July 30, 1823.

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I shall not either scold or reproach you; I only hope that the line you have taken will turn out in the end to your advantage. I confess I am sorry and mortified that, after having rendered me several services, you are still in a situation so little independent. Were I inclined to be angry, it would be with ——; for, had he been like the chevaliers of former times, he would have said, “Doctor, however it may be inconvenient for me to part with you at present, I so much respect your motives, and so much admire your fidelity, that, so far from opposing, allow me to promote your views; and I beg you will accept of this purse for your little wants. When you have finished with it, I trust you will consider me as your next friend; and I flatter myself I may expect from you the same proofs of attachment.”

But the world is spoilt; no good feeling exists; all is egotism. Had ——’s mind been as elegant as his horses, carriages, and servants were, when I saw them, years ago, he would not have acted thus, and taken advantage of a man’s circumstances, to have made him act against his inclination.[2]

I have no right to demand permanent sacrifices of you or others. The time will come when you will see with deep regret whether or not I had taken into consideration your interests as well as my own present convenience. I was surprised at your offer, so often repeated, and less surprised at your conduct; as a doubt often had occurred in my own mind, if temptations of any kind happened to be thrown in your way, whether or not you would have strength of mind to refuse present advantage and comfort. You have acted as you judged best, and as you thought circumstances authorized you to do; but you never can persuade me that General Grenville, the soul of honour and feeling, could ever have recommended a man to break his word. Had you simply asked him, before you had made up your mind, “Shall I keep my word and go, or accept of those offers? Give me, I do entreat, your candid opinion:”—I know what it would have been. But, having decided, what would you have him say? that I should be angry? No: he knew me too well not to be aware that no sacrifice, which I did not believe to be a voluntary one, could have any value in my estimation.

I cannot explain my feelings without seeming to praise myself. I make one rule for my own line of conduct, and one for that of others, and have two separate judgments; I mean, one regulated by truth and feeling, and one after the fashion of what is thought right in the world. I never judge myself and those I really love by the latter. I wish them to be pure and highminded, and to have confidence in God’s mercy, if they act from true principle. But you worldly slaves of bon ton must not be tried by such a test. Mr. Murray[3] was right—“She will not be angry,”—no, because she thinks you all children: I mean the gay world, of which you now make a part.

I need not have said all this, but it is a hint as to the future, when the folly and uselessness of modern ideas and calculations will be at an end. I have been thought mad—ridiculed and abused; but it is out of the power of man to change my way of thinking upon any subject. Without a true faith, there can be no true system of action. All the learned of the East pronounce me to be a Ulemah min Allah,[4] as I can neither write nor read; but my reasoning is profound according to the laws of Nature.

I shall say nothing of this part of the world, where I had latterly announced your speedy arrival to some of my particular friends and to my family.[5] Your interest about matters here must now be at an end; and it fatigues me so to write, that, without it is a case of absolute necessity, I must give it up. I have no assistance. My two dragomans are low-minded, curious, vulgar men, in whom I can put no confidence. In short, they can only be called very bad, idle servants, having no one property of a gentleman belonging to them.

James’s loss,[6] the general’s death—all has afflicted me beyond description. I heard of James’s affliction six months after. To write, not to write—no proper conveyance—what to say—after a year, perhaps, to open the wounds of his heart without being able to pour in one drop of the balm of consolation! What I say would be vain. He considers me as a sort of poor mad woman, who has once loved him; therefore, he is kind to me: but as to my opinions having weight—no! To be considered as a sort of object is not flattering; but so let it be. There is no remedy for it, or other evils, except in the hand of God, which, if he will stretch forth to save me, all may vanish; if not, I shall vanish; for I am quite worn out.

You will probably never receive the letter I alluded to, enclosed to a person. They must have heard of your conduct, and therefore think it unnecessary to see you, or give you the letter. Why did you inquire about this? What a simpleton you are! But there it all ends: there will be no more jumbles to make. Perhaps you may not hear from me, or of me, for years.

