I believe that there are no classes of people who embark with more regret, or quit a ship with more pleasure, than military men.  Nor is it to be wondered at, if we consider the antithesis which is presented to their usual mode of life.  Few military men are studious, or inclined to reading, which is almost the only resource which is to be found against the tedium of long confinement and daily monotony.  I do not say this reproachfully, as I consider it arises from the peculiarity of their profession, and must be considered to be more their misfortune than their fault.  They enter upon a military life just after they have left school,—­the very period at which, from previous and forced application, they have been surfeited with books usque ad nauseam.  The parade, dress; the attention paid to them, which demands civilities in return; society, and the preference shown by the fair sex; their happy and well-conducted mess; the collecting together of so many young men, with all their varied plans of amusement, into which the others are easily persuaded to enter, with just sufficient duty on guard, or otherwise, not to make the duty irksome; all delight too much at first, and eventually, from habit, too much occupy their minds, to afford time for study.

In making this observation, I must be considered to speak generally.  There are many studious, many well-stored minds, many men of brilliant talents, who have improved the gift of nature by constant study and reflection, and whose conduct must be considered as the more meritorious, from having resisted or overcome the strong temptation to do otherwise which is offered by their profession.

“I wish,” said Irving, who was stretched out his full length on one of the coops abaft, with the front of his cap drawn over his eyes—­“I wish this cursed voyage was at an end.  Every day the same thing; no variety—­no amusement;—­curry for breakfast—­brandy pawnee as a finish.  I really begin to detest the sight of a cigar or a pack of cards.”

“Very true,” replied Ansell, who was stretched upon an adjacent coop in all the listlessness of idleness personified—­“very true, Irving; I begin to think it worse than being quartered in a country town inhabited by nobodies, where one has nothing to do but to loll and spit over the bridge all day, till the bugle sounds for dinner.”

“Oh! that was infinitely better; at least, you could walk away when you were tired, or exchange a word or two with a girl as she passed over it, on her way to market.”

“Why don’t you take a book, Irving?” observed the major, laying down the one with which he had been occupied, to join the conservation.

“A book, major?  Oh, I’ve read until I am tired.”

“What have you read since you embarked ?” inquired his senior.

“Let me see—­Ansell, what have I read?”

“Read!—­nothing at all—­you know that.”

“Well, perhaps so; we have no mess-newspapers here:  the fact is, major, I am not very partial to reading—­I am not in the habit of it.  When on shore I have too much to do; but I mean to read by-and-bye.”