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[William Fletcher, the faithful valet; who, after a service of twenty years, (" during which," he says, "his Lord was more to him than a father,") received the Pilgrim's last words at Missolonghi, and did not quit his remains, until he had seen them deposited in the family vault at Hucknall. This ansophisticated "yeoman" was a constant source of pleasantry to his master:-e. g. "Fletcher," he says, in a letter to his mother, "is not valiant; he requires comforts that I can dispense with, and sighs for beer, and beef, and tea, and his wife, and the devil knows what besides. We were one night lost in a thunder-storm, and since, nearly wrecked. In both cases he 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. I did what I could to console him, but found him incorrigible. He sends six sighs to Sally. I shall settle him in a farm; for he has served me faithfully, and Sally is a good woman." After all his adventures by flood and field, short commons included, this humble Achates of the poet has now established himself as the keeper of an Italian warehouse, in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, where, if he does not thrive, every one who knows any thing of his character will say he deserves to do so.]

[Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

All this is well to say;
But if I in thy sandals stood,

I'd laugh to get away."- MS.]

["For who would trust a paramour,

Or e'en a wedded freere,

Though her blue eyes were streaming o'er, And torn her yellow hair ?"-MS.]

["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."- Lord B. to Mr. Hodgson.]

• [From the following passage in a letter to Mr. Dallas, it would appear that that gentleman had recommended the suppression or alteration of this stanza:-"I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse the Good Night.' I have no reason to suppose my dog better than his brother brutes, mankind; and Argus, we know to be a fable."]

Here follows, in the original MS. :

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"And of his train there was a henchman page,
A peasant boy, who served his master well;
And often would his pranksome prate engage
Childe Harold's ear, when his proud heart did swell
With sable thoughts that he disdain'd to tell.
Then would he smile on him, and Alwin smiled,
When aught that from his young lips archly fell
The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled;
And pleased for a glimpse appear'd the woeful Childe.
Him and one yeoman only did he take

To travel eastward to a far countrie;

And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake
On whose fair banks he grew from infancy,
Eftsoons his little heart beat merrily
With hope of foreign nations to behold,
And many things right marvellous to see,
Of which our vaunting voyagers oft have told,
In many a tome as true as Mandeville's of old."]

8 [" These Lusian brutes, and earth from worst of wretches purge."- MS.]

9 ["A friend advises Ulissipont; but Lisboa is the Por. tuguese word, consequently the best. Ulissipont is pedantic; and as I had lugged in Hellas and Eros not long before, there would have been something like an affectation of Greek terms, which I wished to avoid. On the submission of Lusitania to the Moors, they changed the name of the capital, which till then had been Ulisipo, or Lispo; because, in the Arabic alphabet, the letter p is not used. Hence, I believe, Lisboa; whence again, the French Lisbonne, and our Lisbon, God knows which the earlier corruption!"- Byron, MS.]

10 ["Which poets, prone to lie, have paved with gold."-MS.]

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2 ["Mid many things that grieve both nose and ee."-MS.] 3 [To make amends for the filthiness of Lisbon, and its still filthier inhabitants, 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. It unites in itself all the wildness of the western Highlands with the verdure of the south of France."- B. to Mrs. Byron, 1809.]

4 The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa Señora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. Note to 1st Edition. Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the misappreheusion of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde or mark over the n, which alters the signification of the word: with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage; as, though the common acceptation affixed to it is "Our Lady of the Rock," I may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there. Note to 2d Edition.

5 It is a well known fact, that in the year 1509, the assassin. ations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen; but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped

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in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have "adorned a tale" instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished!

6 ["Vathek" (says Lord Byron, in one of his diaries.)" was one of the tales I had a very early admiration of. For correctness of costume, 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 more than 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.""-[William Beckford, Esq., son of the once celebrated alderman, and heir to his enormous wealth, published, at the early age of eighteen," Memoirs of extraordinary Painters ;" and in the year after, the romance thus eulogised. After sitting for Hindon in several parlia ments, this gifted person was induced to fix, for a time, his residence in Portugal, where the memory of his magnificence was fresh at the period of Lord Byron's pilgrimage. Returning to England, he realised all the outward shows of Gothic grandeur in his unsubstantial pageant of Fonthill Abbey; and has more recently been indulging his fancy with another, probably not more lasting, monument of architectural caprice, in the vicinity of Bath. It is much to be regretted, that, after a lapse of fifty years, Mr. Beckford's literary reputation should continue to rest entirely on his juvenile, however remarkable. performances. It is said, however, that he has prepared several works for posthumous publication.]

7 [ When Wealth and Taste their worst and best have done, Meek Peace pollution's lure voluptuous still must shun." MS.]

Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied; Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide!


Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 1
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,

Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry,
And sundry signatures adorn the roll,
[soul. 2
Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his


Convention is the dwarfish demon styled

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, And Policy regain'd what arms had lost : For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast!


And ever since that martial synod met,
Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;
And folks in office at the mention fret, [shame.
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for
How will posterity the deed proclaim !
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer,

To view these champions cheated of their fame,

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, [year? Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming

1 The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marchese Marialva. — [“ The armistice, the negotiations, the convention itself, and the execution of its provisions, were all commenced, conducted, and concluded, at the distance of thirty miles from Cintra, with which place they had not the slightest connection, political, military, or local; yet Lord Byron has gravely asserted, in prose and verse, that the convention was signed at the Marquis of Marialva's house at Cintra; and the author of The Diary of an Invalid,' improv. ing upon the poet's discovery, detected the stains of the ink spilt by Junot upon the occasion.” — Napier's History of the Peninsular War.]