Remember, I shall give no opinion about you to any one; therefore, do not fancy, if you see a change in people’s conduct, it comes from me. The world and fashionable loungers take up new favourites every day, and discard the old ones without reason. All are not General Grenvilles. No one so likely to be mortified at this as you.

Why do you not talk to me of James’s poor little children, and why not have asked to see them? Have you forgotten how all about him interests me? I fear folly and fashion have got hold of you....

H. L. Stanhope.

Djoun, January 5, 1827.

My dear Doctor,

I will not afflict you by drawing a picture of my situation, or of the wretched scarecrow grief and sickness have reduced me to; but I must tell you that I am nearly blind, and this is probably the last letter I shall be able to write to you: indeed, no other will be necessary.

I have received your letters of September the 17th and October the 18th of last year. What tricks played upon me, who have sacrificed everything to what I thought right! X., upon his arrival here, gave out to everybody, a month before I saw him, that he was the bearer of important letters from persons of the first consequence, and that he was sent to see into and settle my affairs. When he presented himself to me, he said that B. wrote to him to go to Syria, and Aug. sent him, and that his expenses were defrayed by the Sharky, and that everything would be as I could wish, and more than I could wish; at least, as far as I had expressed. As for his having become guarantee for my debts, or having advanced me £1400, with the promise shortly of £5000 more, it is all pure invention. He did say that he had written to order a box of jewels, worth 20, or 25,000 piasters, to be sent to a merchant here, to be sold on my account: and he said also he should send a letter of credit from Constantinople for 100 purses, for me to go on with until an express could arrive from England. The money he was to draw from his mercantile house; and he told me I need not be uneasy about it, as he should be paid instantly upon his arrival in England. He talked about its being his duty, &c. I certainly believed all this, but have never seen a farthing. What he said to your friend, Mr. Vondiziano, of Cyprus, I know not; but Mr. V. offered to send me 2000 dollars, which I accepted, and gave a note for six months, as desired, and the time of payment is now nine months past. X. moreover assured me, that in England nothing had been well understood, excepting only that all was wonder and approbation. He said that he should return here with all that I wanted, and should bring with him bricklayers, carpenters, &c., to enlarge my house and premises, as many great people would be coming who were anxious to see me: so that not a ship appears in sight but poor and rich fly to the seaside, shout and bare their heads, praying that it may be my ship; for all know my distress, and that I shall live upon charity. According to the ideas of the East, they expect to see a great box of money, left me by my brother, and the contents of his store-room, and all his pots and pans. It would not, therefore, be prudent for X. to return here. He would fare ill, and I should not know what to say. Should he arrive, I shall not see him; for he must be either a spy, a swindler, or a scapegoat for lies; and none of these characters do I wish to have anything to do with.

Poor Williams knows nothing of all this, except that I am in debt, and in expectation of money which is to come; for X. told everybody so: but she is at times uneasy about the future, and so on. All is right with her: she is strictly honest, but ignorant, having been a spoiled child, doing only what she thought proper, and never having learned household affairs. Yet, had she not been here, everything would have been much worse; as all, you know, are thieves, or wasteful, destroying beasts, unthankful, improvident, and whom it is impossible to teach any thing, or to make listen to reason or common sense.

Write to B., or call upon him until you see him. Do not give it up; but, until you have seen him, say not a word of my letters to any one. Let B. take notes, and speak to Aug.—not you. Let prudence and silence be the order of the day with you, and even with the Sharky of all nations you sometimes dine with. B. is a pure one, by birthright. I believe X. has acted by command, like others; therefore, in my heart, I am not angry with him; yet I will not see him.

