Register
Login
Authors
Works
Reading Lists
Forums
Members
Book Auctions
Bookmark
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, ‘Ghost of Gaffer Thumb’. [1] [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, 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, 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, Now our boatmen quit their mooring, Now we’ve reach’d her, lo!
the captain, Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where
are you? Now at length we’re off for Turkey, “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 [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, [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 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, 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. I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I shall winter. [7] Two days ago I was nearly lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the captain and crew, though the storm was not violent. Fletcher yelled after his wife, the Greeks called on all the saints, the Mussulmans on Alla; the captain burst into tears and ran below deck, telling us to call on God; the sails were split, the main-yard shivered, the wind blowing fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance was to make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as Fletcher pathetically termed it) “a watery grave.” I did what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incorrigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote (an immense cloak), and lay down on deck to wait the worst. I have learnt to philosophise in my travels; and if I had not, complaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the natives, to Prevesa again; but I shall not trust Turkish sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of his own galliots to take me to Patras. I am therefore going as far as Missolonghi by land, and there have only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. Fletcher’s next epistle will be full of marvels. We were one night lost for nine hours in the mountains in a thunder-storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both cases Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in the second instance. His eyes were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying (I don’t know which), but are now recovered. When you write, address to me at Mr. Strané’s, English consul, Patras, Morea. I could tell you I know not how many incidents that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on my mind as much as they would swell my paper, and I can neither arrange them in the one, nor put them down on the other, except in the greatest confusion. I like the Albanians much; they are not all Turks; some tribes are Christians. But their religion makes little difference in their manner or conduct. They are esteemed the best troops in the Turkish service. I lived on my route, two days at once, and three days again, in a barrack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and Malta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, and was always welcome to their provision and milk. Not a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its chief, who is called Primate,) after helping us out of the Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, refused any compensation but a written paper stating that I was well received; and when I pressed him to accept a few sequins, “No,” he replied; “I wish you to love me, not to pay me.” These are his words. It is astonishing how far money goes in this country. While I was in the capital I had nothing to pay by the vizier’s order; but since, though I have generally had sixteen horses, and generally six or seven men, the expense has not been half as much as staying only three weeks in Malta, though Sir A. Ball, [8] the governor, gave me a house for nothing, and I had only one servant. By the by, I expect Hanson to remit regularly; for I am not about to stay in this province for ever. Let him write to me at Mr. Strané’s, English consul, Patras. The fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, and specie is scarce, which makes this remarkable cheapness. I am going to Athens, to study modern Greek, which differs much from the ancient, though radically similar. I have no desire to return to England, nor shall I, unless compelled by absolute want, and Hanson’s neglect; but I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as I have much to see in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into Africa, at least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all Englishmen, is very much dissatisfied, though a little reconciled to the Turks by a present of eighty piastres from the vizier, which, if you consider every thing, and the value of specie here, is nearly worth ten guineas English. He has suffered nothing but from cold, heat, and vermin, which those who lie in cottages and cross mountains in a cold country must undergo, and of which I have equally partaken with himself; but he is not valiant, and is afraid of robbers and tempests. I have no one to be remembered to in England, and wish to hear nothing from it, but that you are well, and a letter or two on business from Hanson, whom you may tell to write. I will write when I can, and beg you to believe me, Your affectionate son, BYRON. P.S.—I have some very “magnifiques” Albanian dresses, the only expensive articles in this country. They cost fifty guineas each, and have so much gold, they would cost in England two hundred. I have been introduced to Hussein Bey, [9] and Mahmout Pacha, [9] both little boys, grandchildren of Ali, at Yanina; they are totally unlike our lads, have painted complexions like rouged dowagers, large black eyes, and features perfectly regular. They are the prettiest little animals I ever saw, and are broken into the court ceremonies already. The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head, with the hand on the heart; intimates always kiss. Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me again; we are friends without understanding each other, like many other folks, though from a different cause. He has given me a letter to his father in the Morea, to whom I have also letters from Ali Pacha. [Footnote 1: Ali Pasha (1741-1822) was born in Albania, at Tepeleni, a town 75 miles north of Janina, of which his father was governor. This “Mahometan Buonaparte,” or “Rob Roy of Albania,” made himself the supreme ruler of Epirus and Albania, acquired a predominance over the Agas of Thessaly, and pushed his troops to the frontiers of ancient Attica (see Raumer’s ‘Historisches Taschenbuch,’ pp. 87-175). A merciless and unscrupulous tyrant, he was also a fine soldier and a born administrator. Intriguing now with the Porte, now with Buonaparte, now with the English, using the rival despots of the country against each other, hand in glove with the brigands while commanding the police for their suppression, he extended his power by using conflicting interests to aggrandize himself. The Venetian possessions on the eastern shores of the Adriatic, which had passed in 1797 to France, by the treaty of Campo Formio, were wrested from the French by Ali, who defeated General La Salsette (1798) in the plains of Nicopolis, and, with the exception of Parga, seized and held the principal towns in the name of the Sultan. Byron speaks of his “aged venerable face” in ‘Childe Harold’ (Canto II. stanza lxii.; see also stanza xlvii.), and of the delicacy of his hand in ‘Don Juan’ (Canto IV. stanza xlv.), and finds in his treatment of “Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro or Scutari (I am not sure which),” the material for stanzas xiv., xv. of Canto II. of ‘The Bride of Abydos’. Hobhouse (’Journey through Albania’, edit. 1854, vol. i. pp. 96, 97) describes Ali as “a short man, about five feet five inches in height, and very fat, though not particularly corpulent. He had a very pleasing face, fair and round, with blue quick eyes, not at all settled into a Turkish gravity. His beard was long and white, and such a one as any other Turk would have been proud of; though he, who was more taken up with his guests than himself, did not continue looking at it, nor smelling and stroking it, as is usually the custom of his country-men, to fill up the pauses of conversation.” Dr. (afterwards Sir Henry) Holland, in his ’Travels in the Ionian Isles, Albania, Thessaly, and Greece in 1812-13’, pp. 125, 126 (1815), gives an account of his first interview with Ali: “Were I to attempt a description of Ali, I should speak of his face as large and full; the forehead remarkably broad and open, and traced by many deep furrows; the eye penetrating, yet not expressive of ferocity; the nose handsome and well formed; the mouth and lower part of the face concealed, except when speaking, by his mustachios and the long beard which flows over his breast. His complexion is somewhat lighter than that usual among the Turks, and his general appearance does not indicate more than his actual age … The neck is short and thick, the figure corpulent and unwieldy; his stature I had afterwards the means of ascertaining to be about five feet nine inches. The general character and expression of the countenance are unquestionably fine, and the forehead especially is a striking and majestic feature. Much of the talent of the man may be inferred from his exterior; the moral qualities, however, may not equally be determined in this way; and to the casual observation of the stranger I can conceive from my own experience, that nothing may appear but what is open, placid, and alluring. Opportunities were afterwards afforded me of looking beneath this exterior of expression; it is the fire of a stove burning fiercely under a smooth and polished surface…. The inquiries he made respecting our journey to Joannina, gave us the opportunity of complimenting him on the excellent police of his dominions, and the attention he has paid to his roads. I mentioned to him generally Lord Byron’s poetical description of Albania, the interest it had excited in England, and Mr. Hobhouse’s intended publication of his travels in the same country. He seemed pleased with these circumstances, and stated his recollection of Lord Byron.” Dr. Holland brought back to England a letter to Byron from Ali (see Letter to Moore, September 8, 1813). A further account of Ali, together with a portrait, will be found in Hughes’s ‘Travels in Sicily, etc.’ (pp. 446-449). He again (1813) “asked with much apparent interest respecting Lord Byron.” At the close of the Napoleonic struggle, the interest of this country was excited by the resistance of Parga to his arms, especially as, during the late war, the Pargiotes had received the protection of Great Britain. After the fall of Parga (1819), Ali’s power roused the jealousy of the Sultan, and it was partly in consequence of his open defiance of the Porte, that insurrections broke out in Wallachia, and that Ypsilanti proclaimed himself the liberator of Greece. The Turkish troops, under Kurchid Pasha, gradually overpowered Ali, and, at the end of 1821, shut him up in his citadel of Janina. In the following January he surrendered, and was at first treated with respect. But on February 5, 1822, Ali was informed that the Sultan demanded his head. His answer was to fire his pistol at the messenger. In the fray that followed he was killed. Another and better account (Walsh’s ’Narrative of a Journey from Constantinople to England’, p. 62) says that he was stabbed in the back as he was bowing to the departing messenger, who had solemnly assured him of the Sultan’s pardon and favour. His head was cut off, sent to Constantinople, and fixed on the grand gate of the Seraglio, with the sentence of death by its side. Recently fresh interest has been aroused in Ali by the publication of Mr. Bain’s translation of Maurus Jókai’s semi-historical novel ‘Janicsárok végnapjai’, under the title of ’The Lion of Janina’ (1897).] [Footnote 2: Veli Pasha was the son of Ali by a daughter of Coul Pasha, the governor of Berat, in whose army Ali had served as a young man. He was married (1798) to a daughter of Ibrahim Pasha, who had succeeded Coul Pasha in the pashalik of Berat. The war with Ibrahim, to which Byron alludes, ended in his defeat, and the transference of his pashalik to Ali. Veli, at this time Vizier of the Morea, resided at Tripolizza, when he was visited by Galt, who describes him as sitting “on a crimson velvet cushion, wrapped in a superb pelisse; on his head was a vast turban, in his belt a dagger encrusted with jewels, and on the little finger of his right hand he wore a solitaire which was said to have cost two thousand five hundred pounds sterling. In his left hand he held a string of small coral beads, a comboloio which he twisted backwards and forwards during the greater part of the visit.” “In his manners,” says Galt, “I found him free and urbane, with a considerable tincture of humour and drollery” (’Life of Byron’, p. 83). Hobhouse (’Journey through Albania, etc.’, vol. i. p. 193) says, “The Vizier, for he is a Pasha of three tails, is a lively young man; and besides the Albanian, Greek, and Turkish languages, speaks Italian—an accomplishment not possessed, I should think, by any other man of his high rank in Turkey. It is reported that he, as well as his father, is preparing, in case of the overthrow of the Ottoman power, to establish an independent sovereignty.” Veli, in his father’s struggle with the Sultan, betrayed Prevesa to the Turks. He was executed in 1822, and is buried at the Silivria Gate of Constantinople. [Footnote 3: For “monastic Zitza,” see ‘Childe Harold’, Canto II. stanza xlviii., and Byron’s note.] [Footnote 4: See ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’, canto i.] [Footnote 5: William Martin Leake (1777-1860) received his commission as second lieutenant in the artillery in 1794, became a captain in 1799, major in 1809, and lieutenant-colonel in 1813. His professional life, up to 1815, was spent abroad, chiefly at Constantinople, in Egypt, or in various parts of European Turkey. In 1808 he had been sent by the British Government with stores of artillery, ammunition, and Congreve rockets, to Ali, Pasha of Albania, and he remained at Preveza, or Janina, as the representative of Great Britain, till 1810. During his travels he collected the vases, gems, bronzes, marbles, and coins now placed in the British Museum, and in the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge. At the same time, he accumulated the materials which, during his literary life (1815-59), he embodied in numerous books. Of these the more important are—’The Topography of Athens’ (1821); ’Journal of a Tour in Asia Minor’ (1824); ’An Historical Outline of the Greek Revolution’ (1825); ‘Travels in the Morea’ (1830); ’Travels in Northern Greece’ (1835); ‘Numismata Hellenica’ (1854-59). As a diplomatist he was remarkably successful; but his reputation mainly rests on his topographical works. With his antiquarian labours Byron would have had little sympathy; but Leake was also a warm-hearted advocate of the Christian population of Greece against their Turkish rulers.] [Footnote 6: The battle of Actium (B.C. 31) was fought at the entrance of the Gulf of Arta, and Nicopolis, the city of victory, the ‘Palaio-Kastro’ of the modern Greek, was founded by Augustus on an isthmus connecting Prevesa with the mainland to commemorate his triumph. Leake (’Travels in Northern Greece’, vol. i. p. 175) identifies Actium with Punda ([Greek (transliterated: aktae], “the head of a promontory”) on the headland opposite Prevesa (see ‘Childe Harold’, Canto II. stanza xlv.).] [Footnote 7: “Upon Parnassus going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 1809,” writes Byron, in his ‘Diary’ for 1821 (’Life’, pp. 99, 100), “I saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they were vultures—at least in conversation), and I seized the omen. On the day before I composed the lines to Parnassus (in ’Childe Harold’), and, on beholding the birds, had a hope that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had the name and fame of a poet during the poetical part of life (from twenty to thirty);—whether it will ‘last’ is another matter.” (For the lines to Parnassus, see ‘Childe Harold’, Canto I. stanzas lx.-lxii.) To this journey belongs another incident, recorded by Byron. “The last bird I ever fired at was an eaglet, on the shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostizza. It was only wounded, and I tried to save it,—the eye was so bright. But it pined, and died in a few days; and I never did since, and never will, attempt the death of another bird.”] [Footnote 8: Rear-Admiral Sir Alexander John Ball (1757-1809), who belonged to a Gloucestershire family, entered the navy, inspired by ‘Robinson Crusoe’. A lieutenant in 1778, he distinguished himself with Rodney in 1782 (post-captain, 1783; rear-admiral, 1805), and at the battle of the Nile, when he commanded the ‘Alexander’. Nelson had no liking for Ball until the latter saved the dismasted ‘Vanguard’ from going on shore by taking her in tow. Henceforward they were friends, and Nelson spoke of him as one of his “three right arms.” By his skill in blockading Valetta (1798-1800), Ball was the hero of the siege of Malta, and (June 6, 1801) was created a baronet for his services, and received the Order of Merit from Ferdinand IV of Naples. When Byron met him, Ball was “His Majesty’s Civil Commissioner for the Island of Malta and its Dependencies, and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Order of St. John.” S.T. Coleridge, who was with him as secretary from May, 1804, to October, 1805, wrote enthusiastically of him in his letters, and in ’The Friend’ (3rd edit., vol. i. essay i., and vol. iii. pp. 226-301). But his picture of the admiral would have been more definite had he remembered the spirit of the remark (quoted in ‘The Friend’) which Ball once made to him: “The distinction is just, and, now
I understand you, abundantly [Footnote 9: Hussein Bey, then a boy of ten years old, son of Mouctar Pasha, the eldest son of Ali, in after years (1820-22) remained faithful to his grandfather, when his father, uncles, and cousin had gone over to the Sultan, and held Tepeleni for Ali in his last struggle against the Turks. Mahomet Pasha, son of Veli Pasha, second son of Ali, though only twelve years old, was already in possession of a pashalik. In Ali’s contest with Turkey, he betrayed Parga to the Sultan, and persuaded his father to surrender Prevesa. He was, however, rewarded for his treachery by execution, and is among the five members of his family who lie buried at the Silivria Gate at Constantinople (Walsh’s ‘Narrative’, p. 67).] 132.—To his Mother. Smyrna, March 19, 1810. DEAR MOTHER,—I cannot write you a long letter; but as I know you will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of my movements, pray accept what I can give. I have traversed the greatest part of Greece, besides Epirus, etc., etc., resided ten weeks at Athens, and am now on the Asiatic side on my way to Constantinople. I have just returned from viewing the ruins of Ephesus, a day’s journey from Smyrna. [1] I presume you have received a long letter I wrote from Albania, with an account of my reception by the Pacha of the Province. When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall determine whether to proceed into Persia or return, which latter I do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I have no intelligence from Mr. Hanson, and but one letter from yourself. I shall stand in need of remittances whether I proceed or return. I have written to him repeatedly, that he may not plead ignorance of my situation for neglect. I can give you no account of any thing, for I have not time or opportunity, the frigate sailing immediately. Indeed the further I go the more my laziness increases, and my aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. I have written to no one but to yourself and Mr. Hanson, and these are communications of business and duty rather than of inclination. Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, though he has undergone nothing that I have not shared. He is a poor creature; indeed English servants are detestable travellers. I have, besides him, two Albanian soldiers and a Greek interpreter; all excellent in their way. Greece, particularly in the vicinity of Athens, is delightful;—cloudless skies and lovely landscapes. But I must reserve all account of my adventures till we meet. I keep no journal, but my friend Hobhouse scribbles incessantly. Pray take care of Murray and Robert, and tell the boy it is the most fortunate thing for him that he did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider this as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, Yours, etc., etc., BYRON. [Footnote 1: It was at Smyrna that the two first cantos of ’Childe Harold’ were completed. To his original MS. of the poem is prefixed the following memorandum:— “Byron, Ioannina in Albania. —BYRON.”] 133.—To his Mother. Smyrna, April 9, 1810. Dear Mother,—I know you will be glad to hear from me: I wish I could say I am equally delighted to write. However, there is no great loss in my scribbles, except to the portmanteau-makers, who, I suppose, will get all by and by. Nobody but yourself asks me about my creed,—what
