Produced by Julia Miller, Eleni Christofaki and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
Transcriber's notes:
Punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. Variable, archaic or
unusual spelling has been retained. A list of the few corrections made
can found at the end of the book. Italics indicated by _underscores_.
[Illustration: GREECE, TURKEY, _PART OF_ RUSSIA & POLAND.]
INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN EGYPT, ARABIA PETRAEA, AND THE HOLY LAND."
WITH A MAP AND ENGRAVINGS.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
SEVENTH EDITION.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1853.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by HARPER &
BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York.
PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.
THE fourth edition of this work was published during the author's
absence from the city. His publishers, in a preface in his behalf,
returned his acknowledgments to the public, and he can but respond to
the acknowledgments there made. He has made some alterations in the page
relating to the American phil-Hellenists; and for the rest, he concludes
as in the preface to his first edition.
The author has been induced by his publishers to put forth his
"Incidents of Travel in Greece, Turkey, Russia, and Poland." In point of
time they precede his tour in Egypt, Arabia Petraea, and the Holy Land.
The countries which form the subject of the following pages perhaps do
not, in themselves, possess the same interest with those in his first
work; but the author has reason to believe that part of his route,
particularly from the Black Sea to the Baltic, through the interior of
Russia, and from St. Petersburgh through the interior of Poland to
Warsaw and Cracow, is comparatively new to most of his countrymen. As in
his first work, his object has been to present a picture of the
every-day scenes which occur to the traveller in the countries referred
to, rather than any detailed description of the countries themselves.
_New York, November, 1838._
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME
CHAPTER I. Page
A Hurricane.--An Adventure.--Missilonghi.--Siege of
Missilonghi.--Byron.--Marco Bozzaris.--Visit to the Widow,
Daughters, and Brother of Bozzaris.--Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris."
13
CHAPTER II.
Choice of a Servant.--A Turnout.--An Evening Chat.--Scenery of the
Road.--Lepanto.--A projected Visit.--Change of
Purpose.--Padras.--Vostitza.--Variety and Magnificence of Scenery.
28
CHAPTER III.
Quarrel with the Landlord.--AEgina.--Sicyon.--Corinth.--A
distinguished Reception.--Desolation of Corinth.--The
Acropolis.--View from the Acropolis.--Lechaeum and Cenchreae.--Kaka
Scala.--Arrival at Athens. 46
CHAPTER IV.
American Missionary School.--Visit to the School.--Mr. Hill and the
Male Department.--Mrs. Hill and the Female Department.--Maid of
Athens.--Letter from Mr. Hill.--Revival of Athena.--Citizens of
the World. 61
CHAPTER V.
Ruins of Athens.--Hill of Mars.--Temple of the Winds.--Lantern of
Demosthenes.--Arch of Adrian.--Temple of Jupiter Olympus.--Temple
of Theseus.--The Acropolis.--The Parthenon.--Pentelican
Mountain.--Mount Hymettus.--The Piraeus.--Greek Fleas.--Napoli. 73
CHAPTER VI.
Argos.--Parting and Farewell.--Tomb of Agamemnon.--Mycenae.--Gate of
the Lions.--A Misfortune.--Meeting in the Mountains.--A Landlord's
Troubles.--A Midnight Quarrel.--One good Turn deserves
another.--Gratitude of a Greek Family.--Megara.--The Soldiers'
Revel. 99
CHAPTER VII.
A Dreary Funeral.--Marathon.--Mount Pentelicus.--A Mystery.--Woes of
a Lover.--Reveries of Glory.--Scio's Rocky Isle.--A blood-stained
Page of History.--A Greek Prelate.--Desolation.--The Exile's
Return. 118
CHAPTER VIII.
A Noble Grecian Lady.--Beauty of Scio.--An Original.--Foggi.--A
Turkish Coffee-house.--Mussulman at Prayers.--Easter Sunday.--A
Greek Priest.--A Tartar Guide.--Turkish Ladies.--Camel
Scenes.--Sight of a Harem.--Disappointed Hopes.--A rare
Concert.--Arrival at Smyrna. 149
CHAPTER IX.
