
to force upon the reader, had it not been to prepare him for the
character which I am about to introduce; and when it is pointed out how
many thousands of officers were employed during the last war, I trust it
will not be considered an imputation upon the service, by asserting that
there were some few who _mistook their profession_.
The acting captain of the _Aspasia_, during the early part of his career
in the service (had there been such a thermometer as I have described,
by which the heat of temperament in the party would have been precisely
ascertained), on placing its bulb upon the palm of his hand, would have
forced the mercury something between the zero and courage negative,
towards the zero--"more yes than no," as the Italian said; but now that
he was a married man, above fifty years of age, with a large family, he
had descended in the scale to the absolute zero.
It may, then, be inquired, why he requested to be employed during the
war? Because he liked full pay and prize-money when it could be
obtained without risk, and because his wife and family were living on
shore in a very snug little cottage at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, which
cottage required nothing but furniture and a few other trifles to render
it complete. Marriage had not only subtracted from the courage of this
worthy officer, but, moreover, a little from his honesty. Captain
Capperbar (for such was his name) should have been brought up as a
missionary, for he could _canvert_ anything, and _expend_ more profusely
than any Bible Society. The name by which he had christened his
domicile was probably given as a sort of salvo to his conscience. He
called it the "_Ship_;" and when he signed his name to the expense books
of the different warrant officers, without specifying the exact use to
which the materials were applied, the larger proportions were invariably
expended, by the general term, for "_Ship's_ use." He came into harbour
as often as he could, always had a demand for stores to complete, and a
defect or two for the dockyard to make good, and the admiral, who was
aware of Mr Capperbar being a near resident, made every reasonable
allowance for his partiality to Spithead. But we had better introduce
the captain, sitting at his table in the fore-cabin, on the day of his
arrival in port, the carpenter having obeyed his summons.
"Well, Mr Cheeks, what are the carpenters about?"
"Weston and Smallbridge are going on with the chairs--the whole of them
will be finished tomorrow."
"Well?"
"Smith is about the chest of drawers, to match the one in my Lady
Capperbar's bed-room."
"Very good. And what is Hilton about?"
"He has finished the spare-leaf of the dining-table, sir; he is now
about a little job for the second-lieutenant."
"A job for the second-lieutenant, sir? How often have I told you, Mr
Cheeks, that the carpenters are not to be employed, except on ship's
duty, without my special permission."
"His standing bed-place is broke, sir; he is only getting out a chock or
two."
"Mr Cheeks, you have disobeyed my most positive orders.--By the bye,
sir, I understand you were not sober last night."
"Please your honour," replied the carpenter, "I wasn't drunk--I was only
a little fresh."
"Take you care, Mr Cheeks. Well, now, what are the rest of your crew
about?"
"Why, Thompson and Waters are cutting out the pales for the garden, out
of the jib-booms; I've saved the heel to return."
"Very well, but there won't be enough, will there?"
"No, sir, it will take a hand-mast to finish the whole."
"Then we must expend one when we go out again. We can carry away a
topmast, and make a new one out of the hand-mast at sea. In the
meantime, if the sawyers have nothing to do, they may as well cut the
palings at once. And now, let me see--oh! the painters must go on
shore, to finish the attics."
"Yes, sir, but my Lady Capperbar wishes the _jealowsees_ to be painted
vermilion: she says, it will look more rural."
"Mrs Capperbar ought to _know enough_ about ship's stores, by this
time, to be aware that we are only allowed three colours. She may
choose or mix them as she pleases; but as for going to the expense of
buying paint, I can't afford it. What are the rest of the men about?"
"Repairing, the second cutter, and making a new mast for the pinnace."
"By the bye--that puts me in mind of it--have you expended any boat's
masts?"
"Only the one carried away, sir."
"Then you must expend two more. Mrs C--- has just sent me off a list
of a few things that she wishes made, while we are at anchor, and I see
two poles for clothes-lines. Saw off the sheave-holes, and put two pegs
through at right angles--you know how I mean."
"Yes, sir. What am I to do, sir, about the cucumber frame? My Lady
Capperbar says that she must have it, and I haven't glass enough--they
grumbled at the yard last time."
"Mrs C--- must wait a little. What are the armourers' about?"
"They have been so busy with your work, sir, that the arms are in a very
bad condition. The first-lieutenant said yesterday that they were a
disgrace to the ship."
"Who dared say that?"
"The first-lieutenant, sir."