I am, am not, etc., I am no “good soul,” and not
an atheist, but an English gentleman, I Ever yours, etc., BYRON. P.S.-Are the Miss——anxiously
expecting my arrival and B. 134.—To his Mother. Smyrna, April 10, 1810. Dear Mother,—To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constantinople in the ‘Salsette’ frigate, of thirty-six guns. She returns to England with our ambassador, [1] whom she is going up on purpose to receive. I have written to you short letters from Athens, Smyrna, and a long one from Albania. I have not yet mustered courage for a second large epistle, and you must not be angry, since I take all opportunities of apprizing you of my safety; but even that is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been traversing Greece, and Epirus, Illyria, etc., etc., and you see by my date, have got into Asia. I have made but one excursion lately to the ruins of Ephesus. Malta is the rendez-vous of my letters, so address to that island. Mr. Hanson has not written, though I wished to hear of the Norfolk sale, [2] the Lancashire law-suit, etc., etc., I am anxiously expecting fresh remittances. I believe you will like Nottinghamshire, at least my share of it. [3] Pray accept my good wishes in lieu of a long letter, and believe me, Yours sincerely and affectionately, BYRON. [Footnote 1: Robert (afterwards the Right Hon. Sir Robert) Adair (1763-1855), son of Sergeant-Surgeon Adair and Lady Caroline Keppel, described by an Austrian aristocrat as “le fils du plus grand ‘Seigneur’ d’Angleterre,” was educated at Westminster and the University of Gottingen.” At the latter place Adair, always, as his kinsman Lord Albemarle said of him, “an enthusiastic admirer of the fair sex” (’Recollections’, vol. i. p. 229), fell in love with his tutor’s daughter. He did not, however, marry “Sweet Matilda Pottingen,” but Angélique Gabrielle, daughter of the Marquis d’Hazincourt. He is supposed to have contributed to the ‘Rolliad’; and the “Dedication to Sir Lloyd Kenyon,” “Margaret Nicholson” (’Political Eclogues’, p. 207), and the “Song of Scrutina” (’Probationary Odes’, p. 285), have been attributed to him. He, however, denied (Moore’s ’Journal and Correspondence’, vol. ii. p. 304) that he wrote any part of the ‘Rolliad’. A Whig, and an intimate friend and follower of Fox, he was in 1791 at St. Petersburg, where the Tories believed that he had been sent by his chief on “half a mission” to intrigue with Russia against Pitt. The charge was published by Dr. Pretyman, Bishop of Winchester, in his ‘Life of Pitt’ (1821), who may have wished to pay off old scores, and to retaliate on one of the reputed authors of the ‘Rolliad’ for the “Pretymaniana,” and was answered in ’Two Letters from Mr. Adair to the Bishop of Winchester’. It is to this accusation that Ellis and Frere, in the ‘Anti-Jacobin’, refer in “A Bit of an Ode to Mr. Fox” (’Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin’, edit. 1854, pp. 71-73):— “I mount, I mount into the sky, Sir James Mackintosh, speaking of the story, told Moore (’Journals and Correspondence’, vol. iv. p. 267) that a private letter from Adair, reporting his conversations with a high official in St. Petersburg, fell into the hands of the British Government; that some members of the Council were desirous of taking proceedings upon it; but that Lord Grenville and Pitt threatened to resign, if any use was made of such a document so obtained. (See also the “Translation of a Letter from Bawba-Dara-Adul-Phoola,” etc.—’i.e.’ “Bob Adair, a dull fool”—in the ‘Anti-Jacobin’, p. 208.) Adair was in 1806 sent by Fox as Ambassador to Vienna, and in 1809 was appointed by Canning Ambassador Extraordinary at Constantinople, where, with Stratford Canning as his secretary, he negotiated the Treaty of the Dardanelles. For his services, on his return in 1810, he was made a K.C.B. He was subsequently (1831-35) employed on a mission to the Low Countries, when war appeared imminent between William, Prince of Orange and King Leopold. He was afterwards sworn a member of the Privy Council, and received a pension. George Ticknor (’Life’, vol. i. p. 269), who met him at Woburn in 1819, speaks of his great conversational charms, and Moore (’Journals and Correspondence’, vol. vii. p. 216) describes him, in 1838, as a man “from whom one gets, now and then, an agreeable whiff of the days of Fox, Tickell, and Sheridan.” Many years after Fox’s death, Adair was at a fête at Chiswick House. “‘In which room,’ he asked of Samuel Rogers, ‘did Fox expire?’ ‘In this very room,’ I replied. Immediately, Adair burst into tears with a vehemence of grief such as I hardly ever saw exhibited by a man” (’Recollections of the Table-Talk of Samuel Rogers’, p. 97).] [Footnote 2: The sale of Wymondham and other property in Norfolk, which had come to him through his great-uncle.] [Footnote 3: Probably an allusion to his mother leaving Burgage Manor and taking up her residence at Newstead.] 135.—To his Mother. Salsette Frigate, off the Dardanelles, April 17, 1810. Dear Madam,—I write at anchor (on our way to Constantinople) off the Troad, which I traversed ten days ago. All the remains of Troy are the tombs of her destroyers, amongst which I saw that of Antilochus from my cabin window. These are large mounds of earth, like the barrows of the Danes in your island. There are several monuments, about twelve miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, which I also examined, but by no means to be compared with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This will be sent in a ship of war, bound with despatches for Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constantinople, barring accidents. I have also written from Smyrna, and shall, from time to time, transmit short accounts of my movements, but I feel totally unequal to long letters. Believe me, yours very sincerely, BYRON. P.S.—No accounts from Hanson!!!
