Chapter IV (1)

TRAVELS IN ALBANIA, GREECE, ETC.--DEATH OF MRS. BYRON.

1809-1811.

123.--To his Mother.

Falmouth, June 22, 1809.

DEAR MOTHER,--I am about to sail in a few days; probably before this
reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, that I have continued him in my
service. If he does not behave well abroad, I will send him back in a
_transport_. I have a German servant (who has been with Mr. Wilbraham
in Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me by Dr. Butler, of
Harrow), Robert and William; [1] they constitute my whole suite. I
have letters in plenty:--you shall hear from me at the different ports
I touch upon; but you must not be alarmed if my letters miscarry. The
Continent is in a fine state--an insurrection has broken out at Paris,
and the Austrians are beating Buonaparte--the Tyrolese have risen.

There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down to Newstead soon. [2]
--I wish the Miss Pigots had something better to do than carry my
miniatures to Nottingham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask
them to copy the others, which are greater favourites than my own. As
to money matters, I am ruined--at least till Rochdale is sold; and if
that does not turn out well, I shall enter into the Austrian or
Russian service--perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The
world is all before me, and I leave England without regret, and
without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, except _yourself_,
and your present residence.

Believe me, yours ever sincerely.

P.S.--Pray tell Mr. Rushton his son is well, and doing well; so is
Murray, [3] indeed better than I ever saw him; he will be back in
about a month. I ought to add the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as
his age perhaps will prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with
me; I like him, because, like myself, he seems a friendless animal.

[Footnote 1: Robert Rushton and William Fletcher, the "little page" and "staunch yeoman" of Childe Harold's "Good Night," Canto I. stanza xiii.]

[Footnote 2: By George Sanders.]

[Footnote 3: "Joe" Murray was sent back from Gibraltar, and with him returned the homesick Robert Rushton.

124.--To the Rev. Henry Drury.

Falmouth, June 28, 1809.

MY DEAR DRURY,--We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having been
detained till now by the lack of wind, and other necessaries. These
being at last procured, by this time tomorrow evening we shall be
embarked on the vide vorld of vaters, vor all the vorld like Robinson
Crusoe. The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have
determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants term it, to see
"that there "'Portingale'"--thence to Cadiz and Gibraltar, and so on
our old route to Malta and Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd,
our gallant, or rather gallows, commander, understands plain sailing
and Mercator, and takes us on a voyage all according to the chart.

Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the treasure of a servant,
Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, into my service from his
recommendation? He has been all among the Worshippers of Fire in
Persia, and has seen Persepolis and all that.

Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book on his return; 100
pens, two gallons of Japan Ink, and several volumes of best blank, is
no bad provision for a discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but
have promised to contribute a chapter on the state of morals, and a
further treatise on the same to be intituled "..., 'Simplified,... or
Proved to be Praiseworthy from Ancient Authors and Modern Practice.'"

Hobhouse further hopes to indemnify himself in Turkey for a life of
exemplary chastity at home. Pray buy his 'Missellingany', as the
Printer's Devil calls it. I suppose it is in print by this time.
Providence has interposed in our favour with a fair wind to carry us
out of its reach, or he would have hired a Faqui to translate it into
the Turcoman lingo.

"The cock is crowing,
I must be going,
And can no more."

'Ghost of Gaffer Thumb'. [1]
Adieu.--Believe me, etc., etc.

[Footnote 1: In Fielding's burlesque tragedy, 'The Tragedy of Tragedies; or the Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great'(1730), occur the lines--

"Arthur, beware; I must this moment hence,
Not frighted by your voice, but by the cock's."

The burlesque was altered by Kane O'Hara, and published as performed at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, in 1805. In this prompt-book version (act i.) appear the lines quoted by Byron.

"'Ghost'. Grizzle's Rebellion,
What need I tell you on?
Or by a red cow
Tom Thumb devoured?
('cock crows') Hark the cock crowing!
I must be going:
I can no more {'vanishes'}."]

125.--To Francis Hodgson.

Falmouth, June 25, 1809.

MY DEAR HODGSON,--Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers'
wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto subalterns for the
troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, in all nineteen
souls, will have sailed in the Lisbon packet, with the noble Captain
Kidd, a gallant commander as ever smuggled an anker of right Nantz.

We are going to Lisbon first, because the Malta packet has sailed,
d'ye see?--from Lisbon to Gibraltar, Malta, Constantinople, and "all
that," as Orator Henley said, when he put the Church, and "all that,"
in danger. [1]

This town of Falmouth, as you will partly conjecture, is no great ways
from the sea. It is defended on the sea-side by tway castles, St. Maws
and Pendennis, extremely well calculated for annoying every body
except an enemy. St. Maws is garrisoned by an able-bodied person of
fourscore, a widower. He has the whole command and sole management of
six most unmanageable pieces of ordnance, admirably adapted for the
destruction of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the opposite
side of the Channel. We have seen St. Maws, but Pendennis they will
not let us behold, save at a distance, because Hobhouse and I are
suspected of having already taken St. Maws by a coup de main.

The town contains many Quakers and salt fish--the oysters have a taste
of copper, owing to the soil of a mining country--the women (blessed
be the Corporation therefor!) are flogged at the cart's tail when they
pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sex yesterday noon. She
was pertinacious in her behaviour, and damned the mayor.

