Southampton, Oct. 5.
If you were a stranger to Southampton, I might offer you many full pages
upon its delightful situation, and the many charms of its environs; for
it cannot be disputed that this town and neighbourhood afford more of
pleasing scenery, convenience, and accommodation, than most other parts
of England.
As you know my habit of visiting what are called _the lions_ of a place,
as soon as possible after my arrival, you will conclude that I have not
neglected the encampment near Southampton. I have made it a visit of
very attentive inspection, and much do I wish it were possible for words
to convey, to you, the host of feelings that rushed into my mind upon
the occasion: I scarcely knew which was predominant. Viewing the
soldiers, in full contemplation of the strict order, the manly
deportment, and the elevated enthusiasm of their character, my mind
traversed, in hasty review, all the perils and hardships, the glory and
honors, which attach to a military life. I felt a sense of pride and
gratification on seeing so fine a body of men ready to join in our
expedition. My imagination placed all the inviting forms of success
before them. I observed them in battle, on the opposite side of the
Atlantic; felt honored in their bravery; hailed them victorious, and,
crowned with the laurels they had won, saw them return in safety, to
their home, and their friends.
Yet the bright picture was not without its shades: restless fancy went
on to busy herself in gloomy comparisons, in painful contrasts, and
afflicting reverses! Viewing the brilliancy, the order, and the comfort
of a domestic camp, in the peaceful fields of England, she called up
ideas of a confused and tumultuous encampment upon the enemy’s soil,
threatened by the approach of a daring foe, routed by blood-thirsty
cohorts, or stormed by a horde of merciless brigands! And, still worse
than these, were painted the fatal ills of climate: yellow fever opened
her devouring jaws, and, in deadly disease, exposed a contrast, yet more
afflictive, than all the perils of battle.
Although, in my mind, the more happy face of the picture maintained its
impression, I am sorry to believe that the general sensation of the
country is in sympathy with the opposite. A degree of horror seems to
have overspread the nation, from the late destructive effects of the
seasoning fever, or, what the multitude denominates, the West India
plague; insomuch that a sense of terror attaches to the very name of the
West Indies; many considering it synonymous with the grave. Perhaps, it
were not too much to say, that all, who have friends in the expedition,
apprehend more from disease than the sword.
Such discouraging sentiments, I am sorry to find, have not been
concealed from the troops. The fearful farewell of desponding friends is
every day, and hour, either heedlessly, or artfully brought to their
ears. People walking about the camp, attending at a review, or a parade,
or merely upon seeing parties of soldiers in the streets, are heard to
exclaim, “Ah, poor fellows! you are going to your last home! What a pity
that such brave men should go to that West India grave!—to that hateful
climate to be killed by the plague! Poor fellows, good-by, farewell! we
shall never see you back again!” With such-like accents are the soldiers
incessantly saluted; and the hopeless predictions are loudly echoed, by
the designing, whose turbulent spirits would be gratified in exciting
discontent among the troops.
But, strongly as I would condemn every attempt, and every incaution,
which might create even the feeblest ray of terror in the breasts of the
soldiers, yet I cannot but be sensible, that it is a service of imminent
danger: and, while I look at these men, in high admiration of their
intrepid character, the recollection of the general sensation, which
prevails respecting them, steals upon me, and causes a silent pang, in
the consciousness that a great majority of them will never return. Still
I hope that every soldier is governed by the same individual feelings as
myself, and that each is fully impressed with the belief that it will be
his lot to escape.
It is the duty of military men to serve wheresoever their country
requires; hence the attempts to inspire them with a dread of climate are
not less cruel, than mischievous: designed to injure the country, they
operate by distressing the feelings of the individual, whose noble mind
knows no fear of death from any other cause; but, if he fall, falls
without a murmur, glorying in having devoted himself to his country, and
calmly resigning himself to the fate of war.
It does not appear that the expedition is so, immediately, upon the eve
of sailing as is generally imagined. The whole of the troops are not yet
assembled, nor are the transports in readiness.
