Burgoyne is Commanding Engineer, and almost all my friends and people to whom I am attached are going, which gives much huzza to my feelings. I should certainly have hanged myself had I been left in this hole after the Guards had left it, and when all my world had gone forth. Perhaps my being on the expedition may much expedite my return to God’s dearest blessings, which I prize so far above all other earthly goods. It is fortunate for a man’s piety when the objects of his gratitude are so undeniably great as to fill his heart and make him know how good God has been to him. I have come to that state when I would be thought truly pious—I had always a hankering after it,—as I find that nothing encourages half so much the gladness of the heart or the sublimity of the mind.
With infinite love, your truly affectionate
Charles.
October 17.—At the time the above was written the fleet was getting under way, and was to rendezvous at Syracuse, where it was to be joined by the troops from Egypt, who were already at Messina. Colonel Campbell had no idea of the destination of the expedition. An order has since gone out for its recall to Sicily.
“Elizabeth” Transport, Mediterranean Sea,
240 miles from Gibraltar. Foul wind, fresh.
November 29, 1807. 30 days at sea.
My dearest Louisa—I know nothing more efficacious in my present misery than writing to you, by which for the moment I may lose the consciousness of it. Do not be alarmed; they are only the miseries of this restless element and stinking prison to which I allude.
On leaving Sicily some one persuaded me that our undoubted destination was Palermo. When that was passed, we all thought Lisbon the mark. Now we learn by the Minstrel (which spoke the Queen about ten days ago) that the Prince Regent of Portugal has declared against us; and I am inclined to think that this event may make the object of this army a secret to Sir John Moore himself; but Brazil is the general speculation. For my part I think our return more likely, as it appears of increasing importance to rivet Sicily as our perpetual colony—a measure which I am persuaded would be unattended with difficulty in the execution, and, as far as I can judge, filled with advantage in the end.
But leave we this to the wise, while we content ourselves with ourselves.
I find complaints about not writing so unavailing that I am quite puzzled how to act. I will have no letter that can be written in a day; I will have a journal! a compilation! Why do I see others—Colonel Campbell, for instance—receive packet upon packet copiously filled? Do you think that because he is a great man his friends write to him about State affairs, which are better treated in the papers—or Philosophy, or History perhaps? No, no; they write to him those heaps of gossip which are interesting only to him, but which of course delight him a thousand times more than any other subjects. Those incidents, dear Lou, which you think too trivial to send two thousand miles, never considering that domestic anecdotes so many thousand miles as they travel are so many thousand times more valuable to a man of affections than if sent to him a trifling distance, which you would not scruple to do.
It surprises me the more that you, my dearest lass, are silent, who write with such apparent facility and impress your expressions with the graces of your nature—the true secret to make correspondence delightful—when that which I have long loved in yourself breathes through your letters and gives them the air of your conversation.