Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul,
With emulative haste, looks to its God,
And prunes its wings for heaven.
—KIRKE WHITE.
[ AN EMBARKATION SCENE. ]
A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing an account of the embarkation of a few detachments to join their respective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India. It was written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was not only an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings of the morning. As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurring at the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for the Crimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded on facts, which alas, must be far, very far, out–numbered by parallel facts and circumstances.
Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and took a bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retired early to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martial music; and ever delighting in the "soul–stirring fife and drum," I jumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; I therefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witness what, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation.
It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in full splendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected back all its dazzling effulgence. The river was studded with shipping, and to add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had just anchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I could easily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not only in the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of the hundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting their return. With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled. How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years, nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a few hours to clasp him to the maternal breast. Here, too, might be pictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wife and children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheeks pallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropical climate. Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams of affluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their native land. I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixty years, braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to endure life, not to enjoy it. He told me, he had left England at the early age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out grown his young friendships. Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place of those domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed to take root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his young breast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than the interest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East India Company's Service. On his departure, he earned no parent's blessing for him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept and prayed. As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler, like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what was passing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, who only three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which she now returned, to join her husband,—the long affianced of her early choice. For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, but it was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in the school of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place.
But the Blue Peter,[[1] ] gently floating in the scarcely perceptible breeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for a far different purpose. It told not of restoring the fond husband to his wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; it was, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties; for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be borne many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they hold dear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore their spirits to their wonted tone.
There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted of about one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though only recruits, were particularly soldier–like in appearance. There was throughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, which seemed to say, "Away with private feelings! we go on glory's errand, and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!" Yet to fancy's eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face. We might trace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, that would say, "With the deportment of the hero, we have the feelings of the man. One young officer was there, belonging to a different regiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiable weaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize the husband or the father. He had not even pains of the lover to contend with. Glory was indeed his mistress, the all absorbing ruling passion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not of aught, but glory!"