First Sight of Smyrna.--Unveiled Women.--Ruins of Ephesus.--Ruin,
all Ruin.--Temple of Diana.--Encounter with a Wolf.--Love at first
Sight.--Gatherings on the Road. 173
CHAPTER X.
Position of Smyrna.--Consular Privileges.--The Case of the
Lover.--End of the Love Affair.--The Missionary's Wife.--The
Casino.--Only a Greek Row.--Rambles in Smyrna.--The
Armenians.--Domestic Enjoyments. 188
CHAPTER XI.
An American Original.--Moral Changes in Turkey.--Wonders of Steam
Navigation.--The March of Mind.--Classic Localities.--Sestos and
Abydos.--Seeds of Pestilence. 203
CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Churchill.--Commodore Porter.--Castle of the Seven Towers.--The
Sultan's Naval Architect.--Launch of the Great Ship.--Sultan
Mahmoud.--Jubilate.--A National Grievance.--Visit to a
Mosque.--The Burial-grounds. 218
CHAPTER XIII.
Visit to the Slave-market.--Horrors of Slavery.--Departure from
Stamboul.--The stormy Euxine.--Odessa.--The Lazaretto.--Russian
Civility.--Returning Good for Evil. 236
CHAPTER XIV.
The Guardiano.--One too many.--An Excess of Kindness.--The last Day
of Quarantine.--Mr. Baguet.--Rise of Odessa.--City-making.--Count
Woronzow.--A Gentleman Farmer.--An American Russian. 258
INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND.
CHAPTER I.
A Hurricane.--An Adventure.--Missilonghi.--Siege of
Missilonghi.--Byron.--Marco Bozzaris.--Visit to the Widow,
Daughters, and Brother of Bozzaris.
ON the evening of the ---- February, 1835, by a bright starlight, after a
short ramble among the Ionian Islands, I sailed from Zante in a
beautiful cutter of about forty tons for Padras. My companions were
Doctor W., an old and valued friend from New-York, who was going to
Greece merely to visit the Episcopal missionary school at Athens, and a
young Scotchman, who had travelled with me through Italy, and was going
farther, like myself, he knew not exactly why. There was hardly a breath
of air when we left the harbour, but a breath was enough to fill our
little sail. The wind, though of the gentlest, was fair; and as we
crawled from under the lee of the island, in a short time it became a
fine sailing breeze. We sat on the deck till a late hour, and turned in
with every prospect of being at Padras in the morning. Before daylight,
however, the wind chopped about, and set in dead ahead, and when I went
on deck in the morning it was blowing a hurricane. We had passed the
point of Padras; the wind was driving down the Gulf of Corinth as if old
AEolus had determined on thwarting our purpose; and our little cutter,
dancing like a gull upon the angry waters, was driven into the harbour
of Missilonghi.
The town was full in sight, but at such a distance, and the waves were
running so high, that we could not reach it with our small boat. A long
flat extends several miles into the sea, making the harbour completely
inaccessible except to small Greek caiques built expressly for such
navigation. We remained on board all day; and the next morning, the gale
still continuing, made signals to a fishing boat to come off and take us
ashore. In a short time she came alongside; we bade farewell to our
captain--an Italian and a noble fellow, cradled, and, as he said, born
to die on the Adriatic--and in a few minutes struck the soil of fallen
but immortal Greece.
Our manner of striking it, however, was not such as to call forth any of
the warm emotions struggling in the breast of the scholar, for we were
literally stuck in the mud. We were yet four or five miles from the
shore, and the water was so low that the fishing-boat, with the
additional weight of four men and luggage, could not swim clear. Our
boatmen were two long, sinewy Greeks, with the red tarbouch, embroidered
jacket, sash, and large trousers, and with their long poles set us
through the water with prodigious force; but, as soon as the boat
struck, they jumped out, and, putting their brawny shoulders under her
sides, heaved her through into better water, and then resumed their
poles. In this way they propelled her two or three miles, working
alternately with their poles and shoulders, until they got her into a
channel, when they hoisted the sail, laid directly for the harbour, and
drove upon the beach with canvass all flying.