* The passage stood differently in the original MS. Some verses which the poet omitted at the entreaty of his friends can now offend no one, and may perhaps amuse many :


In golden characters right well design'd, First on the list appeareth one "Junot; Then certain other glorious names we find, Which rhyme compelleth me to place below: Dull victors! baffled by a vanquish'd foe, Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, Stand, worthy of each other, in a rowSir Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t' other tew.

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. For well I wot, when first the news did come, That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost, For paragraph ne paper scarce had room, Such Pæans teemed for our triumphant host, In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post:

But when Convention sent his handy-work,
Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar;
Mayor, aldermen, laid down the uplifted fork;
The Bench of Bishops half forgot to snore;
Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore

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Thus unto Heaven appeal'd the people: Heaven, Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, Decreed, that, ere our generals were forgiven, Inquiry should held about the thing.

But Mercy cloak'd the babes beneath her wing; And as they spared our foes, so spared we them; (Where was the pity of our sires for Byng? †) Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn; Then live, ye gallant knights! and bless your Judges' phlegm !

3 ["After remaining ten days in Lisbon, we sent our bag. gage and part of our servants by sea to Gibraltar, and travelled on horseback to Seville; a distance of nearly four hundred miles. 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." B. Letters, 1809.]

4 "Her luckless Majesty went subsequently mad; and Dr. Willis, who so dexterously cudgelled kingly pericraniums, could make nothing of hers."- Byron MS. [The queen laboured under a melancholy kind of derangement, from which she never recovered. She died at the Brazils, in 1816.]

The extent of Mafra is prodigious: it contains a palace,

"Blatant beast"— a figure for the mob, I think first used by Smollett in his "Adventures of an Atom." Horace has the "bellua multorum capitum: " in England, fortunately enough, the illustrious mobility have not even one.

By this query it is not meant that our foolish generals should have been shot, but that Byng might have been spared, though the one suffered and the others escaped, probably for Candide's reason, "pour encourager les autres." [See Croker's Boswell," vol. i. p. 298. ; and the Quarterly Review, vol. xxvii. p. 207., where the question, whether the admiral was or was not a political martyr, is treated at large.]

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convent, and most superb church. The six organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of decoration: we did not hear them, but were told that their tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. [ About ten miles to the right of Cintra," says Lord Byron, in a letter to his mother, "is the palace of Mafra, the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any 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."- Mafra was erected by John V., in pursuance of a vow, made in a dangerous fit of illness, to found a convent for the use of the poorest friary in the kingdom. Upon inquiry, this poorest was found at Mafra; where twelve Franciscans lived together in a hut. There is a magnificent view of the existing edifice in "Finden's Illustrations."]

1 As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterised them. That they are since improved, at least in courage, is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has, perhaps, changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors. 1812.

2 ["But ere the bounds of Spain have far been pass'd, For ever famed in many a noted song."- MS.]

3 [Lord Byron seems to have thus early acquired enough of Spanish to understand and appreciate the grand body of

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ancient popular poetry, - unequalled in Europe, - which must ever form the pride of that magnificent language. See his beautiful version of one of the best of the ballads of the Granada war-the" Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de Alhama."]

4 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of Grenada. ["Almost all the Spanish historians, as well as the voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion of the Moors to the forcible violation by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the Moors Caba, or Cava She was the daughter of Count Julian, one of the Gothic monarch's principal lieutenants, who, when the crime was perpetrated, was engaged in the defence of Ceuta against the Moors. In his indignation at the ingratitude of his sovereign, and the dishonour of his daughter, Count Julian forgot the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, forming an alliance with Musa, then the Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he countenanced the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens and Africans, commanded by the celebrated Tarik; the issue of which was the defeat and death of Roderick, and the occupation of almost the whole peninsula by the Moors. The Spaniards, in detestation of Florinda's memory, are said, hy Cervantes, never to bestow that name upon any human female, reserving it for their dogs." SIR WALTER SCOTT.]


"from rock to rock
Blue columns soar aloft in sulphurous wreath,
Fragments on fragments in confusion knock."— MS.]

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Lo where the Giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar,—and at his iron feet Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.


By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air! What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey! All join the chase, but few the triumph share; The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.


Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are metas if at home they could not die
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 1


There shall they rot - Ambition's honour'd fools!?
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?—a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?


Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,

A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!
Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed
And tears of triumph their reward prolong!
Till others fall where other chieftains lead,

Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.

1 See APPENDIX, Note A.


["There let them rot- while rhymers tell the fools How honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! Liars avaunt!"-MS.]

[This stanza is not in the original MS. It was written at Newstead, in August, 1811, shortly after the battle of Albuera.]

[At Seville, we lodged in the house of two Spanish un. married ladies, women of character, the eldest a fine woman, the youngest pretty. 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 Spanish belles. 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


Enough of Battle's minions! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.


Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued: Yet is she free- the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.


But all unconscious of the coming doorn,
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 5 sounds;
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls; [rounds:
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals,

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.


Not so the rustic- with his trembling mate
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:

Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;

The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy



How carols now the lusty muleteer?

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?
No! as he speeds, he chants "Viva el Rey !"3
And checks his song to execrate Godoy,

The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate


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.'"- Lord B. to his Mother, Aug. 1809.]

[A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by a bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into Spain.]

6" Viva el Rey Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Ba dajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards; till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country.

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