Do not complain of short letters; I 136.—To Henry Drury. Salsette frigate, May 3, 1810. My Dear Drury,—When I left England, nearly a year ago, you requested me to write to you—I will do so. I have crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, visited Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into Turkey, where I am still wandering. I first landed in Albania, the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated as far as Mount Tomarit— excellently treated by the chief Ali Pacha,—and, after journeying through Illyria, Chaonia, etc., crossed the Gulf of Actium, with a guard of fifty Albanians, and passed the Achelous in our route through Acarnania and Ætolia. We stopped a short time in the Morea, crossed the Gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the foot of Parnassus;—saw all that Delphi retains, and so on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained ten weeks. His Majesty’s ship, Pylades, brought us to Smyrna; but not before we had topographised Attica, including, of course, Marathon and the Sunian promontory. From Smyrna to the Troad (which we visited when at anchor, for a fortnight, off the tomb of Antilochus) was our next stage; and now we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for a wind to proceed to Constantinople. This morning I swam from Sestos to Abydos. [1] The immediate distance is not above a mile, but the current renders it hazardous;—so much so that I doubt whether Leander’s conjugal affection must not have been a little chilled in his passage to Paradise. I attempted it a week ago, and failed,—owing to the north wind, and the wonderful rapidity of the tide,—though I have been from my childhood a strong swimmer. But, this morning being calmer, I succeeded, and crossed the “broad Hellespont” in an hour and ten minutes. Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and seen part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable portion of Europe. I have been with generals and admirals, princes and pashas, governors and ungovernables,—but I have not time or paper to expatiate. I wish to let you know that I live with a friendly remembrance of you, and a hope to meet you again; and if I do this as shortly as possible, attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well to require description. Albania, indeed, I have seen more of than any Englishman (except a Mr. Leake), for it is a country rarely visited, from the savage character of the natives, though abounding in more natural beauties than the classical regions of Greece,—which, however, are still eminently beautiful, particularly Delphi and Cape Colonna in Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts of Illyria and Epirus, where places without a name, and rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, when more known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, for the pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the Ilissus and the bogs of Boeotia. The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and snipe-shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage upon the spot;—or, if they prefer riding, lose their way (as I did) in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who wriggles about as if the Dardan virgins still offered their wonted tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her destroyers, are the barrows supposed to contain the carcasses of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, etc.;—but Mount Ida is still in high feather, though the shepherds are now-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why should I say more of these things? are they not written in the Boke of Gell? [2] and has not Hobhouse got a journal? I keep none, as I have renounced scribbling. I see not much difference between ourselves and the Turks, save that we have——and they have none—that they have long dresses, and we short, and that we talk much, and they little. They are sensible people. Ali Pacha told me he was sure I was a man of rank, because I had small ears and hands, and curling hair. By the by, I speak the Romaic, or modern Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the ancient dialects so much as you would conceive; but the pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of verse, except in rhyme, they have no idea. I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals,—with all the Turkish vices, without their courage. However, some are brave, and all are beautiful, very much resembling the busts of Alcibiades;—the women not quite so handsome. I can swear in Turkish; but, except one horrible oath, and “pimp,” and “bread,” and “water,” I have got no great vocabulary in that language. They are extremely polite to strangers of any rank, properly protected; and as I have two servants and two soldiers, we get on with great éclat. We have been occasionally in danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck,—but always escaped. Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, but have subsequently written to no one, save notes to relations and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. I mean to give up all connection, on my return, with many of my best friends—as I supposed them-and to snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good-humoured laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and pledge Hodgson, before I commence cynicism. Tell Dr. Butler I am now writing with the gold pen he gave me before I left England, which is the reason my scrawl is more unintelligible than usual. I have been at Athens, and seen plenty of these reeds for scribbling, some of which he refused to bestow upon me, because topographic Gell had brought them from Attica. But I will not describe,—no—you must be satisfied with simple detail till my return, and then we will unfold the floodgates of colloquy. I am in a thirty-six gun frigate, going up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who will have the honour to carry this letter. And so Hobhouse’s boke is out, [3] with some sentimental sing-song of my own to fill up,—and how does it take, eh? and where the devil is the second edition of my Satire, with additions? and my name on the title page? and more lines tagged to the end, with a new exordium and what not, hot from my anvil before I cleared the Channel? The Mediterranean and the Atlantic roll between me and criticism; and the thunders of the