I ought to have mentioned before, that the object of this journey was to ship me off to sea; and it was arranged that I should join the flag-ship of Sir Andrew Mitchell, then fitting in the River for the Halifax station. We, of course, set out for London, as the grand focus from which every thing in the English world radiates. But I find nothing in the memorandums of that period worthy of being extracted, nor do I recollect any incident which excited me strongly, except the operation of rigging myself out for the first time in midshipman’s uniform. There was something uncommonly pleasing, I remember, in the glitter of the dirk and its apparatus; and also in the smart air, as well as new cut of the dress; but the chief satisfaction arose from the direct evidence this change of garb afforded that there was no joke in the matter, but that the real business of life was actually about to begin. Accordingly, in a tolerable flutter of spirits, I made my first appearance on the deck of one of his Majesty’s ships. The meagre journal of that day is as follows:—
“Went to Deptford after breakfast in a hackney-coach—when we got there, we got out of the coach, walked down the street, and met the captain of the Leander. Went with him to the clerk of the cheque’s office, and had my name put in some book or other. Went with him to his lodgings, where he gave us a list of some things I was to get. Got a boat and went on board the Leander for the first time. Came home on a stage-coach—got a boat at London bridge—went up in it to the Adelphi—got out and went to the hotel.”
In most other professions, the transition from the old to the new mode of life is more or less gradual; but in that of the sea, it is so totally abrupt, and without intervening preparation, that a boy must be either very much of a philosopher, or very much of a goose, not to feel, at first, well nigh overwhelmed with the change of circumstances. The luxuries and the kindnesses of home are suddenly exchanged for the coarse fare of a ship, and the rough intercourse of total strangers. The solicitude with which he has been watched heretofore, let the domestic discipline have been ever so strict, is tenderness itself, compared to the utter indifference, approaching to dislike, with which a youngster, or ‘squeaker,’ as he is well called, is received on board. Even if he possess any acquaintances amongst his own class, they have few consolations in their power; and, generally speaking, are rather disposed to laugh at the home-sick melancholy of a new comer, than to cheer him up, when his little heart is almost breaking.
It so happened that I knew no one on board the ship, excepting two middies similarly circumstanced with myself. I was introduced also to a very gruff, elderly, service-soured master’s mate, to whose care, against his own wishes, I had been consigned by a mutual friend, a captain with whom he had formerly served. Our own excellent commanding officer had a thousand other things to look after, far more pressing than the griefs and cares of a dozen of boys under his charge.
I felt bewildered and subdued, by the utter solitude of my situation, as my father shook me by the hand, and quitted the ship. I well recollect the feeling of despair when I looked round me, and was made conscious of my utter insignificance. “Shall I ever be able,” thought I, “to fill any respectable part in this vast scene? What am I to do? How shall I begin? Whom can I consult?” I could furnish no satisfactory answer to these queries; and though I had not the least idea of shrinking from what I had undertaken, yet, I confess, I was not far from repenting that I had been so decided about the matter.
There is a vehement delight, no doubt, in novelty—but we may have too much of it at once; and certainly, if my advice were asked as to this point, in the case of another, I should recommend that a boy be gradually introduced to his future home; and, if possible, placed under the auspices of some one older than himself, and who, from having a real interest in him, might soften the needless rigours of this formidable change. I had no such preparation; and was without one friend or even acquaintance on board, who cared a straw for me. I was also very little for my age, spoke broad Scotch, and was, withal, rather testy in my disposition. The cock-pit, it is true, is a pretty good place to work the bad humours out of a crotchety young fellow, and to bring him to his due bearings; but I think I have seen a good many tenderer plants than I was, crushed down under the severity of this merciless discipline. Perhaps it is all for the best; because youngsters who cannot, or will not stand this rough rubbing, are just as well out of the way, both for themselves and the public.
There is one practice, however, which, as I invariably followed it myself, I know to be in every boy’s power, and I venture strongly to recommend it to others in the same situation; nor is it very likely that many will be exposed to greater trials, in a small way, than I was at first. The maxim is, always, in writing home, to put the best face upon matters, and never, if possible, to betray any inevitable unhappiness. Such a practice is doubly useful—for it contributes essentially to produce that character of cheerfulness in reality, which is partly assumed at the moment of writing, in order to save our friends from distress on our account. It would be wrong, indeed, to say, in writing home, that we are very happy, when in truth we are very much the reverse; but, without stating any falsehood, or giving into any subterfuge—which is still worse—those particular things may very fairly be dwelt upon which are agreeable, almost to the exclusion of those which are otherwise. We should learn, in short, to see and to describe the cheerful things; and, both in our practice and in description, leave the unpleasant ones to take care of themselves.
For example, I remember, as well as if the incidents had occurred yesterday, most of the details which are stated in the following letter, written only the day after I was left to my fate—amongst strangers—in the unknown world of a man-of-war. I certainly was far from happy, and might easily have made my friends wretched by selecting chiefly what was disagreeable. I took a different course.
“H. M. Ship Leander, June 12, 1802,
Cock Pit.
“DEAR FATHER,