This is all I know of Falmouth. Nothing occurred of note in our way
down, except that on Hartford Bridge we changed horses at an inn,
where the great----, Beckford, [2] sojourned for the night. We tried
in vain to see the martyr of prejudice, but could not. What we thought
singular, though you perhaps will not, was that Ld Courtney [3]
travelled the same night on the same road, only one stage _behind_ him.

Hodgson, remember me to the Drury, and remember me to yourself when
drunk. I am not worth a sober thought. Look to my satire at
Cawthorn's, Cockspur Street, and look to the 'Miscellany' of the
Hobhouse. It has pleased Providence to interfere in behalf of a
suffering public by giving him a sprained wrist, so that he cannot
write, and there is a cessation of ink-shed.

I don't know when I can write again, because it depends on that
experienced navigator, Captain Kidd, and the "stormy winds that
(don't) blow" at this season. I leave England without regret--I shall
return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict
sentenced to transportation, but I have no Eve, and have eaten no
apple but what was sour as a crab;--and thus ends my first chapter.
Adieu. [4]

Yours, etc.

[Footnote 1: Henley, in one of his publications entitled 'Oratory Transactions', engaged

"to execute singly what would sprain a dozen of modern doctors of the
tribe of Issachar--to write, read, and study twelve hours a day, and
yet appear as untouched by the yoke as if he never wore it--to teach
in one year what schools or universities teach in five;" and he
furthermore pledged himself to persevere in his bold scheme until he
had "put the church,--and all that--, in danger."

(Moore).]

[Footnote 2: William Beckford (1760-1844), son of Chatham's friend who was twice Lord Mayor of London, at the age of eleven succeeded it is said, to a million of ready money and a hundred thousand a year. Before he was seventeen he wrote his 'Biographical Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters', designed as a satire on the 'Vies des Peintres Flamands', ('Memoirs of William Beckford', by Cyrus Redding, vol. i. p. 96.) His travels (1777-82) in Switzerland, the Low Countries, and Italy are described in his 'Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents, in a series of letters from various parts of Europe', published anonymously in 1783, and reprinted, with additions and omissions, in 1834 and 1840. In the previous year he had written 'Vathek' in French, in "three days and two nights," without, as he says, taking off his clothes; "the severe application made me very ill." This statement, if made by Beckford, as Redding implies, is untrue. Evidence exists to prove that 'Vathek' was a careful and elaborate composition. The book was published with his name in 1787; but a translation, made and printed without his leave, had already (1784) appeared, and was often mistaken for the original. In 1783 he married Lady Margaret Gordon, with whom he lived in Switzerland till her death in 1786. One of his two daughters--he had no son--became Mrs. Orde, the other the Duchess of Hamilton. From 1787 to 1791, and again from 1794 to 1796, he visited Portugal and Spain, and to this period belong his 'Sketches of Spain and Portugal' (1834), and his 'Recollections of an Excursion to the 'Monasteries of Alobaca and Batalha' (1835). Between his two visits to Portugal, on the last of which he occupied the retreat at Cintra celebrated by Byron ('Childe Harold', Canto I. stanzas xviii.-xxii.), he saw the destruction of the Bastille, bought Gibbon's library at Lausanne (in 1796), and, shutting himself up in it "for six weeks, from early in the morning until night, only now and then taking "a ride," read himself "nearly blind" (Cyrus Redding's "Recollections of the Author of Vathek," 'New Monthly Magazine', vol. lxxi. p. 307). He also wrote two burlesque novels, to ridicule, it is said, those written by his sister, Mrs. Henry: 'Azemia; a Descriptive and Sentimental Novel. By Jacquetta Agneta Mariana Jenks of Bellgrove Priory in Wales' (1796); and 'Modern Novel-Writing, or the Elegant Enthusiast. By the Rt. Hon. Lady Harriet Marlow'(1797). He represented Wells from 1784 to 1790, and Hindon from 1806 to 1820; but took no part in political life. He was now settled at Fonthill (1796-1822), absorbed in collecting books, pictures, and engravings, laying out the grounds, indulging his architectural extravagances, and shutting himself and his palace out from the world by a gigantic wall. When Rogers visited him at Fonthill, and arrived at the gate, he was told that neither his servant nor his horses could be admitted, but that Mr. Beckford's attendants and horses would be at his service ('Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers', p. 217). Beckford had been taught music by Mozart, and Rogers says ('ibid'.) that "in the evening Beckford would amuse us by reading one of his unpublished works; or he would extemporize on the pianoforte, producing the most novel and charming melodies."

In 1822 his gigantic fortune had dwindled; he was in embarrassed circumstances; Fonthill and most of its contents were sold, and Beckford settled in Lansdowne Terrace, Bath, where he still collected books and works of art, laid out the grounds, and built the tower on Lansdowne Hill, which are now the property of the city. At Bath he died in 1844.

'Vathek' is a masterpiece, which, as an Eastern tale, is unrivalled in European literature.

"For correctness of costume," says Byron, in one of his diaries,
"beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all
European imitations; and bears such marks of originality, that those
who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to
be a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 'Rasselas' must bow before
it: his 'Happy Valley' will not bear a comparison with the Hall of
Eblis."