"Well, then, let them rub up the arms, and let me know when they are
done, and we'll get the forge up."
"The armourer has made six rakes, and six hoes, and the two little hoes
for the children; but he says he can't make a spade."
"Then I'll take his warrant away, by Heaven! since he does not know his
duty. That will do, Mr Cheeks. I shall overlook your being in liquor,
this time; but take care--send the boatswain to me."
"Yes sir," and the carpenter quitted the cabin.
"Well, Mr Hurley," said the Captain, as the boatswain stroked down his
hair, as a mark of respect, when he entered the cabin, "are the cots all
finished?"
"All finished, your honour, and slung, except the one for the _babby_.
Had not I better get a piece of duck for that?"
"No, no--number seven will do as well; Mrs C--- wants some
_fearnought_, to put down in the entrance hall."
"Yes, your honour."
"And some cod-lines laid up for clothes-lines."
"Yes, your honour."
"Stop, let me look at my list--`Knife-tray, meat-screen, leads for
window-sashes,'--Ah! have you any hand-leads not on charge?"
"Yes, your honour, four or five."
"Give them to my steward.--`Small chair for Ellen--canvas for
veranda.'--Oh! here's something else--have you any painted canvas?"
"Only a waist-hammock-cloth, sir, ready fitted."
"We must expend that; `no old on charge.' Send it on shore to the
cottage, and I shall want some pitch."
"We've lots of that, your honour."
"That will do, Mr Hurley; desire the sentry to tell my steward to come
here."
"Yes, your honour." (Exit boatswain, and enter steward.)
This personage belonged to the party of marines, who had been drafted
into the ship--for Captain Capperbar's economical propensities would not
allow him to hire a servant brought up to the situation, who would have
demanded wages independent of the ship's pay. Having been well drilled
at barracks, he never answered any question put to him by an officer,
without recovering himself from his usual "stand-at-ease" position--
throwing shoulders back, his nose up in the air, his arms down his
sides, and the palms of his hands flattened on his thighs. His replies
were given with all the brevity that the question would admit, or rapid
articulation on his own part would enable him to confer.
"Thomas, are the sugar and cocoa ready to go on shore?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't forget to send that letter to Mr Gibson for the ten dozen port
and sherry."
"No, sir."
"When it comes on board, you'll bring it on shore a dozen at a time, in
the hair trunk."
"Yes, sir."
"Mind you don't let any of the hay peep outside."
"No, sir."
"Has the cooper finished the washing-tubs?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the small kids?"
"No, sir."
"Have you inquired among the ship's company for a gardener?"
"Yes, sir; there's a marine kept the garden of the major in the
barracks."
"Don't forget to bring him on shore."
"No, sir."
"Recollect, too, that Mrs Capperbar wants some vinegar--the boatswain's
is the best--and a gallon or two of rum--and you must corn some beef.
The harness cask may remain on shore, and the cooper must make me
another."
"Yes, sir."
"Master Henry's trousers--are they finished yet?"
"No, sir; Spriggs is at them now. Bailly and James are making Miss
Ellen's petticoats."
"And the shoes for Master John--are they finished?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Master Henry's?"
"No, sir. Wilson says that he has lost Master Henry's measure."
"Careless scoundrel! he shall have four-water grog for a week; and,
steward, take three bags of bread on shore, and forty pounds of flour."
"Yes, sir."
"That's all. Oh, no--don't forget to send some peas on shore for the
pig."
"No, sir," and the steward departed to execute his variety of
commissions.
The present first-lieutenant of the _Aspasia_, who, upon the promotion
of the former, had been selected by Captain M--- previous to his
quitting the ship, was an excellent officer and a pleasant,
light-hearted messmate, very superior in talent and information to the
many.
The conduct of Captain Capperbar was a source of annoyance to him, as he
frequently could not command the services of the different artificers
when they were required for the ship. He had, however, been long enough
in the service to be aware that it was better to make the best of it
than to create enemies by impeaching the conduct of his superior
officer. As the command of Captain Capperbar was but temporary, he
allowed him to proceed without expostulation, contenting himself with
turning his conduct into a source of conversation and amusement.
"Well, Prose, how do you like the new skipper?" inquired Seymour, soon
after his arrival on board.
"Why--I do declare, I can hardly tell. He's a very good-tempered man,
but he don't exactly treat us midshipmen as if we were officers or
gentlemen; and as for his wife, she is really too bad. I am sent every
day on shore to the cottage, because I belong to the captain's gig.