Now, here are my orders and ultimatum. We will suppose two cases. If X.’s story is true, and my debts, amounting to £10,000, or nearly, are to be paid, then I shall go on making sublime and philosophical discoveries, and employing myself in deep, abstract studies; although, as my strength is gone, I cannot work day and night, as I have done. In that case, I shall want a mason, a carpenter, a ploughman, a gardener, groom, cowman, doctor, &c.; so that I must have assistance: income made out, £4000 a year, and £1000 more, for persons like you, that I should want, and £5000 ready money, for provisions, building, animals, money in hand, &c., that I may start clear. In the second case, in the event that all that has been told me is a lie, then let me be disowned publicly, now and hereafter, and left to my fate and faith alone: for, if I have not a right to what I want, which is in the hands of Messrs. Sharky and Co., I will have nothing. Nothing else will I hear of; and grief has departed from my soul since I have taken the following resolution.

I shall give up everything for life, that I may now or hereafter possess in Europe, to my creditors, and throw myself as a beggar upon Asiatic humanity, and wander far without one para in my pocket, with the mare from the stable of Solomon in one hand, and a sheaf of the corn of Beni-Israel in the other. I shall meet death, or that which I believe to be written, which no mortal hand can efface. There is nothing else to be done. I shall wait for no dawdling letters, or fabrication of lies, of which, for these five years, I have had enough. The will of God be done! I shall cheerfully follow my fate, and defy them all. For what are they without me? In the long run, they will see. But I have too lofty a soul not to observe the strictest line of honour towards even my enemies.

Dear little Adams! I have never written to that joher;[8] but all the past is written in my heart. I only waited till the cloud of my misery had dispersed, to let him know I was not ungrateful. Should it please God to deliver me out of the hands of my cruel brethren, as Joseph was delivered, then he will know—and you will know—what are my feelings of gratitude. Forgive me, forgive me, if I have injured you involuntarily! Oh! my God! perhaps, I have been the cause of your ruin. I have wept and wept; but tears will not feed the little children. Alas! my only trust is in Heaven.

You meant to do well, so I will not scold: but why apply without leave to the Fat or the Thin, or why talk to —— of my concerns? What is —— to me? I never could endure him. I know him well—a low-minded, chitter-chattering fellow: but suppose him an angel, had you my leave to consult or speak to him?—it is not likely. But, in the event of the Fat or the Thin’s having placed any money in the hands of my bankers, let them take it back again.... You have no explanations to make, only that I decline it. Under no circumstances, I repeat, will I owe any obligation to the Fat, to the Thin, to Canning, or his friends, or have anything to do with Sir Vanity. I say this, as I have heard of new plans of his. He may perhaps mean to come here;—if to-morrow, I shall shut my door in his face. If any force, consular force, is ever tried with me, I shall use force in return, and appeal to the populace to defend me. It is right this should be known. I am no slave, and I disown all such authority. Never will I be brought to England but in chains, and never will I be made to act differently from that which my will dictates, whilst there is breath in my body: therefore, to attempt to oppose me is vain. I am up to all their tricks, and it is time there should be an end of them.

If —— calls, say you have had a letter, in which I express my great astonishment that you should have spoken to him of my affairs, as they do not concern him in any way, and that I insist upon it that you should be perfectly silent in future; so he must not take it ill. Tell him that, strange to say, I decline all assistance from my family—persons, whom I have had no communication with for years, or ever shall have; and if he asks what I am to do, say you don’t know—that she knows best. I fear by and by that everything will be in the newspapers. These sort of men talk before servants to show their importance; all goes to grooms, footmen, and coachmen. I have traced all that before. One would think you were mad to forget all I have said to you on those subjects.

Grieve not about me—I am without fear and without reproach. My mind is a Paradise, since I have cast all that botheration from me: it is full of sublime ideas and knowledge. Write no more. I want nothing, and shall be off as soon as the fine weather comes, unless it should please God to eftah bab el khyr, [to open the door to good fortune]; otherwise, I shall burn all, and send Williams to Malta, with a note to be paid the first when Lady Bankes dies; for I have never paid her expenses here to Mr. David. Adieu, God bless you!

PS.—There is another letter at your friend’s in the city, which goes by this conveyance, and a note in it for ——. Puff! upon the £800. I spit upon it, and as many thousands from the same quarter. Are you mad? No, but I, in misfortune as in prosperity, am unlike the rest of the world; and I shall give sufficient proof that I defy it altogether.