Beckford's letters are, in their way, equally masterpieces, and, like 'Vathek', have the appearance of being struck off without labour. Reprinted, as their writer says (Preface to the edition of 1840), because "some justly admired Authors... condescended to glean a few stray thoughts from these letters," they suggest, in some respects, comparison with Byron's own work. There is the same prodigality of power, the same simple nervous style, the same vein of melancholy, the same cynical contempt for mankind. In both writers there is a passionate feeling for the grander aspects of nature, though Beckford was also thrilled, as Byron was not, by the beauties of art. In both there are similar inconsistencies and incongruities of temperament, and the same vein of reckless self-indulgence appears to run by the side of nobler enthusiasms. In both there is a taste for Oriental magnificence, which, in Beckford, was to some degree corrected by his artistic perceptions. Both, finally, described not so much the objects they saw, as the impression which those objects produced on themselves, and thus steeped their pictures, clear and vivid though they are, in an atmosphere of their own personality.]

[Footnote 3: William, third Viscount Courtenay, died unmarried in 1835, and with him the viscountcy became extinct. In 1831 he proved before Parliament his title to the earldom of Devon, which passed at his death to a cousin, William, tenth Earl of Devon (1777-1859).]

[Footnote 4: In this letter the following verses were enclosed:-- "Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

"Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired,
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the Custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient--push from shore.
'Have a care! that case holds liquor--
Stop the boat--I'm sick--oh Lord!'
'Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board.'
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
'Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in--
Who the deuce can harbour there?'
'Who, sir? plenty--
Nobles twenty--
Did at once my vessel fill'--
'Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still:
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket,
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.'

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls;
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth--and damns our souls.
'Here's a stanza
On Braganza--
Help!'--'A couplet?'--'No, a cup
Of warm water.'--
'What's the matter?'
'Zounds! my liver's coming up;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.'

Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing--
Who the devil cares for more?--
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

"BYRON."

126.--To Francis Hodgson.

Lisbon, July 16, 1809.

Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous
sights, palaces, convents, etc.;--which, being to be heard in my
friend Hobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate
by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and
clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in
Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world.

I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin to
the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,--and I goes
into society (with my pocket-pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all
across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears
Portuguese, and have got a diarrhoea and bites from the mosquitoes.
But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a
pleasuring.

When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say 'Carracho!'--the great
oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of
"Damme,"--and, when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce him
'Ambra di merdo'. With these two phrases, and a third, 'Avra louro',
which signifieth "Get an ass," I am universally understood to be a
person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily we lives that
travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sober sadness, any
thing is better than England, and I am infinitely amused with my
pilgrimage as far as it has gone.

To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far as Gibraltar,
where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find
me, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and
Dwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's
donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility.

Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capital
crimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear of
literary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All this
will be pleasant--'Suave mari magno', etc. Talking of that, I have
been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. Adieu.

Yours faithfully, etc.

127.--To Francis Hodgson.

Gibraltar, August 6, 1809.

I have just arrived at this place after a journey through Portugal,
and a part of Spain, of nearly 500 miles. We left Lisbon and travelled
on horseback to Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the 'Hyperion'
frigate to Gibraltar. The horses are excellent--we rode seventy miles
a day. Eggs and wine, and hard beds, are all the accommodation we
found, and, in such torrid weather, quite enough. My health is better
than in England.

Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, part of which we
crossed, a very sufficient mountain; but damn description, it is
always disgusting. Cadiz, sweet Cadiz! [1]--it is the first spot in
the creation. The beauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled
by the loveliness of its inhabitants. For, with all national
prejudice, I must confess the women of Cadiz are as far superior to
the English women in beauty as the Spaniards are inferior to the
English in every quality that dignifies the name of man. Just as I
began to know the principal persons of the city, I was obliged to
sail.

You will not expect a long letter after my riding so far "on hollow
pampered jades of Asia." Talking of Asia puts me in mind of Africa,
which is within five miles of my present residence. I am going over
before I go on to Constantinople.

Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many of the grandees who have left Madrid
during the troubles reside there, and I do believe it is the prettiest
and cleanest town in Europe. London is filthy in the comparison. The
Spanish women are all alike, their education the same. The wife of a
duke is, in information, as the wife of a peasant,--the wife of
peasant, in manner, equal to a duchess. Certainly they are
fascinating; but their minds have only one idea, and the business of
their lives is intrigue.

I have seen Sir John Carr [2] at Seville and Cadiz, and, like Swift's
barber, have been down on my knees to beg he would not put me into
black and white [3]. Pray remember me [4] to the Drurys and the Davies,
and all of that stamp who are yet extant. Send me a letter and news to
Malta. My next epistle shall be from Mount Caucasus or Mount Sion. I
shall return to Spain before I see England, for I am enamoured of the
country. Adieu, and believe me, etc.

[Footnote 1: In 'Childe Harold' (Canto I., after stanza lxxxiv.), instead of the song "To Inez," Byron originally wrote the song beginning

"Oh never talk again to me
Of northern climes and British ladies,
It has not been your lot to see,
Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz."]