They never ask me to sit down, but set me to work somehow or another.
The other day he had a boat's crew on shore digging up a piece of ground
for planting potatoes, and he first showed me how to cut the _eyes_, and
then gave me a knife, and ordered me to _finish the whole bag_ which lay
in the field, and to see that the men worked properly at the same time.
I never cut potatoes into little bits before, except at table after they
were boiled."
"Well, that was too bad; but however, you'll know how to plant potatoes
in future--there's nothing like knowledge."
"And then he sends the nurse and children for an airing, as he calls it,
on the water, and I am obliged to take them. I don't like pulling
maid-servants about."
"That's quite a matter of taste, Prose; some midshipmen do."
"What do you think Mrs Capperbar asked me to do the other day?"
"I'm sure I can't guess."
"Why, to shell peas."
"Well, did you oblige her?"
"Why, yes, I did; but I did not like it,--and the other day the captain
sent me out to walk with the nurse and children, that I might carry
Master Henry if he was tired."
"They have observed the versatility of your genius."
"She made me hunt the hedges for a whole morning after eggs because she
was convinced that one of the hens laid astray."
"Did you find any?"
"No; and when I came back to tell her so, she got into a rage, and
threatened to make the captain flog me."
"The devil she did!"
"A devil she is," continued Prose. "She runs about the house--`Captain
Capperbar' this,--`Captain Capperbar' that--`I will'--`I will not'--`I
insist'--`I am determined.' But," continued Prose, "as you belonged to
the captain's gig before, you will of course take her again, and I shall
be very glad to give the charge up to you."
"Not for the world, my dear Prose: what may insure your promotion would
be my ruin. I never nursed a child or shelled a pea in my life; the
first I should certainly let fall, and the second I probably should eat
for my trouble. So pray continue at your post of honour, and I will go
for the fresh beef every morning as you were accustomed to do when we we
were last in port."
Captain M--- did not receive the immediate benefit which he had
anticipated from a return to his native land. Bath, Cheltenham,
Devonshire, and other places were recommended one after the other by the
physicians, until he was tired of moving from place to place. It was
nearly two years before he felt his health sufficiently re-established
to resume the command of the _Aspasia_, during which period the patience
of officers was nearly exhausted; and not only was all the furniture and
fitting up of the cottage complete but Captain Capperbar had provided
himself with a considerable stock of materials for repairs and
alterations. At last a letter from the captain to Macallan gave the
welcome intelligence that he was to be down at Portsmouth in a few days,
and that the ship was ordered to fit for foreign service.
We must not omit to mention here, that during these two years Seymour
had been able to procure frequent leave of absence, which was invariably
passed at the McElvinas; and that the terms of intimacy on which he was
received at the hall and his constant intercourse with Emily, produced
an effect which a more careful mother would have guarded against. The
youth of eighteen and the girl of sixteen had feelings very different
from those which had actuated them on their first acquaintance; and
Seymour, who was staying at the McElvinas when the expected arrival of
Captain M--- was announced, now felt what pain it would be to part with
Emily. The intelligence was communicated in a letter from Prose, when
he was sitting alone with McElvina, and the bare idea of separation
struck him to the heart.
McElvina, who had often expressed his opinion on the subject to his
wife, had been anxious that our hero should be sent on a foreign
station, before he had allowed a passion to take so deep a root in his
heart that, to eradicate it, would be a task of great effort and greater
pain. Aware, from the flushed face of Seymour, of what was passing
within, he quietly introduced the subject, by observing that in all
probability, his favourite, Emily, would be married previous to his
return--pointing out that an heiress of so large a property would have a
right to expect to unite herself with one in the highest rank of
society.
Seymour covered his face with his hands, as he leant over the table. He
had no secrets from McElvina, and acknowledged the truth of the
observation. "I have brought up the subject, my dear boy," continued
McElvina, "because I have not been blind, and I am afraid that you will
cherish a feeling which can only end in disappointment. She is a sweet
girl; but you must, if possible, forget her. Reflect a moment. You are
an orphan, without money and without family, although not without
friends, which you have secured by your own merit; and you have only
your courage and your abilities to advance you in the service. Can it,
then, be expected, that her parents would consent to an union--or would
it be honourable in you to take any advantage of her youthful
prepossession in your favour, and prevent her from reaping those
advantages that her fortune and family entitle her to?"
