September 28.—Regiment marches at four for Elvas. I ride through the park and overtake the regiment before Villaboim. Ride on before it to Elvas. Find Colonel Ross, Major Colbourn, O’Brien, and Q.M.G. at breakfast with the Bishop; a very chaste breakfast and quiet attendance. Monseigneur gives us a billet upon his provisore. The whole town in a frenzy of joy, a many-tongued “Viva!” I go out with Colonel Ross to meet the regiment at the gate. At the corner of a narrow street a wild-looking Carthusian presented himself, shouting with all his might, and trembling with agitation, “Viva los nostras amicos Ingleses,” which he continued to repeat incessantly, accompanied by the most frantic and terrific gestures.
The Bishop invited all the officers to dinner at three o’clock. Very pleasant dinner, excellently cooked. Sat between old Byron and Wade, and enjoyed it much. The Bishop gave several loyal toasts, and a filial Frenchman (come to seek a wounded father) stood up and bowed with the rest. He had narrowly escaped assassination two or three times in his search.
This afternoon I went with Colbourn to see the garrison from Santa Lucia march to La Lippe, and we perhaps prevented some stragglers on the road from sharing the same fate. Afterwards I go to my provisore, an old asthmatic pastor, who understands French, and has in his library Voltaire, Racine, Molière, and many other interesting books, also the Paradise Lost of Milton in Portuguese prose. A capital house, with a charming view into Spain, far over Badajoz.
September 29.—The next day I walk to Fort La Lippe, and the French Engineers show me all over the fort, one of them a modest and agreeable sort of Frenchman, who says, “Cela coutera cher, mais on le prendra.”
Before leaving I come across an Irish rebel, who having been sent to Prussia and taken by the French, now wishes to serve King George. He had almost forgotten to speak English.
September 30.—Bishop’s conversazione in the evening.
It appears that the Junta of Seville did not authorise the interference of their foolish General Galazo in the affairs of Portugal, and it has now given him orders to join the Patriot Castanos immediately, so in obedience the Spaniards have decamped, and we are no longer obstructed in the performance of our treaties.
There is something quite curdling in the fell spirit of revenge which has taken possession of the minds of the Portuguese. No desire of freeing their country, no ardent patriotic zeal can now actuate them in their thirst for blood, for their oppressors are quelled, the game is up, and they only desire to get out of the country; and yet if a poor way-worn French soldier were to lie down and sleep under a hedge, that the first Portuguese who saw him would cut his throat and insult his corpse is as indisputable as that an Englishman under such circumstances would spare and protect him.
Last night as I was going into my room an old gray-headed woman called to me, and Bernardo (my Italian servant) interpreting, I found she accused another female of favouring the French.
I took a stick, walked into the kitchen, and jestingly shook it at the accused, whom, on turning, I perceived to be a very pretty, pensive-looking lady (for ladies here snuggle round the only fire in the kitchen), who entered on her defence very gently and persuasively, saying “that she hated the French as much as any Portuguese ought to do, but could not enter into the general triumph the other day when the mob murdered a solitary French officer, who possibly had not committed the smallest fault against them; nor could she think otherwise than with horror of those beastly women who ran and plunged their knives into the bleeding body.”