Part 2
From the quarters of the commander in chief, I accompanied the inspector-general to visit the sick. This afforded me an early opportunity of viewing the military hospital, and I have great pleasure in remarking to you that it does much credit to the doctor’s[1] judgment and industry. Placed in the direction of the medical department, his exertions have demonstrated how essential it is to commit that important appointment to an officer whose experience qualifies him for all the various duties it demands. From a well-devised arrangement, forwarded by a zealous and laudable industry, he has caused a large old building, late a sugarhouse, to be converted into a commodious, and well-aired hospital; where the sick are comfortably placed, duly attended, and conveniently, as well as liberally accommodated.
The clock tells me it is midnight. Adieu!
LETTER II.
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!
LETTER III.
Portsmouth, Oct. 23.
Since writing to you my last letter we have received orders to repair on board the Ulysses, and proceed to Cork to join the St. Domingo division of the expedition, under the command of General Whyte.
Dr. Master and myself had our baggage put on board this ship in the river Thames, and we are waiting in the daily expectation of her arrival at Spithead.
Portsmouth verifies, to our experience, all that we had heard of its unpleasantness, and vulgar immorality. The great objects, which call forth the attention of strangers, are the dock-yard, the Haslar hospital, and the fine walk upon the ramparts. All these we have visited, likewise South-Sea castle, and the Forton and Porchester prisons: nor have we neglected that new modern messenger the telegraph, by which intelligence can be conveyed, from this place to the Admiralty, at Charing-cross, in the short period of ten minutes.
Having thus exhausted all the novelty of the town and its environs, it only remains to us to lapse into the dull round of the place. It is said that in days of peace, long grass grows upon the streets. In time of war they are more trodden; but, even then, the busy activity of the place occurs only at intervals, such as when a fleet comes in, or is about to sail: at which periods the town becomes all crowd and hurry, for a few days, and then suddenly reverts to a languid intermission of dulness and inactivity.
In respect to streets, houses, markets, and traffic, Portsmouth is not unlike other country towns, but Portsmouth-point, Portsea-common, and some other parts of the town have peculiarities which seem to sanction the celebrity the place has acquired. In some quarters, Portsmouth is not only filthy and crowded, but crowded with a class of low and abandoned beings, who seem to have declared open war against every habit of decency and decorum. The riotous, drunken, and immoral scenes of this place exceed, perhaps, all others. Commonly gross obscenity and intoxication preserve enough of diffidence to seek the concealment of night, and, assuming a kind of decency, strive to hide themselves from the public eye: but, here, hordes of profligate females are seen reeling in drunkenness, or plying upon the streets with shocking immodesty in open day. These daughters of Cypria are not only of manners peculiar, but likewise of such peculiar figure and apparel, that it were difficult, in any other part of England, to find a correct resemblance of them.
To form to yourself an idea of these _tender ornaments_ of the fair-sex, imagine a being of more than Amazonian stature, having a crimson countenance, emblazoned with all the effrontery of Cyprian confidence, and broad Bacchanalian folly; give to her bold visage the warlike features of two wounded cheeks, a tumid nose, scarred and battered brows, and a pair of blackened eyes, with deeply reddened balls; then add to her sides a pair of brawny arms, fit to encounter a Colossus, and set her upon two ancles like the fixed supporters of a gate: by way of apparel, put upon her a loose flying cap, a man’s black hat, a torn neckerchief, stone rings on her fingers, and a dirty white, or tawdry flowered gown, with short apron, and a pink petticoat: thus, will you have something very like the figure of “_Sweet Poll_ of Portsmouth.”
My visit to the dock-yard was of a nature highly gratifying. I contemplated this vast depôt of stores; this great workshop of our navy, as the emblem of our nation’s glory. I regarded each spot with all the enthusiastic veneration of a Briton, proud of his country’s greatness, and of the splendid and heroic achievements of its defenders.
The Tigre, ship of war, lately taken from the French, by Lord Bridport, being in dock, we had the opportunity of going on board, to witness the injuries she had sustained from the thunderbolts of Britain. Her shattered condition bespake, in strong expression, the terrible effects of a close-fought action at sea. Yet we were told that all she had suffered was trivial, compared to what is seen, in many vessels, after a battle. If so, it is equally matter of surprise that such vessels should be kept afloat, as that any should ever have been constructed capable of withstanding the destructive batteries now brought against them.
While examining the many wounds of the Tigre, my mind called up, in vivid association, the late noble retreat made by our gallant admiral Cornwallis, which I have always thought did him singular credit. Conducted as it was, it had all the merit of a great victory, and I well remember that, at the first moment of perusing the dispatches concerning it, I was impressed with a high sense of that officer’s judgment, and his valour, and felt that I should ever retain the highest respect for his professional talents. To have defended an inferior fleet, against such unequal force, and to have brought every ship safe into port, argues a degree of intrepid deliberation, of address, and of steady valour, which can only be found in a great commander. To have brought in the fast-sailing vessels of the squadron would have been meritorious: but to have dropped astern, with these, and caused them to bear the blows, in protection of the slower vessels, whilst they made the best of the wind; and, thus, to have saved the whole, was doubly honorable. It was great and bold, and worthy the brother of our brave and long-esteemed Marquis, whose high and well-appreciated talents are so universally acknowledged, and so increased in splendour, by the humanity and benevolence of his nature. That two such distinguished commanders, in the different branches of our service, should be found in the same family, is no less honorable to themselves than gratifying to their country. Of such men England has just cause to be proud.