[Footnote 2: Sir John Carr (1772-1832), a native of Devonshire, and a barrister of the Middle Temple, was knighted by the Duke of Bedford as Viceroy of Ireland about 1807. He published 'The Fury of Discord, a Poem' (1803); 'The Sea-side Hero, a Drama in 3 Acts' (1804); and 'Poems'(1809). But he is best known by his travels, which gained him the nickname of "Jaunting Carr," and considerable profit. 'The Stranger in France' (1803) was bought by Johnson for £100. 'A Northern Summer, or Travels round the Baltic, etc._(1805), 'The Stranger in Ireland' (1806), and 'A Tour through Holland_(1807), were bought for £500, £700, and £600 respectively by Sir Richard Phillips, who, but for the ridicule cast upon Carr by Edward Dubois (in 'My Pocket Book; or Hints for a Ryhte Merrie and Conceited Tour in Quarto, to be called "The Stranger in Ireland in 1805," by a Knight Errant'), would have given £600 for his 'Caledonian Sketches' (1808). In spite, however, of this proof of damages, the jury found, in Carr's action against Messrs. Hood and Sharpe, the publishers of 'My Pocket Book', that the criticism was fair and justifiable (1808). Carr published, in 1811, his 'Descriptive Travels in the Southern and Eastern Parts of Spain', without mentioning Byron's name. Byron concluded his MS. of 'Childe Harold', Canto I. with three stanzas on "Green Erin's Knight and Europe's Wandering Star" (see, for the lines, 'Childe Harold', at the end of Canto I.). In letter vii. of 'Intercepted Letters; or the Twopenny Post-bag', by Thomas Brown the Younger (1813), occur the following lines:--

"Since the Chevalier C--rr took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a 'Traveller' greatly--
No job, Sir, more easy--your 'Country' once plann'd,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand."]

[Footnote 3:

"Once stopping at an inn at Dundalk, the Dean was so much amused with
a prating barber, that rather than be alone he invited him to dinner.
The fellow was rejoiced at this unexpected honour, and being dressed
out in his best apparel came to the inn, first inquiring of the groom
what the clergyman's name was who had so kindly invited him. 'What the
vengeance!' said the servant,' don't you know Dean Swift?' At which
the barber turned pale, and, running into the house, fell upon his
knees and intreated the Dean 'not to put him into print; for that he
was a poor barber, had a large family to maintain, and if his
reverence put him into black and white he should lose all his
customers.' Swift laughed heartily at the poor fellow's simplicity,
bade him sit down and eat his dinner in peace, for he assured him he
would neither put him nor his wife in print."

Sheridan's 'Life of Swift'.--(Moore).]

[Footnote 4:

"This sort of passage," says the Rev. Francis Hodgson, in a note on
his copy of this letter, "constantly occurs in his correspondence. Nor
was his interest confined to mere remembrances and inquiries after
health. Were it possible to state 'all' he has done for numerous
friends, he would appear amiable indeed. For myself, I am bound to
acknowledge, in the fullest and warmest manner, his most generous and
well-timed aid; and, were my poor friend Bland alive, he would as
gladly bear the like testimony;--though I have most reason, of all
men, to do so."

(Moore).]

128.--To his Mother.

Gibraltar, August 11th, 1809.

Dear Mother,-I have been so much occupied since my departure from
England, that till I could address you at length I have forborne
writing altogether. As I have now passed through Portugal, and a
considerable part of Spain, and have leisure at this place, I shall
endeavour to give you a short detail of my movements.

We sailed from Falmouth on the 2nd of July, reached Lisbon after a
very favourable passage of four days and a half, and took up our abode
in that city. It has been often described without being worthy of
description; for, except the view from the Tagus, which is beautiful,
and some fine churches and convents, it contains little but filthy
streets, and more filthy inhabitants. To make amends for this, the
village of Cintra, about fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps
in every respect, the most delightful in Europe; it contains beauties
of every description, natural and artificial. Palaces and gardens
rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and precipices; convents on
stupendous heights--a distant view of the sea and the Tagus; and,
besides (though that is a secondary consideration), is remarkable as
the scene of Sir Hew Dalrymple's Convention.[1] It unites in itself
all the wildness of the western highlands, with the verdure of the
south of France. Near this place, about ten miles to the right, is the
palace of Mafra, the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any other
country, in point of magnificence without elegance. There is a convent
annexed; the monks, who possess large revenues, are courteous enough,
and understand Latin, so that we had a long conversation: they have a
large library, and asked me if the _English_ had _any books_ in their
country?

I sent my baggage, and part of the servants, by sea to Gibraltar, and
travelled on horseback from Aldea Galbega (the first stage from
Lisbon, which is only accessible by water) to Seville (one of the most
famous cities in Spain), where the Government called the Junta is now
held. The distance to Seville is nearly four hundred miles, and to
Cadiz almost ninety farther towards the coast. I had orders from the
governments, and every possible accommodation on the road, as an
English nobleman, in an English uniform, is a very respectable
personage in Spain at present. The horses are remarkably good, and the
roads (I assure you upon my honour, for you will hardly believe it)
very far superior to the best English roads, without the smallest toll
or turnpike. You will suppose this when I rode post to Seville, in
four days, through this parching country in the midst of summer,
without fatigue or annoyance.

