keep us from the pleasure & enjoyments of this World, or being conversant with any body in it — It is an excellent place to raise the Ideas of a Philosopher beyond the glutted thoughts and Reflexions of an Epicurian. His Reflexions will be as different from the Common Reflexions of Mankind as if he were unconnected with the world, and only conversant with material beings. It cannot be that our Superiors are about to hold consul[t]ation with Spirits infinitely beneath their Order — by bringing us into these utmost regions of the Terraqueous Sphere. No — it is, upon consideration, for many good purposes since we are to Winter here — 1st There is plenty of Wood & Water. 2dly There are but few families for the soldiery to Steal from — tho' far be it from a Soldier to Steal — 4ly There are warm sides of Hills to erect huts on. 5ly They will be heavenly Minded like Jonah when in the belly of a great Fish. 6ly. They will not become home Sick as is sometimes the Case when Men live in the Open World — since the reflections which must naturally arise from their present habitation, will lead them to the more noble thoughts of employing their leizure hours in filling their knapsacks with such materials as may be necessary on the Jorney to another Home.
Dec. 14th. — Prisoners & Deserters are continually coming in. The Army who have been surprisingly healthy hitherto — now begin to grow sickly from the continued fatigues they have suffered this Campaign. Yet they still show spirit of Alacrity & Contentment not to be expected from so young Troops. I am Sick — discontented — and out of humour. Poor food — hard lodging — Cold Weather — fatigue — Nasty Cloaths — nasty Cookery — Vomit half my time — smoak'd out of my senses — the Devil's in't — I can't Endure it — Why are we sent here to starve and freeze — What sweet Felicities have I left at home ; — A charming Wife — pretty Children — Good Beds — good food — good Cookery — all agreeable — all harmonious. Here, all Confusion — smoke Cold — hunger & filthyness — A pox on my bad luck. Here comes a bowl of beef soup — full of burnt leaves and dirt, sickish enough to make a hector spue, away — with it Boys I'll live like the Chameleon upon Air. Poh ! Poh ! crys Patience within me — you talk like a fool. Your being sick Covers your mind with a Melanchollic Gloom, which makes every thing about you appear gloomy. See the poor Soldier, when in health — with what chearfullness he meets his foes and encounters every hardship — if barefoot — he labours thro' the Mud & Cold with a Song in his mouth extolling War & Washington — if his food be bad — he eats it