Seymour felt bitterly the justice of the remark; a few tears trickled
through his fingers, but his mind was resolved. He had thought to have
declared his love before his departure, and have obtained an
acknowledgment on her part; but he now made a firm resolution to avoid
and to forget her. "I shall follow your advice, my dear sir, for it is
that of a friend who is careful of my honour; but if you knew the state
of mind that I am in!--How foolish and inconsiderate have I been!--I
will not see her again."
"Nay, that would be acting wrongly; it would be quite unpardonable,
after the kindness which you have received from Mrs Rainscourt, not to
call and wish them farewell. You must do it, Seymour. It will be an
exertion, I acknowledge; but, if I mistake not his character, not too
great a one for William Seymour. Good night, my dear boy."
On the ensuing morning, Seymour, who had fortified himself in his good
resolutions, walked to the hall to announce his approaching departure on
foreign service, and to take his farewell, his last farewell, of Emily.
He found the carriage at the door, and Mrs Rainscourt in her pelisse
and bonnet, about to pay a visit at some distance. She was sorry at the
information, for Seymour was a great favourite, and delayed her
departure for a quarter of an hour to converse with him; at the end of
which, Emily, who had been walking, came into the library.
Communicating the intelligence to her daughter, Mrs Rainscourt then
bade him farewell, and expressing many wishes for his health and
happiness, was handed by him into the carriage, and drove off; leaving
Seymour to return to the library, and find himself--the very position he
had wished to avoid--alone with Emily.
Emily Rainscourt was, at this period, little more than sixteen years
old; but it is well known that, in some families, as in some countries,
the advance to maturity is much more rapid than in others. Such was the
case with our heroine, who, from her appearance, was generally supposed
to be at least two years older than she really was, and in her mind she
was even more advanced than in her person.
Seymour returned to the library, where he found Emily upon the sofa.
Her bonnet had been thrown off; and the tears that were coursing down
her cheeks were hastily brushed away at his entrance. He perceived it,
and felt his case to be still more embarrassing.
"When do you go, William?" said Emily, first breaking silence.
"To-morrow morning. I have called to return my thanks to your mother,
and to you, for your kindness to me;--I shall ever remember it with
gratitude."
Emily made no answer, but a deep sigh escaped.
"I shall," continued Seymour, "be away perhaps for years, and it is
doubtful if ever we meet again. Our tracks in life are widely
different. I am an orphan, without name or connection--or even home,
except through the kindness of my friends: they were right when, in my
childhood, they christened me the `King's Own,' for I belong to nobody
else. You, Miss Rainscourt," (Emily started, for it was the first time
that he had ever called her so, after the first week of their
acquaintance), "with every advantage which this world can afford, will
soon be called into society, in which I never can have any pretence to
enter. You will, in all probability, form a splendid connection before
(if ever) we meet again. You have my prayers, and shall have them when
seas divide us, for your happiness."
Seymour was so choked by his feelings, that he could say no more--and
Emily burst into tears.
"Farewell, Emily! God in Heaven bless you," said Seymour, recovering
his self-possession.
Emily, who could not speak, offered her hand. Seymour could not control
himself; he pressed her lips with fervour, and darted out of the room.
Emily watched him, until he disappeared at the winding of the avenue,
and then sat down and wept bitterly. She thought that he was unkind,
when he ought to have been most fond--on the eve of a protracted
absence. He might have stayed a little longer. He had never behaved so
before; and she retired to her room, with her heart panting with anguish
and disappointment. She felt how much she loved him, and the
acknowledgment was embittered by the idea that this feeling was not
reciprocal.
The next morning, when the hour had passed at which Seymour had stated
that he was to leave the spot, Emily bent her steps to the cottage, that
she might, by conversation with her friend Mrs McElvina, obtain, if
possible, some clue to the motives which had induced our hero to behave
as we have narrated.
Susan was equally anxious to know in what manner Seymour had conducted
himself, and soon obtained from Emily the information which she
required. She then pointed out to her, as her husband had done to
Seymour, the improbability, if not impossibility, of any happy result to
their intimacy, and explained the honourable motives by which Seymour
had been actuated,--the more commendable, as his feelings on the subject
were even more acute than her own. The weeping girl felt the truth of
her remarks, as far as the justification of Seymour was attempted.
Satisfied with the knowledge that he loved her, she paid little
attention to the more prudent part of the advice, and made a resolution
in his favour, which, as well as her attachment (unlike most others
formed during the freshness of the heart), through time and
circumstance, absence on his part, temptations on hers, continued
stedfast and immovable to the last.