From some information, which has reached us, it appears not unlikely
that we may find our names upon the St. Domingo staff, instead of the
staff of the Leeward Islands; in which case we may have to make a
journey to Cork, to join the expedition about to sail from Ireland. This
would be a disappointment to me, beyond the mere inconvenience of again
moving my person and my baggage, for, in the Leeward Island division, I
have acquaintances, whom I had hoped to find my comrades on service;
while, with the St. Domingo staff, there are very few persons to whom I
am known.
In my present pursuit I feel the necessity of viewing occurrences in
their best light; but I shall make it my duty to remove whatever
difficulties may occur, by subduing them. As if the evils of the world
were not enough severe, we, too commonly, attach ourselves to the
unhappy face of events, brood over fancied sorrows, and, eagerly,
multiply our disappointments:
“Yet some there are, of men I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy if they can’t be curs’d,
For ever brooding over mis’ry’s eggs”
· · · · ·
This gloomy tendency of disposition forms a remarkable characteristic
between the people of England and those of France: while an Englishman,
in afflictive contemplation, dwells on misfortune, even to suicide, a
Frenchman, however adverse the affairs of the moment, always finds
wherewithal to attach his better hopes!
From this facility of yielding to events, it has been said that the
French people know how to _play the game of happiness_ better than the
English. It may be so. But still it is possible that the principle, to
which I allude, may be carried to excess. Where it is the effect of a
patient and manly fortitude, and employed to support us against injury,
misfortune, and disappointment, it is amiable and virtuous, and may be
dignified with the title of philosophy. But it is sometimes the effect
of frivolity, or depravity—is connected with vice and dissipation, and
highly unworthy. When proceeding from this source, it supersedes all the
finer feelings and sentiments of the mind. It destroys the natural
affections, and, weakening the attachment which ought to exist, between
man and man, tends to make mere egotists of us all. It not only renders
us insensible to our own misfortunes, and the common ills of life, but
makes us callous to the sufferings of others, and shuts the heart
against those feelings of sympathy and compassion, which, being founded
in humanity, are among the highest adornments of our nature.
The plodding pursuits, and sober attachments of the English, possess not
sufficient _goût_ for the appetite of a Frenchman, whose life may be
said to constitute one system—one continued series of intrigue. In all
his occupations he requires the high seasoning of variety. Whatever the
substance of his pursuit, intrigue is always the condiment. Without a
spice of intrigue the board were insipid, however sumptuous. A Frenchman
troubles not himself with the affections; but is a dupe to his passions.
His attachments wear away with the moment, and are not thought of beyond
the period of being convenient to his purpose. He is often disappointed,
but never dismayed. All regret, for the past, he buries in some new
scheme or adventure. If one project fails, he, instantly, flies to
another, exclaiming, “Ah, Diable! cela ne me conviens pas. Il y faut un
autre projet.” If he succeed not to-day, he has always a new plan for
the morrow. If discomfited in the scheme of the morning, he feels
certain of success in the _nouveau projet_ of the evening. Something
new, something not of plain or ready attainment, something possessing a
real or a fancied intricacy is always imagined, or attempted. No matter
how vast, or how frivolous the object—whether a revolution of the state,
or a game of loto! It diverts his attention, dissipates the moment,
shields him from the sadness of disappointment, and shuts the door
against ennui. From the conduct usually pursued, it would seem to be a
leading feature, in the character of a Frenchman, not to attach himself
seriously, or permanently to any thing; but to avail himself of all
passing circumstances, yielding to each, or causing each to yield to his
purpose. In this way he travels the great journey of life with less of
care and sorrow than the more sedate of other nations; sombre reflection
offering no impediment to a path, which, at every step, bears his loved
motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
I am aware that you will plead very broad exceptions to this, as a
general character, and I most readily admit them; for, notwithstanding
that the reverse is too common, I have seen Frenchmen, under misfortune,
whose patient submission, instead of bearing the marks of levity and
frivolity, has exhibited all the manly firmness of true dignity and
philosophy.
But I am wandering from my subject—abruptly, therefore, Good night!