"Lisbon, February 1st, 1796.
'Certainly, I shall hear from Mr. Cottle, by the first packet' said I.
Now I say, 'probably I may hear by the next,' so does experience abate
the sanguine expectations of man. What, could you not write one letter?
and here am I writing not only to all my friends in Bristol, but to all
in England. Indeed I should have been vexed, but that the packet brought
a letter from Edith, and the pleasure that gave me, allowed no feeling of
vexation. What of 'Joan?' Mr. Coates tells me it gains upon the public,
but authors seldom hear the plain truth. I am anxious that it should
reach a second edition, that I may write a new preface, and enlarge the
last book. I shall omit all in the second book which Coleridge wrote.
Bristol deserves panegyric instead of satire. I know of no mercantile
place so literary. Here I am among the Philistines, spending my mornings
so pleasantly, as books, only books, can make them, and sitting at
evening the silent spectator of card playing and dancing. The English
here unite the spirit of commerce, with the frivolous amusements of high
life. One of them who plays every night (Sundays are not excepted here)
will tell you how closely he attends to profit. 'I never pay a porter for
bringing a burthen till the next day,' says he, 'for while the fellow
feels his back ache with the weight, he charges high; but when he comes
the next day the feeling is gone, and he asks only half the money.' And
the author of this philosophical scheme is worth £200,000!
This is a comfortless place, and the only pleasure I find in it, is in
looking on to my departure. Three years ago I might have found a friend,
Count Leopold Berchtold. This man (foster brother of the Emperor Joseph)
is one of those rare characters, who spend their lives in doing good. It
is his custom in every country he visits, to publish books in its
language, on some subject of practical utility; these he gave away. I
have now lying before me the two which he printed in Lisbon; the one is
an Essay on the means of preserving life, in the various dangers to which
men are daily exposed. The other an Essay on extending the limits of
benevolence, not only towards men, but towards animals. His age was about
twenty-five; his person and his manners the most polished. My uncle saw
more of him than any one, for he used his library; and this was the only
house he called at; he was only seen at dinner, the rest of the day was
constantly given to study. They who lived in the same house with him,
believed him to be the wandering Jew. He spoke all the European
languages, had written in all, and was master of the Arabic. From thence
he went to Cadiz, and thence to Barbary; no more is known of him.
We felt a smart earthquake the morning after our arrival here. These
shocks alarm the Portuguese dreadfully; and indeed it is the most
terrifying sensation you can conceive. One man jumped out of bed and ran
down to the stable, to ride off almost naked as he was. Another, more
considerately put out his candle, 'because I know,' said he 'the fire
does more harm than the earthquake.' The ruins of the great earthquake
are not yet removed entirely.
The city is a curious place; a straggling plan; built on the most uneven
ground, with heaps of ruins in the middle, and large open places. The
streets filthy beyond all English ideas of filth, for they throw
everything into the streets, and nothing is removed. Dead animals annoy
you at every corner; and such is the indolence and nastiness of the
Portuguese, that I verily believe they would let each other rot, in the
same manner, if the priests did not get something by burying them. Some
of the friars are vowed to wear their clothes without changing for a
year; and this is a comfort to them: you will not wonder, therefore, that
I always keep to the windward of these reverend perfumers.
The streets are very disagreeable in wet weather. If you walk under the
houses you are drenched by the waterspouts; if you attempt the middle,
there is a river; if you would go between both, there is the dunghill.
The rains here are very violent, and the streams in the streets, on a
declivity, so rapid as to throw down men; and sometimes to overset
carriages. A woman was drowned some years ago, in one of the most
frequented streets of Lisbon. But to walk home at night is the most
dangerous adventure, for then the chambermaids shower out the filth into
the streets with such profusion, that a Scotchman might fancy himself at
Edinburgh. You cannot conceive what a cold perspiration it puts me in, to
hear one dashed down just before me; as Thomson says, with a little
alteration:
"Hear nightly dashed, amid the perilous street,
The fragrant stink pot."