Djoun, January 6, 1827.

I have received your letters of the 17th September and 18th of October of last year safe. You will inquire for a letter of mine directed to Coutts’s, but not in my hand; and do not say it came from me. Say nothing to any one of having received this, until you have well conned over the other: then go to B., insist upon seeing him, saying it is of the utmost importance. The note, which I told you in my letter of yesterday would be enclosed in this, I have burnt, for fear of accidents. Notwithstanding, in the event of my being mistaken, in order that all may be clear to you, I have sent you enclosed more notes. In the letter of the 5th you will find my ultimate resolves. I hope and trust not in them.

I have read over your letters again. Never did I tell X. to ask for a place, or recommend him, more than saying he had acted generously and kindly by me, which I then believed.

As for my debts, it is not, as you think, 25 per cent. yearly that I have to pay, but 50 and 95, and, in one instance, I have suffered more loss still. Gold of 28½ piasters they counted to me here at 45, which I spent at 28½, and am to repay at Beyrout at the rate of 45—calculate that. I was compelled to borrow; for I can’t eat silk, and that is all that is to be found here. Had those, who ought, then given a clear answer, things would not have been thus: but so it is written; I was to be a beggar. Be it so! All situations have their blessings, with the grace of God; it is uncertainty which is torture: but now my mind is made up. I have saved a mid[9] of the corn of the Beni-Israel, having no more land to sow. When in ear, ripe or not ripe, I shall cut it and be off, and give up my present and future income to my creditors for my life. Perhaps they may gain two hundred per cent.

Should the other letter be lost, burn this; hold your tongue, and say you have not heard from me; for this is of no use without the other, which contains full explanations, and for which reason you may be commanded to say that you have not heard from me. The loss will change nothing. I shall follow my fate, and be far off, I hope, before new lies arrive.

Not that I credit any change,—but, in case of a happy turn of events, I have said all this to provide for all cases, that you may not be embarrassed how to act. But I have little or no hope. I am no dupe to the tricks played me; who could be, who had one grain of common sense? A child of seven years old, well brought up, must at once see how unlikely—how impossible—it was that I should have applied for money to those who, from the hour I have first known them, have been themselves involved, or to that one[10] whom admiration and respect give me confidence in, and not intimacy. How could any human being credit that, with my independent character, I could stoop to receive one farthing from relations who have behaved to me like mine ..., and who, for years and years, have been upon the footing of strangers?

What an affliction to me is the sad news you wrote! Poor dear angel! what a heart! May he inhabit the seventh heaven![11]

I have been very ill of a terrible fever and strong convulsions. I tell you this that the period may not be mistaken, and my pension stopped. My eyes are quite dim, and drawn into my head with contraction, which sometimes pulls my head back—quite back. I can hardly crawl; but yet, poor monster as I am, I shall get on: for my spirit and heart are unchanged.

Now for servants. In the event of things having taken a favourable turn, and of their giving you the money necessary, I shall want no women until I have seen you first, and heard about them, for they might not answer. Men I should want as you will find described below, but no man-servant for the house—they are quite useless; never can one give a pipe, or present himself, and always out of temper with his room, food, &c. All those who come may go back in the Turkish year 45. Do not forget to make that remark to B., but to no one else.[12]

MEN-SERVANTS.

The great object would be a storekeeper to lock up, weigh, measure, and write down everything that comes in or goes out. Strict honesty, activity, and good character, are most necessary. Perhaps one of the sons of my old wet-nurse, Mrs. T., might answer better than anybody else, as I should feel sure of their attachment and principles. Mr. Murray knows and likes her, and might make that inquiry; and, indeed, there may be a girl in the family that might suit me, or a grandchild of the eldest daughter—the more like the mother, my nurse, the better; for she was a most charming and valuable creature, the happiest temper under the sun. It would not be a vulgar place for the son, because he would have a strong fellah [peasant] under him, to lift, and carry, and expose the stores to the air: he should write a good hand, and be able to keep accounts: his place would be like that of a purser in a ship. In one of the great revolutions, about five years ago, when I was eaten up by those who fled to me for succour, there went, in less than a year, thirty-six garáras of wheat,[13] fifty of barley, and four and a half cwt. of butter, with everything else in proportion.