Seville is a beautiful town; though the streets are narrow, they are
clean. We lodged in the house of two Spanish unmarried ladies, who
possess _six_ houses in Seville, and gave me a curious specimen of
Spanish manners. They are women of character, and the eldest a fine
woman, the youngest pretty, but not so good a figure as Donna Josepha.
The freedom of manner, which is general here, astonished me not a
little; and in the course of further observation, I find that reserve
is not the characteristic of the Spanish belles, who are, in general,
very handsome, with large black eyes, and very fine forms. The eldest
honoured your _unworthy_ son with very particular attention, embracing
him with great tenderness at parting (I was there but three days),
after cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of
her own, about three feet in length, which I send, and beg you will
retain till my return. Her last words were, _Adios, tu hermoso! me
gusto mucho_--"Adieu, you pretty fellow! you please me much." She
offered me a share of her apartment, which my _virtue_ induced me to
decline; she laughed, and said I had some English _amante_ (lover),
and added that she was going to be married to an officer in the
Spanish army.

I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a beautiful country. At
_Xeres_, where the sherry we drink is made, I met a great merchant--a
Mr. Gordon of Scotland--who was extremely polite, and favoured me with
the inspection of his vaults and cellars, so that I quaffed at the
fountain head.

Cadiz, sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town I ever beheld, very
different from our English cities in every respect except cleanliness
(and it is as clean as London), but still beautiful, and full of the
finest women in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lancashire witches
of their land. Just as I was introduced and began to like the
grandees, I was forced to leave it for this cursed place; but before I
return to England I will visit it again. The night before I left it, I
sat in the box at the opera with Admiral Cordova's family; [2] he is
the commander whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 1797, and has an aged
wife and a fine daughter, Sennorita Cordova. The girl is very pretty,
in the Spanish style; in my opinion, by no means inferior to the
English in charms, and certainly superior in fascination. Long black
hair, dark languishing eyes, _clear_ olive complexions, and forms more
graceful in motion than can be conceived by an Englishman used to the
drowsy, listless air of his countrywomen, added to the most becoming
dress, and, at the same time, the most decent in the world, render a
Spanish beauty irresistible.

I beg leave to observe that intrigue here is the business of life;
when a woman marries she throws off all restraint, but I believe their
conduct is chaste enough before. If you make a proposal, which in
England will bring a box on the ear from the meekest of virgins, to a
Spanish girl, she thanks you for the honour you intend her, and
replies, "Wait till I am married, and I shall be too happy." This is
literally and strictly true.

Miss Cordova and her little brother understood a little French, and,
after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, she proposed to become
my preceptress in that language. I could only reply by a low bow, and
express my regret that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit me to make
the progress which would doubtless attend my studies under so charming
a directress. I was standing at the back of the box, which resembles
our Opera boxes, (the theatre is large and finely decorated, the music
admirable,) in the manner which Englishmen generally adopt, for fear
of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fair Spaniard
dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a duenna) of her chair, and
commanded me to be seated next herself, at a tolerable distance from
her mamma. At the close of the performance I withdrew, and was
lounging with a party of men in the passage, when, _en passant,_ the
lady turned round and called me, and I had the honour of attending her
to the admiral's mansion. I have an invitation on my return to Cadiz,
which I shall accept if I repass through the country on my return from
Asia. [3]

I have met Sir John Carr, Knight Errant, at Seville and Cadiz. He is a
pleasant man. I like the Spaniards much. You have heard of the battle
near Madrid, [4] and in England they would call it a victory--a pretty
victory! Two hundred officers and five thousand men killed, all
English, and the French in as great force as ever. I should have
joined the army, but we have no time to lose before we get up the
Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going over to Africa tomorrow; it
is only six miles from this fortress. My next stage is Cagliari in
Sardinia, where I shall be presented to His Majesty. I have a most
superb uniform as a court dress, indispensable in travelling.

_August 13._--I have not yet been to Africa--the wind is contrary--but
I dined yesterday at Algesiras, with Lady Westmorland, [5] where I met
General Castanos, the celebrated Spanish leader in the late and
present war. To-day I dine with him. He has offered me letters to
Tetuan in Barbary, for the principal Moors, and I am to have the house
for a few days of one of the great men, which was intended for Lady
W., whose health will not permit her to cross the Straits.

_August 15_.--I could not dine with Castanos [6] yesterday, but this
afternoon I had that honour. He is pleasant and, for aught I know to
the contrary, clever. I cannot go to Barbary. The Malta packet sails
to-morrow, and myself in it. Admiral Purvis, with whom I dined at
Cadiz, gave me a passage in a frigate to Gibraltar, but we have no
ship of war destined for Malta at present. The packets sail fast, and
have good accommodation. You shall hear from me on our route.

Joe Murray delivers this; I have sent him and the boy back. Pray show
the lad kindness, as he is my great favourite; I would have taken him
on. And say this to his father, who may otherwise think he has behaved
ill. I hope this will find you well. Believe me,

Yours ever sincerely,

BYRON.

P.S.--So Lord G----[7] is married to a rustic. Well done! If I wed, I
will bring home a Sultana, with half a dozen cities for a dowry, and
reconcile you to an Ottoman daughter-in-law, with a bushel of pearls
not larger than ostrich eggs, or smaller than walnuts.