This furnishes food for innumerable dogs, that belong to nobody, and
annoy everybody. If they did not devour it, the quantities would breed a
pestilence. In a moonlight night, we see dogs and rats feeding at the
same dunghill.
Lisbon is plagued with a very small species of red ant, that swarm over
everything in the house. Their remedy for this is, to send for the
priest, and exorcise them. The drain from the new convent opens into the
middle of the street. An English pigsty is cleaner than the metropolis of
Portugal.
To-night I shall see the procession of 'Our Lord of the Passion.' This
image is a very celebrated one, and with great reason, for one night he
knocked at the door of St Roque's church, and there they would not admit
him. After this he walked to the other end of the town, to the church of
St. Grace, and there they took him in: but a dispute now arose between
the two churches, to which the image belonged; whether to the church
which he first chose, or the church that first chose him. The matter was
compromised. One church has him, and the other fetches him for their
processions, and he sleeps with the latter the night preceding. The
better mode for deciding it, had been to place the gentleman between
both, and let him walk to which he liked best. What think you of this
story being believed in 1796!!!
The power of the Inquisition still exists, though they never exercise it,
and thus the Jews save their bacon. Fifty years ago it was the greatest
delight of the Portuguese to see a Jew burnt. Geddes, the then chaplain,
was present at one of these detestable Auto da Fe's. He says, 'the
transports expressed by all ages, and all sexes, whilst the miserable
sufferers were shrieking and begging mercy for God's sake, formed a scene
more horrible than any out of hell!' He adds, that 'this barbarity is not
their national character, for no people sympathize so much at the
execution of a criminal; but it is the damnable nature of their religion,
and the most diabolical spirit of their priests; their celibacy deprives
them of the affections of men, and their creed gives them the ferocity of
devils.' Geddes saw one man gagged, because, immediately he came out of
the Inquisition gates, he looked up at the sun, whose light for many
years had never visited him, and exclaimed, 'How is it possible for men
who behold that glorious orb, to worship any being but him who created
it!' My blood runs cold when I pass that accursed building; and though
they do not exercise their power, it is a reproach to human nature that
the building should exist.
It is as warm here as in May with you; of course we broil in that month
at Lisbon; but I shall escape the hot weather here, as I did the cold
weather of England, and quit this place the latter end of April. You will
of course see me the third day after my landing at Falmouth, or, if I can
get companions in a post-chaise, sooner. This my resolution is like the
law of the Medes and Persians, that altereth not. Be so good as to
procure for me a set of Coleridge's 'Watchman,' with his Lectures and
Poems. I want to write a tragedy here, but can find no leisure to begin
it.
Portugal is much plagued with robbers, and they generally strip a man,
and leave him to walk home in his birth-day suit. An Englishman was
served thus at Almeyda, and the Lisbon magistrates, on his complaint,
took up the whole village, and imprisoned them all. Contemplate this
people in what light you will, you can never see them in a good one. They
suffered their best epic poet to perish for want: and they burned to
death their best dramatic writer, because he was a Jew.
Pombal, whose heart was bad, though he made a good minister, reduced the
church during his administration. He suffered no persons to enter the
convents, and, as the old monks and nuns died, threw two convents into
one, and sold the other estates. By this means, he would have annihilated
the whole generation of vermin; but the king died, and the queen, whose
religion has driven her mad, undid, through the influence of the priests,
all that Pombal had done. He escaped with his life, but lived to see his
bust destroyed, and all his plans for the improvement of Portugal
reversed. He had the interest of his country at heart, and the
punishment, added to the regret of having committed so many crimes to
secure his power, must almost have been enough for this execrable
marquis.
The climate here is delightful, and the air so clear, that when the moon
is young, I can often distinguish the whole circle, thus; O. You and
Robert may look for this some fine night, but I do not remember ever to
have observed it in England. The stars appear more brilliant here, but I
often look up at the Pleiades, and remember how much happier I was when I
saw them in Bristol. Fare you well. Let me know that my friends remember
me....