Hyperborean Review are deafened by the roar of the Hellespont. Remember me to Claridge, [4] if not translated to college, and present to Hodgson assurances of my high consideration. Now, you will ask, what shall I do next? and I answer, I do not know. I may return in a few months, but I have intents and projects after visiting Constantinople. Hobhouse, however, will probably be back in September. On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year—oblitus meorum obliviscendus et illis. I was sick of my own country, and not much prepossessed in favour of any other; but I “drag on my chain” without “lengthening it at each remove.” [5] I am like the Jolly Miller, caring for nobody, and not cared for. [6] All countries are much the same in my eyes. I smoke, and stare at mountains, and twirl my mustachios very independently. I miss no comforts, and the musquitoes that rack the morbid frame of H. have, luckily for me, little effect on mine, because I live more temperately. I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue, which I visited during my sojourn at Smyrna; but the Temple has almost perished, and St. Paul need not trouble himself to epistolise the present brood of Ephesians, who have converted a large church built entirely of marble into a mosque, and I don’t know that the edifice looks the worse for it. My paper is full, and my ink ebbing—good afternoon! If you address to me at Malta, the letter will be forwarded wherever I may be. H. greets you; he pines for his poetry,—at least, some tidings of it. I almost forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three Greek girls at Athens, sisters. I lived in the same house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka, [7] are the names of these divinities,—all of them under fifteen. Your [Greek (transliterated): tapeinotatos doulos], BYRON. [Footnote 1: Byron made two attempts to swim across the Hellespont from Abydos to Sestos. The first, April 16, failed; the second, May 3, in warmer weather, succeeded. “Byron was one hour and ten minutes in the water; his companion, Mr. Ekenhead, five minutes less … My fellow-traveller had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated, passage; for I recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and, having to contend with a tide and counter-current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing the river” (Hobhouse, ‘Travels in Albania’, etc., vol. ii. p. 195). In Hobhouse’s journal, Byron made the following note: “The whole distance E. and myself swam was more than four miles—the current very strong and cold—some large fish near us when half across—we were not fatigued, but a little chilled—did it with little difficulty.—May 26, 1810. BYRON.” Of his feat Byron was always proud. See the “Lines Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos” (“by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct”), and ‘Don Juan’, Canto II. stanza cv.:— “A better swimmer you could scarce
see ever; In a note to the “Lines Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos,” Byron writes, “Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the ’Salsette’’s crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander’s story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.” Lieutenant Ekenhead, of the Marines, was afterwards killed by a fall from the fortifications of Malta.] [Footnote 2: Sir William Gell (1777-1836) published the ’Topography of Troy’ (1804); ‘Geography and Antiquities of Ithaca’ (1807); the ‘Itinerary of Greece’ (1810); and many other subsequent works. (For Byron’s review of ‘Ithaca’ and ‘Greece’, in the ‘Monthly Review’ for August, 1811, see Appendix III.) In the MS. of ’English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’ (line 1034) he called him “coxcomb Gell;” but, having made his personal acquaintance before the Satire was printed, he changed the epithet to “classic.” After seeing the country himself, he again altered the epithet— “Of Dardan tours let Dilettanti
tell, To these lines is appended the following note: “‘Rapid,’ indeed! He topographised and typographised King Priam’s dominions in three days! I called him ‘classic’ before I saw the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his name what don’t belong to it.” To this passage Byron, in 1816, added the further expression of his opinion, that “Gell’s survey was hasty and superficial.” One of two suppressed stanzas in ‘Childe Harold’ (Canto II. stanza xiii.) refers to Gell and his works:— “Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew [Footnote 3: ’Imitations and Translations from the Ancient and Modern Classics, etc.’ (London, 1809, 8vo). Of the sixty-five pieces, nine were by Byron (see ‘Poems’, vol. i., Bibliographical note; and vol. vi., Bibliographical note). The second and enlarged edition of ’English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, with Byron’s name attached, appeared in October, 1809.] [Footnote 4: Two boys of this name, sons of J. Claridge, of Sevenoaks, entered Harrow School in April, 1805. George became a. solicitor, and died at Sevenoaks in 1841; John (afterwards Sir John) went to Christ Church, Oxford, became a barrister, and died in 1868. John Claridge seems to have been one of Byron’s “juniors and favourites,” whom he “spoilt by indulgence.”] [Footnote 5: “Still to my brother turns with
ceaseless pain, GOLDSMITH’S Traveller, lines 9, 10.] [Footnote 6: The allusion is to the familiar lines inserted by Isaac Bickerstaffe in ‘Love in a Village’ (1762), act i. sc. 3— “There was a jolly miller once, “And this the burden of his song, [Footnote 7: “During our stay at Athens,” writes Hobhouse (’Travels in Albania, etc.’, vol. i. pp. 242, 243), “we occupied two houses separated from each other only by a single wall, through which we opened a doorway. One of them belongs to a Greek lady, whose name is Theodora Macri, the daughter of the late English Vice-Consul, and who has to show many letters of recommendation left in her hands by several English travellers. Her lodgings consisted of a sitting-room and two bedrooms, opening into a court-yard where there were five or six lemon-trees, from which, during our residence in the place, was plucked the fruit that seasoned the pilaf and other national dishes served up at our frugal table.” The beauty of the Greek women is transient. Hughes (’Travels in Sicily, etc.’, vol. i. p. 254, published in 1820) speaks of the three daughters of Madame Macri as “the ‘belles’ of Athens.” Of Theresa, the eldest, he says that “her countenance was extremely interesting, and her eye retained much of its wonted brilliancy; but the roses had already deserted the cheek, and we observed the remains only of that loveliness which elicited such strains from an impassioned poet.” Walsh, in his ‘Narrative of a Resident in Constantinople’ (vol. i. p. 122), speaks of Theresa Macri, the “Maid of Athens,” whom he saw in 1821, as “still very elegant in her person, and gentle and ladylike in her manners,” but adds that “she has lost all pretensions to beauty, and has a countenance singularly marked by hopeless sadness.” On the other hand, Williams, in his ‘Travels in Italy, etc.’ (vol. ii. pp. 290, 291), speaks, in 1820, with an artist’s enthusiasm, of the beauty of the three daughters of Theodora Macri. He quotes from the “Visitors’ Book,” to which Hobhouse alludes, four lines written by Byron in answer to an anonymous versifier— “This modest bard, like many a bard
unknown, Theresa and Mariana Macri were dark; Katinka was fair. The latter name Byron uses as that of the fair Georgian in ‘Don Juan’ (Canto VI. stanza xli.). “It was,” says Moore, “if I recollect right, in making love to one of these girls that he had recourse to an act of courtship often practised in that country;—namely, giving himself a wound across the breast with his dagger. The young Athenian, by his own account, looked on very coolly during the operation, considering it a fit tribute to her beauty, but in no degree moved to gratitude.” Theresa, sometimes called Thyrza, Macri married an Englishman named Black, employed in H.M.’s Consular service at Missolonghi. She survived her husband, and fell into great poverty. Finlay, the historian of Greece, made an appeal on her behalf, which obtained the support of the leading members of Athenian society, including M. Charilaus Tricoupi, for some time Prime Minister at Athens, the son of Spiridion Tricoupi—Byron’s intimate friend. In the ‘New York Times’ for October 22, 1875, Mr. Anthony Martelaus, United States Consular Agent at Athens, describes Mrs. Black, whom he visited in August, 1875, as “a tall old lady, with features inspiring reverence, and showing that at a time past she was a beautiful woman.” Theresa Black died October 15, 1875, aged 80 years. (See letters to the ‘Times’, October 25 and October 27, 1875, by Richard Edgcumbe and Neocles Mussabini respectively.)] 137.—To Francis Hodgson. ‘Salsette’ frigate, in the Dardanelles, off Abydos, May 5, 1810. I am on my way to Constantinople, after a tour through Greece, Epirus, etc., and part of Asia Minor, some particulars of which I have just communicated to our friend and host, H. Drury. With these, then, I shall not trouble you; but as you will perhaps be pleased to hear that I am well, etc., I take the opportunity of our ambassador’s return to forward the few lines I have time to despatch. We have undergone some inconveniences, and incurred partial perils, but no events worthy of communication, unless you will deem it one that two days ago I swam from Sestos to Abydos. This, with a few alarms from robbers, and some danger of shipwreck in a Turkish galliot six months ago, a visit to a Pacha, a passion for a married woman at Malta, [1] a challenge to an officer, an attachment to three Greek girls at Athens, with a great deal of buffoonery and fine prospects, form all that has distinguished my progress since my departure from Spain. Hobhouse rhymes and journalises; I stare and do nothing—unless smoking can be deemed an active amusement. The Turks take too much care of their women to permit them to be scrutinised; but I have lived a good deal with the Greeks, whose modern dialect I can converse in enough for my purposes. With the Turks I have also some male acquaintances—female society is out of the question. I have been very well treated by the Pachas and Governors, and have no complaint to make of any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you of all our adventures—were I to attempt the recital, neither my paper nor your patience would hold out during the operation. Nobody, save yourself, has written to me since I left England; but indeed I did not request it. I except my relations, who write quite as often as I wish. Of Hobhouse’s volume I know nothing, except that it is out; and of my second edition I do not even know that, and certainly do not, at this distance, interest myself in the matter. I hope you and Bland [2] roll down the stream of sale with rapidity. Of my return I cannot positively speak, but think it probable Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. We have been very nearly one year abroad. I should wish to gaze away another, at least, in these evergreen climates; but I fear business, law business, the worst of employments, will recall me previous to that period, if not very quickly. If so, you shall have due notice. I hope you will find me an altered personage,—I do not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin to find out that nothing but virtue will do in this damned world. I am tolerably sick of vice, which I have tried in its agreeable varieties, and mean, on my return, to cut all my dissolute acquaintance, leave off wine and carnal company, and betake myself to politics and decorum. I am very serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralise; but fortunately for you the coming homily is cut off by default of pen and defection of paper. Good morrow! If you write, address
to me at Malta, whence your letters Yours with all faith, BYRON. Constantinople, May 15, 1810. P.S.—My dear H.,—The date of my postscript “will prate to you of my whereabouts.” We anchored between the Seven Towers and the Seraglio on the 13th, and yesterday settled ashore. [3] The ambassador [4] is laid up; but the secretary [5] does the honours of the palace, and we have a general invitation to his palace. In a short time he has his leave of audience, and we accompany him in our uniforms to the Sultan, etc., and in a few days I am to visit the Captain Pacha with the commander of our frigate. [6] I have seen enough of their Pashas already; but I wish to have a view of the Sultan, the last of the Ottoman race. Of Constantinople you have Gibbon’s description, very correct as far as I have seen. The mosques I shall have a firman to visit. I shall most probably (’Deo volente’), after a full inspection of Stamboul, bend my course homewards; but this is uncertain. I have seen the most interesting parts, particularly Albania, where few Franks have ever been, and all the most celebrated ruins of Greece and Ionia. Of England I know nothing, hear nothing, and can find no person better informed on the subject than myself. I this moment drink your health in a bumper of hock; Hobhouse fills and empties to the same; do you and Drury pledge us in a pint of any liquid you please—vinegar will bear the nearest resemblance to that which I have just swallowed to your name; but when we meet again the draught shall be mended and the wine also. Yours ever, B. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Spencer Smith (see page 244 [Letter 130], [Foot]note 1 [2]). “In the mean time,” writes Galt, who was at Malta with him, “besides his “Platonic dalliance with Mrs. Spencer Smith, Byron had involved himself in a quarrel with an officer; but it was satisfactorily settled” (’Life of Byron’, p. 67).] [Footnote 2: The Rev. Robert Bland (1780-1825), the son of a well-known London doctor, educated at Harrow and Pembroke College, Cambridge, was an assistant-master at Harrow when Byron was a schoolboy. There he became one of a “social club or circle,” to which belonged J. Herman Merivale, Hodgson, Henry Drury, Denman (afterwards Lord Chief Justice), Charles Pepys (afterwards Lord Chancellor), Launcelot Shadwell (afterwards Vice-Chancellor), Walford (afterwards Solicitor to the Customs), and Paley, a son of the archdeacon. A good singer, an amusing companion, and a clever, impulsive, eccentric creature, he was nicknamed by his friends “Don Hyperbolo” for his humorous extravagances. Some of his letters, together with a sketch of his life, are given in the ’Life of the Rev. Francis Hodgson’, vol. i. pp. 226-250. In the ’Monthly Magazine’ for March, 1805, he and Merivale began to publish a series of translations from the Greek minor poets and epigrammatists, which were afterwards collected, with additions by Denman, Hodgson, Drury, and others, and published (1806) under the title of ’Translations, chiefly from the Greek Anthology, with Tales and Miscellaneous Poems’. Bland and Merivale (1779-1844) are addressed by Byron (’English Bards, and Scotch Reviewers’, lines 881-890) as “associate bards,” and adjured to “resign Achaia’s lyre, and strike your own.” The two friends also collaborated in the ‘Collections from the Greek Anthology’ (1813), and ’A Collection of the most Beautiful Poems of the Minor Poets of Greece’ (1813). Bland also published two volumes of original verse: ‘Edwy and Elgiva’ (1808), and ‘The Four Slaves of Cythera, a Poetical Romance’ (1809). Several generations of schoolboys have learned to write Latin verse from his ‘Elements of Latin Hexameters and Pentameters’. A lover of France, and of the French nation and of French acting, he spoke the language like a native, travelled in disguise over the countries occupied by Napoleon’s armies, and (1813) published, in collaboration with Miss Plumptre, a translation of the ‘Memoirs’ of Baron Grimm and Diderot. He was appointed Chaplain at Amsterdam, whence he returned in 1811. (For the circumstances of his quarrel with Hodgson, see page 195 [Letter 102], [Foot]note 1.) He was successively Curate of Prittlewell and Kenilworth. At the latter place, where he eked out a scanty income by taking pupils, he died in 1825 from breaking a blood-vessel.] [Footnote 3: Byron and Hobhouse landed on May 14, and rode to their inn. “This,” says Hobhouse (’Travels in Albania, etc.’, vol. ii pp. 216, 217), “was situated at the corner of the main street of Pera, here four ways meet, all of which were not less mean and dirty than the lanes of Wapping. The hotel, however (kept by a Mons. Marchand), was a very comfortable mansion, containing many chambers handsomely furnished, and a large billiard-room, which is the resort of all the idle young men of the place. Our dinners there were better served, and composed of meats more to the English taste, than we had seen at any tavern since our departure from Falmouth; and the butter of Belgrade (perfectly fresh, though not of a proper consistency) was a delicacy to which we had long been unaccustomed. The best London porter, and nearly every species of wine, except port, were also to be procured in any quantity. To this eulogy cannot be added the material recommendation of cheapness.”] [Footnote 4: Robert Adair. (See page 260 [Letter 134], [Foot]note 1.)] [Footnote 5: Stratford Canning, afterwards Lord Stratford de Redcliffe.] [Footnote 6: Captain Bathurst, and the officers of the ‘Salsette’, anxious to see the arsenal and the Turkish fleet, paid a visit with Byron to Ali, the Capudan-Pasha, or Lord High Admiral. “He was,” writes Hobhouse (’Travels in Albania, etc.’, vol. ii. p. 279), “in his kiosk of audience at Divan-Hane, a splendid chamber, surrounded by his attendants, and, contrary to custom, received us sitting. He is reported to be a ferocious character, and certainly had the appearance of being so.”] 138.—To his Mother. Constantinople, May 18, 1810. Dear Madam,—I arrived here in an English frigate from Smyrna a few days ago, without any events worth mentioning, except landing to view the plains of Troy, and afterwards, when we were at anchor in the Dardanelles, swimming from Sestos to Abydos, in imitation of Monsieur Leander, whose story you, no doubt, know too well for me to add anything on the subject except that I crossed the Hellespont without so good a motive for the undertaking. As I am just going to visit the Captain-Pacha, you will excuse the brevity of my letter. When Mr. Adair takes leave I am to see the Sultan and the mosques, etc. Believe me, yours ever, BYRON. 139.—To his Mother. Constantinople, May 24, 1810. Dear Mother,—I wrote to you very shortly the other day on my arrival here, and, as another opportunity avails, take up my pen again, that the frequency of my letters may atone for their brevity. Pray did you ever receive a picture of me in oil by Sanders in Vigo Lane, London? (a noted limner); if not, write for it immediately; it was paid for, except the frame (if frame there be), before I left England. I believe I mentioned to you in my last that my only notable exploit lately has been swimming from Sestos to Abydos in humble imitation of Leander, of amorous memory; though I had no Hero to receive me on | |||||||||