[Footnote 1: Sir Hew Whitefoord Dalrymple (1750-1830) took command of the British forces in the Peninsular War, August 22, 1808, and signed the Convention of Cintra (August 31), by which Junot, whom Sir Arthur Wellesley had defeated at Vimeira, evacuated Portugal, and surrendered Elvas and Lisbon. The Convention was approved by a court of general officers ordered to sit at Chelsea Hospital; but Dalrymple never again obtained a command.

The so-called Convention of Cintra was signed at the palace of the Marquis de Marialva, thirty miles distant.]

[Footnote 2: Admiral Cordova commanded the Spanish Fleet, defeated, February 14, 1797, off Cape St. Vincent, by Sir John Jervis, afterwards Earl St. Vincent.]

[Footnote 3: To these adventures in his hasty passage through Spain Byron briefly alludes in the early part of his _Memoranda._

"For some time," he said, "I went on prosperously both as a linguist
and a lover, till at length the lady took a fancy to a ring which I
wore, and set her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge of my
sincerity. This, however, could not be:--any thing but the ring, I
declared, was at her service, and much more than its value,--but the
ring itself I had made a vow never to give away." The young Spaniard
grew angry as the contention went on, and it was not long before the
lover became angry also; till, at length, the affair ended by their
separating. "Soon after this," said he, "I sailed for Malta, and there
parted with both my heart and ring."

('Life', p.93). He also alludes to the incident in 'Don Juan', Canto II, stanza clxiv.--

"'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue
By female lips and eyes--that is, I mean,
When both the teacher and the taught are young,
As was the case, at least, where I have been,"

etc.]

[Footnote 4: The battle of Talavera, July 27 and 28, 1809, in which Sir Arthur Wellesley defeated Marshal Victor. In Cuesta's despatch to the Spanish Government, dated Seville, August 7, the British loss is mentioned as 260 officers and 5000 men.]

[Footnote 5: Lady Westmorland, _nee_ Jane Saunders, daughter of Dr. R. H. Saunders, married, in 1800, as his second wife, John, tenth Earl of Westmorland (1759-1841). At her house Lady Caroline Lamb refused to be introduced to Byron (_Life of Lord Melbourne,_ vol. i. p.103).

[Footnote 6: General Francisco de Castanos, Duke of Baylen (1758-1852) defeated General Dupont at Baylen in 1808, and distinguished himself at Vittoria in 1813. He was guardian to Queen Isabella in 1843.]

[Footnote 7: Lord Grey de Ruthyn. (See page 23 [Letter 8], [Foot]note 1.)]

129.--To Mr. Rushton.

Gibraltar, August 15, 1809.

Mr. Rushton,--I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because the
country which I am about to travel through is in a state which renders
it unsafe, particularly for one so young. I allow you to deduct
five-and-twenty pounds a year for his education for three years,
provided I do not return before that time, and I desire he may be
considered as in my service. Let every care be taken of him, and let
him be sent to school. In case of my death I have provided enough in
my will to render him independent. He has behaved extremely well, and
has travelled a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct the
expense of his education from your rent.

BYRON.

130.--To his Mother.

Malta, September 15, 1809.

Dear Mother,--Though I have a very short time to spare, being to sail
immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid taking an opportunity of
telling you that I am well. I have been in Malta [1] a short time, and
have found the inhabitants hospitable and pleasant.

This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary woman,
whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape
the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. [2] She
has since been shipwrecked, and her life has been from its
commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance
they would appear improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where
her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian Ambassador; married unhappily,
yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the
vengeance of Buonaparte by a part in some conspiracy; several times
risked her life; and is not yet twenty-five. She is here on her way to
England, to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where
she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French,
and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here, I have had
scarcely any other companion. I have found her very pretty, very
accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even now so
incensed against her, that her life would be in some danger if she
were taken prisoner a second time.

You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, and received my letter.
Little has happened since that date. I have touched at Cagliari in
Sardinia, and at Girgenti in Sicily, and embark to-morrow for Patras,
from whence I proceed to Yanina, where Ali Pacha holds his court. So I
shall soon be among the Mussulmans. Adieu. Believe me, with sincerity,
yours ever,

BYRON.

[Footnote 1: At Gibraltar, John Galt, who was travelling for his health, met Byron, whom he did not know by sight, but by whose appearance he was attracted.

"His dress indicated a Londoner of some fashion, partly by its
neatness and simplicity, with just so much of a peculiarity of style
as served to show that, although he belonged to the order of
metropolitan beaux, he was not altogether a common one ... His
physiognomy was prepossessing and intelligent, but ever and anon his
brows lowered and gathered--a habit, as I then thought, with a degree
of affectation in it, probably first assumed for picturesque effect
and energetic expression, but which I afterwards discovered was
undoubtedly the scowl of some unpleasant reminiscence; it was
certainly disagreeable, forbidding, but still the general cast of his
features was impressed with elegance and character."

Afterwards Galt was a fellow-passenger on board the packet from Gibraltar to Malta.

