* * * * *
CORIA, _July 8, 1809_.
It is quite a relief, dearest Lou, to be transferred from the
filthy styes of the Portuguese to the clean houses of the
Spaniards. And as I am shaking off the dust contracted in Portugal,
so I am scraping my tongue of those odious inarticulate sounds
which compose their language, and gargling vinegar that my throat
may be capable of touching with the true Castilian burr the
energetic language of Spain.
Alas! I have lost one of my first comforts, a new blue, patent,
silver-mounted, morocco writing-case; all my letter-paper, pens,
ink, letters, secrets, verses, etc., etc.; also dear Lady N----’s
series of useless boxes--all lost by the rascal Pedro, Bernardo’s
opposite in everything. The devil take it, though I have lost it a
week ago, I cannot recover my temper.
Hitherto I pass my time very pleasantly. I have got a fine young
engineer to take care of, whom I row, all the time that he does not
sleep, about his vanity; not but that I acknowledge myself to be as
vain as he, but that I defy him to have found it out, unless I had
told him of it. He is coming into very fine order.
Poor Harry Campbell has been some time unwell, but I hope he is now
throwing it off.
General Sherbrooke, to whose division I belong, makes it very
pleasant to me. I dine with him mostly, and like him vastly. I
think of him very highly as a general. He thinks of Sir John Moore
just as I do.
To-morrow we go to Plaçentia, which is much larger than this very
pretty town.
Here there is an old castle and walls inhabited by cranes, which
interest me very much, perching on the house-tops and church
steeples, and cowering over the town.
That fellow there, I at first thought was standing upon the stalk
of a weather-cock, but I found by a spy-glass that they were his
own long legs, with his great feet happy upon the stone ball.
The air seems fresher here than in Portugal. Sweet F. E. wrote
me such a dear note in Mamsey’s letter. I wonder how she could
contrive to make it so pleasant and yet so proper. For me, I could
do no such thing. Were I to write to her warm, kind, affectionate
words, my heart would dictate fluently enough, but I am sure they
would not pass the school of decorum.
The mistress would say, “You must scratch out there ‘dearest F.’
Lop away this ‘love’ and that ‘love’”; and so word by word I
should see my poor letter robbed of all its graces, looking like a
tobacconist’s with “Humble servant to command” at the bottom.
What if I should not fill this sheet! It is very big, and I have to
give my letter to General Sherbrooke in a quarter of an hour, and
you see I write very close.
My poor chum has just lost a horse, which, though I put on outward
signs of condolence, I am not sorry for. As to being bridled, he
never could think of such a thing. He would always go when he liked
it, and where also. He would look very stupid, to entice the unwary
behind him; and then, with both feet and all his might, lunge out,
as much as to say, “D---- thee, I have thee now.” In the same
manner he would most innocently pretend to come and rub his head
upon you in a dawdling, sleepy sort of way, and then get your leg
or arm in his jaws and try as hard as he could to crack it. For
these and many other pretty accomplishments
His master loved him dearly,
And mourns him now sincerely,
While I say, “Poor thing” merely,
But feel at heart quite cheerly.
We’ll go as fast, or nearly,
Without, as with him, clearly.