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classes, an object of deep reverence end admiration. Those who know nothing, and wish to knew nothing of its merits, from the bottom of their souls, nevertheless worship every stone of it We want something, for pictorial effect,—of the old costume— though matters, in that respect, stand better than they do in England. We have not yet got, here, to booted clerks, in stiff cravats, publishing their Sunday freedom and their Cockney ignorance within walls built seven centunes before they were imagined; nor tt footmen and idle boys squabbling round the church doors in service time, with half-drunken beadles, in mountebank gowns and gingerbread laced hats. And then, if we are imperfect in the antique dressing, the old feeling we have entire! The dark grey turrets that frown upon you here, do seem to be the real turrets of history and of romance. When you see them, you see them surrounded by beings whose existence you can suppose coeval with such objects. They do carry the mind back to those days, unhappily gone by, when the world was held to be for the few, and not for the many; when there was something like career open to the aspiring and the fearless; when the man who had a hand could grasp a lance; the man who had a head put on a cowl;—when there always was prospect, where there existed power; and where the very struggle of ambition was, of itself, a course of pleasure! There is nothing in the tone of the circumstances about you to break in upon this illusion. The people, in their opinions as in their habits, are full a century behind our countrymen. They are rude, submissive, ignorant—and have no desire to become wiser. Explain to them that these heavy piles, the very deformities of what they bow before, were raised out of the blood and the misery of millions, they would answer—that the "millions" are gone; and that it would have been so had the thing been otherwise. And sooth is, the immediate effects of this acquiescent feeling, are favourable to the comfort of the lower classes, rather than opposed to it. While they have no political freedom, and, by consequence, no security, they enjoy advantages, in practice, which would fail them under a bolder system. Heaven knows, it is a blessing where, convinced of happiness

in the next world, people can afford to overlook little inconveniences in this! The peasant who defers here, as a matter of course, to his lord, with the honour which might belong to a rivalry, loses some of the molestation; and the footman, who kneels without rebuke, by the side of the noble now at church, would have to take a lower post, if it were to occur to him that he was as good a man as his master.

But the gaiety of the town, in all quarters here, on the night of the Illumination, formed a striking contrast to its appearance at a late hour on ordinary occasions. There were equestrians, parading away at their high caracole pace! The horses in full action, and yet not getting over a mile of ground in an hour! Just touched constantly with the spur, and held up with a bit that admits of no disputing; and moving bet ween a caper, and a sort of riding horse amble, all the way—raising the foot to a particular height, and then setting it down again exactly in the place from which it was taken up. A pleasant style of riding, however ; and performed in a saddle padded like an easy-chair—not on a machine like our English miracle, which seems to have been originally built with every view (expressly) to people's slipping off from it—that object being subsequently facilitated by the high polish to which our servants rub its surface, and by the stirrups artfully contrived to give a man as little support as possible; unless, indeed, he snould happen to be thrown, when they usually hold him fast enough.—I think, about two hundred different schemes have been tried, within my recollection, to prevent the possibility of a man's being dragged in his stirrup—the obvious one—that of making the stirrup a shoe, (so that the foot cannot by any physical possibility entangle in it,) having, of course, been disregarded. Indeed, when I spoke to Sir Thomas B once about the harness generally, and suggested the better purchase of the shoe stirrup, with the general inexpediency of putting a glossy substance, like a regulation saddle, in contact with smooth leather pantaloons, xvhere the object was to secure adhesion; his objection to my idea of a rough covering, altogether, was that, with such an. equipment, "anybody" would be able to ride! But see the magical effects of reputation! The

Letters of Charles Edwards, Esq. No. I.

182 4.]]

people here who are cowed by our high military character, and their own want of it, into considering an Englishman as the first of created beings, have left their own style of saddle and stirrup, which only wants modification, to be very sufficient, to fall into a bad imitation of our system, which, upon principle, is defective.—But, as I tell you, there were these high-pacing horsemen, in good show, on the Illumination night, about the streets; and crowds of pedestrians, (that is what they call crowds in this country,— which we should call, in London, having the streets quite empty,) parties promenading, or passing, in visits, from one house to another—with the windows of the rooms all thrown up, and the blinds all thrown open, and clusters of beautiful women, and elegantly dressed, (quinegate Wen,) lookingout of them. A broad contrast to the show of the town, on common nights, at the same hour. Dark—silent—deserted.