"In the little bustle and process of embarking their luggage, his
Lordship affected, as it seemed to me, more aristocracy than befitted
his years, or the occasion; and then I thought of his singular scowl,
and suspected him of pride and irascibility. The impression that
evening was not agreeable, but it was interesting; and that forehead
mark, the frown, was calculated to awaken curiosity, and beget
conjectures ... Byron held himself aloof, and sat on the rail, leaning
on the mizzen shrouds, inhaling, as it were, poetical sympathy from
the gloomy rock, then dark and stern in the twilight. There was, in
all about him that evening, much waywardness. He spoke petulantly to
Fletcher, his valet, and was evidently ill at ease with himself, and
fretful towards others. I thought he would turn out an unsatisfactory
shipmate; yet there was something redeeming in the tones of his voice,
and when, some time after having indulged his sullen meditation he
again addressed Fletcher; so that, instead of finding him ill-natured,
I was soon convinced he was only capricious."

On the voyage,

"about the third day, Byron relented from his rapt mood, as if he felt
it was out of place, and became playful, and disposed to contribute
his fair proportion to the general endeavour to while away the
tediousness of the dull voyage."

But yet throughout the whole passage,

"if," says Galt, "my remembrance is not treacherous, he only spent one
evening in the cabin with us--the evening before we came to anchor at
Cagliari; for, when the lights were placed, he made himself a man
forbid, took his station on the railing, between the pegs on which the
sheets are belayed and the shrouds, and there, for hours, sat in
silence, enamoured, it may be, of the moon. All these peculiarities,
with his caprices, and something inexplicable in the cast of his
metaphysics, while they served to awaken interest, contributed little
to conciliate esteem. He was often strangely rapt--it may have been
from his genius; and, had its grandeur and darkness been then
divulged, susceptible of explanation; but, at the time, it threw, as
it were, around him the sackcloth of penitence. Sitting amid the
shrouds and rattlings, in the tranquillity of the moonlight, churning
an inarticulate melody, he seemed almost apparitional, suggesting dim
reminiscences of him who shot the albatross"

(Galt's 'Life of Byron', pp. 57-61).]

[Footnote 2: Byron's "new Calypso." Mrs. Spencer Smith (born about 1785) was the daughter of Baron Herbert, Austrian Ambassador at Constantinople, wife of Spencer Smith, the British Minister at Stuttgart, and sister-in-law of Sir Sidney Smith, the hero of Acre. In 1805 she was staying, for her health, at the baths of Valdagno, near Vicenza, when the Napoleonic wars overspread Northern Italy, and she took refuge with her sister, the Countess Attems, at Venice. In 1806 General Lauriston took over the government of the city in the name of Napoleon, and M. de La Garde was appointed Prefect of the Police. A few days after their arrival, on April 18, Mrs. Smith was arrested, and, guarded by 'gendarmes', conveyed towards the Italian frontier, to be confined, as La Garde told a Sicilian nobleman, the Marquis de Salvo, at Valenciennes. Mrs. Smith's beauty and impending fate deeply impressed the marquis, who determined to rescue her. The prisoner and her guard had reached Brescia, and were lodged at the 'Albergo delle due Torre', The opportunity seemed favourable. Once across the Guarda Lake, and in the passes of Tyrol, it would be easy to reach Styria. The marquis made his arrangements--hired two boats, one for the fugitives, the other for their post-chaise and horses; procured for Mrs. Smith a boy's dress, as a disguise; made a ladder long enough to reach her window in the inn, and succeeded in making known his plan to the prisoner. The escape was effected; but all along the road the danger continued, for their way lay through a country which was practically French territory. It was not till they reached Gratz, and Mrs. Smith was under the roof of her sister, the Countess Strassoldo, that she was safe. The story is told in detail by the Marquis de Salvo, in his 'Travels in the Year 1806 from Italy to England' (1807), and by the Duchesse d'Abrantes ('Memoires,' vol. xv. pp. 1-74).

To Mrs. Spencer Smith are addressed the "Lines to Florence," the "Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm" (near Zitza, in October, 1809), and stanzas xxx.-xxxii. of the second canto of 'Childe Harold.' The Duchesse d'Abrantés ('Mémoires', vol. xv. pp. 4, 5) thus describes her:

"Une jeune femme, dont la délicate et elégante tournure, la peau
blanche et diaphane, les cheveux blonds, les mouvemens onduleux, toute
une tournure impossible à décrire autrement qu'en disant qu'elle était
de toutes les créatures la plus gracieuse, lui donnaient l'aspect
d'une de ces apparitions amenées par un rêve heureux... il y avail de
la Sylphide en elle. Sa vue excessivement basse n'etait qu'un charme
de plus."

Moore ('Life,' p. 95) thinks that Byron was less in love with Mrs. Smith than with his recollection of her. According to Gait ('Life of Byron,' p. 66),

"he affected a passion for her, but it was only Platonic. She,
however, beguiled him of his valuable yellow diamond ring."]

131.--To his Mother.

Prevesa, November 12, 1809.