My visit to Haslar hospital was in keeping with that to the dock-yard. Connected with our country’s greatness, it called up a similar train of ideas, and I felt it an honor to England that so noble an institution should offer, to our brave tars, the comforts required in sickness. Too much cannot be done for our navy, nor can the provision for our sick and wounded defenders be too liberal: they merit all their country can bestow. It has long been said, and with great correctness, that British sailors are not only a bold, but a peculiar race of beings. The fact is striking, and although it were extremely difficult to describe their extraordinary character, yet may it be given in one short sentence, for—_they are a race of heroes_! Of fear they know only the name. Nothing so delights them as to be led into close combat; and, rather than be vanquished, they would submit to die at their guns. That such men should be liberally accommodated in their sufferings, must be congenial to the warmest wishes of every Briton; and to know that they are so, is consolatory to the feelings of all who are sensible of their value. It is due to their courage and bravery, and is demanded from their country’s gratitude.
The Haslar is, admirably, calculated for this important purpose. The establishment is liberal and splendid, and well worthy its object. In providing so amply for her brave and suffering defenders, England consults her best interests, whilst she proves herself to be mindful of the high duties of humanity.
The hospital, like many others of this island, might, from the grandeur of the edifice, be mistaken for a palace. It is built in an open airy situation near the sea, at a short distance from Gosport. The sick are brought in boats, from the ships at Spithead, and, conveniently, received on shore at a landing-place at the hospital. This great building, fitted for the accommodation of two thousand patients, together with houses for officers and the medical attendants, a chapel, a laboratory, a variety of offices, and thirty-eight acres of good pasture land, belonging to the institution, is enclosed within a high brick wall, with iron gates, and a porter’s lodge at the entrance, which no stranger is permitted to pass, without the leave of one of the resident lieutenants; or the porter first announcing his name to some officer of the establishment.
Much to the credit of the country, this noble asylum offers apartments, likewise, for sick and wounded officers, where those who from convenience, or necessity, wish to avail themselves of the benefit of the institution, may find every aid and comfort their situation demands.
Nothing necessary to the establishment has been omitted. It is a distinct building, separated from all others, and, from possessing every essential within itself, is as complete as it is liberal, and does honor to the reign of George II. who has the merit of being its founder.
The establishment consists of a governor, (usually an old navy captain) three lieutenants, three physicians, three surgeons, two visiting apothecaries, a chaplain, an agent, a steward, and a dispenser, with assistants and servants in proportion to the number of sick. The hospital accommodates one thousand eight hundred patients, conveniently, but it sometimes happens that it receives as many as two thousand. This important establishment was founded in the year 1746, but was ten years before it was completed, the patients not being admitted until the year 1756. The expenditure, as may be expected, from the nature of the institution, differs very widely in different years, varying from 10,000_l._ to upwards of 30,000_l._ per annum.
But great and liberal as the relief is which is held out, to the sick, we are not to contemplate this splendid institution, in the limited view of a mere asylum for those who are, immediately, suffering. Its object is far more extensive: it may be said to be the depôt—the great and general receptacle of maritime sickness, and the best guardian of our navy; for it not only offers a home to the sick, but holds out the means of keeping disease and infection from our fleets. Every ship lying in harbour, or upon going out to sea, has the privilege of sending any of the sailors who may chance to be ill, to the Haslar; a regulation founded in wisdom, and fraught with great and manifold advantages; for, not only are the sick more speedily recovered, but, by this excellent arrangement, every ship is made free from disease, and contagion is prevented; or, if it should already exist, is kept from spreading through the vessel, or extending its direful effects to the fleet. Hence, from the extensive accommodation of this admirable institution, and from the strict rules of cleanliness and ventilation, which are now observed on board the ships, all apprehension is removed of great and general sickness in the navy.
I mentioned the ramparts as another object of our attention. These form an agreeable relief to the general heaviness of the town, by affording a lively and extensive view of the environs, including the sea, the Isle of Wight, and the Southampton river, with the fleets at Spithead and St. Helens.
The fortifications of Portsmouth have been, lately, extended to the part called Portsea, by which they have assumed a more formidable aspect; and although they are, even yet, more calculated to guard against a surprise, than to withstand the regular attack of a besieging army, still, from its fosses, its bastions, and its angles, this place wears more the appearance of a regularly fortified town, than any other of our island. But, happily for England, she has been fortified by a greater master than Vauban, Cohorn, or any other engineer of modern or ancient celebrity. The trident of _old Neptune_ has dug a deep fosse around her, which Britons, of the present day, know how to guard, as their best defence.
LETTER IV.
Portsmouth, October 31.
Still at Portsmouth, and the Ulysses not yet come round from the Thames!
Some troops were embarked on the 27th inst. from this place. The weather was rough and unfavorable. Such indeed has it, constantly, been, since our arrival—always stormy, and, at times, tempestuous. From this state of the weather we have had the opportunity of seeing this great maritime port to much advantage; a degree of grandeur being added to the scenery, which, in a more tranquil season, would not have existed. The general movement and activity have been, necessarily, increased; we have heard the deep roaring of the billows, and have listened to the howling of the wind, and the beating of the storm among the shipping; the troubled waves have dashed, in heavy seas, upon the land, or broken with violence, against the rampart-walls; boats and ships have been set adrift, others have been forced from their anchors and cast on shore; and that degree of the grand and terrific, necessary to the sublime, has strongly prevailed.
You expected probably, that my next letter would be addressed to you from Cork, and will be surprised to find that I am yet remaining here; but this is among the numberless uncertainties of my present calling.