For of one particular nuisance, which offends you after dusk in London, here (in the streets) you have nothing. You might wander without a "how d'ye," from one end of the city to another, unless, perhaps, it came from some old woman of sixty, whose view you would not understand; or from a lady beggar, (only a beggar,) perhaps, in a lace cloak; or from some one, perchance, of the "free" dogs, who infest this famous city, in almost as great force as they are said to do at Constantinople. The French killed great numbers of these animals, while they were in possession of Lisbon— rather a gratuitous act of ill nature, or police arrangement, for the creatures are harmless, and, indeed, in the way of public scavengers, meritorious. Vast armies of them are still left, who bring forth and rear their young, in the ruined houses, low cellars, and odd waste corners,—accommodations to be met with here in tolerable abundance; and feeding, during the night, (a strange association,) in company with enormous black rats, the Titans of their species, upon the offal of various character, which is cast forth from the houses; or occasionally (in the way of bonne bouche) upon the fleshly tabernacle of some late horse or mule, who, being thrown into the highways at midnight, becomes a skeleton before the first cock! a Tom-cat, perhaps, now and then dropping in, from his

Vol. XV.

promeuade d"amour, to take a snack; whose appearance no way ruffles the general amity of the table; but all go on eating, in a kind of primitive charity with each other; and scarcely taking the trouble, so little are they used to molestation, to turn out of the way at the approach of a passenger.

The domestic economy of the people, is more reserved than that of the rats; but a man hardly can acquire very sound views upon such a subject, by five days living in a country, the language of which he does not understand. An order from the commandant, is sufficient to get you into a man's house; but it takes something more than an order, to get you into his confidence. And the estate of the people, just now, is not of a kind to incline them much to free association. Setting their political danger apart, (for which the mass cares, probably, very little,) they have all enough of personal affliction, arising out of the present contest. The land pays no rent, and almost all the gentry are dependent upon the land. The stirring levy for soldiers, and the various imposts and seizures for the service of the war, are making rapid dilapidation in any little hoards that they may have by them. Then the system of " quarter," which is indis

Een sable—that alone, must be a most eavy grievance! I am going to-morrow to become the inmate of an apparently very respectable family, in which there are three daughters, (two under seventeen,) and no means of removing them. The father, as soon as I called upon him, assigned me a specific portion of his house, which amounts, of course, toacivil prohibition from entering any other part of itjatul thisisa common precaution;—but it does not answer the end. The fact is—and a most perplexing fact it is for the parties concerned—the men here have grown, during the war, into great disfavour with their women. Their reputation as soldiersdoes not stand high; and the very devil is in the sex everywhere, for being caught by the name of a huffcap! The French, while they held Lisbon, exercised their power, as you may suppose, pretty vexatiously. They plundered the inhabitants — which was much; then they reasoned against their prejudices—which was more. They robbed the people in Lisbon, and carried the booty over the water to i

Letters vf Charles Edwards, Esq. No. J.


at Casildeas; and then they robbed the people at Casildeas, and brought the booty over the water to sell in Lisbon. Beyond this, they quizzed the ignorance of the natives, and insisted upon reforming their bad habits. They swept their streets—shot their dogs—caricatured their coats—and made faces at their cookery. And yet, with all this, it is notorious that they were highly popular among the ladies. And the English, take them as a body, are not a whit worse received. In fact, how should anything stand against a gentleman, who can afford to be shot at for five and sixpence a-day? It is so soothing—so never failingly flattering, even to the most delicate-minded woman, to find herself adored by the very same man who makes no secret of his contempt for all her acquaintance. Depend on it, Robert, it is a course which I have approved—wherever you go, take care to be (generally) disagreeable. Be civil to all; and—who cares to have your notice? but unbending only to one, is a compliment not to be resisted.

But you may imagine (under such circumstances) the condition of the people here, when every family must entertain an Englishman, of some character or other. One man, perhaps, gets a lad—an ensign, fresh from boardinging-school. Mischievous, fearless, impudent, and unfeeling. Arrogant, in proportion to his ignorance—so, probably, very arrogant indeed. Conscious that he has not yet the figure of a man ; and anxious, therefore, to shew that he has the vices of one. Conceive the annoyance (to a reasonable being) of a guest such as this in his house; who will insult himself, alarm his family, break windows and china, and be brought homeregularlydrunkabout three o'clock every morning! Well! instead of this, suppose a host more fortunate, and give him a conciliating creature; sober, civil, about two or three and twenty, and perhaps tolerably handsome into the bargain? Why then, if he has a wife or sisters, he is driven out of his mind quite!