During the late Greek revolution, Missilonghi was the great
debarking-place of European adventurers; and, probably, among all the
desperadoes who ever landed there, none were more destitute and in
better condition to "go ahead" than I; for I had all that I was worth on
my back. At one of the Ionian Islands I had lost my carpet-bag,
containing my notebook and every article of wearing apparel except the
suit in which I stood. Every condition, however, has its advantages;
mine put me above porters and custom-house officers; and while my
companions were busy with these plagues of travellers, I paced with
great satisfaction the shore of Greece, though I am obliged to confess
that this satisfaction was for reasons utterly disconnected with any
recollections of her ancient glories. Business before pleasure: one of
our first inquiries was for a breakfast. Perhaps, if we had seen a
monument, or solitary column, or ruin of any kind, it would have
inspired us to better things; but there was nothing, absolutely nothing,
that could recall an image of the past. Besides, we did not expect to
land at Missilonghi, and were not bound to be inspired at a place into
which we were thrown by accident; and, more than all, a drizzling rain
was penetrating to our very bones; we were wet and cold, and what can
men do in the way of sentiment when their teeth are chattering?
The town stands upon a flat, marshy plain, which extends several miles
along the shore. The whole was a mass of new-made ruins--of houses
demolished and black with smoke--the tokens of savage and desolating
war. In front, and running directly along the shore, was a long street
of miserable one-story shantees, run up since the destruction of the old
town, and so near the shore that sometimes it is washed by the sea, and
at the time of our landing it was wet and muddy from the rain. It was a
cheerless place, and reminded me of Communipaw in bad weather. It had no
connexion with the ancient glory of Greece, no name or place on her
historic page, and no hotel where we could get a breakfast; but one of
the officers of the customs conducted us to a shantee filled with
Bavarian soldiers drinking. There was a sort of second story, accessible
only by a ladder; and one end of this was partitioned off with boards,
but had neither bench, table, nor any other article of housekeeping. We
had been on and almost _in_ the water since daylight, exposed to a keen
wind and drizzling rain, and now, at eleven o'clock, could probably have
eaten several chickens apiece; but nothing came amiss, and, as we could
not get chickens, we took eggs, which, for lack of any vessel to boil
them in, were roasted. We placed a huge loaf of bread on the middle of
the floor, and seated ourselves around it, spreading out so as to keep
the eggs from rolling away, and each hewing off bread for himself.
Fortunately, the Greeks have learned from their quondam Turkish masters
the art of making coffee, and a cup of this Eastern cordial kept our dry
bread from choking us.
When we came out again the aspect of matters was more cheerful; the long
street was swarming with Greeks, many of them armed with pistols and
yataghan, but miserably poor in appearance, and in such numbers that not
half of them could find the shelter of a roof at night. We were accosted
by one dressed in a hat and frockcoat, and who, in occasional visits to
Corfu and Trieste, had picked up some Italian and French, and a suit of
European clothes, and was rather looked up to by his untravelled
countrymen. As a man of the world, who had received civilities abroad,
he seemed to consider it incumbent upon him to reciprocate at home, and,
with the tacit consent of all around, he undertook to do the honours of
Missilonghi.
If, as a Greek, he had any national pride about him, he was imposing
upon himself a severe task; for all that he could do was to conduct us
among ruins, and, as he went along, tell us the story of the bloody
siege which had reduced the place to its present woful state. For more
than a year, under unparalleled hardships, its brave garrison resisted
the combined strength of the Turkish and Egyptian armies, and, when all
hope was gone, resolved to cut their way through the enemy or die in the
attempt. Many of the aged and sick, the wounded and the women, refused
to join in the sortie, and preferred to shut themselves up in an old
mill, with the desperate purpose of resisting until they should bring
around them a large crowd of Turks, when they would blow all up
together. An old invalid soldier seated himself in a mine under the
Bastion Bozzaris (the ruins of which we saw), the mine being charged
with thirty kegs of gunpowder; the last sacrament was administered by
the bishop and priests to the whole population and, at a signal, the
besieged made their desperate sortie. One body dashed through the
Turkish ranks, and, with many women and children, gained the mountains;
but the rest were driven back. Many of the women ran to the sea and
plunged in with their children; husbands stabbed their wives with their
own hands to save them from the Turks, and the old soldier under the
bastion set fire to the train, and the remnant of the heroic garrison
buried themselves under the ruins of Missilonghi.
