LETTER II.
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:
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!