And the women here, I am told, (and I don't doubt it) are in raptures with all this dilemma and confusion! Anything! though it were a plague, that does but lead to novelty and bustle! Ventre St Oris! how delighted they must have been with the earthquake! I recollect a baboon once, while I was on board the Kill Devil—

he belonged to the purser, and used to be tied up in the cockpit. This beast got loose during a smart engagement we had with a French frigate; and while the shots were flying quicker a great deal than a sober man could have desired, and afterwards actually as we were laying the enemy on board, the brute was jumping about all over the deck, quite rampant at the uproar! That poor man now that I am going to live with to-morrow, is torturing his soul out at this moment how to get rid of me! and his daughters are expiring to know what " kind of looking man" I am! Delighted that " somebody," at all events, is coming! I'd pawn my life of it. Their father will watch me, night and day, all the while I am at home—and they will go and try on all my pantaloons the moment I go out!

But, to the public amusements—of which you would fain hear, and of which I have yet seen nothing; for I spend all my time in dressing, and riding up one street and down another, and trying to make acquaintances. There is an Italian Opera—a fine theatre, (I have peeped into it in the daytime,) but it is not well supported, for none but the English have any means. Two inferior theatres, one for the performance of comedies, and the other a kind of circus, do better,—as I am informed.

At the Opera, you hire a whole box, (you can hire no less,) by the night: into which you admit as many persons as you please, and may take your wine, if you think fit, during the evening. This arrangement is rational. I hate a public box, in which any wretch who chooses may sit by the side of you; and where, not having even the conveniences for going comfortably to sleep, you are compelled absolutely to see, and even to near, whether you will or no. Think what an appui would a glass of Constantia be to a man, when the minor performers make their appearance upon the scene!

This is not a season for amusements to flourish in Lisbon. There are no bull-fights now—in token of the national sorrow; nor any burning of heretics. Missing the first sight (except for once) does not vehemently distress me. I hate animal combats; and, still more, sports in which animals are tormented by men. Burney, in his "Musical Tour," (Germany, 1772,) givesa whimsical account, Irerating a number of combats between different ferocious animals—first, a wild boar to be baited—next, a great bear to be torn by dogs—then, another boar to be baited by very hungry dogs defended byiron armour—he concludes with—" lastly, a ferocious and hungry bear, which has had no food for eight days, (or words to that effect,) «ill attack a wild bull, and cat him alive upon the spot; and if he should be unable to complete ihe business, a wolf will be ready to help him!" This is not so offensive to me, as our fights between domestic animals— taking the dog from under our chair, and compelling him to be worried till he dies;—but I will no more endure such an exhibition even as this, or allow it to be justified (the stale apology) by a tu mtoque reference to the sports of the chase, than I will allow the sabring an enemy in a charge, or in the heat of fresh pursuit, to justify the cutting prisoners' throats, or torturing them to death after the heat of the battle is over. Indeed, among a tolerable variety of brutal entertainments, which, thank God, are something upon the wane in England; and which (what is worse) are all made the subjects of wager too, and so carried to the extreme ef cruelty by the spirit of gain, the only excuse I could ever find for our famous sport of prize-fighting was—not the courage which it demands—for the bull-fighter displays as much—but that the combatants certainly act advisedly, (if not under durance,) for the sake of a pecuniary recompense; add to which, in whatever way the contest may eventually terminate, the probability is, that two rascals get each of them a sound beating.

collect (from the " bill") of an exhibi- lence, because they will not labour for tion of this kindat Vienna. After enume

Diversions of an expensive cast, however, (I speak with reference to the Italian Opera,) can never be very successful here, for the multitude have not means to support them. If the people are not poor, looking at the extent of their own .vising they are very poor, according to the estimate, and perceptions, of an Englishman. The mere climate of Portugal makes a man's wantsone-halfless than they arein Holland or in Germany; and the arrangements of society make his artificial necessities very few, as compared with what they are with us. Your English travel-writer cries "out" on these poor knaves for pride and indo

those luxuries which he (the greedy rogue!) finds indispensable; but, in truth, a man here may be rich with a very little. It is not necessary that he should have five hundred a-year to l>e received into society, and treated as a gentleman. The whole course of his habits and pleasures—politically, it would be better if the thing were otherwise, but certainly not better as regards the present comfort of individuals,—the whole scale of his habits and pleasures is less costly than among us. A man considers, here, not how much he can earn, but how little he can live upon. And what is the feeling that actuates our Saint-Mondaykeeping artisan?—only that he does not choose (the Englishman) to live upon so little.