The second man must be an old dragoon to overlook sayses [grooms]: one out of Lord Cathcart’s regiments would be best, because they are all polite. My lord is of the old school, and his men have a fine, imposing appearance. He must be spirited, though cool; for hasty people will not do with these beasts. General Taylor, if you asked him, would understand best what I mean.

Next, I must have a Scotch gardener, a quiet, steady, and retired character, yet active and intelligent, understanding the culture of flowers and garden-stuff in a common way, and capable of being a sort of bailiff, to choose land, prune trees, plough, sow, and lay out grounds. He should bring with him all sorts of proper utensils—a plough, a harrow, &c.; seeds, roots—and be ingenious enough to make a little model for this, and a little model for that. These three will be sufficient; for all waiting-servants and house-servants are useless.

I want a maid-servant for myself; not a fine lady, but one who has been a nursery or housemaid; one by nature above her situation, about eighteen, twenty, or twenty-two years of age, proper or not proper all the same, with a most excellent character. Don’t employ fifty persons about it. The Scotch lady, who was so good to Lucy, perhaps would know such a one—I mean one who has natural sense, feeling, a good heart and person, but no boarding-school miss—for education of all things is most odious.

Then I must have one for housekeeper, knowing about a dairy, all sorts of bread, pastry, and preserves, and not mild, but faithful.

Now, you have heard me a thousand times say what are good and what are bad marks; but, as you have a horrid memory, I will add a few observations.

Wrinkles at the eyes are abominable, and about the mouth. Eyebrows making one circle, if meeting, or close and straight, are equally bad. Those are good meeting the line of the nose, as if a double bridge. Eyes long, and wide between the eyebrows; and no wrinkles in the forehead when they laugh, or about the mouth, are signs of bad luck and duplicity. Eyes all zigzag are full of lies. A low, flat forehead is bad; so are uneven eyes, one larger than the other, or in constant motion. I must have a fine, open face, all nature, with little education, in a fine, straight, strong, healthy person, with a sweet temper.

Did you ever see a picture or painting of the Lady William Russell, the duke’s brother’s wife? that sort of face was perfect for a woman. If the eyebrows of a man are straight, and come nearly together, that is nothing; but, if they form an arch, it is always a sign of natural hum [melancholy or gloominess] in character. Never can such a one be contented or happy. Look at little Adams and General Taylor—how sincere are their black eyebrows!

Don’t make a mistake—wrinkles of age are not the wrinkles of youth, of which I am speaking. One line is not called a wrinkle. The wrinkles I speak of are found in children of seven years old when they laugh or cry.

The foot should be hollow and not flat. Club-feet stand good with all men and women. Legs that kick up dust when they walk, or a heavy walk, are bad. Stumpy hands are not good. Very white skin is not good; the yellow-white is better, and the veins should appear in the arms and wrists. An offensive, snapping voice, and awkward, snatching fingers, are bad; as is affectation of all sorts—bad teeth, unclean tongue and mouth, and bad smells about the person. Shun dry, crabbed dispositions, masked with smiles and gentleness; as also the officious and fidgety, the curious and intriguing, the discontented, and those with no feeling, or feeling false taught.

[Not signed.]

Djoun, Jan. 7, 1827.

Besides this, there is a letter addressed to Grosvenor Square, and one to the Strand. Do not own any of the three from me until you have read them all over, and made notes of what concerns me and my affairs. Communicate everything, as I desire you, to B., to Aug., and not to any one else at present, unless ordered by him.