My Dear Mother,--I have now been some time in Turkey: this place is on
the coast, but I have traversed the interior of the province of
Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left Malta in the _Spider,_ a brig
of war, on the 21st of September, and arrived in eight days at
Prevesa. I thence have been about 150 miles, as far as Tepaleen, his
Highness's country palace, where I stayed three days. The name of the
Pacha is _Ali_ [1] and he is considered a man of the first abilities:
he governs the whole of Albania (the ancient Illyricum), Epirus, and
part of Macedonia. His son, Vely Pacha, [2] to whom he has given me
letters, governs the Morea, and has great influence in Egypt; in
short, he is one of the most powerful men in the Ottoman empire. When
I reached Yanina, the capital, after a journey of three days over the
mountains, through a country of the most picturesque beauty, I found
that Ali Pacha was with his army in Illyricum, besieging Ibrahim Pacha
in the castle of Berat. He had heard that an Englishman of rank was in
his dominions, and had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to
provide a house, and supply me with every kind of necessary _gratis_;
and, though I have been allowed to make presents to the slaves, etc.,
I have not been permitted to pay for a single article of household
consumption.

I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces of himself and
grandsons: they are splendid, but too much ornamented with silk and
gold. I then went over the mountains through Zitza, [3] a village with
a Greek monastery (where I slept on my return), in the most beautiful
situation (always excepting Cintra, in Portugal) I ever beheld. In
nine days I reached Tepaleen. Our journey was much prolonged by the
torrents that had fallen from the mountains, and intersected the
roads. I shall never forget the singular scene on entering Tepaleen at
five in the afternoon, as the sun was going down. It brought to my
mind (with some change of _dress_, however) Scott's description of
Branksome Castle in his _Lay_, and the feudal system. [4] The
Albanians, in their dresses, (the most magnificent in the world,
consisting of a long _white kilt_, gold-worked cloak, crimson velvet
gold-laced jacket and waistcoat, silver-mounted pistols and daggers,)
the Tartars with their high caps, the Turks in their vast pelisses and
turbans, the soldiers and black slaves with the horses, the former in
groups in an immense large open gallery in front of the palace, the
latter placed in a kind of cloister below it, two hundred steeds ready
caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers entering or passing out with
the despatches, the kettle-drums beating, boys calling the hour from
the minaret of the mosque, altogether, with the singular appearance of
the building itself, formed a new and delightful spectacle to a
stranger. I was conducted to a very handsome apartment, and my health
inquired after by the vizier's secretary, 'à-la-mode Turque'!

The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I was dressed in a full
suit of staff uniform, with a very magnificent sabre, etc. The vizier
received me in a large room paved with marble; a fountain was playing
in the centre; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet ottomans. He
received me standing, a wonderful compliment from a Mussulman, and
made me sit down on his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for
general use, but a physician of Ali's named Femlario, who understands
Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His first question was, why, at
so early an age, I left my country?--(the Turks have no idea of
travelling for amusement). He then said, the English minister, Captain
Leake, [5] had told him I was of a great family, and desired his
respects to my mother; which I now, in the name of Ali Pacha, present
to you. He said he was certain I was a man of birth, because I had
small ears, curling hair, and little white hands, and expressed
himself pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me to consider
him as a father whilst I was in Turkey, and said he looked on me as
his son. Indeed, he treated me like a child, sending me almonds and
sugared sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. He begged
me to visit him often, and at night, when he was at leisure. I then,
after coffee and pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thrice
afterwards. It is singular that the Turks, who have no hereditary
dignities, and few great families, except the Sultans, pay so much
respect to birth; for I found my pedigree more regarded than my title.

To-day I saw the remains of the town of Actium, [6] near which Antony
lost the world, in a small bay, where two frigates could hardly
manoeuvre: a broken wall is the sole remnant. On another part of the
gulf stand the ruins of Nicopolis, built by Augustus in honour of his
victory. Last night I was at a Greek marriage; but this and a thousand
things more I have neither time nor _space_ to describe.

His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and not tall, but with a
fine face, light blue eyes, and a white beard; his manner is very
kind, and at the same time he possesses that dignity which I find
universal amongst the Turks. He has the appearance of anything but his
real character, for he is a remorseless tyrant, guilty of the most
horrible cruelties, very brave, and so good a general that they call
him the Mahometan Buonaparte. Napoleon has twice offered to make him
King of Epirus, but he prefers the English interest, and abhors the
French, as he himself told me. He is of so much consequence, that he
is much courted by both, the Albanians being the most warlike subjects
of the Sultan, though Ali is only nominally dependent on the Porte; he
has been a mighty warrior, but is as barbarous as he is successful,
roasting rebels, etc., etc. Buonaparte sent him a snuff-box with his
picture. He said the snuff-box was very well, but the picture he could
excuse, as he neither liked it nor the original. His ideas of judging
of a man's birth from ears, hands, etc., were curious enough. To me he
was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, guards, and every possible
accommodation. Our next conversations were of war and travelling,
politics and England. He called my Albanian soldier, who attends me,
and told him to protect me at all hazard; his name is Viseillie, and,
like all the Albanians, he is brave, rigidly honest, and faithful; but
they are cruel, though not treacherous, and have several vices but no
meannesses. They are, perhaps, the most beautiful race, in point of
countenance, in the world; their women are sometimes handsome also,
but they are treated like slaves, _beaten_, and, in short, complete
beasts of burden; they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying
wood, and actually repairing the highways. The men are all soldiers,
and war and the chase their sole occupations. The women are the
labourers, which after all is no great hardship in so delightful a
climate. Yesterday, the 11th of November, I bathed in the sea; to-day
is so hot that I am writing in a shady room of the English consul's,
with three doors wide open, no fire, or even _fireplace_, in the
house, except for culinary purposes.