Take it as you will, it amounts only to a different extent of desire? Your loiterer of Lisbon loves to sit in the sunshine; your English loiterer loves to sit in the public-house. The pleasure of the first is to be idle; the pleasure of the last is to be drunk. This very propensity to expensive enjoyments (by the exertion which becomes requisite to gratify it) tends mainly, I believe, to keep up that energy, which is the distinguishing characteristic of the lower English, as the absence, generally, of desires, which cost much labour or peril to content them, sinks the people here into habits of imbecility, apathy, and indifference. J'enragS, however, notwithstanding, that their prodigality will point no way but to the gin shop. That weddings or funerals—-holidays or fasts—all occasions of joy or sorrow—of triumph or lament—can serve as no other than so many pretences for the discussion of given quantities of strong liquor. A writer, I recollect, of the day of Charles II. treating of the English (he was himself a German) as the " soakers" of Europe, declares, that they have even a song which accounts a drunkard to be as great as a king. And, afterwards, to prove the satisfaction which prevailed in England on account of Charles's return, he notices that, in the first five years after the Restoration, thirty-one new tavern and ale-house h'cences were granted 1 and that six hundred thousand barrels of ale were brewed in that five years, and consumed, more than had been disposed of in the five years preceding.


I Was compell'd to leave the land,
Or brook a prison-life, trepann'd
By a false-hearted friend;
A mien like honour's mask'd his face,
Till I, poor dupe, suspicionless,
Was wrought to serve his end.

My purse, my word, my pen was his;

One heart in all occurrences

Had seem'd to away us two;

Each to the other for advice,

For comfort look'd; nor did these ties

Slacken as up we grew.

But he declined from virtue, stray'd

From Truth's one beaten path, and made

Rank Vice his arbitress:

Tome his lesser faults alone

Were, with mock candour, sometimes

I grieved, but loved not less.

His utter lapse was scarcely known,
Ere evil days came thickly on;
My fortune's guardian died—
Died bankrupt;—and for me remain'd
Nought, save a scanty patch of land,
And one small house beside.

The cradle there, which at my birth
Received me, kept its place,—the hearth
Round which I play'd, while love
Breathed on me in a mother's kiss—
Yet this so precious dwelling,—this
My friend bereaved me of!

The little patrimony went,
Claim'd on a bond, to which I lent
My name in his distress:
So having round me laid a woof
Of snares, he meanly fled aloof,
And left me pennyless.

His creditors were much enraged,
To whom my person still was gaged
By that bond's cruel claim.
They saw he wrought to fraudful ends,
That I was of his bosom friends,
And deem'd our views the same.

I pleaded hard; my plea was spurn'd,
A deaf and pitiless ear was turn'd
By one whose brow was stern;
It nought avail'd with him that I
Promised in plain sincerity
All that my skill could earn:

I shew'd him that I had resign'd
My all; nougbt save a willing mind
The injurious debt could free;
Nor wanted I the means or skill
To get my bread, nor right goodwill
To toil induttriouily.

No—instant payment or a jail !—

Beseeching was of no avail,—

Pity in vain I sought;

Yet 'twas not fair 1 should be sent,

A felon-like imprisonment

To undergo for nought.

So when ray overture was spurn'd,

The hard oppressive man I warn'd

He should not reach his end,

For I would flee,—and while he went

My liberty to circumvent,

The Hampshire coast I gain'd.

It was that part, where opposite

Look forth the swelling Downs of Wight,

A channel broad o'erpast,

A roadstead from the mighty sea,

Gay with the glancing bravery

Of flag, and sail, and mast.

That lonesome strand I pitch'd upon.
Which lies 'twixt pleasant Lymington
And Beaulieu's river-glade;
A safe and unfrequented tract,
By that romantic Forest back'd,
The Royal Norman made.

Far-stretching plains of dark sea ooze,
(Now bare, now wash'd, as ebbs or flow*
The ever-travelling tide)
Cut oil communion with the deep,
Save by the fishers' boats, which creep
Through creeks that wind unspied.

Thither I fled, to seek a friend,
One on whose love I could depend
My prompt escape to aid;
For here a matron dwelt, who erst
My years of infancy bad nurst,
Ere she herself was wed.

Her spouse, a fine old seaman wight,
As rough as oak-bark, and like it
Covering a flawless heart;
As resolute us the northern wind,
And yet no summer breeze more kind,
Or rock-bird more alert.

In storm and calm, by night or day,
Through deeps and shallows, coast and


And far out in tlie tide,—
With line, or net, or wicker-gear,
Or oyster-drag, or huge eel-spear,
The fisher's trade he plied.

To him, then, and his trusty boat,
Ran strong the current of my thought
For my deliverance;
By them I hoped to cross the v:i.
And disembark, though poor yet free,
Upon the roast of France.

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