Among them were thirteen foreigners, of whom only one escaped. One of
the most distinguished was Meyer, a young Swiss, who entered as a
volunteer at the beginning of the revolution, became attached to a
beautiful Missilonghiote girl, married her, and, when the final sortie
was made, his wife being sick, he remained with her, and was blown up
with the others. A letter written a few days before his death, and
brought away by one who escaped in the sortie, records the condition of
the garrison.
"A wound which I have received in my shoulder, while I am in daily
expectation of one which will be my passport to eternity, has prevented
me till now from bidding you a last adieu. We are reduced to feed upon
the most disgusting animals. We are suffering horribly with hunger and
thirst. Sickness adds much to the calamities which overwhelm us.
Seventeen hundred and forty of our brothers are dead; more than a
hundred thousand bombs and balls thrown by the enemy have destroyed our
bastions and our homes. We have been terribly distressed by the cold,
for we have suffered great want of food. Notwithstanding so many
privations, it is a great and noble spectacle to behold the ardour and
devotedness of the garrison. A few days more, and these brave men will
be angelic spirits, who will accuse before God the indifference of
Christendom. In the name of all our brave men, among whom are Notho
Bozzaris, *** I announce to you the resolution sworn to before Heaven,
to defend, foot by foot, the land of Missilonghi, and to bury ourselves,
without listening to any capitulation, under the ruins of this city. We
are drawing near our final hour. History will render us justice. I am
proud to think that the blood of a Swiss, of a child of William Tell, is
about to mingle with that of the heroes of Greece."
But Missilonghi is a subject of still greater interest than this, for
the reader will remember it as the place where Byron died. Almost the
first questions I asked were about the poet, and it added to the dreary
interest which the place inspired, to listen to the manner in which the
Greeks spoke of him. It might be thought that here, on the spot where he
breathed his last, malignity would have held her accursed tongue; but it
was not so. He had committed the fault, unpardonable in the eyes of
political opponents, of attaching himself to one of the great parties
that then divided Greece; and though he had given her all that man could
give, in his own dying words, "his time, his means, his health, and,
lastly, his life," the Greeks spoke of him with all the rancour and
bitterness of party spirit. Even death had not won oblivion for his
political offences; and I heard those who saw him die in her cause
affirm that Byron was no friend to Greece.
His body, the reader will remember, was transported to England and
interred in the family sepulchre. The church where it lay in state is a
heap of ruins, and there is no stone or monument recording his death,
but, wishing to see some memorial connected with his residence here, we
followed our guide to the house in which he died. It was a large square
building of stone, one of the walls still standing, black with smoke,
the rest a confused and shapeless mass of ruins. After his death it was
converted into a hospital and magazine; and, when the Turks entered the
city, they set fire to the powder; the sick and dying were blown into
the air, and we saw the ruins lying as they fell after the explosion. It
was a melancholy spectacle, but it seemed to have a sort of moral
fitness with the life and fortunes of the poet. It was as if the same
wild destiny, the same wreck of hopes and fortunes that attended him
through life, were hovering over his grave. Living and dead, his actions
and his character have been the subject of obloquy and reproach, perhaps
justly; but it would have softened the heart of his bitterest enemy to
see the place in which he died.
It was in this house that, on his last birthday, he came from his
bedroom and produced to his friends the last notes of his dying muse,
breathing a spirit of sad foreboding and melancholy recollections; of
devotion to the noble cause in which he had embarked, and a prophetic
consciousness of his approaching end.
"My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone.
* * * * *
"If thou regret'st thy youth, _why live?_
The land of honourable death
Is here: up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
"Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest."
Moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still within the
line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot perhaps as interesting as any
that Greece in her best days could show. It was the tomb of Marco
Bozzaris! No monumental marble emblazoned his deeds and fame; a few
round stones piled over his head, which, but for our guide, we should
have passed without noticing, were all that marked his grave. I would
not disturb a proper reverence for the past; time covers with its dim
and twilight glories both distant scenes and the men who acted in them,
but, to my mind, Miltiades was not more of a hero at Marathon or
Leonidas at Thermopylae than Marco Bozzaris at Missilonghi. When they
went out against the hosts of Persia, Athens and Sparta were great and
free, and they had the prospect of _glory_ and the praise of men, to the
Greeks always dearer than life. But when the Suliote chief drew his
sword, his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all Europe
condemned the Greek revolution as foolhardy and desperate. For two
months, with but a few hundred men, protected only by a ditch and slight
parapet of earth, he defended the town where his body now rests against
the whole Egyptian army. In stormy weather, living upon bad and
unwholesome bread, with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days
and nights in constant vigil; in every assault his sword cut down the
foremost assailant, and his voice, rising above the din of battle,
struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. In the struggle which ended
with his life, with two thousand men he proposed to attack the whole
army of Mustapha Pacha, and called upon all who were willing to die for
their country to stand forward. The whole band advanced to a man.
Unwilling to sacrifice so many brave men in a death-struggle, he chose
three hundred, the sacred number of the Spartan band, his tried and
trusty Suliotes. At midnight he placed himself at their head, directing
that not a shot should be fired till he sounded his bugle; and his last
command was, "If you lose sight of me, seek me in the pacha's tent." In
the moment of victory he ordered the pacha to be seized, and received a
ball in the loins; his voice still rose above the din of battle,
cheering his men until he was struck by another ball in the head, and
borne dead from the field of his glory.
Not far from the grave of Bozzaris was a pyramid of sculls, of men who
had fallen in the last attack upon the city, piled up near the blackened
and battered wall which they had died in defending. In my after
wanderings I learned to look more carelessly upon these things; and,
perhaps, noticing everywhere the light estimation put upon human life in
the East, learned to think more lightly of it myself; but, then, it was
melancholy to see bleaching in the sun, under the eyes of their
countrymen, the unburied bones of men who, but a little while ago, stood
with swords in their hands, and animated by the noble resolution to free
their country or die in the attempt. Our guide told us that they had all
been collected in that place with a view to sepulture; and that King
Otho, as soon as he became of age and took the government in his own
hands, intended to erect a monument over them. In the mean time, they
are at the mercy of every passing traveller; and the only remark that
our guide made was a comment upon the force and unerring precision of
the blow of the Turkish sabre, almost every scull being laid open on the
side nearly down to the ear.
But the most interesting part of our day at Missilonghi was to come.
Returning from a ramble round the walls, we noticed a large square
house, which, our guide told us, was the residence of Constantine, the
brother of Marco Bozzaris. We were all interested in this intelligence,
and our interest was in no small degree increased when he added that the
widow and two of the children of the Suliote chief were living with his
brother. The house was surrounded by a high stone wall, a large gate
stood most invitingly wide open, and we turned toward it in the hope of
catching a glimpse of the inhabitants; but, before we reached the gate,
our interest had increased to such a point that, after consulting with
our guide, we requested him to say that, if it would not be considered
an intrusion, three travellers, two of them Americans, would feel
honoured in being permitted to pay their respects to the widow and
children of Marco Bozzaris.
We were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, where
three Greeks were sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking the long
Turkish chibouk. Soon after the brother entered, a man about fifty, of
middling height, spare built, and wearing a Bavarian uniform, as holding
a colonel's commission in the service of King Otho. In the dress of the
dashing Suliote he would have better looked the brother of Marco
Bozzaris, and I might then more easily have recognised the daring
warrior who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was
deemed, by universal acclamation, worthy of succeeding the fallen hero.
Now the straight military frockcoat, buttoned tight across the breast,
the stock, tight pantaloons, boots, and straps, seemed to repress the
free energies of the mountain warrior; and I could not but think how
awkward it must be for one who had spent all his life in a dress which
hardly touched him, at fifty to put on a stock, and straps to his boots.
Our guide introduced us, with an apology for our intrusion. The colonel
received us with great kindness, thanked us for the honour done his
brother's widow, and, requesting us to be seated, ordered coffee and
pipes.
