[126 — To Francis Hodgson]
Lisbon, July 16, 1809.
Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, etc.; — which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forthcoming
Book of Travels
, I shall not anticipate by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world.
I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own, — and I goes into society (with my pocket-pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhoea and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a pleasuring.
When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say
Carracho!
— the great oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of "Damme," — and, when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce him