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, c.o.c.kspur 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 ent.i.tled "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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 embarra.s.sed circ.u.mstances; 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 surpa.s.ses 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 "Ra.s.selas" 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.bler 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 t.i.tle to the earldom of Devon, which pa.s.sed at his death to a cousin, William, tenth Earl of Devon (1777-1859).]
[Footnote 4: In this letter the following verses were enclosed:-- "Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.
"Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo"s off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canva.s.s o"er the mast.
From aloft the signal"s streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired, Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time"s expired.
Here"s a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the Custom-house; Trunks unpacking, Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse "Scapes unsearch"d amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We"re impatient--push from sh.o.r.e.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-- Stop the boat--I"m sick--oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma"am, damme, you"ll be sicker Ere you"ve been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.
Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we"ve reach"d her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Pa.s.sengers their berths are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why "tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-- Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, sir? plenty-- n.o.bles twenty-- Did at once my vessel fill"-- "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us!
Would to G.o.d they did so still: Then I"d "scape the heat and racket, Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch"d along the deck like logs-- Bear a hand, you jolly tar you!
Here"s a rope"s end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls; Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth--and d.a.m.ns our souls.
"Here"s a stanza On Braganza-- Help!"--"A couplet?"--"No, a cup Of warm water."-- "What"s the matter?"
"Zounds! my liver"s coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
Now at length we"re off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on--as I do now.
Laugh at all things, Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or sh.o.r.e; While we"re quaffing, Let"s have laughing-- Who the devil cares for more?-- Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev"n on board the Lisbon Packet?
"BYRON."
126.--To Francis Hodgson.
Lisbon, July 16, 1809.
Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, etc.;--which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse"s forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not antic.i.p.ate 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 a.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounce him "Ambra di merdo". With these two phrases, and a third, "Avra louro", which signifieth "Get an a.s.s," 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.