And here, on the very first day of our arrival in Greece, and from a
source which made us proud, we had the first evidence of what afterward
met me at every step, the warm feeling existing in Greece toward
America; for almost the first thing that the brother of Marco Bozzaris
said was to express his gratitude as a Greek for the services rendered
his country by our own; and, after referring to the provisions sent out
for his famishing countrymen, his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed as
he told us that, when the Greek revolutionary flag first sailed into the
port of Napoli di Romania, among hundreds of vessels of all nations, an
American captain was the first to recognise and salute it.
In a few moments the widow of Marco Bozzaris entered. I have often been
disappointed in my preconceived notions of personal appearance, but it
was not so with the lady who now stood before me; she looked the widow
of a hero; as one worthy of her Grecian mothers, who gave their hair for
bowstrings, their girdle for a sword-belt, and, while their heartstrings
were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms to fight and
perish for their country. Perhaps it was she that led Marco Bozzaris
into the path of immortality; that roused him from the wild guerilla
warfare in which he had passed his early life, and fired him with the
high and holy ambition of freeing his country. Of one thing I am
certain, no man could look in her face without finding his wavering
purposes fixed, without treading more firmly in the path of high and
honourable enterprise. She was under forty, tall and stately in person
and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition, with a
white handkerchief laid flat over her head, giving the Madonna cast to
her dark eyes and marble complexion. We all rose as she entered the
room; and though living secluded, and seldom seeing the face of a
stranger, she received our compliments and returned them with far less
embarrassment than we both felt and exhibited.
But our embarrassment, at least I speak for myself, was induced by an
unexpected circumstance. Much as I was interested in her appearance, I
was not insensible to the fact that she was accompanied by two young and
beautiful girls, who were introduced to us as her daughters. This
somewhat bewildered me. While waiting for their appearance, and talking
with Constantine Bozzaris, I had in some way conceived the idea that the
daughters were mere children, and had fully made up my mind to take them
both on my knee and kiss them; but the appearance of the stately mother
recalled me to the grave of Bozzaris; and the daughters would probably
have thought that I was taking liberties upon so short an acquaintance
if I had followed up my benevolent purpose in regard to them; so that,
with the long pipe in my hand, which, at that time, I did not know how
to manage well, I cannot flatter myself that I exhibited any of the
benefit of Continental travel.
The elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my friend Doctor
W., a cool judge in these matters, a beautiful girl, possessing in its
fullest extent all the elements of Grecian beauty: a dark, clear
complexion, dark hair, set off by a little red cap embroidered with gold
thread, and a long blue tassel hanging down behind, and large black
eyes, expressing a melancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot
forth glances of fire more terrible than her father's sword. Happily,
too, for us, she talked French, having learned it from a French marquis
who had served in Greece and been domesticated with them; but young and
modest, and unused to the company of strangers, she felt the
embarrassment common to young ladies when attempting to speak a foreign
language. And we could not talk to her on common themes. Our lips were
sealed, of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house.
We could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. At
parting, however, I told them that the name of Marco Bozzaris was as
familiar in America as that of a hero of our own revolution, and that it
had been hallowed by the inspiration of an American poet; and I added
that, if it would not be unacceptable, on my return to my native country
I would send the tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling
existing in America toward the memory of Marco Bozzaris. My offer was
gratefully accepted; and afterward, while in the act of mounting my
horse to leave Missilonghi, our guide, who had remained behind, came to
me with a message from the widow and daughters reminding me of my
promise.
I do not see that there is any objection to my mentioning that I wrote
to a friend, requesting him to procure Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," and
send it to my banker at Paris. My friend, thinking to enhance its value,
applied to Mr. Halleck for a copy in his own handwriting. Mr. Halleck,
with his characteristic modesty, evaded the application; and on my
return home I told him the story of my visit, and reiterated the same
request. He evaded me as he had done my friend, but promised me a copy
of the new edition of his poems, which he afterward gave me, and which,
I hope, is now in the hands of the widow and daughters of the Grecian
hero.
I make no apology for introducing in a book the widow and daughters of
Marco Bozzaris. True, I was received by them in private, without any
expectation, either on their part or mine, that all the particulars of
the interview would be noted and laid before the eyes of all who choose
to read. I hope it will not be considered invading the sanctity of
private life; but, at all events, I make no apology; the widow and
children of Marco Bozzaris are the property of the world.