Say not a word to X. until all is settled, one way or another. Then, before B., ask him these questions: Did not you say you had been the travelling-companion to B.’s son W., and had been like a child of the family?—Did not you show a present from Aug., saying, in case of accidents, that was a passport partout, and that money would be given you, if required, when that was seen?—Did not you show a paper, in a red box, as your grand credentials from the house of Sharka and Co.?—Did not you give a good reason for not being the bearer of private letters from Aug., B., and others?—Did not you say that all were mere dunces in comparison with Kokub? But all is trick. The poor devil, I believe, was given carte blanche to lie, provided he could spy—perhaps from another quarter?

Oh! odious ——! For God’s sake, keep clear of him! What has such a fellow to do with me, or my concerns? He has ever been a meddler and mischief-maker, and for these twenty years I have had no communication with him. By what law of God or man, are you bound to answer people’s questions?—the lowest and most vulgar of proceedings. I have told you so for years and years. What had he to do with the coming or going of X.? and what sort of a fellow is X., to have thus made public my affairs?

Of the assistance of the Fat or Thin I will not hear. The last I have had no communication with for twenty years and more, and the other I cannot respect. Heber has grieved me, for I once thought better of him. He has, at times, made offers of service in a vague way, just to say he had made them; but, if sincere, he would have written—“You have lost a friend; perhaps your presence may be required in England, to put your affairs to rights; therefore, I have placed so-and-so at Coutts’s, ready for your journey, which, if not necessary, let me have the consolation of thinking, may add to your little comforts.” I should not have accepted anything, but yet should have thought it necessary to have thanked him, which I have not done for nonsensical speeches. I feel that I have no friend left in Europe; all are gone. Yet Allah mojôod [God is with me], and that is enough.

Speaking to little A. was proper; but, to all others, oh, what folly! You are no chitter-chatterer by nature, but your vanity makes you so. Why did I never speak to you of sublime things?—because I feared your prudence. You used sometimes to say—I have been asked so and so, sometimes so extraordinary. Poh! poh! stuff! are you a fool? do hold your tongue. Those hums and hahs were only distant hints: had you heard more, you would have gone mad. Not so me: I am all composure; haughty before men, but humble in spirit, like the Nebby Daôod [the prophet David], before the wise dispenser of hum and khyr [of sorrow and joy].

Do you think that misery will make me crouch, or beg of those who have no heart? If I beg, it will be of the followers of Omar and Ali, whose creed is generosity; and the good amongst them never even wound an unfortunate being, by making him retail his misfortunes.

Since my mind has been made up, I am not low, but feeble, and almost blind with a sort of violent muscular contraction, which has drawn my eyes into my head, and sometimes has distorted all my body: but my body is nothing; the heart is as full of fire as ever. I cannot read what I have written. I was two days making out your last letters. I had prepared a little court, with two rooms and an open divan, for you; but, with Mrs. —— and the children, it will not do. I shall love her and the dear children much, and all might be comfortable. God grant it so! I have a house in the village, which is good, and will do very well—clean, with two rooms up-stairs. If things were to turn out well, I should quickly build apartments close to the house, which would be near and convenient. But what do I say? All my plans are overturned; and, although in spirits at the idea of shortly getting away from all I have to go through, I am miserable that that cheat X. did not perfectly explain about your letter enclosed in Aug.’s. What will you do?

Well, now I have said enough, and must make up my mind to have, in a few days, an attack, from overstraining my head and eyes: but it is the last effort of the nature I shall make. Adieu.

[Not signed.]

PS. A dun, who came here two months ago—a Christian—took a Turk into his room, after I had seen and spoken to him, and said—“I came to get my money, but now I am ready to cry at her situation. It is clear that those Franks are unprincipled and unfeeling, that they have no religion, and know not God. The proof is—and does there want a stronger?—their leaving such a wonderful person as she really is to wither with sorrow.” Then he went out swearing, and took his leave. These are the feelings now alive among the Turkish population. As a contrast, mark how Mr. ——, an Englishman, acts. He told one of my creditors to take my bond, put it in water, and, when well sopped, to drink the mixture; “for that is all,” said he, “you will ever get for it.” Furious was the creditor, and took himself off to a distance, but will in a few months be back again to torment me.